Gemma Halliday - Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

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 confident 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 a 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 happily 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 Togo’s 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.