Blacklist

  She pulled alongside the curb and drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel as she watched the girl juggle dueling Starbucks cups as she struggled to open the passenger door.

  Trena leaned across the seat and propped the door open, flinching against the rush of heat she’d let in. “Priya?” She was surprised to find that the girl with her long black hair, smooth brown skin, and flashing dark eyes was even prettier in person than she was in her picture—a rarity in a Facetune-addicted town like LA.

  “My research tells me you’re a chai latte fan.” Priya handed over the cup, and Trena grinned in return. Sure the move was ingratiating, but Trena was appreciative all the same. After buckling in, Priya turned to Trena to say, “Before we get started, I have to tell you what an honor this is. I’m a really big fan of your work.”

  Trena gave a curt nod. Flattery was always nice, but she had no interest in being fawned over and needed to make that clear from the start.

  “Tell me—what is it you hope to get out of this?” Trena checked her side and rearview mirrors and merged into oncoming traffic. At the charity auction, Priya had been the most aggressive bidder by far, pledging a surprising amount of money to ensure she won the “Day of Mentoring with Trena Moretti” prize. So surely she had some kind of agenda in mind.

  Without hesitation, Priya replied, “An offer for a full-time position as your assistant would be a good start.”

  Trena took a moment to process the words. While it didn’t exactly come as a surprise, she wasn’t convinced it would work. Her last assistant had quit after less than a month, citing extreme boredom in the exit interview, and Trena couldn’t say that she blamed her. Other than sending the girl on frequent chai runs, there really wasn’t much for her to do. Or rather, there was plenty for her to do, but Trena was too much of a control freak to actually delegate anything important.

  She stopped at a red light and nodded toward the billboard ahead touting Madison Brooks’s upcoming movie. Madison might be missing, but her face was just about everywhere one looked—peering out from newspapers, magazines, TV screens, movie ads, and tasteless internet memes—like a specter haunting the city. In this particular case she wore her usual impenetrable expression, her face a mask of poised professionalism that gave nothing away.

  “What do you think happened to her?” Trena nodded toward the sign and watched as Priya regarded it with a long, shrewd look.

  “Wherever she is, I don’t believe for a second that Aster Amirpour was involved.” Priya glanced between the picture of Madison and Trena. “I think someone’s setting her up.”

  Trena held the look. The girl had a spark of fire and determination Trena could relate to, only Priya seemed a bit more composed and polished than Trena had been at her age.

  “She’s too pampered, too soft, a born-and-bred Beverly Hills princess if I ever saw one.” Priya bit her lip, as though surprised she’d just said that out loud. “I just don’t believe she has it in her to go all homicidal like that.”

  “Maybe not,” Trena said. “But under the right circumstances, anyone’s capable of just about anything, murder included—never forget that.” As a journalist, it was the motto Trena lived by. After a moment she added, “And yet, I also have a hard time believing Aster’s involved with whatever happened to Madison Brooks.” Her words faded into silence as they passed through the intersection.

  It was just too easy, too convenient. After weeks with little to nothing to go on, the clues had just popped out of nowhere, lining up like obedient soldiers awaiting inspection. Maybe that was standard practice on TV shows where crimes were regularly committed and solved in the forty-two minutes of airtime allotted between commercial breaks, but in the real world, it was never that easy. Life was messy. Murder was messier.

  When it came right down to it, the whole Aster/Madison conspiracy reeked of bullshit. One hundred percent, pure grade bullshit.

  Or, this being LA, free-range, grass-fed, organic bullshit—but bullshit all the same.

  Trena had a nose for bullshit, able to sniff it out like a hog on a truffle hunt. Ever since she was a kid, she’d had a sixth sense for trouble and lies. Her grandmother, Noni, claimed she’d inherited “the gift” of a long line of Moretti women, but Trena had always been practical and no-nonsense, never buying into Noni’s woo-woo beliefs. All she knew for sure was that her gut knew things well before her head had caught on, and that instinct, when she followed it, never steered her wrong.

