Katrina Moore comes from money. An only child, she was born and raised in Beverly Hills. She attended Buckley, an elite private school, and then went to live abroad for several years after graduating. Her mother, Enid, is a celebrated event planner and her father, Clayton, is a real-estate tycoon. However, a year ago, he got busted for tax evasion and a Ponzi scheme and was sentenced to serve five years at a white-collar penitentiary. The Moores were forced to sell their house and subsequently divorced.
Katrina is famous for being famous. She’s invited to every A-list Hollywood party, and she’s a muse to several major fashion designers. Using her clout, she developed a reality TV show called America’s It Girl, which she subsequently sold to a fledging cable network—Celebrity-TV (CTV). While the show initially enjoyed moderate success, ratings have lately floundered. There’s lots of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.
I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.
With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.
“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”
My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.
“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.
“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.
“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”
“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.
“Do you remember anything about your accident?”
I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”
The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.
“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.
“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.
“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”
“Scott Turner?”
“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.
He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”
“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.
“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”
I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.
I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.
“What about your fiancée?”
“You mean, Katrina Moore?”
“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.
“That’s some ring you got her.”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.
The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” My muscles tense.
“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”
When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.
“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.
“I took it to a jeweler. It’s a piece of Murano glass from Venice. It could be part of a pair of earrings or cufflinks. Or it could have fallen off a bracelet or necklace. Does it look familiar to you?”
I study the object. It means nothing to me. I shake my head no.
“That’s too bad.” Returning the mysterious glass heart to the bag, the detective stands and shoves the evidence back in his coat pocket. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He hands me a business card.
“Oh, one last thing.” His hand slides beneath his trench coat, and for the first time, I glimpse his holster and gun. Like the coat, the brown leather holster shows signs of age. A bulky envelope is tucked under the frayed strap. He slips it out and unfastens the clasp.
My eyes widen as he slides out the contents. A DVD boxed set of Kurt Kussler, Seasons 1-4. I’m on the cover, looking smug and pointing my right thumb and index finger like a gun.
“Would you mind signing this? It’s for the missus. She’s madly in love with you.” He pauses. “She’s been too embarrassed to ask my daughter to ask you.”
His daughter must be someone who works on the show. I laugh lightly. “Sure. No problem.” My eyes dart around the room for a pen. The burly detective comes to the rescue and hands me one.
“Thanks. What’s her name?”
“Jo. J-O. She’d really appreciate it if you wrote your signature line.”
Shit. I have no clue what it is. I nervously twirl the pen between my fingers.
“I have so many,” I say nonchalantly. Guess what? I am a good actor.
“You know…‘Get it. Got it? Good.’”
“To Jo…Get it. Got it? Good,” I say aloud with macho attitude, enunciating each word I inscribe on the cover.
“Wow. That’s just how you say it on TV,” says the awed detective while I sign my name with an xo. My bold signature comes easily to me as if I’ve been writing it my whole life. A bolt of optimism shoots through me. Maybe my memory is coming back.
“Thanks,” says the grateful detective as I hand him back the DVD set. “My wife is going to pee in her panties.”
I laugh again. This time loudly. I escort Detective Billings to the front door. Just before he leaves, he asks me one last question.