Read Online Hollywood Secrets by Gemma Halliday - Free Book Online
Authors: Gemma Halliday
Tags: Suspense, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Romantic Comedy, cozy, romantic suspense, Mystery & Suspense, TV; Movie; Video Game Adaptations, Amateur Sleuths
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Beverly Hills.
The Beverly Hills Paparazzi Plastic Surgery Beat (or the BHPPSB, to those in the know) consisted of about five buildings situated along the Wilshire corridor in Beverly Hills. All were gleaming metal and glass, never daring to fade even the slightest in the blazing California sun, with elegant palms and vibrant annuals planted along the walkways. While plastic surgeons outnumbered pediatricians ten to one in Beverly Hills, only a handful were considered top dogs in the celebrity circles, making them big red dots on the paparazzi map.
Jamie Lee was scheduled to see one Dr. Hammond Bashamatari, whose offices were smack in the middle of the BHPPSB.
Dr. B was an Iranian-born surgeon with a reputation for never saying no, never disclosing names, and always going at least a cup size larger than conventional wisdom would dictate. He had been the subject of a TV reality show a couple of years back which had earned him world-wide fame, a waiting list six months long, and a mansion in the Hollywood Hills rumored to be worth more than the Informer ’s entire operation. His office staff consisted of women between the ages of 22 and 29, all blonde, all buxom, all wearing the shortest skirts imaginable. I had a feeling he had a mold somewhere in the back where he just popped them out whenever he needed a new one.
And the best part about Dr. B’s office was that he had a very gullible receptionist who, thinking she was speaking to Jamie Lee’s driver (no idea where she got that idea… walking away whistling innocently…), informed me that Jamie Lee would be finished being handled by Dr. B’s skillful hands by two.
I hit the end button on my cell and pulled a U-ey on Wilshire, doubling back to park in the back of Dr. B’s building. Almost legally. Just my luck that every legitimate spot was taken. I glanced down at my watch. 1:49. Definitely not long enough to play the waiting game for a spot. I crossed my fingers and pulled into a tiny piece of unclaimed asphalt between the Dumpster and a Hummer, praying the Hummer didn’t back out too suddenly. And that this particular garage’s parking-enforcement officers were on their lunch break.
I grabbed my Nikon and headed for the lobby. Though, as soon as I swung through the glass doors, I realized I wasn’t the only photographer in town hot on Jamie Lee’s trail. Mike and Eddie were already sitting on an overstuffed sofa by the elevator, a pair of digital cameras and a bag of barbequed pork rinds shoved between them.
“ Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cammy-Can’t-Catch-a-Break.” Eddie gave me a grin displaying orange crumbs liberally scattered throughout his teeth.
I looked away, fighting off nausea. “She come out yet?” I asked, gesturing to the elevator doors.
Mike shook his head. “Not yet. Make yourself comfortable, doll.” He patted the square inch of sofa left next to him. “Rind?” he asked, gesturing to the bag.
I passed – on both offers - setting up vigil in a chair opposite the twins. I slung a leg over the side of the chair, shifting sideways, ready to spring into action at the first sign of Jamie Lee’s lustrous brunette locks.
“ How long you two been waiting?” I asked.
“ A couple hours,” Eddie said, around a crunchy bite. “Long enough to get before pictures.” He grinned.
“ Seriously?” Crap. Before pics were priceless when doing the plastic surgery stories. I mean, it was one thing to point out that Lindsey Lohan’s lips were expanding, but it was another to have a pic of fish lips next to a formerly paper-thin kisser. I tried to remember if I had any photos of Jamie Lee wrinkling her forehead pre-Botox stored on my computer.
“ How’d your shots of Trace turn out last night?” Eddie asked.
“ What?” I snapped my head around, suddenly wondering if I’d really been the only one to witness Trace’s abduction.
“ In front of the club. You didn’t exactly have a prime position.” Mike snorted. It reminded
The Beverly Hills Paparazzi Plastic Surgery Beat (or the BHPPSB, to those in the know) consisted of about five buildings situated along the Wilshire corridor in Beverly Hills. All were gleaming metal and glass, never daring to fade even the slightest in the blazing California sun, with elegant palms and vibrant annuals planted along the walkways. While plastic surgeons outnumbered pediatricians ten to one in Beverly Hills, only a handful were considered top dogs in the celebrity circles, making them big red dots on the paparazzi map.
Jamie Lee was scheduled to see one Dr. Hammond Bashamatari, whose offices were smack in the middle of the BHPPSB.
Dr. B was an Iranian-born surgeon with a reputation for never saying no, never disclosing names, and always going at least a cup size larger than conventional wisdom would dictate. He had been the subject of a TV reality show a couple of years back which had earned him world-wide fame, a waiting list six months long, and a mansion in the Hollywood Hills rumored to be worth more than the Informer ’s entire operation. His office staff consisted of women between the ages of 22 and 29, all blonde, all buxom, all wearing the shortest skirts imaginable. I had a feeling he had a mold somewhere in the back where he just popped them out whenever he needed a new one.
And the best part about Dr. B’s office was that he had a very gullible receptionist who, thinking she was speaking to Jamie Lee’s driver (no idea where she got that idea… walking away whistling innocently…), informed me that Jamie Lee would be finished being handled by Dr. B’s skillful hands by two.
I hit the end button on my cell and pulled a U-ey on Wilshire, doubling back to park in the back of Dr. B’s building. Almost legally. Just my luck that every legitimate spot was taken. I glanced down at my watch. 1:49. Definitely not long enough to play the waiting game for a spot. I crossed my fingers and pulled into a tiny piece of unclaimed asphalt between the Dumpster and a Hummer, praying the Hummer didn’t back out too suddenly. And that this particular garage’s parking-enforcement officers were on their lunch break.
I grabbed my Nikon and headed for the lobby. Though, as soon as I swung through the glass doors, I realized I wasn’t the only photographer in town hot on Jamie Lee’s trail. Mike and Eddie were already sitting on an overstuffed sofa by the elevator, a pair of digital cameras and a bag of barbequed pork rinds shoved between them.
“ Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cammy-Can’t-Catch-a-Break.” Eddie gave me a grin displaying orange crumbs liberally scattered throughout his teeth.
I looked away, fighting off nausea. “She come out yet?” I asked, gesturing to the elevator doors.
Mike shook his head. “Not yet. Make yourself comfortable, doll.” He patted the square inch of sofa left next to him. “Rind?” he asked, gesturing to the bag.
I passed – on both offers - setting up vigil in a chair opposite the twins. I slung a leg over the side of the chair, shifting sideways, ready to spring into action at the first sign of Jamie Lee’s lustrous brunette locks.
“ How long you two been waiting?” I asked.
“ A couple hours,” Eddie said, around a crunchy bite. “Long enough to get before pictures.” He grinned.
“ Seriously?” Crap. Before pics were priceless when doing the plastic surgery stories. I mean, it was one thing to point out that Lindsey Lohan’s lips were expanding, but it was another to have a pic of fish lips next to a formerly paper-thin kisser. I tried to remember if I had any photos of Jamie Lee wrinkling her forehead pre-Botox stored on my computer.
“ How’d your shots of Trace turn out last night?” Eddie asked.
“ What?” I snapped my head around, suddenly wondering if I’d really been the only one to witness Trace’s abduction.
“ In front of the club. You didn’t exactly have a prime position.” Mike snorted. It reminded
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