“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. 1:30 pm.
“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 mini skirt 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 pre-trial 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.
The lawyer’s head popped up as we entered the room, his expression immediately contorting into outrage.
“What the hell are you doing here? This is a private meeting room. I’m here with a client.”
He jumped out of his seat, but Pines put a hand on his arm, calming the man down. “Don’t worry,” he said, a slimy grin taking over his features. “They’re here for me. You got what I asked for?” Pines asked, nodding to my bag.
I set it on the table and pulled out the magazines, sliding them across to him.
“What the hell is this?” his attorney cried. “Jesus, you know how much trouble I could get into for bringing you contraband?”
“Relax,” Pines told him, greedily flipping through the pages. “You didn’t bring it, they did.”
Which didn’t seem to make the man feel a whole lot better, as he began pacing the room.
“I held up my end, so now it’s your turn, Pines,” I said, taking a seat at the table across from him. “Start talking.”
Pines took a moment, licking his lips as he eyed the cover of Naughty Bits. Apparently Cal was right. It seemed to be a winner.
Finally he looked up. “What do you want to know?”
Everything. Why he was threatening me. Why my neighbor was dead in my living room. And how to steal a front-page story from Allie McTiny Top.
“Let’s start with the kid.”
“I told you I never touched him.”
“Did you ever take compromising pictures of him?”
“Don’t answer that,” his attorney said, swooping in.
Pines looked from him to me, then finally shrugged. “Sorry, can’t answer that one. Try again.”
“Jake Mullins. You said he deserved what he got. What did you mean by that?”
“Just what I said. He was a slimy sonofabitch, and I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
“What did he do?” Allie piped up beside me, gel pen hovering over her little floral notebook, a little frown of concern between her perfectly plucked brows.
Pines shifted his gaze, letting it rest somewhere in her double D region.
“Tried to blackmail me.”
Pines attorney jumped up. “I have to strongly suggest that you not talk to these women.”
But Pines waved him off. “Relax, Paul. I didn’t go for it. The guy comes at me saying he found some kiddie mag in my trailer. What the hell he was doing in my trailer, I don’t know. But he says he wants a hundred-K or he’s going to the media. I told him, good luck. He could try, but he’d never work again in this town, I’d see to it.”
“And what did he do?”
“Nothing. What could he do? I steered clear of the little prick after that.”
“How long before his death was this?”
“A couple weeks.”
I mulled that over. If Mullins had been so strapped for cash that he’d jeopardize his big break, he may have tried the same tactic on someone else. And maybe they weren’t as confidant as Pines that he’d go away on his own.
“Where were you last night?” I asked, switching gears.
He gave me a blank stare. “Are you fucking kidding me? Same place I’ve been every night since that judge denied my bail. A cell.”
Right. Stupid question. I cleared my throat. “Did you have any visitors?”
“No.”
“Call anyone?”
“As a matter of fact I did. My mother. Why the hell do you care?”
“Because someone killed my neighbor last night.”
He blinked, then leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
"PW Enterprises. Your company?"
"Yeah. So?"
"Someone from your company threatened to kill me if I didn’t stop printing stories about them in my paper. Two nights ago, someone broke into my home. Last night, my neighbor was murdered in my living room. Quite a stretch to claim coincidence, huh?”
At the word “murdered,” Pines’s lawyer began shoving papers
into his briefcase. “That’s it, this conversation is over!”
“You’re kidding, right?” Pines asked me. “This is some kind of joke to get me to give you some shit quote to print in your paper, right?”
I shook my head from side to side. For Mrs. Carmichael’s sake, I wished it were just a joke.
Pines swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down. “How do you know the caller was with PW?"
"I traced it to a number owned by your company."
He shook his head. "That could be dozens of people. I started PW to back my last movie. The one before didn’t do so great at the box office, so I needed to recreate myself. Financially speaking.”
I nodded. That was standard op in Hollywood. Production companies came and went faster than the Santa Anas. “Go on.”
