Suddenly I realized I could be caught, and for what? What if one of his neighbors had seen me rooting around in the carport and called the police? I’d been so focused on the mission I didn’t really consider what would happen if someone saw me. I could be humiliated, and lose my job, and my job was all I had right now.

Quickly crossing the street, I tried to act nonchalant as I hastened my way to my car a few houses away. I wouldn’t have really gone in Dave’s house anyway—this was just something for fun, I told myself.

Safely in my car, I pulled away from the curb and told myself again that I wouldn’t have really have gone in. This was just a fun research trip; I’d go home and write about this. I could use this for one of my upcoming shows. Of course, the woman looking for the key outside wouldn’t be the “bad guy”—she’d be the one on the right side of the law. Leaving Dave’s house behind in the rearview mirror, I vowed to myself never to drive by again.

“Dani, there’s a call for you.”

“Did they say who was calling?”

“Troy Zarcoff.”

My heart leaped. I had been waiting for this call. I counted to ten before picking up the phone. “Hi, this is Dani.”

“Hi, it’s Troy Zarcoff. I’m Mark’s friend.”

Mark was a friend of mine who made huge money producing cheesy teen skin flicks. He had married “the Wicked Witch of the West Side,” as my girlfriends and I liked to call her, but he was still a nice guy. Whenever I saw him, though, he would linger just a little too long when he’d kiss me hello or good-bye. His lips would rest uncomfortably on mine, and I could feel his breath on my cheeks, rustling my eyelashes. I knew that all I had to do was make a slight movement and he’d have his tongue down my throat. And the last thing I needed was trouble with a married guy. Mark always regaled me with his past exploits. He’d had “ass sex,” as he liked to put it, with half the actresses in Hollywood. Despite the ass sex and the mild attempts at hitting on me, there was something really charming about Mark. I remembered him telling a story of being at the famous Hotel du Cap, one of the most exclusive and expensive hotels in the world and a playground for Hollywood, two weeks every May during the Cannes Film Festival. And they took only cash. No credit cards allowed. Mark stayed there as an executive at Paramount. The du Cap was famous for its bellinis. One flute of the champagne and peach juice cocktail set you back fifty bucks.