May 12, 2010
As you drive northbound on Laurel Canyon Boulevard, through the Hollywood Hills, when you reach Kirkwood Drive, there is, on the right hand side of the road, a quaint little shopping center that seems entirely out of place in Los Angeles. A dry cleaner, a country store, and a pizza bistro that all seem as though they would be more at home somewhere in the mountains serve the rich and beautiful people who live in the Hollywood Hills.
A pair of famous guitarists were, at that very moment, in the parking lot of Pace Pizza, leaning against the side of a black and gold Ford Flex, sharing a joint. Though they would both be quickly identified in Beverly Hills or Santa Monica, here in the Hills, they were safe in an enclave of relative anonymity. They could walk around this part of the Hollywood Hills relatively unmolested, although a passing motorist might see them and say, "Hey, that's the guy who sang about some chick's body being a wonderland, and wasn't the other one hot for teacher?"
It was as they were approaching the end of their shared cannabis that the two men heard an unearthly howl. The younger looked at the older with a puzzled look on his face. "What the hell is that?"
The older of the two guitarists looked back at the younger and said, "Well, John, that sounds to me like somebody took a baseball bat to a Crate amp, then turned it up to eleven and plugged in a Les Paul."
The younger guitarist bit back a snort of laughter. "Uh-huh. Seriously, Eddie, that's a car engine."
Throwing the butt of the joint on the ground, Eddie stepped on it, snuffing it out, and made his way to the side of Laurel Canyon, with John following close behind him. And as the two of them reached the side of the road –
A black Porsche 911 flew into view, tearing around the curve with all the grace and patience of a wounded rhinoceros. A Los Angeles County Sheriff's department Dodge Charger followed closely on the 911's tail, code three, lights flashing and siren blaring.
John and Eddie stared down the road after the two vehicles, and then looked at one another. "What the hell was that?" Eddie finally asked.
"I do not know," John replied, "but I think I know who might be interested."
Harvey had just settled onto his couch, ready for that night's show to begin, when his phone vibrated. Frowning, he picked it up off the coffee table, and read the text message that had just come in:
LA Sheriff chasing black 911 through HHills. Celeb car chase? – JM
There was nothing Harvey loved better than a celebrity car chase. Sure, it was a little vampiric, but it made for GREAT copy. And if the Los Angeles County Sheriff was chasing a black Porsche through the Hollywood Hills… well, well. Furthermore, the sender of the text was a reliable source – Harvey only knew one person with the initials JM who had his private number.
Dialing the second number on his speed dial list, Harvey patiently waited for the call to connect.
"Hello?"
"Dax, Harvey. Listen, I need you to get on the police band, see if you can get something on a car chase through the Hills involving a black Porsche."
"We thinkin' a celebrity here?"
"Well, Lindsay Lohan did get one of those just a couple months ago. This could be gold."
This was not a good time of day for a high speed pursuit down Ventura Boulevard. However, the driver of the black 911 didn't seem to care, and oddly enough, the police Dodge following the 911 was disregarding a number of safety protocols. Miraculously, there had not been a single accident yet caused by this little bit of tomfoolery.
The two young actresses heading into the wine and tapas bar at Ventura and Woodley were there with a fair degree of anonymity. While they were both essentially goddesses within the sci-fi nerd community, the redhead and the brunette were fairly safe from wide-eyed autograph seekers in this part of the Valley – especially at an establishment such as this one.
They heard the sirens long before they saw anything. Both turned and watched with a degree of astonishment as the black Porsche weaved back and forth across Ventura Boulevard, the black and white Dodge Charger stuck to its tail as if it was glued there.
The brunette turned to the redhead. "Jewel, am I hallucinating, or did you see that too?"
Jewel nodded. "Yeah, I saw it."
"What do you think is going on?"
"Morena, I really don't care," Jewel replied with a shrug. "There is a 2000 Clos du Val Cabernet Sauvignon in there waiting for us, so unless that was my husband driving MY 911, I think there are more important things at hand."
