Scandal Sheet

by Gemma Halliday

  “Tina!” A sharp voice barked out my name.

  I shot awake, blinking up into the face beside me. Cal.

  What the hell was Cal doing in my bed?

  I blinked again, my eyes slowly focusing on the room around me until I realized this wasn’t my bed, it was his. And his sheets were wrapped around my legs, tangled and twisted, his pillow clutched in my hands in a death grip.

  “Hey, you okay?” Cal asked.

  I looked down. And noticed that his hand was resting on my thigh. I gulped.

  “Yeah. Just…a bad dream, I guess.”

  “Well, I’d say after last night, you’re entitled to a nightmare or two.”

  I sat up, shrugging Cal’s hand off and rubbing my eyes. “Aunt Sue up?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, she’s in the kitchen making French toast.”

  That woke me up. “She’s cooking?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m supervising closely.” He looked down at my jeans as I jumped out of bed. And smiled.

  “What?”

  “You always wear jeans to bed?”

  “I was cold,” I said. Even though the feel of Cal’s silky sheets on my bare skin had left me anything but.

  “Well, let me know next time. You can borrow some sweats,” he said, rising from the bed and leading the way to the kitchen.

  I found Aunt Sue at the little turquoise stove, manning a pan of egg-battered bread, a cup of coffee in one hand.

  “’Morning,” I said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  “What?” she asked. I noticed her ears conspicuously absent of hearing aids.

  “Goo-d morn-ing,” I enunciated.

  “Huh?”

  “Good morning!”

  “Oh. Well, good morning to you, peanut. But there’s no need to shout, I’m right here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right.” I leaned over and inspected the pan. Right color, right smell, no charred edges—so far so good.

  “I took the liberty of calling your Aunt Millie,” Cal said, handing me a cup of coffee. Black with sugar. Perfect. I took a grateful sip. “She agreed to come visit with Sue again today.”

  I nodded. “Good plan.”

  “We’re going over to Hattie’s,” Aunt Sue said. “God rest her soul,” she added, then crossed herself. “Her only family’s some nephew in Hoboken, so I figured we’d pack up her place for her.”

  The guilt from last night hit me full force. “That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s the least we could do. You know, considering…” Aunt Sue trailed off. Cal cleared his throat. I stared down into my mug. It was unanimous—we all thought I was guilty.

  Aunt Sue pulled a plate from the cupboard and transferred a slice of French toast onto it before shoving it in my direction. “Here. Eat something,” she directed.

  While food was the last thing I wanted, I obliged. Mostly because the fight had been guilted out of me. I sat down at the tiny dining table, digging into the toast and shoving a forkful into my mouth.

  And nearly choked.

  I spit the bite back onto my plate, gulping down coffee to put out the fire that had exploded on my tongue.

  “What did you put on this?” I finally managed to ask. Though it came out more like, “ut id ou ut in is?” since my tongue had somehow swollen to twice its size.

  At first Aunt Sue gave me a blank look. Then she shrugged. “I couldn’t find the cinnamon. So I used cayenne instead. Gives it a bit of a kick, huh?”

  I shoved the plate away. “A hell of a kick.”

  At least now I was wide awake.

  Chapter Twelve

  Just as I was finishing my coffee—sans volcanic French toast—my cell rang. It was the LAPD, as predicted, asking Aunt Sue and me to come down to the station to give an official statement about last night. While reliving the scene was the last thing I wanted to do, as Cal had said, I didn’t have much choice in the matter now. I told the officer I’d be there as soon as I could, finished my coffee, and the three of us loaded into Cal’s Hummer.

  Three hours later, I had completely spilled my guts to a homicide detective who was the spitting image of Kojak, and Aunt Sue had given a somewhat coherent statement to his partner, a woman with the most severe ponytail I’d ever seen. By the time we were finished, I had renewed purpose. I was going to find this guy if it was the last thing I did.

  And I was going to start where we left off yesterday—Blain Hall’s agent.

  As soon as we dropped off Aunt Sue at Millie’s, I plugged the agent’s address into Cal’s GPS.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Address of Jerry Leventhal’s place.”

  Cal narrowed his eyes behind his shades. “And why do we need that?”

  “I never got a chance to question him about his visit to Blain in rehab.”

  “I thought we agreed to leave this to the police.”

  I shook my head. “I agreed to talk to the police. Do you have any idea how many homicides have taken place in L.A. County this year?”

  “Two hundred and four.”

  I raised an eyebrow his direction. Okay, so he did know. I was impressed. “Right. The police have their hands full. I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world to devote to catching this asshole.”

  I turned to find Cal grinning at me.

  “What?”

  “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “Does that mean we’re going to Leventhal’s?”

  Cal flipped a U-ey. “You’re the boss, Bender.”

  A mere hour later we’d made our way onto Wilshire, a long street winding through the heart of Beverly Hills and flanked on each side by exclusive boutiques, towering penthouses, and high-rise office buildings that housed the movers and shakers of the big screen world. The Wilshire corridor was about as high dollar as real estate could get. Leventhal’s office was on the sixth floor of a huge glass and chrome building shared with a law firm, a cable network, and about fifteen other talent agents. Leventhal’s office was the last one on the right as we got off the elevators.