  It was what helped her survive the tough, crime-ridden neighborhood she’d grown up in.

  It was what led her to the best stories back when she was first starting out as a journalist.

  And more recently, it was what saved her from making the biggest mistake of her life by almost marrying her lying, cheating ex-fiancé.

  While moving to LA wasn’t exactly the career path she’d planned, and while more than one colleague (mainly print snobs) had questioned whether transitioning from her reporting gig at the Washington Post to spearhead the LA Times digital division wasn’t perhaps a step down, Trena didn’t care. Step down or not, one thing was sure—it was a step in a new direction. A step away from a past she was eager to put well behind her. Not only did the job get her out of DC, but it offered a whole new life she’d never considered. And what better place to reinvent herself than in the very city that specialized in extreme makeovers?

  During the five hours it had taken to fly from DC to LA, Trena had decided to make her mark at the Times by exposing the thick layer of grime hidden beneath the town’s glossy exterior. It probably wouldn’t make her the most popular journalist, but it would make her the most feared, and where there was fear there was power.

  While she hated to think of Madison’s disappearance as a lucky break, there was no denying the articles she’d written about it had elevated Trena’s byline to must-read status. She was the first to question whether Madison had been murdered—the first to point out how the LAPD wasn’t doing much in the way of investigating. Though her reporting hadn’t won her any fans where local law enforcement was concerned, it had worked at spurring them into action. And it was only a short time later when evidence of foul play began to appear.

  “Tell me what you know about Madison.” Trena cruised past a long line of palm trees, their fronds looking dull and burnt, slumping beneath the relentless glare of the sun. “What do you see when you look in those eyes?” She motioned toward another of Madison’s billboards, her deep violet gaze hinting at something Trena could never quite grasp.

  It was the gaze of one who’d stared into the abyss and lived to tell the tale—or, in Madison’s case, bury the tale so deep even a cadaver-sniffing hound couldn’t track it.

  Then again, maybe Trena was in too deep to see it objectively. Maybe a younger, fresher, less jaded perspective was just what she needed.

  Priya looked thoughtful as she picked at the lid on her cup. “I see a girl with a solid grasp on her image. A girl who only reveals what she wants you to see. As for what I know . . .” She frowned. “Probably the same stuff as you. She’s an only child. Her parents were killed in a house fire when she was nine. After which she was sent to live with a nice foster family in Connecticut, only to leave home at fourteen and head for LA, where she pretty much became an overnight success.”

  “Eight,” Trena interrupted. “The fire happened when Madison was eight.”

  Priya cocked her head. “Really? Could’ve sworn it was nine.”

  Trena ran a quick mental review of everything she’d read, everything she knew. It wasn’t the age that mattered. Trena knew she was right, and yet it also begged a question she hadn’t thought to pose until now. Her pulse quickening, she said, “Where was Madison between the fire and her foster parents? Who looked after her—where did she stay?”

  “I don’t know.” Priya squinted. “I always assumed she was caught up in the system.”

  It was the same thing Trena had assumed, and it left her steeped in shame. Assuming was for amateurs.
It was sloppy, lazy, and Trena knew better. Perhaps she could use an assistant, after all. More than ever she was convinced that the key to discovering where Madison had gone depended on uncovering where she’d been long before she became Hollywood’s It Girl. So far, her research had gotten her nowhere, and yet one simple conversation with Priya had pointed down an alley that just might yield something good.

  “It’s just that . . .” Priya paused as though organizing her thoughts. “Her bio reads more like fiction than real life. It has just the right amount of tragedy, followed by just the kind of emotional punch the audience loves. Like they called in the industry’s top screenwriters to craft the story of Madison’s rise to the top. It doesn’t ring true.”

  Trena couldn’t agree more.