Nonetheless, as soon as they were seated, Jewel's phone came out.
Harvey's phone vibrated again. At this point, the evening's show was forgotten. He was parked in front of his computer, police radio on. He picked up the phone.
Porsche chased down Ventura at Woodley by sheriff. Celeb stupidity? – JS
Harvey dialed Dax again. "Dax, listen, the Porsche is on Ventura now. You got anything yet?"
"I don't, Harvey. Whatever's going on, they're playing it really close to the vest. They must be using cell phones."
Harvey frowned. "Well, they just passed Ventura and Woodley. Where are you?"
"I'm at the Starbucks at Ventura and Hayvenhurst. I can actually hear the sirens – let me see if I can get a look."
Dax ran outside, hearing the howl of the Porsche's overtaxed engine approaching. Popping off his camera's lens, he started taking pictures as quickly as possible.
As the Porsche flew past, he quickly took as many pictures as he could of the license plate area. Running back inside the Starbucks, he pulled the SD card out of his camera and popped it into his laptop.
Pulling up the pictures, he studied them for a moment, until he had assembled a full license plate. Picking up his phone, he dialed a number.
"Los Angeles Police Robbery Homicide, this is Detective Crews."
"Charlie, Dax Holt, TMZ. You got a minute?"
There was a sigh on the other end. "Oh, all the time in the world for you," the homicide detective (once believed to himself be a murderer) deadpanned.
"I need to know who owns a black Porsche 911, Nevada license plate Victor Bravo Romeo four niner seven."
Dax heard a keyboard tapping in the background. "Nevada VBR 497… okay, that is registered to a Sarah Lisa Walker, residence listed in Las Vegas."
Damn.
"Okay, thanks Charlie," Dax replied, disappointed. He didn't even recognize the name Sarah Walker.
Harvey's phone vibrated. He picked it up and read the text.
Porsche reg in NV to Sarah Walker. Dead end. – DH
A frown crossed Harvey's face. So it wasn't Lindsay Lohan, but… that name sounded familiar. Sarah Walker… Sarah Walker…
"Sarah Walker's the new head of security at the Viper!" Harvey breathed, his face lighting up. And if Sarah Walker was racing through the streets of Los Angeles…
Well, there was a good chance Chuck Bartowski was involved. And Chuck Bartowski had made Harvey a LOT of money recently.
Harvey picked up the phone and dialed again. As soon as Dax picked up, he was barking instructions.
"Sarah Walker is Chuck Bartowski's new head of security!" Harvey shouted. "Get your ass on the road and find that Porsche!"
Sarah Walker was driving like a woman possessed – and she had no idea why.
Lauren Canyon and Ventura Boulevards had essentially become her own personal Grand Prix race track, as she had bombed through the Hills and the southern Valley as if her name was Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and that elusive checkered flag was finally within her grasp. John Cooper had been glued to her tail since she turned off of Sunset onto Laurel Canyon, and she had been in constant contact with him over the phone.
The Sheriff's department was observing strict radio silence on this, something for which Sarah was enormously grateful. The last thing Chuck needed was for this to get out on the police bands and be picked up by the bloodsucking media – if they got wind of him having some sort of health problem or injury, he would never hear the end of it.
Nonetheless, that did not – in and of itself – explain why Sarah was putting the well-being of half of the drivers in Los Angeles at risk right now. People just didn't worry about their bosses this way.
People DO worry about people they really care about this way, a little voice inside her head told her.
Sarah immediately dismissed the thought. It was ridiculous. She had only known Chuck Bartowski for nine days. Sure, he was one of the kindest, most caring, most amazing men she had ever met, and the weekend she had spent with him, essentially sequestered in his office reading comic books, had actually been one of the most enjoyable times of her life to date –
STOP IT! she ordered herself. This was not helping. Dammit, no. Just no. She was not going to fall for somebody, not this quickly, and CERTAINLY not when she was trying to liberate millions of dollars from the company he worked for.
And yet, even as the thought passed through her head, she downshifted to take the right turn onto Lindley Avenue at far too high a rate of speed. And people just didn't do that unless they were trying to get to a lov-
NO.
