Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals Page 5

  “Yes, just a minute,” I told the guy.

  “You sure he’s not in a gang? I’ve seen those trucks on MTV. They look like gang trucks.”

  “I promise he’s not in a gang. Cross my heart.”

  “If you say so.” Though the little frown between Mrs. Carmichael’s squinty eyes didn’t look entirely convinced. “But I’m taking down his license plate number. You can never be too careful!”

  “Great. Wonderful. Fab.”

  “And, make sure you air this place out. You know, maybe you should set a timer next time.”

  “Yep, thanks for the tip,” I mumbled, not even attempting sincerity as I ushered her out the door and locked it after her.

  I put the phone back up to my ear. “Hi, sorry about that.”

  My only answer was a dial tone.

  I thunked my head back against the front door, then hit redial. Ten rings in, I gave up and ordered pizza.

  Two hours and a large pepperoni later, the place was beginning to lose its eau de marinara, Aunt Sue was safely tucked in for the night with an Agatha Christie novel, I was putting the finishing touches on my version of the Pines hearing…and Cal was still parked at the curb.

  I peeked through my bedroom curtains at his car. Jesus, what was he going to do, sleep in that thing? As weird as receiving a death threat felt, the idea of someone watching over me twenty-four seven felt even weirder. I squinted through the dark, trying to get a good look in his driver’s side window. A pair of big black ovals stared back at me.

  Was he using binoculars?

  I jumped back from the bedroom window, pulling the curtains tight, suddenly having enormous sympathy for goldfish.

  Trying to ignore my babysitter, I propped my computer on my lap and read over my latest shot at Pines.

  PEDOPHILE PINES WILL HAVE TO SHOW HIS PORN:

  IN AN EXPECTED MOVE, THE JUDGE IN THE PINES CHILD PORNOGRAPHY CASE SAID THE HIGHWAY PATROL’S SEARCH OF THE DIRECTOR’S CAR WAS, IN FACT, LEGAL. ALL EVIDENCE SEIZED IN THAT SEARCH WILL BE SEEN BY A JURY, INCLUDING THE INFAMOUS KIDDIE MAGS. MY ADVICE TO PINES: IF THE BOY IS UNDERAGE, YOU MUST NOT TURN THE PAGE!

  Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I signed the article, with my name first on the byline, thank you very much. Then I hit send, instantly transporting my copy to the Informer’s offices.

  I stood up, stretching my back. After the day I’d had, my muscles were full of more knots than a knitting circle. I tilted my head from side to side, working the kinks out of my neck. What I needed was a long, hard swim, followed by a long hot shower. I glanced toward the window. Unfortunately, unless I wanted an audience, the swim, at least, was going to have to wait.

  Instead I opened my email, scanning for tomorrow’s headlines. I was just delighting in one about a certain rising female country singer who’d been spotted cozying up to a certain lesbian DJ at a nightclub, when an IM window popped up in the corner of my screen. ManInBlack72.

  I immediately hit accept and waited for his message to appear.

  Hey, Bender.

  Hey, Black.

  How was your day, gorgeous?

  I groaned out loud. Don’t ask.

  That great, huh?

  Sucked big fat donkey balls.

  You have such a way with words.

  I’m glad somebody appreciated it.

  What happened? Black prompted.

  I paused a moment. Did I really want to spill my guts over the internet to some guy who most likely was typing with Cheeto-stained fingers and watching Star Trek in the background?

  On the other hand…I looked up, listening to the silence of the empty room. Who else did I have?

  My fingers jumped across the keyboard.

  Because of some stupid prank call, my boss gave my story to a new girl and hired some rent-a-thug to follow me around.

  Rent-a-thug?

  Bodyguard. An annoying one.

  There was a pause. Then, Want me to take him out?

  I grinned. That was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day. Would you?

  Consider it done, babe.

  Thanks.

  Another pause. Then the words, You okay? appeared on my screen.

  I took a deep breath. Yeah.

  Good. Hey…Knock knock.

  I grinned. Who’s there?

  Willis.

