Paparazzi

Chapter 1

April 5, 1999 (Present Day)

The night air was chilly and damp. Southern California wasn’t supposed to host humidity, but here in the Valley, I suppose the weather played by its own rules. Just like every other fucking thing, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral.

My walkie-talkie squelched static, and then the crackling sound of Malcolm’s voice came over. Ten-six to nine, Cracker Jack.

Oh, puleeze.

Malcolm was my boss. And though he was a pretty cool guy, he did have this peculiar penchant for using police codes over the two-way radios, like exclusively. Oh, and if you were wondering, I am Cracker Jack. That’s the code name I was assigned by Malcolm right from the start, which was going on seven months now.

Ten-four to nine, Bald Eagle, I replied, switching the channel on my unit over to nine. He wanted to switch to a different channel for an extra precaution.

I still didn’t understand why we didn’t use cell phones instead of these contraptions, but Malcolm was adamant that going with walkie-talkies was a much more secure means of communication.

Anyone can listen in on those damn cell phones, Neely, he’d argued when I nagged him for about the tenth time to lose the radios and get with the newest and easiest technology.

I snorted. ‘Well, anyone with a two-way radio in the vicinity can hear our transmissions," I argued.

It was pointless. He wouldn’t budge. The beauty of it, Neely, is that nobody bothers with walkie-talkies much anymore. And besides that, we use code, so it’s all good and we’re keeping with tradition on this one.

It had been pointless to argue. This was Malcolm’s business. He could run it anyway he saw fit. I was simply a Junior Operative, and part-time at that.

Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I?

Malcolm West was a Hollywood private investigator. A one-man show, but that didn’t mean he didn’t pull the clients in because he did. He was as slimy as they come, but loveable as shit. I’d seen a ‘Help Wanted’ post on the bulletin board outside the Photography Lab at school when the semester started last fall.

The post had creeped everyone out except me. I was intrigued, so I snatched it off the board and called. After my interview, I officially became Malcolm’s part-time sidekick.

Most of the business coming into Malcolm’s agency was from divorce lawyers in and around the LA area. And their clients were wealthy enough to spend funds trying to get dirt on their respective spouses in order to ensure the best divorce settlement possible.

Cheating husbands, cheating wives, scandalous public behavior, unsavory friends or business connections—you name it, we captured it on film. At least I did. That’s where Malcolm needed my expertise. I had changed my major to Commercial Photography last fall, and I was always at the top of my class. My grades were mine, not the result of me doing my professor. Those days were long gone.

I pressed the button on the side of my radio. Breaker one-nine, I barked, smiling mischievously. I enjoyed fucking with Malcolm from time to time, What’s your twenty, Bald Eagle? Am I gonna catch you on the flip-flop? Over.

I heard the crackling of the radio break, and then, Very fucking funny, Cracker Jack. Your 10-62 has an ETA of seven minutes. Do you copy?

Ten-four. Out. I replied, shutting off the radio.

Showtime, I thought to myself as I piled my hair up inside my ball cap, making sure the tiny camera that was made to look like a NASCAR button that I’d pinned on the front was ready and in place. It operated as a video camera and only had fifteen minutes worth of recording storage once I activated it.

I waited a few minutes, and then, sure enough, the Ponchello’s Pizza car came careening around the corner, anxious to deliver before his thirty minutes was up no doubt. Same shit, every week for the past four that I’d been watching. People truly were creatures of habit I decided.

I pressed the tiny button on the backside of the pin and climbed out of my car, walking up the driveway where the driver was delivering the pizza.

The driver was leaning over, trying to check the order to see which pizza he was to deliver to the Smith house, I was sure. You’d have thought they’d have come up with a more original name.

Good. It wasn’t the usual driver, which made my job easier.

He’d just slammed the passenger side door and turned towards the house when he spotted me coming towards him.

About time, I said with a smile. We’re starving in here.

I’m not past thirty minutes, he interjected quickly.

Hey, I never said you were, Slick. Where’s Jimmy? He’s usually the one who drops off here.

He visibly relaxed a bit, seeing that I wasn’t trying to jack a free pizza from him. Oh, he…uh, had an audition or something. This is my first night on my own. I got lost for a minute when I got off Reseda, but I think I’m still within my thirty minutes, but I got three more deliveries in the back.

