“They won’t be here for me. It’s a celebrity hangout. A dozen names on that list could land a pap a solid payday. A shot of Grace Marbury in a headscarf, looking ill, for instance.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Or maybe there’s a pop star who’s nine-and-a-half months pregnant and could be turning up anytime. We’ll use the Brando entrance.”
“The what?”
“For ambulances and people who might cause a riot.”
They drove to a security booth. Griffin took off his hat and sunglasses. The guard took one look at him and raised the barrier, directing him to valet parking.
“Valet parking?” Lana said as they got out of the car at the back of the building.
“They know their market.” He grabbed his tablet from the back seat. “Here, carry this and look like you’re taking notes with it. If you look like my assistant, any paps will be less interested.” He lowered his voice. “And try not to look at me like we just had sex.”
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know. Look … deferential.”
Her eyebrows shot up. He pointed at her face, grinning. “That is not deferential. That is, ‘I’m not buying into this bullshit.’ Which is one of your most attractive traits, but in this case, it might be safer to come across as invisible.”
“Oh, invisible I can do. I’m literally a pro at fading into the background, now.” She grabbed Darnell’s thick-rimmed glasses from the glove compartment and put them on, and took the hair tie off her wrist and stuffed her hair into a messy bun. “How’s this?”
“The stuff of fantasies. Now if we could just find a glasses chain and a cardigan…” She swatted at him. “And definitely don’t do that! Once we’re inside, we should split up.”
Her cheeks went cold. “What? Why?”
“You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. I’ll go visit this director I know. If you don’t get a good opportunity to talk to Walter Shepherd, don’t force it. We can return.”
A liveried doorman took their keys and ushered them into a hushed VIP reception area. With comfy sofas and soft tablelamps, it looked like a five-star hotel, though it still smelled like a hospital.
She greeted the receptionist. “Griffin Hart is here to visit…” She blanked.
“Franklin Ross,” Griffin finished.
The receptionist gave them directions, though they already knew the floors and room numbers they were headed to, from Darnell’s spreadsheet. As they approached the elevator, a couple of teenagers nervously approached, one holding a phone.
“Excuse me, could we get a photo?” one said, while the other smiled nervously.
Griffin’s face flatlined. Lana stepped between them. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hart is currently under a contractual obligation not to share his likeness. Another time.”
“Oh, sure,” the girl said, looking terrified. Lana felt sorry for her. It obviously took a lot of guts to ask, but they definitely didn’t want this little visit going viral.
“Contractual obligation,” Griffin muttered as they waited for the elevator. “That’s a good one.”
“This way she’ll hate me and not you.”
Oncology was on the second floor and palliative care the third, so Lana got out first. “Meet back at reception,” Griffin said. “Good luck.”
She nodded. The ward was more like a regular hospital than the reception was, but it wasn’t the white paint and vinyl she was used to. She strode toward Grace Marbury’s room with a confidence she didn’t feel. At least with the tablet for a prop she didn’t have to worry about her arms acting weird.
Just as she was wondering how she would make this work, a strong grip closed on her arm—a man, pulling her toward a door marked with a stairwell symbol. He was older, dressed in a sports coat, well overdue for a haircut and a trim of his messygray beard. He was more disheveled than on his book cover, but there was no mistaking him. Walter Shepherd.
Once they were through the door, he released her and checked up and down the stairwell. He was red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Lana,” he said.
“You know who I am?”