  “I mean, what kind of parents cheer when their underage teen boards a bus bound for Hollywood?” Priya rolled her eyes and shook her head, her brow furrowed in judgment.

  Again, it was exactly what Trena had thought. While Hollywood was aspirational for many, it was also well known for eating its young. Which meant no responsible and loving parent would support their kid making that move on their own—and especially not at fourteen.

  “Question is—who helped her get settled, and where are they now?” Trena looked at the dark-eyed girl sitting beside her. “Because one thing is sure, Madison didn’t conquer this city on her own. She may be more mature than most—an old soul, if you will—but she certainly didn’t navigate the Los Angeles real estate market without help of some kind.”

  Priya’s eyes flashed. Her enthusiasm was so infectious Trena found herself uttering the very thing she’d earlier convinced herself not to. And yet she’d be foolish to miss the opportunity. Sure the girl was young and a bit too eager to please, but she was also smart, driven, and maybe exactly what Trena needed to kick the Madison story to the next level.

  “What if you start out part-time and we’ll see how that goes?”

  Priya didn’t even try to conceal her excitement. “Can I start now? Seriously, you can drop me off right here and I’ll call for an Uber. Oh, unless you still want me to finish the day like we planned?”

  Trena turned onto Hollywood Boulevard. The plan had been for Priya to sit in and observe while Trena interviewed Ira Redman at his new club, after which Trena would take the girl out for a meal, give her some advice, shake hands, and be done with it. But now, all of that seemed like a huge waste of Priya’s talents and time.

  Trena pulled to the curb. “Where will you start?” She watched as Priya slung her purse on her shoulder and jumped from the car.

  “I have my sources.” The girl raised her phone to her ear, shot Trena an enigmatic grin, and raced down the boulevard as Trena drove a bit farther before parking in the only available space that wasn’t occupied by a work truck.

  She smiled at the bouncer who met her at the back door, wondering if he remembered her from the last time she’d stopped by Night for Night—the night Madison had gone missing.

  “Ms. Moretti.” He gave her a quick once-over, before admitting her inside.

  Trena started to enter, then thought better and paused in the entry. She was on her way to interview Ira Redman, an interview she’d been trying to secure since before Madison Brooks disappeared. Though she intended to ask the tough questions and really go after him, she was sure Ira would try to turn it into a puff piece—the sort of vanity profile she had no interest in writing.

  But maybe she had it all wrong.

  Maybe she’d been too focused on the front door when she should’ve been eyeing the back.

  While she had no doubt that Ira held the key to the city’s numerous secrets, she was just as sure he had every intention of keeping them sealed. When it came to her job, Trena was a pro, but men like Ira were so well versed in charm and PR it was nearly impossible to dig past the surface and make a dent in the glossy veneer.

  But a guy like James . . .

  Trena paused long enough to give the bouncer an appreciative look. Thanks to a solid mix of Jamaican and Italian genes combined with daily six-mile runs, at thirty-six years old Trena could still hold her own. Sure, certain parts weren’t exactly as pert as they once were, but what she lacked in youthful springiness, she more than made up for in experience.

  Or at least that was what she used to think until her break with her fiancé left her feeling vulnerable, distrusting, and doubting her prowess. She’d responded to his betrayal by throwing herself into work, and purposely ignoring any man who so much as looked at her. But now, with the sexy bouncer standing before her, she wondered if she might carve out some time for a little flirtation. He was younger than her, but from the considering grin he’d shot her, it wasn’t like it mattered. Still, it’d been so long since she’d last been with a man, her attempt at flirting left her feeling foolish, and more than a little self-conscious.

  “Isn’t it a bit early for you to be watching the door?” She checked the time on her watch, then returned her focus to him. His lips were full, his dark skin gleamed, and the way his brown eyes narrowed on hers told her he sensed exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “Just doing my job.” His lips twitched at the corners, and she found herself wondering what they’d be like to kiss.

  “Do you ever get a day off?”

  His grin widened, but he refused to answer either way.

