Scandal Sheet

by Gemma Halliday

  “In the meantime,” Felix continued, “I don’t feel good about you being out there alone today.”

  “‘Out there?’” I asked.

  “Let’s keep to the desk for now, okay, Bender?”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Was that sarcasm?” he asked.

  “Damned straight.” And before he could say it, I added, “I know, I know. Swear Pig.”

  The first thing I did when I left Felix was visit Cece, our accounts receivable/human resources/office manager lady. As her title hinted, anything that didn’t directly end up in the newspaper fell under her fortysomething, sensible-shoe-wearing, über-organized territory. Her desk was in the corner near the elevator and constantly cluttered with beanie babies.

  “Hey, Cece,” I said, popping my head around her partition.

  “Yes?” she asked, not even looking up from the spreadsheet she was typing.

  “I need a favor. Last night, eleven thirty, a call came in. I need to know who made it.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “Well, I know our program keeps track of all outgoing calls.” She paused, then sent me a wan smile as she added, “Felix likes to know who’s using up our long-distance minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  “But, other than a time stamp, I don’t think there’s a way to record the incoming calls.”

  Drat. I chewed the inside of my cheeks, rapping my fingernails on the side of her partition. “What about the phone company? They must have a record, right?” Cece nodded. “Most likely.”

  “Who’s our provider?”

  Cece opened a new window on her screen, then pulled a Post-it from her pink dispenser and wrote down their name and number. “L.A. Bell. But I don’t really think they’re going to give out that kind of information.”

  “Wanna bet?” I asked, giving her a wink as I took the Post-it back to my desk.

  I immediately dialed the customer service number, going through the automated options until a mere fifteen minutes later I was connected to a real person.

  “L.A. Bell, this is Jeff speaking, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, Jeff. This is…Carol. Carol Brady. Listen, I have a problem.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Brady. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m knocked up.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end. Then, “Oh. I…well…oh.”

  “That’s right. With child, bun in the oven, in a family way, one condom short of a bikini body.”

  Again with the awkward pause. “Er, ma’am, I’m not really sure what I can—”

  “Jeff, I’m gonna level with you,” I said, plowing right over him. “When I saw that positive pregnancy test, I may have said a few things. Things I shouldn’t have. Things about my boyfriend not being able to keep it in his pants long enough to roll a condom on. Things that, quite frankly, hurt my boyfriend Mike pretty bad. He left me, Jeff.”

  “Uh…I’m sorry to hear that, but Miss Brady, I don’t really—”

  “You got a dad, Jeff?”

  “What?”

  “A father. You have one, Jeff?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “I bet he took you to baseball games, didn’t he, Jeff?”

  “Sure. I guess so.”

  “And taught you how to ride your bike. How to tie your shoes. I bet he even taught you how to wipe your own tushie, Jeff.”

  “Uh…”

  “Here’s the thing. My baby won’t have that. Poor little Bobby’s gonna grow up fatherless unless I can find Mike and apologize. That’s where you come in.”

  “I do?” he squeaked.

  “Look, last night Mike calls saying he’s leaving L.A. for good. But the caller ID was blocked. I have no idea where he is. If I could find out where he was calling from, I might be able to stop him before he makes a terrible mistake.”

  He paused so long on the other end I thought maybe he’d hung up.

  “Jeff? You still there?”

  “I feel for your situation, ma’am, but we can’t give out addresses of other clients.”

  “I don’t even need his address. Just…can you tell me the name of the person who owns the number?”

  “I’m not sure that’s in keeping with our policy…”

  “How about just the number? Can you at least give me that? Please, Jeff. Little Bobby deserves a real family.” Even if my story was utter crap, the desperation in my voice was real. This was the best lead—scratch that, only lead—I had on Mystery Caller’s identity.

  I think maybe it was the “real family” bit that got him, as his voice dropped to just above a whisper, and he said, “When did the call take place?”

  I did a mental “squeee!” and said, “Last night. Eleven thirty p.m. to this number.”

  I heard the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background. “I’m really not supposed to be doing this,” Jeff repeated.

  “You are doing me such a favor. In fact, I’m thinking Jeffery would make a fine middle name for Bobby, huh?”

  “Okay, I’ve got one call logged, coming in at eleven thirty-two.”

  “That’s it! And the number?”

  Jeff took a deep breath, and I could almost feel him looking over both shoulders for hovering supervisors before he rattled off the digits.

  “You are the best, Jeff!” I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote the number down. An L.A. area code, I noticed. When he was finished, I promised him that he’d be mentioned at little Bobby’s bris and hung up the phone.

  Immediately, I dialed the number. It rang on the other end. And again. Fifteen rings into it, I gave up.

  Instead, I pulled up a reverse lookup directory on my computer and typed the number in.

  Bingo.

  The number came back as being owned by PW Enterprises.

  I pulled up a Google screen and typed in the name. Not surprising, about a million hits came up, ranging from mortgage brokers to used car dealers. I bit my lip, narrowing the search to L.A. County. What do you know, only half a million hits this time. I mentally cracked my knuckles, going in deep for a serious webcrawling session.

  Two hours and several dozen webpages later, I was bug-eyed, brain-dead, and no closer to identifying what PW was, let alone who there might not be my number one fan.

  “You get the tip on Blain Hall?”

  I looked up to find Cam hovering over my desk.

  “The drugs in rehab?” I asked, struggling to focus as my eyes adjusted from squinting at the computer monitor.

  She nodded. “Felix is sending me over to snap a few pics of Blain through the rehab windows to run next to your story. Got a headline yet?”

  “DIRTY DOG TAKES REHAB AS SERIOUSLY AS CRITICS TAKE HIS SAPPY BALLADS.”

  Cam laughed, flipping her blonde ponytail over her shoulder and showing off a row of perfectly white teeth. I am about as heterosexual as a gal can get, but even I had to admit, Cam was hot. Volcanic. Rumor was she’d been a model or something in her teens. I had no idea if it was true, but I swear seeing her fresh face and neverseen-a-split-end gorgeous hair on a billboard would sell me on any product.

  “Harsh headline, Tina.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “Aw, have a heart. You know, I kinda like those sappy ballads.”

  “Ugh. Seriously? They’re like saccharine. And so trite. ‘I’ll love you ‘til the end of time.’ How many times have we heard that same line before?”

  Cam shrugged. “I dunno. It’s still kinda sweet. Besides, his voice…” She sighed. “It gives me shivers.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re going soft on me, Cam.”

  She just smiled. “What’s PW Enterprises?” she asked, pointing to my screen.

  “The home of some jerk with too much time on his hands.”

  She raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  Quickly I filled her in on my morning and the friendly phone call I’d received last night.

  “Wow,” she said when I was done. “I had a dru
nk reality show contestant throw a punch at my camera once, but never anything like this. You must have really pissed someone off.”

  “Or it’s a stupid prank,” I was quick to point out.

  “Yeah, well, Felix doesn’t think it’s a prank.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why do you say that?”

  “He just told me I’m supposed to take the new girl with me to the evidence hearing in the Pines trial this afternoon.”

  I spun around in my chair. “Seriously? But that’s my story!”

  Cam shrugged. “Felix said you were off it. I guess now I know why.”

  I looked across the newsroom. The new girl was sitting at a vacant desk near the window. Where, coincidentally, her double D’s were directly in our editor’s line of vision. She was staring intently at a computer screen, her little ski jump nose scrunched up.

  No doubt trying to figure out how to spell “google.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cam said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure he’s just trying to get her feet wet.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope she drowns,” I responded, jumping up from my chair and stalking toward Felix’s office.

  Our editor in chief was deep in conversation with some other guy, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even stop to knock before pushing my way through the glass doors.

  “That was my story!” I yelled.

  Felix looked up, his brows forming a concerned V over his eyes. “What story?”

  “Don’t ‘what story’ me,” I said, advancing on him. “Pines. Cam said you gave it to the new chick.”

  “Allie. Her name is Allie.”

  “My. Story.”

  Felix sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You received a death threat this morning, Bender. It would be completely irresponsible of me to send you out in the field.”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “It was a prank call! Probably a couple of teenagers.”

  “Probably,” he said, jumping on the word.

  “This is so unfair. This is so fuc—”

  “Bender…” he warned.

  “So flipping unfair. That is my godda—goldarned story. I’ve been freaking reporting on that sonofagoat Pines since the beginning, and you give it to a hot pair of cantaloupes because some little snotweasel of a kid pranks me?”

  I think I heard the other man chuckle, but I tuned him out, my entire pissed-off being focused on Felix.

  “I have a responsibility for your safety, Bender.”

  “It’s a courthouse. I’ll be perfectly safe!”

  “Yes, you will.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, when I realized he’d agreed with me. I shut it with a click.

  “Right. Thank you.”

  “You’ll be perfectly safe because I’ve hired you a bodyguard.”

  I blinked. Feeling my face go hot until I’d swear there was cartoon steam pouring out my ears. “A what?”

  “Tina, meet Calvin Dean.” He gestured to the other guy.

  I turned, giving the man my full attention now. He was tall, almost a head taller than Felix. Broad in the shoulders, slim in the waist. I could tell by the way his T-shirt fit over his biceps that he spent a fair amount of time at the gym. His hair was dark, just curling over his ears, and he had a neatly trimmed goatee that gave him a slightly devilish look. And I could swear his dark eyes were laughing at me.

  Which did nothing to lighten my mood.

  “You got me a rent-a-goon?” I asked, turning back to Felix.

  “Play nice, Bender,” Felix warned. “Think of him like your insurance plan.”

  “Hi.” The bodyguard stuck his hand out.

  I looked at it.

  “Nice to meet you, Tina.”

