Gemma Halliday - Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

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.