"Charles?"
Chuck's first conscious thought was OW.
"Charles, wake up."
His next conscious thought was, Oh shit, that's Dad. I am SO busted.
Gritting his teeth, Chuck forced his eyes open – and slammed them back shut as they were assaulted by the bright white light of the Intersect room.
"Charles, I'm not going to yell at you right now. We can have that discussion later. What I AM going to do is say a phrase, and I need you to tell me if anything happens."
Chuck groaned. "All… right…"
"Orion."
Immediately, Chuck's mind's eye was bombarded with information. A classified file, detailing a CIA agent named "Orion". A picture of his father – with the notation "Orion". Another file, about Project Omaha, and yet another, about Agent X. A picture of his parents, with the notation "Orion/Frost". A picture of a wristwatch labeled "The Governor". A beagle. A dish of vanilla ice cream.
Chuck's eyes popped open, and this time, they stayed open, as he looked at his father in disbelief. "No way."
Stephen Bartowski's face was grim, but a hint of a smile appeared on it nonetheless. "Charles, I believe you've absorbed the entire Intersect," he said to his son. "Not exactly what I intended."
Chuck sighed. "Dad, I'm sorry… I just, I realized what was wrong with it, and I wanted to see if I could fix it –"
"Which you most definitely did," Stephen said. "It's fully operational, thanks to you."
He sighed, then picked up the frequency spoofer that lay on the ground next to Chuck. "By the way, cute trick with breaking into the lair, but surely you must have known that any unauthorized entry would set of an alarm that would alert me?"
"Honestly, I was so wrapped up in figuring out the answer that it didn't even occur to me," Chuck replied. Then he smiled weakly. "And stop calling me Shirley."
Stephen opened his mouth to reply – but before he could, a woman's voice roared, "STEP AWAY FROM HIM AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"
Chuck looked over at the door in alarm – and was quite surprised to see Sarah Walker standing in the doorway, an enormous gun in her hands, leveled at his father's head. John Cooper and Ben Sherman walked into the room behind her, guns out and up, and a moment later, Vicki Dunwoody came running into the room, holding –
"For God's sake, Vicki, is that an Uzi?" Chuck groaned.
Vicki looked down at her gun, then at Chuck, and blushed slightly. "Sorry, boss," she replied. "Your alarm went off, and we couldn't be too careful –"
"It was my own damn fault," Chuck grumbled. "Sarah, please stop pointing that hand cannon at my dad."
A hesitant look crossed Sarah's face, but the gun stayed firm. "That's your father?"
"Yes," Chuck replied with a sigh.
"And he didn't do anything to you that would've made your Vita-Tracker go off?"
Chuck shook his head. "No, Sarah," he answered. "In fact, what made that happen is what prompted him to come here as well."
Sarah frowned, but finally lowered her gun. "And what exactly happened?"
"That is classified information," Stephen interjected before Chuck could say anything. "This is a secret government project, and quite honestly, the fact that any of you are in here could cause serious trouble."
Vicki's face hardened, and her grip on her Uzi tightened. "Is that a threat, sir?"
Stephen shook his head. "No. We just need to get Chuck out of here and upstairs, and then you all need to forget whatever you might have seen down here."
Holstering her gun, Sarah crossed the room to Chuck. Reaching down, she helped him up. As he stood unsteadily to his feet, she put an arm around his back to support him, and turning her head, spoke just loud enough for him to hear.
"I'm really glad you're okay," she said softly, surprising herself and prompting a smile from Chuck.
As she helped Chuck up the stairs, he seemed to regain his strength, and by the time they had reached the front door, he had pulled away from her arm – but had noticeably not moved away from her. He reached for the doorknob, and pulled it open –
To be greeted by an explosion of camera flashes.
Behind him, Stephen Bartowski saw Chuck seem to physically deflate as the paparazzi firestorm erupted in the front yard. "Oh, boy."
