Gemma Halliday: Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

“Tina, meet Calvin Dean.” He gestured to the other guy.

I turned, giving the man my full attention now. He was tall, almost a head taller than Felix. Broad in the shoulders, slim in the waist. I could tell by the way his T-shirt fit over his biceps that he spent a fair amount of time at the gym. His hair was dark, just curling over his ears, and he had a neatly trimmed goatee that gave him a slightly devilish look. And I could swear his dark eyes were laughing at me.

Which did nothing to lighten my mood.

“You got me a rent-a-goon?” I asked, turning back to Felix.

“Play nice, Bender,” Felix warned. “Think of him like your insurance plan.”

“Hi.” The bodyguard stuck his hand out.

I looked at it.

“Nice to meet you, Tina.”

I stuck my hands on my hips. And turned back to Felix.

“I don’t need a bodyguard. It was one phone call. I can take care of myself.”

“It was a death threat. Made from a blocked number by someone who disguised their voice. These were not some drunk kids. Whoever did this thought it through, took their time, and made sure not to get caught.”

I bit my lip. While I was pretty sure this was still just a prank, Felix had a point. And the fact that someone had put so much thought into trying to scare me took the wind out of my sails a bit.

“Look, Tina,” Felix said, advancing on me, “yes, it’s possible this is just some idle threat. But it’s possible it’s not, and I, for one, can’t take that chance. I don’t know if you know this, but I once worked a story where an actress was receiving threatening letters. She ignored them. Two dead bodies followed. I know this may seem a little overprotective to you, but I can’t take the chance of that happening to you.”

I felt my irritation subsiding a little, the genuine worry in his voice touching me. “I appreciate your concern,” I said, meaning it.

He shrugged. “Of course I’m concerned. Half our advertising comes in because of your column.”

And just like that the irritation was back. “Gee, love you, too,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

Felix elected to ignore me. “So,” he continued, “you have two choices. Desk duty or…” He trailed off, gesturing to the rent-a-goon.

I took a deep breath, thinking about three dollars worth of nasty words.

“Fine,” I finally spat out. “But I get Pines back.”

Felix bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating the negotiations for a moment. “You can share.”

“With Barbie?”

“Allie.”

“Whatever.”

“Allie works with you on this. End of discussion.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down.

He crossed his arms over his chest and returned the look.

Neither of us gave an inch.

Unfortunately, it was his name on the door, so I knew who was ultimately going to win.

“Fine,” I repeated. Then I turned on my sneakers and stomped out, well aware that I probably looked like a truculent three-year-old.

I plopped myself back down at my desk with a huff.

And realized the goon was right behind me.

“Please tell me you’re not going to hover all day,” I told him. “Seriously, I think I’m safe at my desk.”

He took the hint, moving to an empty desk a couple feet away. But he didn’t take his eyes off me.

“You’re creeping me out. Quit staring at me.”

I looked up to find him grinning. And not just with his eyes this time. One corner of his lips tugged upward in something that I could only describe as a smirk.

“What?” I asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Look, pal-”

“Cal. You can call me Cal.”

“Fine. Cal . This was not my idea.”

“Clearly.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“So I heard.”

“Felix is totally overreacting.”

“Probably.”

“This was just a prank.”

“Could be.”

“You always this agreeable?”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. His eyes? Still laughing at me. Big, hearty chuckles.

“Well, if you have to be my shadow, just…don’t talk to me. Okay?”

He nodded. “Done.”

“Good.”

I turned back to my computer screen.

This was going to be a very long day.

Cal spent the rest of the morning silently staring at me while I spent the rest of it silently shooting daggers at Barbie’s back. I tried to concentrate on proofing the column I’d written last night, but for some reason, my heart just wasn’t in it. I guess death threats did that to me.

Since the PW thing wasn’t leading anywhere, I found myself instead replaying the message again, listening for any background noise that might give me a clue as to where this mystery-caller slash threat-maker slash ruining-my-life-guy was calling from. Nada. It was like he’d called from a padded cell.

Well, if I couldn’t hear anything in the background, I’d start with what I could hear-his voice.

I played it a third time, the mechanical cadence crawling up my spine. Something about its cold, inhuman tone gave me the creeps far worse than the menacing words. The caller had gone through a lot of trouble to disguise his voice. Why? Because I’d recognize it? If so, that left two options-either someone I knew was playing a prank or it was someone famous, someone whose voice had boomed at me from the big screen countless times.

Which didn’t narrow things down a whole lot.

Time to try another tactic.

I pulled up a search engine and typed in “voice disguise.” I followed the top link to a site with a list of different voice-altering programs. I hit the first one, which took me to a page called AlterAudio. For a small fee, the website promised you could change your voice from male to female, high pitched to low pitched, robotic, echo, and any other number of effects. “Create your online persona!” it touted.

I could only imagine the practical applications. How many losers were sitting at home in their underwear, chatting in Cary Grant’s voice to some unsuspecting woman?

Then again, she probably didn’t sound like Marilyn Monroe either. How did anyone ever hook up before the age of cyber lies?

I hit the “buy it now” button, cringing just a little as I charged it to the Informer ’s expense account. I waited while my computer recognized their software and began loading the application on to my hard drive. Five minutes later I was hooking my pocket recorder to my computer and speaking into the end.

“Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” I said. I turned on my speakers and pressed the button to play it back.

“Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” my own voice told me.

Cal shot me an odd look.

I just waved back.

I adjusted the buttons to up the bass, lower the treble, and create a male voice. I hit play.

“Tina’s gonna catch a creep,” some guy said.

I blinked, the cadence and intonation exactly the same as mine, but in a completely different tone. Weird.

Max popped his head up over the partition, his watery eyes going my way again.

“Just testing out some new software,” I explained.

He shook his head. “You know, I remember when reporting was going out in the field with a notebook and a stubby pencil.”

“Welcome to the digital age, my friend.”

He shook his head again, muttering, “You kids and your machines,” before he disappeared behind the fabric partition.

Seeing how easy it was to change from female to male, I clicked another button, putting the website to the test. Mechanical voice. After fiddling with a few buttons, I crossed my fingers and hit the play button.

A robotic Tina came on, informing me I was gonna catch a creep. Unfortunately, it sounded nothing like the creep who had called me last night. Mechanical, yes. A match, no.