  “Because I’d love a chance to interview you . . . if you could ever spare the time.”

  James cocked his head to the side as though weighing the offer. “I thought you were here for Ira,” he said.

  Trena settled her gaze on his massive arms—imagining those biceps wrapped firmly around her. Aware of the heat rising to her cheeks, she quickly dismissed the image and said, “Something tells me you’d make a far more interesting subject.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed as though she was joking, but Trena was entirely serious. She’d get the interview. Maybe not today, but eventually. James had secrets. Possibly Ira’s secrets, and maybe even Madison’s too. Luckily for her, she was persistent and patient and had every intention of meeting him again.

  “In case you decide you’re interested.” She dipped a hand into her bag and presented her card.

  James held her gaze as he slipped the card from between her index and middle fingers—the feel of his flesh grazing hers enough to send her belly into a flutter. More than ever, she wanted that interview. What surprised her was how much she wanted him too.

  She watched as he tucked the card into his pocket, then held the door wide as he ushered her inside to where Ira was waiting.

  SEVEN

  THE BITCH IS BACK

  Aster stood in the middle of what could only be described as a construction zone and looked all around. Though Ira had assured her that the former souvenir shop was well on its way to its latest incarnation as his newest, chicest, most exclusive nightclub to date, at the moment it more closely resembled a serial killer’s lair with its plastic-draped walls and floors and the constant background hum of power drills and saws.

  It was eerie, creepy, and the look Ira’s assistant had flashed her as Aster entered the space left her feeling unsettled.

  Was this how it was going to be from now on? People giving her the side-eye as they quickly backed away?

  She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow and sipped from the bottle of water Ira’s driver had given her on the ride over. Outside, the temperature soared into the triple digits—inside, it seemed even hotter.

  Though she’d choose the heat, the incessant construction clatter, and the pervasive smell of freshly poured cement over the harsh environs of jail any day, she’d been more than a little taken aback when Ira insisted on stopping by the new club before dropping her at her place at the W.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked, his face free of expression, though somehow she knew it was praise that he wanted.

  “Well . . .” She bumped the water bottle against her chin, struggling to find something positive to sa
y, when one of Ira’s pencil-skirt-wearing assistants carefully picked her way through the debris in her red-soled designer heels and began apprising him on the number of urgent calls he needed to make and scheduled meetings he’d missed. Aster watched in guilt-ridden silence, knowing she was to blame for his falling so far behind on his day.

  “Also, Trena Moretti just arrived. She’s waiting by the back door,” the redhead told him.

  Ira stared blankly, not making a move.

  “You’re scheduled for an interview. It’s been booked for weeks.” Her grin was deferential, but her gaze flashed in a way that had Aster wondering if they were sleeping together.

  With his good looks, power, and wealth—an LA trifecta of sorts—Ira was considered one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. And though the tabloids were always trying to decode his love life, other than an endless string of rumored conquests that included an impressive number of Victoria’s Secret models, A-list actresses, and a couple of infamous socialites, Ira remained maddeningly elusive—eternally linked to everyone and no one.

  Ira’s curt nod gave nothing away. He simply turned to Aster and said, “Why don’t you wait in my office? I’m afraid it’s not much at the moment, but if this runs too long, I can always recruit James to drive you home.”

  Aster buried her frown and forced herself to nod good-naturedly instead. She longed to return to her luxury condo, but she owed Ira. Big-time. And at least he hadn’t brought her to Night for Night. Just because she’d agreed to return to her old job as the club’s promoter didn’t mean she was ready to see it quite yet.

  For some, the VIP cabanas in the Riad—the area reserved for Night for Night’s A-list clientele—were considered the height of sought-after nightlife luxury, but for her they served as a painful reminder of the night her life took a turn for the worse, leaving her to wonder if she’d ever be able to view the sexy Moroccan-style surroundings as anything other than the infamous crime scene they were.