to turn off.
Hogart’s phone chimed—Gordon. “Is there a white Chevy truck behind you?”
“Yeah, and let me tell you—”
“Follow their instructions. This is the rendezvous I was telling you about.”
The call terminated.
Hogart saw the exit up ahead. He looked over at Riis and saw his own fear reflected there. But he signaled and slowed for the exit, the Chevy’s grille practically crawling up his ass.
Riis shot him a glance. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Orders.”
“Yeah,” Riis said at last. “What can you do?”
T ESS M C C RAE ATE her lunch at home. Other than arresting an honest-to-God movie star after an attempted kidnapping by two tough guys in a stretch limo (not the usual thing that happened in a town like Paradox) the place had reverted to business as usual. It was hot, and people kept to themselves. There were meth labs out in the desert she didn’t know about. There were petty thefts and bad-tempered people with hair triggers who would ward off anyone trespassing on their land with a rifle. But no calls came in. Bajada County was quiet.
After lunch, Tess powered up her MacBook and did a little research on Max Conroy. She looked at celebrity sites like TMZ and Entertainment Tonight.
The articles on these sites were long on sensationalism and short on information. They regurgitated the same themes: Max’s bad boy ways; an unnamed source at Maxima Entertainment speculating that Conroy might not make the first day of shooting V.A.M.Pyre: The Target ; a quote from Max’s publicist, Diane Scarafone, that he was busy from dawn until dusk preparing for the part, and was in “the best shape of his life.” There were some candid shots. One purportedly at the Desert Oasis Healing Center, taken with a telephoto lens. It was blurry and showed a man from the back, diving into a pool. There was another photo of a man who could be Max Conroy at a dry-out clinic in Sonoma, California. The irony that a dry-out clinic was smack in the middle of wine country was not lost on her.
Max’s publicist was quoted in several places, putting a great spin on her client’s prospects. This was a very exciting time. Max and his wife, actress Talia L’Apel, would soon be welcoming a baby girl from Nigeria.
But the driver of the limo, Hogart, worked for the Desert Oasis Healing Center. This led her to believe that the Desert Oasis wanted Max back in the fold.
She wondered why Conroy couldn’t just walk out the door, get into a limo of his own choosing, and fly back to LA if he wanted to. Instead, the man was wandering around like a derelict, waylaid by Hogart and Riis in broad daylight on a public street.
Which, in Tess’s opinion, was unlawful imprisonment. Now she wished she’d detained the men in the limo.
She looked up the Desert Oasis Healing Center’s website. It looked like a resort. She read some of the literature. There was plenty of language about treating addiction, and Sedona buzzwords like “guided vortex tours,” “spiritual awakening,” and something called “aura Polaroids.”
Max did not seem crazy. He was articulate enough, even if he looked shabby. He seemed OK to her.
He must be staying here in town. There were three motels in Paradox. One of them was a rent-by-the-month affair, an old motor court called the Sunland. Tess called the Sunland and described Max to the proprietor. All his units were full and had been for a long time. She called the Riata and the Regal 8 up the freeway. The Regal 8, not surprisingly, wouldn’t say either way—she expected that from a chain. Jan, who was working the desk at the Riata, said there was no record of anyone going by the name “Max Conroy” staying there.
He might have used an alias, but Tess supposed he’d just moved on. No doubt, he would crop up soon, probably on a late show being interviewed for the new movie, which was coming out two weeks after he started shooting the fourth V.A.M.Pyre in the series.
Still,
Hogart’s phone chimed—Gordon. “Is there a white Chevy truck behind you?”
“Yeah, and let me tell you—”
“Follow their instructions. This is the rendezvous I was telling you about.”
The call terminated.
Hogart saw the exit up ahead. He looked over at Riis and saw his own fear reflected there. But he signaled and slowed for the exit, the Chevy’s grille practically crawling up his ass.
Riis shot him a glance. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Orders.”
“Yeah,” Riis said at last. “What can you do?”
T ESS M C C RAE ATE her lunch at home. Other than arresting an honest-to-God movie star after an attempted kidnapping by two tough guys in a stretch limo (not the usual thing that happened in a town like Paradox) the place had reverted to business as usual. It was hot, and people kept to themselves. There were meth labs out in the desert she didn’t know about. There were petty thefts and bad-tempered people with hair triggers who would ward off anyone trespassing on their land with a rifle. But no calls came in. Bajada County was quiet.
After lunch, Tess powered up her MacBook and did a little research on Max Conroy. She looked at celebrity sites like TMZ and Entertainment Tonight.
The articles on these sites were long on sensationalism and short on information. They regurgitated the same themes: Max’s bad boy ways; an unnamed source at Maxima Entertainment speculating that Conroy might not make the first day of shooting V.A.M.Pyre: The Target ; a quote from Max’s publicist, Diane Scarafone, that he was busy from dawn until dusk preparing for the part, and was in “the best shape of his life.” There were some candid shots. One purportedly at the Desert Oasis Healing Center, taken with a telephoto lens. It was blurry and showed a man from the back, diving into a pool. There was another photo of a man who could be Max Conroy at a dry-out clinic in Sonoma, California. The irony that a dry-out clinic was smack in the middle of wine country was not lost on her.
Max’s publicist was quoted in several places, putting a great spin on her client’s prospects. This was a very exciting time. Max and his wife, actress Talia L’Apel, would soon be welcoming a baby girl from Nigeria.
But the driver of the limo, Hogart, worked for the Desert Oasis Healing Center. This led her to believe that the Desert Oasis wanted Max back in the fold.
She wondered why Conroy couldn’t just walk out the door, get into a limo of his own choosing, and fly back to LA if he wanted to. Instead, the man was wandering around like a derelict, waylaid by Hogart and Riis in broad daylight on a public street.
Which, in Tess’s opinion, was unlawful imprisonment. Now she wished she’d detained the men in the limo.
She looked up the Desert Oasis Healing Center’s website. It looked like a resort. She read some of the literature. There was plenty of language about treating addiction, and Sedona buzzwords like “guided vortex tours,” “spiritual awakening,” and something called “aura Polaroids.”
Max did not seem crazy. He was articulate enough, even if he looked shabby. He seemed OK to her.
He must be staying here in town. There were three motels in Paradox. One of them was a rent-by-the-month affair, an old motor court called the Sunland. Tess called the Sunland and described Max to the proprietor. All his units were full and had been for a long time. She called the Riata and the Regal 8 up the freeway. The Regal 8, not surprisingly, wouldn’t say either way—she expected that from a chain. Jan, who was working the desk at the Riata, said there was no record of anyone going by the name “Max Conroy” staying there.
He might have used an alias, but Tess supposed he’d just moved on. No doubt, he would crop up soon, probably on a late show being interviewed for the new movie, which was coming out two weeks after he started shooting the fourth V.A.M.Pyre in the series.
Still,
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