By Trena Moretti
Two firefighters were injured when a five-alarm fire tore through the Acacia Office Park in West Hollywood early Sunday morning, according to fire officials.
Though details of the firefighters’ injuries were not readily available, sources tell us both were taken to Cedars-Sinai hospital, where they’re expected to make a full recovery.
The fire broke out shortly after 1:25 a.m., caused by a series of explosions that tore through the building’s first and second floors.
According to authorities, an anonymous call was made to 911 at one a.m. to report an alarm sounding. When first responders arrived on the scene, they found no signs of smoke or flames. It was only upon checking the premises that the explosions occurred and quickly ripped through the building.
An abandoned car was discovered in the adjacent parking lot, and though there’s no official word from LAPD, an insider tells us the car is thought to belong to missing celebrity Madison Brooks.
Madison Brooks went missing in July, and authorities have been searching for her car ever since. Night for Night club promoter Aster Amirpour has been charged with Madison’s murder and was recently released on bail while she awaits trial for first-degree murder.
We’ve also learned that a witness has come forward who claims to have seen two people running from the building shortly before the explosion. Though the witness was unable to identify the suspects’ age or sex, authorities are asking anyone with information regarding their identities to please come forward.
We’ll have more as this story develops.
Trena Moretti posted her story and sipped her chai tea in disturbed silence. There was nothing new there—nothing that hadn’t already been previously reported or at the very least hinted at. And the last bit about Aster left Trena feeling unsettled. It seemed to imply the girl was somehow involved, when Trena’s only intent had been to relay the facts as she knew them.
And yet, there was no denying that Aster’s recent release overlapping with suspected arson and the discovery of Madison’s car wouldn’t be viewed as coincidence by most. Though what Trena had failed to include, as she was still awaiting confirmation, was that the fire had originated in an office occupied by a private detective who was directly linked to Madison.
Clearly someone was out to frame Aster Amirpour, but Trena was no closer to guessing who that might be. And while Priya assured her she was close to pinning down exactly where Madison had been during the time between losing her parents and moving to Connecticut, she’d yet to provide anything useful. Was it possible the girl was leading her on? One thing was sure, if Priya didn’t produce something soon, Trena would have no qualms about firing her.
She reached for her phone and purposefully scrolled through her contacts. Maybe she should call Layla and see what she knew. Trena had spotted her briefly at Ira’s tequila launch, though Layla had disappeared long before Trena had a chance to approach her. And at the time, Trena had been too busy flirting with James to care.
James. What was his part in all this? Trena was sure that he had one. Hell, that was why she went after him in the first place—or at least it was one of th
e reasons. Though after the events of the morning, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d gotten in too deep. The look he’d given her—the way his fingers had circled her throat, demonstrating just how easily he could crush the life out of her with one single squeeze—had left her deeply regretting her rush to get involved with him.
She polished off her tea and made for the shower, eager to wash away the dark thoughts and the film of sweat covering her body courtesy of her daily six-mile run.
After stepping out of her tank top and shorts, she turned on the taps and ducked under the luxurious rain showerhead, which had the seemingly magical ability to instantly quiet her mind and send her troubles shooting straight down the drain.
Her eyes shut tightly against the spray, she was blindly reaching for her shower gel and sponge when she heard a noise that seemed to be emanating from the kitchen.
Only that was impossible. She always locked the front door without fail. Having grown up in a crime-ridden neighborhood, she’d learned that lesson early on. Also, for the entire month of August she’d kept all the windows closed, favoring the cool relief of the air conditioner over the blistering LA heat.
When she heard the scuffling sound again, she shut the taps and stood naked and shivering with her ear cocked toward the door. Finally convincing herself she’d imagined it, she went about sudsing her body, when the sound was repeated.
She yanked a towel from its hook, wrapped it tightly around her, and crept toward the kitchen. She told herself it was nothing—that the morning had left her paranoid and imagining things—that her only immediate problem was the soap she was dripping all over the rug.
Until she stood in the doorway of her kitchen and gaped in horror at the sight of a large black cat sitting on the counter beside her computer, its front legs heavily bandaged.
Trena glanced around the small space, ensuring no one was there, before she approached the unhappy cat, which hissed and swiped at her as she struggled to remove the small note that hung from its neck:
He may have nine lives, but you don’t.
“James,” she whispered. Somehow, he’d gotten past her locked door and found his way inside her apartment. She’d made a huge mistake thinking she could use him to further her story, and this was his way of letting her know.
Tentatively, she reached for the cat again, taking a moment to pet it and convince it she wasn’t a threat. Then she slowly went about unwrapping the gauze from its legs, relieved to find it was only for show, the cat was unharmed. If nothing else, at least James drew a line at harming animals.
She thought about calling her source at LAPD and reporting the incident, but just as quickly decided against it. Other than a deep sense of knowing, Trena had no physical proof it was James. Though she vowed to avoid him at all costs, she knew better than to not take his message seriously.
“So,” she said, addressing the cat. She ran a palm over its soft, silky fur and reached for the heart-shaped tag hanging from its pink satin collar. “Someone out there clearly misses you. What do you say we give them a call and tell them you’re okay?”
With the cat cradled in her arms, she punched the number on his tag into her phone and waited for the call to connect, all the while wondering who would miss her if she should ever disappear.
THIRTY-SEVEN