Chapter 21: When in Doubt, Target a Celebrity
West Hollywood, Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
A charity art auction had just ended, and Melissa Ackman, elegantly dressed, exited with a faint smile. She was Buddy Ackman’s beloved daughter and the CEO of Ackman Pictures.
Robert Downey Jr. hurried after her, keeping pace as he spoke in a low voice. “About the Phantom Men project—there’s a role that would be perfect for—”
“That’s a Sony-Warner production. We’re only minor investors,” Melissa interrupted, stopping to face him. “Are you truly clean now?”
Downey swore earnestly, “I promise!”
Melissa’s eyes turned icy. “If your addiction causes losses for the company, I’ll make sure you pay for it all at once.”
Downey instinctively took a step back, too intimidated to continue the conversation.
Melissa turned away gracefully, leaving without another word.
Shaken, Downey lingered for several minutes before finally leaving the museum. Still haunted by Melissa’s words and glare, he grabbed a plastic bag from his car and indulged to calm his nerves.Feeling more composed, he drove off to Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard to begin his night.
Meanwhile, Melissa waited for a moment before inviting Barack Bernan into her Rolls-Royce Phantom.
As the car began moving, the partition between the front and back seats rose, sealing them in privacy.
Melissa went straight to the point. “Still no trace of him?”
“The snowstorm that night covered too many tracks,” Bernan repeated his usual explanation. “The local police won’t pour resources indefinitely into a case. Their murder clearance rate isn’t great, and the investigation’s been shelved.”
Melissa’s expression didn’t change.
Bernan continued, “We expanded the search radius and found a lead near the small northern town of Highland. A grocery store owner claimed to have seen someone matching the description, but we found no car or trace of him at any local hotels or motels. The trail goes cold near Highland.”
“That’s all?” Melissa’s tone was flat.
“I’ve contracted Pinkerton Detective Agency under the guise of a foreign foundation to continue the search,” Bernan added.
“When you find him, don’t make a fuss—just bring him in quietly,” Melissa instructed.
Bernan was tempted to ask why but wisely held his tongue.
Melissa’s thoughts drifted to her father and herself. She, too, might need a “blood source” one day.
East Hollywood, Fountain Avenue.
Hawk parked his second-hand Mondeo in front of his house, slinging a camera bag over one shoulder and carrying dinner and a stack of newspapers.
Near a garbage bin, the same pudgy old man from earlier—Frank—was rummaging for bottles. Spotting Hawk’s newspapers, he called out, “Hey, buddy! Let me take care of those papers for you.”
Hawk, his hands full, considered flipping Frank off but couldn’t manage it.
“I’ll do it for you!” Frank gleefully gave himself the finger, even sticking it in his mouth and wiggling it dramatically. “How’s that? Now, can I have them?”
Impressed by the man’s shamelessness, Hawk said dryly, “Not now. Come back tomorrow.”
“Deal!” Frank wiped his lips and shuffled off toward the RV he lived in at the park across the street.
Back home, Hawk glanced out the window to see Frank heading to his RV. Satisfied, he ate dinner before diving into work.
Online, he looked up Robert Downey Jr.’s latest news and noted his frequent locations. Then, he combed through the tabloids for additional details, jotting everything down on a sheet of paper.
Four places stood out:
Brentwood (Downey’s residence)
Tracy Gym (Westwood)
Viper Room (Sunset Boulevard)
Eric Ohlen’s Martial Arts Gym (Victory Boulevard, North Hollywood)
Hawk had already checked out the first two locations earlier without much luck.
The Viper Room was a Sunset Boulevard nightclub popular among celebrities and athletes, owned and meticulously curated by Johnny Depp.
As for the martial arts gym, a blog post claimed that Downey was interested in learning Wing Chun under Eric Ohlen. Hawk vaguely remembered hearing that Downey had indeed dabbled in Wing Chun.
The post also led him to another article about Downey’s romantic history. One name jumped out: Sarah Parker, Bro Derek’s wife.
Hawk shook his head but wasn’t surprised. Hollywood stars rarely lacked a long list of exes.
With his next day’s itinerary set, Hawk burned the paper with the noted locations and reorganized the tabloids.
He focused on the biggest sellers: National Enquirer, Us Weekly, World News, and Hollywood Life.
Each featured tip lines and submission numbers for breaking stories.
Hawk’s camera gear wasn’t just for Downey—it was also a potential moneymaker.
Everyone knew that in times of scandal, a celebrity controversy was the perfect diversion. For Hawk, celebrities were broad-reaching, highly profitable targets with relatively low risks.
He saved the tabloids’ contact information to his phone.
The next morning.
Hawk started his day with a jog in the park, grabbed breakfast, and returned home to find Frank sitting by the roadside with a hat for donations. Occasionally, passersby would toss some change in.
After breakfast, Hawk brought a stack of unused newspapers to Frank, placing them beside him.
“Thanks,” Frank said, flipping through them.
Noticing Hawk’s camera bag, Frank smirked. “You a journalist? Freelancer? Or just starting out?”
Hawk paused, turning to look at him.
“New in town, carrying a camera bag, and buying stacks of tabloids. Easy guess,” Frank said smugly. “Lots of folks try this in L.A. Most fail.”
Hawk considered for a moment and asked, “Any advice?”
Frank waved the papers. “Get a big scoop and sell it to Channel 11. They’re owned by Fox News now and pay well for stories.”
Hawk took note, got in his car, and drove off.
North Hollywood, Victory Boulevard.
Hawk parked his Mondeo and walked to Eric Ohlen’s Martial Arts Gym, which sported bilingual English and Chinese signage.
A staff member greeted him and, learning of his interest in Wing Chun, led him to an exhibit room. The walls displayed photos of famous practitioners like Bruce Lee, Ip Man, and Eric Ohlen with his mentor, Zhang Zhuoqing.
The gallery, however, lacked celebrity photos, indicating the gym hadn’t gained much renown.
Hawk left with a price list and schedule for private lessons, which were even more expensive than Tracy Gym.
Standing on the roadside, Hawk observed his surroundings before crossing the street to a convenience store.
Inside, he found shelves stocked with Chinese ingredients and spices. He grabbed a few items and overheard an argument at the counter.
A white woman in her thirties scolded a mixed-race man in his twenties for mistakenly putting fireworks on display.
“You’re brainless, Edward! Those are for a friend, not for sale!” she hissed.
Edward retorted, “Then why were they in storage? That’s your mistake.”
“Your brain must be stuck below your waist! Or did you blow it all out last night? Take them back!”
Grumbling, Edward carried the fireworks away.
In California, selling and using fireworks without a permit was illegal—but widely ignored.
Hawk feigned ignorance and handed the woman his card at checkout. “I’m a journalist. If you spot any celebrities at the gym across the street, call me. There’s a cash reward.”
She pocketed the card and handed him a store card and flyer. “We deliver orders over $25, but tips and delivery fees are extra.”
Edward muttered, “I’m your boyfriend, not your employee!”
Hawk stuffed the card and flyer into his pocket and headed out, planning to distribute more business cards elsewhere.
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