  Willis who?

  Willis corny joke make you smile?

  I snorted out loud.

  Funny.

  I try. Same time tomorrow?

  Wouldn’t miss it.

  ’Night, babe.

  ’Night, Black.

  He signed off, and the screen went dark, bringing with it the vaguely lonely feeling that always hit me when his “online now” icon disappeared. Which was ridiculous, because, as I reminded myself, he was just a name on a screen. A fantasy. Black wasn’t any more real than Pamela Anderson’s boobs.

  I shook off the feeling and returned to my inbox.

  While I’d been chatting with Black, a new message had popped in. It had come in through the Informer website, the subject line, “Breaking News.”

  Immediately, I opened it, leaning closer to the screen.

  The note read:

  “Breaking News-one stubborn reporter doesn’t listen to warnings. Now, she’s got a target on her back. Sleep well, Tina Bender. Because tonight may be your last.”

  Chapter Five

  “That’s it, I’m calling the police.”

  “No!” I wailed, lunging at Felix before he could reach his phone.

  “Tina, this is serious. This is not some adolescent prankster.”

  “It was an email. No one got hurt.”

  “Yet.” He gave me a pointed look.

  I glanced at the open laptop on Felix’s desk. After a sleepless night littered with visions of faceless men threatening me in mechanical voices, I’d reluctantly shown the email to Felix as soon as I’d got into the offices that morning.

  He hadn’t been any more thrilled about it than I had. And, I had to admit, he was right about one thing. This was looking less and less like some random prankster. In fact, I was beginning to think this really was someone with a grudge against me.

  On the other hand, no way was I going to let Felix bring in the cops over this. “You can’t call the police. What will my informants say?”

  “Informants?” Cal piped up from the corner. He’d insisted on following me to work in his I’m-clearly-over-compensating-for-something mobile and had been my shadow ever since. Though, to be honest, I didn’t mind quite so much today.

  “Yes, informants,” I repeated. “Look, no one’s going to trust me with their dirt if it comes out I’ve been talking to cops. Who wants that kind of scrutiny? Most of these people are ratting on their friends.”

  “Nice group you hang out with,” Cal mumbled.

  I shot him a look.

  “Alright, that’s enough.” Felix held up his hands. “Look, I know you don’t like this, Tina. And I know you’re scared-”

  “I am not scared!” Which might have been more convincing if my voice hadn’t raised two octaves. I cleared my throat. “I’m not scared, I’m pissed off,” I clarified. “Really fu-”

  “Swear Pig,” Felix reminded.

  I clenched my jaw. “Really freaking pissed off.”

  Felix shook his head. “Tina, this isn’t something I can take lightly. What if something were to happen to you? I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me. I have rent-a-” I stopped myself just in time. “I have Cal.”

  “Which is great,” Felix agreed, “but it’s just a temporary solution. Look, whatever this guy’s beef is, he’s clearly not letting go of it. What’s next? Do we wait until he’s actually followed through with a threat?”

  I bit my lip. Yeah, that idea didn’t appeal to me too much either.

  “Look, give me three days.”

  “Three days?” Felix asked.

  “Three days to track this guy
down myself. If I can’t, then you can turn it over to the police.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Think about it, Felix,” I said, grasping to strengthen my case. “Cops crawling all over the place, confiscating our notes and archives. That’s not going to look too good for the paper. Won’t be good for sales.”

  Felix cocked his head to the side, contemplating this. “And just how do you propose to find this guy in three days?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a reporter, I’ll think of something.”

  “You’re a gossip columnist. That’s a far cry from Bob Woodward. When was the last time you actually investigated anything?”

  I snapped my mouth shut, narrowing my eyes at him. Mostly because I couldn’t remember. While I’d done a pretty successful stint at my school paper in college, since then I’d been perfectly happy to leave the hardhitting stories to other reporters. My talent was spinning. Give me any nugget of news, and I could turn it into a dishy, dirty, salacious bit of snark that cut the famed and fabulous down to the level of average Jane Reader.