  A slim, waiflike girl with unnaturally black hair sat behind a low reception desk as we walked in. Obviously an actress slash receptionist. Not that that was an anomaly. In L.A. almost everyone was an actor slash something. Even the janitor in our building had done a guest spot on House last season.

  Actress Slash Receptionist was applying lip gloss in a little compact as we approached. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Leventhal,” I told her.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Names?” she asked.

  “Douglas. Lisa and Oliver,” I said.

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said noncommittally, rising from the desk and crossing to a hallway behind her.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Cal leaned in. “Oliver and Lisa Douglas?”

  “From Green Acres.”

  I felt him smirk as the receptionist returned.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” she said, waving us in the direction she’d just come from.

  “Thanks.”

  The hallway was short, a copy room on the left, an office on the right, and a dead end in a window that overlooked the Wilshire traffic below. The door on the right read “J. Leventhal.”

  I quickly pushed through.

  Jerry Leventhal sat behind a large oak desk, every inch of which was covered in papers and CD cases. He perched on the edge of an enormous leather chair that made me think of a throne, upon which the gatekeeper to fame sat. His skin had an unnaturally tanned look, as if he seldom saw the real sun but was a devotee of the spray-on variety. Dark hair covered his head—well, most of it. A large thinning patch sat on top, though I could tell by the obvious plugs that he was doing his best to fight nature. A Bluetooth was implanted in his ear, and he spoke seemingly to the air as we entered.

  “Baby, you’re great. You’re a fucking Joh
n Lennon, a Bob Dylan, a Kurt Cobain. You speak to the generation. No one can touch you, baby. You’re king, got me? King. Call me when the tour gets to Baltimore. Keep rockin’, baby.”

  He touched a button on his ear, then turned his attention our way.

  “Prima donnas. Fragile artist egos, need all the help they can get. Poor kid, probably won’t make it past Philly. So, what can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward onto his desk, hands clasped in front of him.

  “Uh, hi. I’m Lisa, and this is my colleague Oliver.”

  He nodded, motioning me to go on. Unless our names were Brad and Angelina, it was obvious he could care less.

  “We’re…freelancers for Rolling Stone,” I lied. “We’re doing a piece on Blain’s brave battle with addiction.”

  Leventhal shook his head. “I’m sorry, Blain’s not up for interviews at the moment.”

  “Oh, I completely understand. His treatment has to be paramount. We actually wanted to talk to you.”

  “Me?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

  “You recently visited Blain in rehab, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he hedged slowly. This was a man who’d dealt with the fickle media before and was not going to let some juicy quote slip out unnoticed.

  “What did you discuss?”

  “I’m sorry, but that conversation was private.”

  “Did you talk about his treatment?”

  “Some.”

  “His plans when he gets out?”

  “A bit.”

  “How does he feel about what the media’s been saying? I hear that Tina Bender at the Informer has been roasting him?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Exactly what are you getting at?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Leventhal stood, planting both hands on his massive desk. “Okay, that’s it. This conversation is over. I want you both out, or I’m calling security.”

  Shit. Too far.

  But Cal stood up, matching Leventhal’s height and then some. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said.

  “Oh really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And why not?”

  “The truth is we’re working with the police. We’re investigating a murder, and your client is a suspect.”

  All the color drained from the agent’s fake tan.

  “Murder? Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” Cal said, holding the man in his steely gaze.

  Slowly, Leventhal sank back into his chair. “Jesus, when the tabloids get wind of this…”

  Little did he know.

  “Look,” he continued, “I don’t know anything about any murder, but Blain’s been in rehab the past four weeks. He couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  “Blain has plenty of resources. He could have had someone else do his dirty work,” I pointed out.

  “Like who?”

  “Where were you last night?” I repeated.

  If it was possible, Leventhal paled further. “Me! You have got to be joking. You don’t seriously think I killed someone for Blain, do you?”

  Neither Cal nor I answered, both giving him the cold stare.

  “I was here,” Leventhal finally squeaked out.

  “Alone?”

  “The cleaning lady saw me. She can vouch for me. Maria. Or Juanita. Something like that. I was brokering a deal for my latest act, a punk band from Milwaukee. Here, you guys want a free CD?” He shoved two unmarked discs at Cal and me.

  “Has anyone else been to see Blain?” I asked. I knew the guest book had been free of signatures, but I was desperate here.

  But Leventhal shrugged. “I don’t know. Look, he’s under pretty tight surveillance. Trust me, Blain’s not your guy.”

  “Maybe we should ask Blain directly,” I said.

  “No!” Leventhal jumped in his seat at the suggestion. “No, you can’t talk to Blain.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s in treatment.”

  “We’ll be gentle.”

  “Please. I know Blain isn’t your guy.”

  Cal leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the man. “You seem pretty anxious to divert attention from your client.”

  “It’s bad publicity.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Cal said. “He’s a rock star. The badder he seems, the more records he’ll sell.”

  Leventhal swallowed audibly.

  “What’s the real reason?” Cal pressed.

  Leventhal licked his lips.

  I leaned forward.

  “Alright. I’ll tell you. But it goes no further than this room.”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I swear.”

  Leventhal took off his Bluetooth, dropping it on the table as if someone might hear him through the device. “Blain’s not really in rehab for drug addiction. We floated the story to stave off the media.”

  Cal cocked his head to the side. “Floated?”

  “They spread the rumor themselves,” I explained. Unfortunately, it was something studios did all the time to protect the real secrets of their stars. “Remember how many times Lance Bass was linked in the media with some supermodel or another before stepping out of the closet? All floaters.”

  “Okay,” Cal said, addressing Leventhal, “so, you’re saying he’s not even at Sunset Shores?”

  “Oh no, he’s in rehab alright,” Leventhal assured us. “Just not for drugs.”

  “What then?” Cal asked. “Alcohol? Gambling? Sex addiction?”

  “World of Warcraft.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Poor kid got caught up in this online game, World of Warcraft. It’s this whole virtual reality world with these complicated plotlines and battles and all kinds of crazy characters. Blain started playing it on the road. At first it was a nice way to relax, wind down from a show. But then he got so into it he started missing gigs.” Leventhal shook his head. “Poor kid became obsessed. He couldn’t focus on anything else. He was playing up to twelve hours a day. So I checked him into Sunset to help him break the addiction.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. The big bad rock star was a closet gamer nerd. I would have given my firstborn to run with the story.

  Though, sadly, it also cleared Blain of motive to want me out of the picture. The longer I kept reporting the floater story, the safer Blain’s secret really was. It was in his best interest to keep me writing, not stop me.

  “Mr. Leventhal, does the name PW Enterprises mean anything to you?” I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt to make some connection here.

  He scrunched his forehead up. “PW?”

  I nodded. “They’re local.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Production company! They were interested in an act of mine to do a soundtrack at one point. I think they’re in Hollywood somewhere.”

  “Got any idea who runs it?” I asked, perking up.

  “Sure do.” He nodded, clearly pleased to be talking about something other than his client. “The owner is Edward Pines.”

  Mental forehead smack.

  It had been Pines calling me all along! Which, now that I thought about it, made perfect sense. Who else had that kind of time on their hands? Thanks in part to my column, the public thought he was total scum. And I’d just visited him yesterday, trying to dig up more dirt, before someone had broken into my house and killed Hattie. It fit like a dream.

  “There’s just one problem,” Cal pointed out as we hopped back into his gas guzzler and I told him my theory.

  “What’s that?”

  “That first call was made from the PW number, not the L.A. County jail.”

  I waved him off. “Simple. Pines is a director, people are used to taking orders from him. He could have easily had one of his flunkies do his dirty work.”

  “But why would he go through all that trouble to disguise his voice, then call on a number that links directly back to him?”

  I chewed my
lower lip. Beats me. I looked down at the dash clock. One thirty p.m.

  “Let’s go ask him.”

  We made tracks toward the courthouse, stopping at a newsstand along the way just long enough to pick up copies of Playboy, Penthouse, and some magazine called Naughty Bits that Cal swore Pines would love.

  “It’s the best,” he said.

  I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  He shrugged. “You know, so I’ve heard.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

  I paid for the magazines and hopped back in his Hummer, making our way through town to the courthouse. We pulled into a spot in the lot and quickly jogged up the steps and through the metal detectors. I felt my cheeks heat as the guy manning the x-ray machine got a load of the stash in my bag, but we cleared security and hit the lobby at two on the dot.

  As did a perky blonde in a miniskirt and knee-high boots with four-inch heels.

  Right. I’d forgotten about Allie.

  “I’m not late, am I?” she asked, all breathless like a porn star.

  I shook my head. “No.” Unfortunately.

  “I just talked to the clerk. Pines is in conference room 4A with his lawyer,” she informed me.

  “Great. Let’s go talk to him.”

  We made our way up the stairs and past the courtroom, where shortly Pines would be sitting behind the defendant’s table, to a small wooden door to the right that served as chambers for the prisoners to meet pretrial with their counsel. A bailiff stood outside 4A, a sure sign that a prisoner was inside.

  I threw my shoulders back and walked up to the guy like I owned the place.

  “Excuse me,” I said, doing my best imitation of a Harvard Law grad. “My client is inside. I need to speak with him.”

  His eyebrows ruffled. “He’s already with his counsel.”

  “Right. I’m second chair.”

  “And I’m third,” Allie piped up behind me.

  Cal had the good sense to remain quiet, instead taking a seat on a bench against the wall.

  The bailiff shrugged, then stepped aside and let us through the door.

  Pines and his weedy-looking lawyer were sitting at a large oak desk, papers strewn across the top. Both were deep in conversation as we walked in, and again I was struck by how pale and thin the lawyer was. I almost couldn’t tell which of the men had spent more time locked in captivity.