Somehow, that spurred a round of bickering between Atlas and Saffi, which Dimple tuned out. It made her feel dreadfully lonely.
If only Dimple could speak openly about her knowledge, perhaps then she could offer more insight. She could tell them that Olsen was of an older crowd, that he didn’t go out every night, that he was of a higher profile than Dimple. The parties they were both invited to rarely intersected. It would take time and patience to find him at one of these events.
A few of the partygoers closest to Dimple began whispering, as though considering approaching her. It was time for another leisurely stroll around the premises. Everyone Dimple passed turned in her direction, as though magnetized by her presence. The crowd was dense, but not enough that Dimple had to fight her way through. She caught fragments of shouted conversations as she weaved in and out. A mention of a famous actor here, a comment about cheap drinks there.
Dimple had come straight here after a final audition round for the lead role in another major film. It felt completely different from when she’d auditioned forInsomnia—back then she’d been terrified out of her mind. She’d spent nearly every hour of every day practicing, reciting the script in hundreds of tones and tens of accents, imploring Priyal to give her feedback on the most compelling delivery.And yet, she’d still lost the role to Irene. This time, while Dimple had prepared extensively, she hadn’t been as obsessive. And the role was hers in everything but name.
“You seem so relaxed,” Priyal had told her. “I’m glad you’re starting to trust yourself more.”
Dimple didn’t know how to explain to her that it was because she was more fixated on framing Hector Olsen. Auditions, even for large-budget films, paled in comparison to that challenge.
A group of friends twirled to the upbeat rhythm of the music. Dimple ducked around them. Much to her chagrin, Priyal had been unable to accompany her to these parties. The investigators had denied her this comfort for fear of her assistant getting caught in the crossfire. Dimple wished she’d pushed back more on the issue. It was incredibly isolating, standing alone in a crowd full of intersecting relationships.
But it wasn’t just that. Priyal had been pestering her less and less as of late. Julie had told her it was because Priyal had finally gotten herself an agent. She was already booking minor roles and Dimple knew that it wouldn’t be long before she became too busy for personal assistant work.
She was interrupted from her thoughts when she spotted a woman in the crowd. Sleek black hair to her shoulders, golden brown skin, couldn’t be more than a couple inches taller than Priyal. Shyla Patel caught Dimple’s attention, waving hello, which Dimple returned. That was one piece of the puzzle in place, but Dimple didn’t want to get ahead of herself. Shyla had shown up to several of these parties—Hector Olsen was the more elusive of the two.
Dimple pushed her way through the masses, alert. Crowd placement at events like this was always extremely deliberate. The younger, more up-and-coming bunch tended to keep to themselves until later in the night when they had liquid courage running through their veins. Even then, only the bravest—or perhaps most foolish—dared approach the A- and B-listers.
That wasn’t to say that this was a particularly exclusive party, but the most narcissistic of the elites liked to come to these because it gave them a sense of superiority. Those newer to the businessclamored over one another for the opportunity to brush hands with the stars that burned brighter.
Which was why Dimple knew Hector Olsen’s presence at one of these events was inevitable. He was a perverted, geriatric, washed-up has-been. Here, though, he was a god.
Just then, Dimple spotted a flash of white hair through the crowd and froze. Her heart thudded in anticipation as he turned.
It was Olsen.
The silence in her earpiece didn’t give away whether or not the investigators had noticed him as well. They wouldn’t tell her even if they had.
Dimple positioned herself by the bar, in his direct sight. He, however, was too busy guffawing with his friends to look over at her. This wouldn’t work. Saffi, Eli, and Atlas were posted around the room, ready to intervene in case something went wrong. More than that, they could hear every word she said through her earpiece. Dimple scanned the room once again to make sure they were where she’d left them.
Instead of approaching Hector, Dimple ducked away and disappeared from the investigators’ line of sight. They wouldn’t question her right away, but Dimple would have to work fast before she raised suspicion. She blamed anxiety for how quickly she dismissed the hairs raising up on the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched.
There was always a dark corner of the room where partygoers got a head start on the hard drugs. The classier folks waited until the night was winding down to partake, but the junkies hardly cared about the time of day. Dimple usually never drifted so close to this corner, but she’d been scouting it out for a few weekends now. She was familiar enough to know that she could swipe a packet of whatever they were using this late in the night and they’d either be too high or too preoccupied to notice. Dimple strolled past the group, careful not to draw attention to herself as she did just that.
She held the packet tightly in her fist as she made her way over to the bar, back in the private investigators’ view. Only waiters ever came by this end. Uniform black suits, silver trays piled high with drinks. Dimple’s heart skipped a beat, almost thinking she caught aglimpse of a familiar scrawny man. She grasped onto the edge of the bar, nails digging into polished brown wood, forcibly reminding herself that Isaac Klossner was dead.
A waiter knocked shoulders with Dimple, paying no mind as he frantically refilled a glass with Scotch before taking off again. Dimple watched as he ducked expertly through the crowd over to Hector Olsen and his friends. Their glasses hadn’t been empty for more than a second before he plucked them from their hands and replaced them with full ones. An attendant just for them.
The waiter circled back to the bar.
When Dimple checked again, she was pleased to see that it would be Olsen’s turn for a refill soon.
Casually enough that it could be considered an accident, Dimple kicked at a woman’s heel and slipped away. The woman shrieked as she fell, the glass in her hand shattering as it hit the ground beside her. Everyone in the vicinity turned to look. Olsen’s waiter, who was the closest employee, rushed forward to help clean up the mess.
“The hell was that?” Saffi asked in her ear, alarmed. Her voice reminded Dimple of fingers digging into her throat, which she promptly shoved aside.
“Dimple, are you okay?” Eli asked. The crowd’s sudden agitation meant they’d lost sight of her again.
“Fine,” Dimple replied breathlessly. “Someone fell.”
With everyone preoccupied, nobody noticed when Dimple emptied the packet she’d swiped into the glass of Scotch sitting on the waiter’s silver tray. Swirling it a few times to make sure it dissolved, Dimple set the drink down and allowed the surging crowd to swallow her up. The empty packet got lost in all the commotion, but that was of no consequence.
Mess finally dealt with, the waiter turned back to the tray and glanced up at Olsen and his friends. He did a double-take that Dimple didn’t understand until she checked for herself. Both Olsenandone of his friends had empty glasses. She cursed under her breath. There was no telling who the drink would go to. The waiter filled another glass with Scotch, overestimating. The liquid threatened to spill, but there was no time to re-pour. He made his way to the men.
Unwilling to let her hard work go to waste, Dimple pushed her way through the dense crowd. She aimed for casual as she plucked the overfilled Scotch from the tray. The waiter froze, but Dimple didn’t give him the chance to complain as a group of rather energetic dancers surged around her.
Olsen was getting increasingly irritated as the seconds ticked by and his glass remained empty. Not many dared contribute to the discomfort of A-listers at events like these, where their presence was widely regarded as a gift. The waiter would have to decide: have Olsen complain about him slacking and lose his job, or deal with the wrath of Olsen’s C-lister friend for not bringing him a refill as well.