Well, here, I said, flashing him a smile, as I handed him a twenty. Keep the change. I don’t want to slow you down.

He hesitated momentarily. You live here…at this address?

I was still holding the bill for him to take. "Well…duh, I replied, giggling. I just got off work. Mom had me order the pizza before I left so it would be here when I got home."

Oh, okay then, he replied, grabbing the bill and shoving the pizza box my way. Thanks for the tip. Enjoy.

Drive carefully, I called after him and started up the driveway, moving a bit slower than my normal pace to allow him time to drive away. Once his car was well down the street, I prepared myself for Phase 2 of the plan.

At the front door of the one-story stucco ranch, I rang the bell and waited. I knew from previous stakeouts that our mark, Mr. Richard Blumfield, would be answering the door to pay for the pizza. My job was to see exactly who it was he had pizza with every Wednesday evening. The house was a rental in the Blumfield’s secret LLC name, but it wasn’t his residence, that much we knew. Movie directors with this guy’s reputation didn’t live in the Valley, trust me.

He answered the door, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. Not a bad looking guy for being well into his forties.

Right on time, he said, thrusting a twenty-dollar bill at me. Keep the change.

Thank you, Sir, I replied politely. Would it be okay if I used your phone? That beater they gave me to use tonight died across the street, I explained, waving my hand toward Jazzy’s vintage VW bug I’d borrowed for this assignment. I have three more pizzas in the car, so I have to call back to the store to have someone come get me.

I saw the reluctance on his face and there was a moment of silence before he finally relented. Sure, no problem, he said, opening the door wider, allowing me to step inside the house.

There’s one just around the corner to the right. It’s on the wall right inside the door.

I followed his direction and stepped into what must have been the family room. A television was blaring, and across the large room, a fire in the stone fireplace crackled. An extremely pretty, and extremely pregnant Hispanic woman came into the room from an opposite doorway that led to the kitchen I presumed. She had plates and napkins in her hands, and a toddler followed closely at her feet.

She needs to use the phone. Her pizza delivery vehicle broke down, Blumfield informed her. She smiled and nodded at me.

I’ll just be a minute, I promised, turning my back to them and lifting the phone from its cradle. I made a fake call to the pizza parlor, which was very convincing.

The toddler, as it turned out, was a boy named Luis. His mother was trying to get him settled into his highchair, and he was not a happy camper. He wriggled and squirmed, his little face contorted with anger. Quiero Papá! Quiero Papá! he squealed, his little hands fisted and flailing.

Su papá no se puede sostener, Luis, que está comiendo demasiado, his mother consoled him. Y que quería otro, Richard? Lo que estábamos pensando?" she said with a laugh, looking over at the mark with love evident in her dark brown eyes.

He smiled up at her. Éste es una niña. Probablemente se pegará a ti, María.

I pretended I didn’t understand what was being said. This ought to do nicely I thought to myself, as they both turned to look my way. Thank you so much. My ride is on the way. Enjoy your pizza. I’ll let myself out, I said.

Have a good evening, Richard Blumfield called after me.

Oh I would. I most certainly would.

Back at the office, Malcolm and I went over the video recording. Does this tell us anything? he asked abruptly.

Of course it does, I replied with a sly smile. I take it you don’t speak Spanish?

Very limited knowledge of the language, he admitted. Why?

Well, it seems our Richard Blumfield has a mistress with whom he’s fathered a son, Luis, and has a daughter on the way, I replied, beaming.

Bingo! Malcolm said, holding his hand up to high-five me. Well done, Neely. Mrs. Blumfield is going to be very pleased with your work.

Chapter 2

Mr. Montego called you again…twice, Jazzy said, as I stepped inside our apartment. Are you sure you don’t want me to give him your cell number? You know, if you weren’t so damn secretive about your number, we could get rid of the expense of having this landline.

Yeah, yeah, you keep telling me that, Jaz. I cover the landline bill, so no worries.

She jumped off the sofa and headed into the kitchen. I just don’t get it, Neel, she continued, grabbing bottled water from the fridge. I mean I know you’re making good money, but still, if we pooled our resources and cut out some of the non-essentials, we could get a nicer place, you know?

I sighed, collapsing down on our overstuffed sofa and hugging one of the throw