“That’s it. We’ve got an office on the Sunset Studios lot manned by a couple assistants and an intern. But anyone could have used the phones. The place isn’t even locked during the day.”
Which meant any one of my celebrity suspects could have had access. Katie was a regular at the studios, and Jennifer was there every day. Blain could have conceivably called in a favor to an actor friend on the set. And even if Pines was telling the truth, as I’d pointed out to Cal, he could have easily had an assistant do his dirty work. I felt myself mentally slumping in my chair, feeling like I was taking one step forward only to take two back again.
“Let’s go back to the case at hand,” Allie said, scribbling in her notebook. “You’re being charged with possession of child pornography. How do you-”
But Pines’s lawyer held up his hand. “We cannot comment on an open case.”
Allie shut her mouth with a pretty little pout. Then shifted tactics. “How do you feel about the public calling you a pedophile, Mr. Pines?”
“Look, honey,” Pines told her breasts, “people like to rubberneck at accidents. They all wanna see what’s going on. Doesn’t mean they’re gonna go crashing their cars into each other on purpose, now, does it? Just because I like to look now and then doesn’t make me some child molester.”
I had no idea if he was telling the truth, but I suddenly felt like I needed a shower. Or ten. No matter how he spun it, it was clear that lurking just beyond his flashy Hollywood exterior lay the heart of diehard pervert.
“Why did you plead not guilty?” Allie asked.
Pines cocked his head at her. “What are you, the brains of the outfit? Because I’m not guilty.”
“The cops found the magazines in your car.”
“They were planted,” Pines said. Though I could tell by the look on his face, even he was having a hard time believing that lie.
“Edward,” his lawyer warned. “Be careful.”
“What? I can’t tell the truth?”
“So,” Allie said, furiously scribbling, “you’re saying you were framed?”
“That’s right.”
“By whom?”
“The cops. They have it in for me. Did you see the movie I did about police corruption? I get a parking ticket every week now. Fuckin’ pigs.”
Persecution complex much? But I was happy dancing in my seat, picturing the headline that went with that quote: PIGS PERSECUTE PINES OVER PARKING.
“I think we’re done here,” the lawyer said, jumping in before Pines could do any more damage.
Both men rose, prompting Allie and I to do the same.
As we walked out, Allie was still jotting down notes. “I might suggest investing in a digital recorder,” I told her.
She looked up, a frown of concentration on her forehead. “What?”
“It’s a lot easier than trying to write down everything they say.”
“Do interviewees usually let you record conversations?”
I smirked. “I don’t actually ask.”
“But you have to disclose that you’re recording, right? Otherwise, well, that would be unethical, wouldn’t it?”
I shook my head. “Wow, do you have a lot to learn about working at a tabloid.”
* * *
When we got back to the Informer with our mega story, I stopped at Max’s desk first thing. “Hey,” I said, leaning over the fabric partition.
Max looked up, the droopy bags under his eyes a testament to his night with Jim Beam. “Hey, Bender. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d do me a favor. I’d like to see an obit for her.” I handed him a slip of paper with Hattie Carmichael’s name on it. “Think you can dig up some stats?”
Max took it, frowning at the name.
“Who was she?”
“No one famous,” I told him. But before he could protest, I added, “But she was a friend. It would mean a lot.”
Max nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
I thanked him, glad I could do something for Mrs. Carmichael. I know, it wasn’t much. But at least it was something.
One time when I was sixteen, I was visiting Aunt Sue’s house in Long Beach and she’d let me take her station wagon out to a party. I’d had a little too much to drink and, instead of driving it home, I’d parked it overnight at the beach and took a cab. I’d had two parking tickets by the time I went to retrieve it the next day. Or, more accurately, Aunt Sue had two tickets. On her perfect, never even a speeding ticket or fender bender DMV record. I’d worked the rest of the summer at Togos to pay off the fines, but I still felt incredibly guilty about blemishing the perfect record she’d been so proud of.