May 13, 2010
The sounds of Switchfoot's "The Sound (John M. Perkins' Blues)" died away in the KROQ studios, to be replaced by the voice of Bean Baxter. "Thursday morning, you're listening to the Kevin and Bean Show on 106.7 KROQ," he announced. "As you know, as long as there are celebrities, TMZ dot com will be there to catch them in embarrassing situations. Please welcome back to the show our old friend, Dax Holt!"
The sound effect of a ringing phone filled the studio. "Hey, Dax, how are you man?" Bean asked.
"Never better, Bean," Dax replied. "Although, we do prefer to think of ourselves less of a celebrity embarrassment outfit and more of a news reporting outfit."
"And I'm sure Lindsay Lohan prefers to think of herself less as a convicted felon and more as a misunderstood actress," Ralph Garman deadpanned. "But I see your point."
"Differences of opinion aside," Bean said, "what the hell is going on with Chuck Bartowski now, Dax?"
"He needs to just lock himself in the Viper for about a week and pray that everything eventually blows over," Dax replied. "Last night, just after seven, Harvey started getting texts telling him about some maniac driving through the Hills and then the Valley in a 911, being chased by the county sheriff's department."
"And how, exactly, did you get involved in that?" Bean asked. "I mean, I'm sure you weren't on the scene –"
"I was actually at a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard, and got outside just in time to get the license plate of the Porsche," Dax replied. "I called up one of my sources, and found out that it belonged to one Sarah Walker."
"She's that smokin' hot blonde who's the security director at the Viper now, right?" Psycho Mike interrupted.
"Right in one, Mike," Dax answered. "I had to hunt around for the car a bit after that, but I found it outside of a house in Encino, with the sheriff's car and a Ford Expedition registered to the Viper parked right next to it. It turned out that the house belongs to Stephen and Mary Bartowski –"
"Chuck's parents?" Lisa May asked.
"Exactly. Hi, Lisa May," Dax said. "And about ten minutes after I got there, Chuck Bartowski walks out the door with Sarah Walker."
Bean chuckled. "Oh, man," he said. "He just can't win."
Woody Woodcomb sighed and looked at his desk. "This is a problem, Chuck," he informed his chief operating officer.
"Sir, I swear to God, none of this is my fault. TMZ is out for my blood."
Woody looked up at Chuck. "I'm perfectly aware of that, Chuck. But we need to do damage control."
Chuck frowned. "Damage control?"
"Yes," Woody growled. "I will be calling CBS Radio this afternoon, and booking you on for a live, in-studio segment on the Kevin and Bean show TOMORROW. You're going to go in and explain exactly what the hell is going on. You're going to be honest. You're going to be comprehensive. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Chuck sighed.
"And as soon as you're done at KROQ," Woody continued, "you're going to get in a car with Vicki Dunwoody, and you're going to drive up to Las Vegas, where you are going to spend a good chunk of time overseeing how things are going at the Cosmopolitan."
A look of disbelief crossed Chuck's face. "You're sending me to Vegas?" he protested. "But sir, we're entering the busiest part of our season –"
"And Sarah Walker, who has proven herself to be perhaps the ONLY competent person working for me right now, will be handling operations here while you're away," Woody snapped. "She will, of course, report to you daily. But right at the moment, Chuck, you're a liability to me, and I need for this firestorm to die down. Understood?"
Chuck sighed. "Understood."
Sarah Walker looked at the memo from Woody Woodcomb. She was going to be running operations for Woodcomb Hollywood while Chuck was in Las Vegas?
"Oh, Woody," she said with a small laugh. "You have no idea what you've just done to yourself."
John Mayer – himself
Eddie Van Halen – himself
Harvey Levin – himself
Dax Holt – himself
Jewel Staite – herself
Morena Baccarin – herself
Charlie Crews – Damian Lewis
Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski
Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi
Stephen J. Bartowski – Scott Bakula
John Cooper – Michael Cudlitz
Ben Sherman – Ben McKenzie
Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler
Bean Baxter – himself
Ralph Garman – himself
Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself
Lisa May – herself
Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner