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
“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.
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.