Let me tell you, that guilt was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. This was guilt supersized. And it was a bitch.
I plunked down into my chair, cueing up my computer screen to type up my Pines interview. I was halfway through when an IM window popped up.
I missed you last night.
Man in Black. Shit. I’d completely forgotten about him last night. Again. Though, in my defense, a dead body was a pretty good excuse.
Sorry. Long night.
Hot date?
No!
Though even as I typed it, I remembered just how close Cal’s lips had been to mine and how hot things might have gotten had circumstances not intervened.
Good, Black typed. I’m not a guy who likes to share.
I grinned. Sorry. I know that’s two nights in a row I’ve stood you up.
If I wasn’t such a stud, I might start to worry. Then, Tell me about your long night.
I paused. Usually, I told Black everything. But he was likely to run for the hills the second I started talking about dead bodies.
I don’t even know where to begin, I typed.
You okay?
I nodded at my empty cubicle. Yeah. And I guess I was. Surprisingly. I thought back to last night and how much I’d leaned on Cal to get me through. I’d leaned so hard, my IM date with Black had been the last thing on my mind. I felt a little twinge of something. My good friend guilt again? Which was ridiculous because Black was a fantasy and Cal was a rent-a-goon. In reality nothing was going on with either of these guys.
I’ve missed you, Black typed.
I bit my lip. Nothing. Right. Then was why was my chest was suddenly clenching as I stared at those three little words on my monitor?
I typed back a simple, Me too.
I’m not making a date for tonight, because I hate being stood up. But type at me when you can.
I will, I promised, meaning it. Okay, so maybe he was just a fantasy, but Black was the one person who really got me. He always knew just the right thing to say - or type – to make me feel better. Let’s face it, my internet crush knew me better than anyone.
Jesus, I needed to get a life.
Chapter Thirteen
I was just finishing up my story when my cell rang from Strawberry Shortcake. I pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID. Marco.
“What’s shaking?” I asked.
“Dahling, did I come through for you, or did I come through for you!”
“You got Jennifer Wood’s alibi?” I asked.
“I did.”
I grabbed a pen. “Shoot.”
“Well,” Marco started, and I could tell he was going to give me the long version. “I met up with my friend’s friend’s boyfriend at a party in the Hills last night, and he said that he did, in fact, see Jennifer at Ashlee’s housewarming.”
I felt my heart sink. One by one my suspects were falling. I could feel myself slowly being dragged back to square one again. “Did he see what time she got there?” I asked.
“No. But he said he was there at eleven, and she was already drinking appletinis with a Jonas brother.”
“How long was she there?” I asked.
“She did a table dance in Ashlee’s dining room at two.”
Shit. “Did she leave the party at any time?” I was so grasping here.
“Sorry, dahling, no idea. Ricky didn’t keep that close tabs on her, ya know.”
“Right. Thanks anyway.” So, Jennifer had been telling the truth. Granted, there was a slight chance she could have snuck out of the party, booted up her computer, used the Audio Cloak software to disguise her voice and play it back into a phone to leave me a threatening message before slipping back into the party. But, considering the phone was on the Sunset Studios lot, that chance was very slight.
“Hey, before you hang up - whose party were you at last night?” I couldn’t help the gossip hound in me from asking.
“Oh, honey, it was to die for! A birthday party for that kid who plays the brother on that medical drama. He turned twenty-one, and man, does that boy know how to throw down.”
“Sounds fun.” I tried to remember the last time I’d gotten an invitation to a birthday party. I think it was Aunt Millie’s. And we’d all had pudding cups instead of cake ‘cause she’d cracked her dentures.
“Oh, it was, doll. Everyone was there. The Kardashian girls, Jessie Simpson, Katie Briggs.”
That’s it, my social life officially sucked. “Anyone get drunk? Make out? Cat fights?” I asked, mentally preparing tomorrow’s column.
Hollywood Scandals Page 14