  I stuck my hands on my hips. And turned back to Felix.

  “I don’t need a bodyguard. It was one phone call. I can take care of myself.”

  “It was a death threat. Made from a blocked number by someone who disguised their voice. These were not some drunk kids. Whoever did this thought it through, took their time, and made sure not to get caught.”

  I bit my lip. While I was pretty sure this was still just a prank, Felix had a point. And the fact that someone had put so much thought into trying to scare me took the wind out of my sails a bit.

  “Look, Tina,” Felix said, advancing on me, “yes, it’s possible this is just some idle threat. But it’s possible it’s not, and I, for one, can’t take that chance. I don’t know if you know this, but I once worked a story where an actress was receiving threatening letters. She ignored them. Two dead bodies followed. I know this may seem a little overprotective to you, but I can’t take the chance of that happening to you.”

  I felt my irritation subsiding a little, the genuine worry in his voice touching me. “I appreciate your concern,” I said, meaning it.

  He shrugged. “Of course I’m concerned. Half our advertising comes in because of your column.”

  And just like that the irritation was back. “Gee, love you, too,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

  Felix elected to ignore me. “So,” he continued, “you have two choices. Desk duty or…” He trailed off, gesturing to the rent-a-goon.

  I took a deep breath, thinking about three dollars worth of nasty words.

  “Fine,” I finally spat out. “But I get Pines back.”

  Felix bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating the negotiations for a moment. “You can share.”

  “With Barbie?”

  “Allie.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Allie works with you on this. End of discussion.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and returned the look.

  Neither of us gave an inch.

  Unfortunately, it was his name on the door, so I knew who was ultimately going to win.

  “Fine,” I repeated. Then I turned on my sneakers and stomped out, well aware that I probably looked like a truculent three-year-old.

  I plopped myself back down at my desk with a huff.

  And realized the goon was right behind me.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to hover all day,” I told him. “Seriously, I think I’m safe at my desk.”

  He took the hint, moving to an empty desk a couple feet away. But he didn’t take his eyes off me.

  “You’re creeping me out. Quit staring at me.”

  I looked up to find him grinning. And not just with his eyes this time. One corner of his lips tugged upward in something that I could only describe as a smirk.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Look, pal—”

  “Cal. You can call me Cal.”

  “Fine. Cal. This was not my idea.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Felix is totally overreacting.”

  “Probably.”

  “This was just a prank.”

  “Could be.”

  “You always this agreeable?”

  “No.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. His eyes? Still laughing at me. Big, hearty chuckles.

  “Well, if you have to be my shadow, just…don’t talk to me. Okay?”

  He nodded. “Done.”

  “Good.”

  I turned back to my computer screen.

  This was going to be a very long day.

  Chapter Four

  Cal spent the rest of the morning silently staring at me while I spent the rest of it silently shooting daggers at Barbie’s back. I tried to concentrate on proofing the column I’d written last night, but for some reason, my heart just wasn’t in it. I guess death threats did that to me.

  Since the PW thing wasn’t leading anywhere, I found myself instead replaying the message again, listening for any background noise that might give me a clue as to where this mystery-caller slash threat-maker slash ruinin
g-my-life-guy was calling from. Nada. It was like he’d called from a padded cell.

  Well, if I couldn’t hear anything in the background, I’d start with what I could hear—his voice.

  I played it a third time, the mechanical cadence crawling up my spine. Something about its cold, inhuman tone gave me the creeps far worse than the menacing words. The caller had gone through a lot of trouble to disguise his voice. Why? Because I’d recognize it? If so, that left two options—either someone I knew was playing a prank or it was someone famous, someone whose voice had boomed at me from the big screen countless times.

  Which didn’t narrow things down a whole lot.

  Time to try another tactic.

  I pulled up a search engine and typed in “voice disguise.” I followed the top link to a site with a list of different voice-altering programs. I hit the first one, which took me to a page called AlterAudio. For a small fee, the website promised you could change your voice from male to female, high pitched to low pitched, robotic, echo, and any other number of effects. “Create your online persona!” it touted.

  I could only imagine the practical applications. How many losers were sitting at home in their underwear, chatting in Cary Grant’s voice to some unsuspecting woman?

  Then again, she probably didn’t sound like Marilyn Monroe either. How did anyone ever hook up before the age of cyber lies?

  I hit the “buy it now” button, cringing just a little as I charged it to the Informer’s expense account. I waited while my computer recognized their software and began loading the application on to my hard drive. Five minutes later I was hooking my pocket recorder to my computer and speaking into the end.

  “Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” I said. I turned on my speakers and pressed the button to play it back.

  “Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” my own voice told me.

  Cal shot me an odd look.

  I just waved back.

  I adjusted the buttons to up the bass, lower the treble, and create a male voice. I hit play.

  “Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” some guy said.

  I blinked, the cadence and intonation exactly the same as mine, but in a completely different tone. Weird.