  Clearly, I hadn’t investigated many death threats. But that didn’t mean I was giving in.

  “Three days,” I repeated. “That’s all I’m asking. Come on, I think you owe me that.”

  “Owe you?” Felix spat out the words, crossing his arms over his chest in a much scrawnier version of Cal’s stance.

  “Yes. For saddling me with Barbie.”

  “Allie.”

  “Whatever. Look, you know how long it’s taken me to make the kind of contacts I have. They don’t grow on trees. The best thing for all of us is to keep this thing quiet. Please. Three days.”

  Felix looked from me to Cal. Finally he sighed and shook his head. By the way all the fight drained out of his shoulders, I could tell before he even spoke that I’d won.

  “Alright.”

  “Thank you!” Despite myself, I threw my arms around his neck.

  “But if Cal feels there’s even the slightest hint of danger to you, or anyone else on my staff, all bets are off.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” I said, giving him a mock salute as I backpedaled out the door.

  As soon as I sat back down at my desk, I booted up my computer and opened my archives folder.

  I could do this. So what if my reporter skills were a little rusty? I had skills. Mad skills. I would find this creep. And I knew just where to start looking.

  The unlucky celebrities I’d written about.

  I pulled up my columns from the past month. Monday through Thursday I put out a short daily, with a longer, detailed version on Fridays. Five days a week times four weeks, and I had twenty articles to work with.

  Going on Allie’s assumption that our Mystery Caller had multiple mentions, I scanned through the columns, making note of any name that appeared more than once.

  “Who did you write about yesterday?”

  I jumped in my seat and spun around to find Cal reading over my shoulder.

  “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “A little jumpy?”

  “No, death threats make me feel perfectly secure, thanks,” I said. Then I swiveled back to my screen, taking a deep breath to rein in my heart rate.

  Unfortunately, Cal didn’t take my sarcasm as a hint, instead leaning his butt against my desk and making himself comfortable. “The email said you hadn’t taken his warning. Which means that he didn’t like something you printed between the time he called and last night,” Cal persisted.

  “I was getting to that,” I said.

  I pulled up the file containing yesterday’s column and checked it against my list. Four names came up.

  Cal pulled out a notebook and pen and wrote them down.

  Katie Briggs, an actress whose volatile love life had single-handedly paid my rent last summer.

  Jennifer Wood, the teen idol who unwittingly ended up holding the doobie.

  Blain Hall, rehab-bound rocker.

  And, of course, Edward Pines, pedophile director.

  “Any of these characters stand out? Any have a history of erratic behavior?” Cal asked, his pen hovering.

  I snorted. “They’re celebrities. Everything they do is erratic.”

  “Who’s this girl?” Cal stabbed his finger at Katie’s name.

  “Katie Briggs,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Should I know her?”

  I blinked at him. “Seriously? Katie Briggs?”

  “You keep repeating her name like that will help. Look, I don’t know who she is. Wanna clue me in?”

  “Daughter of David Briggs, only the most powerful producer in Hollywood. Won the Golden Globe last year for playing the plucky paraplegic Olympian? Dated George Clooney, Leo DiCaprio, and Orlando Bloom? Katie Briggs.”

  “Oh. That Katie Briggs,” he said. Only this time it was his turn to be sarcastic.

  “You really never heard of her?”

  “I don’t go to the movies much.”

  “And apparently you don’t read my column either.”

  “Not until now,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “So, you think Katie could be your mystery caller?”

  “Anything’s possible. Any one of them could. Though, I gotta say, the whole macho threat thing feels more like Blain’s style.” I paused. “Please tell me you know who Blain Hall is.”

  Cal nodded. “I listen to the radio. Okay, so any one of them could have done it. Let’s start at the top and work our way down. This Katie chick, how can we get hold of her?”

  “Well, most people,” I started, opening up my address book, “would have to call her publicist and either wait for a comment or promise their firstborn for an interview between shoots.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not most people.”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look, Cal.”

  “Ouch.”

