Read Online Hot Shot by Kevin Allman - Free Book Online

Mann.” An ominous music sting over a picture of Dick and Betty Bradford Mann at the Emmys. “Felina Lopez and Dick Mann were lovers, according to one woman who knew them both—a woman who also worked as a call girl. We’ve disguised her identity here.”
    No duh. The woman on the screen wore a wig, sunglasses, and was photographed entirely in shadow. A caption read “ MISSY ”: FORMER HOLLYWOOD PROSTITUTE .
    â€œFelina and Dick were dating for almost a year,” said the woman. Her voice had been electronically altered. She sounded like she’d been sucking helium underwater.
    â€œHow did they meet?” Grassley asked from offscreen. From the odd break between the statement and the question, I guessed that the interview had actually been done by some anonymous producer with Grassley dubbing in his questions later. Just another bit of fudging with the facts.
    â€œHe started as a client of the agency where we both worked.”
    â€œAnd you’re telling me that their relationship developed from a prostitute and her client to something more.”
    â€œI always had that impression. Felina talked about him all the time.”
    â€œBut he was married. To Betty Bradford Mann.” A quick cutaway to a telephoto shot of the actress leaving her husband’s funeral.
    â€œHe was married. Felina knew it. We all did.”
    Frank put on a stern face. “Missy—do you think Felina Lopez’s tragic death might have something to do with this book she was planning to write?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Back to Via del Paraiso, where Frank Grassley stood on the beach like a Ken doll. “There you have it, Mary. We tried to reach Betty Bradford Mann for comment, but she was unavailable. We also tried to reach this man—”
    â€œKieran!” yelped Claudia.
    It was a picture of me.
    Some freelance video photographer— videorazzi was the word—had caught me standing in front of a buffet table. They say the camera puts on fifteen pounds, but here it looked more like thirty. In the footage, I was gnawing on a spring roll like a mook.
    â€œThis is Kieran O’Connor, a former entertainment columnist who was ghostwriting the project with Felina Lopez. We tried all day to contact Mr. O’Connor, but, Mary…” Frank took a pause that was not only pregnant but ready to deliver. “He couldn’t be located.”
    Mary Lasater sucked in the skin below her cheek implants. “I hope he’s okay.”
    â€œWe all do,” said Frank Grassley, “and we’ll keep trying to locate him. In the meantime, we’ll have Part Two of our exclusive interview with Missy tomorrow.”
    I aimed the remote like a gun and zapped the TV. The image died.
    â€œKieran, they made it sound like you’d gotten kidnapped or gone into hiding!”
    â€œIt’s just something Frank Grassley would pull. I wouldn’t return his call and he’s not smart enough to find me, so he gets even by making it sound like a case for the FBI.”
    Claudia sighed. “So you think the book is off?”
    â€œI don’t know, Claude. I just don’t know.”
    Claudia went back to the shop about eight and I did a couple loads of clothes. No matter how little or how much you bring on a trip, all your clothes come back dirty. After a long, not particularly relaxing bath, all I could find to wear was a T-shirt and a pair of Halloween boxers patterned with pumpkins.
    I poured myself a glass of wine and laid down on the bed to read the transcripts, listening to the soft drizzle on the roof. Before long, I had dozed off.
    The phone woke me.
    My head jerked up from the drool-spotted pillow. Eleven o’clock. I heard the machine pick up, and then a dial tone. Whoever was calling had hung up.
    I laid down again, uneasy. Claudia would have left a message. My guess was Frank Grassley.
    Twice more during the night the phone rang, but I