Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(14)

“What’s the next step?” I ask my father, my voice thick with disappointment.

“We’re going to circulate his photo, issue a warrant for his arrest, and maybe bring in the FBI.” He pauses. “And have someone on the force keep an eye on Scott. They may have contact again.”

“Do you still think his meeting with Scott had something to do with Brandon?”

Pops rubs his dimpled chin. “Not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe it has something to do with you.”

I inwardly shudder. “Pops, I’m positive he didn’t recognize me.” While I’ve never lost all my baby fat, I no longer look like the chubby, pigtailed little girl who witnessed her mother’s murder. “And besides he has no clue about my identity or whereabouts.”

The latter is true because the police kept my name out of the press to protect me. Frustrated, Pops rakes his stubby fingers through his full head of slate hair. His face is pinched.

“Has Scott ever threatened you?”

“Pops, he threatened to fire me, but he’s never threatened my life.” Yet, I wonder—does despicable Scott despise me enough to want to kill me? Is that motive enough?

“Does he perceive you as a threat?”

I answer Pops honestly. “Somewhat. He doesn’t like my relationship with Brandon, but truthfully, I don’t think it would drive him to kill me.”

“Babycakes, at this point, we can’t rule anything out. I’ve seen people kill for no reason at all.” He turns to Mancuso. “Mancuso, do a thorough investigation of Brandon Taylor’s manager, Scott Turner, and get me everything you have on him as quickly as you can.”

“Will do boss. I’ll get on it right away,” the uniformed officer replies, already out the door.

Pops returns his attention to the computer, and with a couple clicks of the mouse, prints out Donatelli’s image. “Brenda, would you do me a favor and grab the printout.”


“Sure,” she says, swiveling her chair to retrieve the photo that’s spewing out of the printer behind her. She faces front again and hands it to Pops.

“Thanks,” says Pops, carefully slipping the photo into Mama’s case folder. “And thanks for working with Zoey and doing a stellar job.”

Brenda smiles proudly. “My pleasure. I hope you nail the bastard.”

Rising with the folder in his hand, Pops takes a deep breath. “Me too.”

I can read him like a book and detect a shadow of doubt.

He gives me an affectionate noogie. “C’mon, babycakes. I’ll walk you back to the front desk.” I stand, and he wraps a comforting arm around my shoulders.

When we return to the front desk area, there’s a line out the door to get Brandon’s autograph or take a photo with him. Alma is shouting out for people to behave themselves. Despite my glum mood, I can’t help smiling.

“Sorry, guys. Last autograph,” I hear him say when he catches sight of me. Despite the moans and groans of the disappointed bystanders, all eager to have a moment of glory with America’s favorite action hero, he struts over to Pops and me.

“How did it go?”

“Pretty good,” I say with a heavy heart.

“What do you mean?”

Pops chimes in. “We’ve identified the man who murdered Zoey’s mother. But it’s gong to be difficult to nail him.” He slips his hand into the thick folder and shows Brandon the photo of Frank Donatelli.

All blood drains from Brandon’s face. His eyes almost pop out of their sockets. He looks as if he’s just seen a ghost.

“Holy f*ck! This can’t be!”

“What, Brandon?” I ask, never seeing him like this before.

“It’s him! The bastard who rammed into my parents’ car and killed them.”

My jaw drops and I’ve never seen Pops look so surprised. “Frank Donatelli?”

“No. Arthur Fratianne. But I swear on my life, it’s the same bastard.”

Pops slips the photo back into the file. His face darkens. “Brandon, we now have a new suspect in your hit and run.”

My eyes dart from Brandon to Pops and then back to Brandon.

An unprecedented blanket of rage falls over his beautiful face. His violet eyes narrow into switchblades. His nostrils flare while his chest rises and falls.

“I want the motherf*cker dead.”





Brandon


If yesterday started with a bolt of lightning—I’m still not over the fact that Zoey’s mother’s killer is the bastard responsible for my parents’ demise and neither is she—today starts with a clap of thunder.

Hurricane Katrina. Clutching Gucci, clad in his latest pink designer outfit and matching bow, she storms into the living room where Zoey and I are eating breakfast on the couch and dissecting all the mind-boggling motives behind our intertwined cases. A uniformed livery trails her, wheeling a massive pink suitcase.

“What the hell is she doing here?” she shrieks, shooting eye daggers at Zoey and cutting our conversation short.

“I had Zoey stay over because of her concussion.”

“You mean that stupid little bump on her head you blew me off for?” Adjusting her gazillion dollar fur coat, she looks at me harshly. “You owe me a dinner.”