An angry blast of a horn behind her brought her back to the present and she hit the gas, her Honda’s wheels actually chirping as the driver behind her, a woman with a blond ponytail driving a Corvette, moved into another lane and shot her a look and an obscene gesture as she zipped past.
“Nice,” Cassie muttered under her breath as she ran the next yellow light and headed to the 110, merging into the freeway traffic. She smiled when she noticed a big black SUV, like a Chevy Suburban or something, too, charge through behind her. At least he’d catch the ticket if there was a cop around.
She’d left Stone and her goon and headed straight to Galactic West Productions in Burbank. GW, as it was familiarly called, was the place where Little Bea worked and was owned by Dean Arnette. Since no one had bothered returning her calls and texts, she’d decided that showing up in person might be more effective.
To what end? she asked herself. If anyone had known anything about Cassie’s sister, surely that person would have contacted the police.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
“Shut up!” she said to that stupid, nagging voice in her head. She’d spent weeks in a hospital, hiding, doing nothing, while her little sister was . . . God, who knew? That was the problem. Someone had to find out. It might as well be she. But what did she have to go on? A ghost nurse? An earring in the shape of a cross? Connections in the movie business? Did she really think she could find her sister over the police? Had her hastily planned trip to California been of any use in locating Allie? How had she ever thought she could find her sister when the police hadn’t? If she’d thought she could get information from people who knew Allie, that they might confide in her when they hadn’t to a detective, she’d been dead wrong. So far. There was a good chance that her trip south was a great big bust.
Pushing her doubts aside, she drove on toward the studio. The flow of traffic was smooth, cars flying past her though she was five miles above the speed limit. A glance at the rearview convinced her that no silver Toyota was following her. A larger black SUV was a few cars behind, but so what? Even if it was the guy who’d flagrantly run a red light or two, it wasn’t that unusual and the boxy SUV hadn’t been lurking near the park; she would have noticed. The important thing now was that it seemed Whitney Stone had given up trying to interview her.
But she’d be back.
No doubt about it.
The woman was relentless.
Cassie relaxed a little, her hands loosening their death grip on the steering wheel.
Whitney Stone had jangled her, ramped up her already escalated case of nerves. But at least for the time being, she’d given the reporter the slip.
Angling her Honda onto Interstate 5, she flicked her gaze to her rearview and saw no signs that anyone had her in their sights. Again, no silver Toyota and the black SUV she’d seen several times behind her hung back.
It’s nothing. Just your imagination. Whitney Stone sent your case of nerves into overdrive.
A slew of traffic turned off at Burbank, but as she wound her way through the streets, she still didn’t notice anyone lagging behind and tailing her. Still, she made a few extra turns and doubled back on her route, just to be sure that the reporter or the Suburban weren’t following.
Telling herself she was more paranoid than even Dr. Sherling suspected, she finally drove up to the offices of Galactic West Productions, which was located in an inauspicious office building shaded by a line of tall palms.
A white Mercedes was pulling out of a parking spot on the street and she slid her Honda in behind it, parked, and was inside the familiar building within two minutes. She took the stairs to the third floor and walked through seamless glass doors to a reception area. Then she was stopped cold, blocked entry to the private offices by a receptionist who was barely five feet tall and not a day over twenty. The girl’s smooth complexion, youthful innocence, and bright smile belied the fact that she was an immovable object. Obviously she regarded her job of obstructing passage to the inner sanctum of Galactic West as gospel, as if God Himself had assigned her the task of stopping anyone from entering. Maybe she, too, believed Dean Arnette was omnipotent, a god to all of Hollywood and beyond.
Cassie even tried the “But-I’m-Allie-Kramer’s-sister” card, to no avail.
“If you don’t have an appointment, then I’m sorry,” the girl said without a hint of remorse in her huge blue eyes. “You’ll have to make one, an appointment, I mean, if I can even get you in to see him. Mr. Arnette is a very busy man.”
When Cassie said she’d be satisfied talking with Beatrice Little or Sybil Jones, the producers who worked with Arnette on the film, she was met with the same implacable resistance and a wide, orthodonti-cally improved smile. “They’re not in and even if they were, you’d need an appointment. If you leave your number, I’ll have someone call you.” For the moment, Cassie felt as if she had no options. She glanced at the door she knew led to the private offices and even considered bolting around the receptionist’s massive desk
, but decided she’d rather not deal with someone from the building’s security staff, or the police hauling her outside. At least not yet. No reason to give Whitney Stone more grist for her gossip mill. The simple fact was Cassie already had a history of mental issues and the cops in Oregon were already looking at her closely in conjunction with her sister’s disappearance. It just didn’t make sense to draw attention to herself by causing trouble or in any way encouraging Detective Nash to move Cassie from “a person of interest” to her “A #1 suspect.”
Still, she was irritated. She left her name and number, which seemed redundant. Dean Arnette, Little Bea, Sybil Jones, and just about everyone else in the production company already had her personal information. Not that it mattered, though. She knew as well as the big-eyed receptionist that no one was going to call her as no one had bothered returning her personal voice messages or texts to date.
God, it was irritating.
She was just trying to find Allie, for God’s sake. You’d think the production company about to release its star’s latest film would be doing everything in its power to find her, and that included talking with Allie Kramer’s sister. Unless the people involved at GW were running under the same impression as the damned police, that Cassie Kramer was a certifiable nutcase and a person to avoid.
She made her way out of the building and found a parking ticket on her windshield. She hadn’t even seen the meter.
Grabbing the ticket, she climbed into the car and pulled away from the curb, then made an illegal U-turn.
Why not?
Things couldn’t get much worse.
Right?
CHAPTER 15