Gemma Halliday - Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

Her brows furrowed, creating teeny lines on her forehead that suggested she’d yet to hit that thirty-year mark when, in Hollywood, Botox became as necessary as flossing. “What sort of trouble?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, straightening my spine. “We’re not at liberty to discuss that.”

Sandy looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure how I could help.”

“We need to know if Blain has had any visitors recently. Say, in the past three days? You do keep logs?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, we do,” she agreed hesitantly. “But they’re private.”

“I understand, I really do. But this could mean the end of his career if this got out. It could be, well, tabloid suicide. And, I’m sure you can agree, that’s the last thing he needs right now when he should be focusing on his recovery.”

She nodded. “I understand. But the records are private and…”

“Let me level with you, Sandy,” I said, leaning both elbows on the desk. Instinctively she leaned back a fraction. “If I have your word that you won’t tell a soul-I mean a single solitary soul-I’ll tell you what we’re dealing with here.”

Sandy immediately perked up, nodding vigorously. “I swear.” She leaned in close. “What is it?”

“Okay.” I made a big show of looking over both shoulders, then leaned in again. “A woman has come forward claiming that she’s pregnant with Blain Hall’s baby.”

“No!” Though I could see her eyes light up like Christmas.

No one is immune to the power of good gossip.

I nodded. “Yes! This certain woman claims she’s been seeing Blain for the past year, that they’re currently an item. Well, I tell you this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Who is she?” Sandy asked.

I shook my head. “I can’t say.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.

“But I will tell you…”

She leaned in again.

“…she rocks .”

Sandy gave me a blank stare.

“And she’s like a dog with a bone with this dirty story.”

Again with the blank stare.

I mentally threw my hands up in surrender. “It’s Cherry Chase. The Dirty Dog’s bassist?”

Sandy gasped. “No!”

I nodded. “Yes.” Okay, a total fabrication. As far as I knew Cherry and Blain were the proverbial “just friends.” But she’d totally denied me an interview backstage at their latest concert, so I only felt the teeniest bit guilty throwing her under the gossip bus now.

“Wow, no wonder they have such chemistry on stage,” Sandy mused.

“But you didn’t hear it from me,” I reminded her.

“Riiight.” She winked at me.

“Anyway, we need to know if there’s any truth to this before it gets out to the media. And having Blain’s visitor records sure would help us out a lot.”

Sandy nodded. “Absolutely.”

“You can see why this is a very delicate matter that must be handled with the utmost discretion.”

She nodded again. “Totally. Let me see if I can find those records for you. Hang on.”

“Thanks,” I shot back as she disappeared behind a pair of heavy oak doors.

I stood up to find Cal shaking his head at me.

“What?”

“You’re good.”

I grinned. “Thanks.”

“I’m not sure it’s a compliment. Does the truth ever fall between those lips of yours?”

I shrugged. “It’s fifty-fifty.”

He shook his head again.

A beat later Sandy reappeared with a wide notebook, lines of dates and times written on it.

“He’s had two visitors.” Sandy stabbed at a line halfway down the page. “Three days ago, his manager, Jerry Leventhal, and yesterday a Tak Davis.”

I stared at the signatures. Tak was the drummer of the Dirty Dogs. The perfect friend to bring Blain contraband coke in rehab or threaten his enemies in the media. Unfortunately, our mystery call had come in two days before his visit.

Which left Jerry Leventhal.

“Does this help?” Sandy asked, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

I nodded. “It does. Immensely, Sandy. You’ve been an incredible help.”

Cal and I turned to go.

“But, does that mean the baby isn’t his?” Sandy hounded.

I bit my lip. I couldn’t help it. Blain was too easy a target. “Oh, it’s his alright. But, shhhh, don’t tell anyone, ‘kay?”

Right. I gave it five minutes before she was on the phone to every girlfriend she had. Poor Blain. If he wasn’t such a douche, I might have felt sorry for him.

“So, I gotta ask,” Cal said as we pushed through the front doors and handed the valet our ticket, “where do you get these names?”

“What?”

“The fake names you keep giving people.”

I grinned. “Sixties sitcom stars. Jeannie, Samantha Stevens from Bewitched , Laura and Rob Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show .”

Cal threw his head back and laughed. “Aren’t you worried someone will catch on?”

“You didn’t.”

“Touché.” He gave me a sidelong grin as we climbed back into his tank. “So, this Leventhal character? You know him?”

I frowned. “Not really. Reps maybe half a dozen acts, but they’re mostly small time. Except for the Dogs.”

“Know where to find him?”

“No, but-”

“Let me guess, you know someone who does?”

I grinned. “You catch on quick, Cal.”

I pulled my cell from my purse and immediately started dialing. By the time we hit L.A. again, I’d cleverly bartered premier night tickets to Katie Briggs’s new movie for the unlisted address of Leventhal’s offices on Wilshire.

I was about to plug it into Cal’s GPS when my cell rang again in my hand.

“Bender?” I answered.

“Think maybe you wanna show up for work sometime today?”

Felix. And he didn’t sound happy.

“I’m…working in the field today.”

“Cal with you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then both of you can get back here.”

“Look, you gave me three days,” I reminded him.

“I also gave you Pines.”

“And?”

I heard the sound of teeth gnashing together on the other end. “Don’t you read the news?”

“Uh…”

“Jesus, Bender! That kid who was in Pines’s last movie? Came forward this morning saying that Pines asked him to pose for inappropriate photos while on the set.”

“Sonofa-” I caught myself just in time, remembering I was fresh out of quarters for the Swear Pig. “-goat.”

“No kidding. Allie’s been hounding his publicist for a comment all day.”

I cringed. The blonde was showing me up big time. “I’ll be right there.”

I flipped my phone shut, shoving it back into my purse. “Change of plans,” I told Cal. “We’re going back to the Informer .”

He raised an eyebrow my way. “Everything okay?”

“Peachy.”

He shot me a look. “I notice you didn’t tell Felix about last night’s break-in.”

“No. I didn’t. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.”

“He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

“Let’s hope for later. Like after I’ve scooped Barbie.”

Again with the look. But, thankfully, he didn’t ask, instead, making a U-turn (no small task in a Hummer) on Pico and flipping back toward Hollywood.

Ten minutes later we were riding the elevator to the second floor. The doors slid open, and immediately I could feel the energy of a hot story crackling in the air. Cam was laying photos out on the conference room table, Cece running back and forth from cubicles to the boss’s office with all the latest developments, Felix shouting orders in rapid succession, threatening jobs if someone didn’t get him an exclusive. And everywhere phones rang one after the other as reporters tried to get hold of the boy’s publicist, his other co-stars, the parents, the tutor, the former nanny, anyone who could be quoted as an “intimate source.” It was a race to find the winning angle that would land you above the fold.