  Instantly, I regretted the comment. Okay, so it was awkward, annoying, and painfully limiting having a brawny babysitter following my every move. But he was just doing his job. To be fair, the situation wasn’t Cal’s fault any more than it was mine.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I quickly said. “Sorry.”

  “Wow,” he answered.

  “ ‘Wow’?”

  “‘Sorry.’ I have a hunch that’s not a word you utter very often. I’m feeling kinda special right now.” He grinned. And his eyes were definitely laughing again.

  I cleared my throat. “Anyway, back to Katie. It just so happens that I have a close, personal friend at her hairdresser’s.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “Close personal friend?”

  “Not that kind of personal. He’s gay.”

  “Ah.”

  “And chatty.”

  “Let me guess, that’s where you got all this dirt on Katie’s love life?”

  “Hey, people will tell their hairdressers just about anything. It’s crazy.”

  He glanced at my own purple locks.

  “Some people,” I quickly added.

  He nodded. “Uh huh. So, this hairdresser guy, he can get us access to Katie?”

  I nodded. “No sweat. Her new movie comes out next month, and she’s in the salon daily for touch-ups during promo. All I have to do is find out what time her appointment today is and-” I paused, narrowing my eyes at the hulk of man sitting on the edge of my desk. “Wait, what do you mean ‘us’?”

  “Us. From the German Gothic uns. Plural form of I. I’m sure you’re familiar with the word.”

  “There is no plural ‘I.’”

  “There is now.”

  I gritted my teeth together. Though I had to be just a little impressed by anyone who could rattle off word origins like that. “This is exactly why I didn’t want Felix calling the police. These people trust me. I start bringing the National Guard with me, and there goes my lifeline to Hollywood.”

  “I’m hardly the National Guard.”

  I looked down to where the butt of his gun peeked out from the waistband of his jeans. “You’re carrying a.32. Y
ou don’t exactly scream ‘friendly.’”

  He pulled the hem of his T-shirt down to cover it. But instead of arguing the point, his voice took on a firm tone. “Let me help you.”

  I stood, meeting him almost at eye level. Give or take a foot. I lifted my chin, crossed my arms over my chest.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He gave me a slow, assessing stare. “No, I don’t think you do. But,” he added, “if you’re smart, you’ll take it anyway.”

  I took a deep breath, biting back the refusal on the tip of my tongue. Mostly because he had a point. The smart move here was to take the assistance of the guy with the gun. No doubt he had a lot more experience tracking down bad guys than I did. And the sooner I found this creep, the sooner my life could go back to normal. And the sooner I could dismiss my musclebound shadow.

  “Okay,” I finally said.

  “Good.” It irked me just a little that he didn’t seem the least surprised at getting his way. “So, Katie Briggs?”

  I nodded. “Katie Briggs.”

  We were in luck. My friend at the salon said Katie had an appointment on the books for ten that morning. The bad news? It was nine thirty-five. And we were across town. I told my friend to stall her at all costs, then grabbed Cal by the sleeve and made for his ozonekilling machine.

  Exactly forty minutes later, we pulled to the curb in front of the opulent glass doors of Fernando’s salon in Beverly Hills.

  Fernando was a famed hairdresser to the stars, an incredibly tanned, incredibly flamboyant, and incredibly talented man who’d burst onto the Beverly Hills radar about five years ago. While he claimed some sort of Spanish nobility in his ancestry, his actual past was a little hazy. But as long as his extensions kept winning oohhs and ahhs on the red carpet, no one really cared.

  I pushed through the doors and into the reception area, this month decorated in a medieval castle theme. Plush red sofas lined the windows, and a large crystal chandelier hung over an intricate parquet floor. Beyond reception, cut-and-color stations outfitted with huge gilded mirrors lined the room, while lengths of thick tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of men out for the hunt, while maidens wearing shockingly little for the cold English countryside fawned over fairhaired boys. A reception desk complete with turrets took up one corner of the room, and behind it stood a slim, Hispanic guy wearing more eyeliner than I even owned. As soon as he spotted me, he skipped (yes, actually skipped) toward me.