Hollywood Scandals (19 page)

I raised an eyebrow his direction. Okay, so he
did
know. I was impressed. “Right. The police have their hands full. I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world to devote to catching this asshole.”

I turned to find Cal grinning at me.

“
What?”

“
Remind me never to piss you off.”

“
Does that mean we’re going to Levanthal’s?”

Cal flipped a U-ey. “You’re the boss, Bender.”

* * *

A mere hour later we’d made our way onto Wilshire, a long street winding through the heart of Beverly Hills and flanked on each side by exclusive boutiques, towering penthouses, and high-rise office buildings that housed the movers and shakers of the big screen world. The Wilshire corridor was about as high dollar as real estate could get. Leventhal’s office was on the sixth floor of a huge glass and chrome building shared with a law firm, a cable network, and about fifteen other talent agents. Leventhal’s office was the last one on the right as we got off the elevators.

A slim, waiflike girl with unnaturally black hair sat behind a low reception desk as we walked in. Obviously an actress slash receptionist. Not that that was an anomaly. In L.A. almost everyone was an actor slash something. Even the janitor in our building had done a guest spot on
House
last season.

Actress Slash Receptionist was applying lip gloss in a little compact as we approached. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

“
We’re here to see Mr. Leventhal,” I told her.

“
Do you have an appointment?”

“
Uh… no.”

“
Names?” she asked.

“
Douglas. Lisa and Oliver,” I said.

“
I’ll see if he’s in,” she said noncommittally, rising from the desk and crossing to a hallway behind her.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Cal leaned in. “Oliver and Lisa Douglas?”

“
From
Green Acres
.”

I felt him smirk as the receptionist returned.

“
Yeah, go ahead,” she said, waving us in the direction she’d just come from.

“
Thanks.”

The hallway was short, a copy room on the left, an office on the right, and a dead end in a window that overlooked the Wilshire traffic below. The door on the right read “J. Levanthal”.

I quickly pushed through.

Jerry Levanthal sat behind a large oak desk, every inch of which was covered in papers and CD cases. He perched on the edge of an enormous leather chair that made me think of a throne, upon which the gatekeeper to fame sat. His skin had an unnaturally tanned look as if he seldom saw the real sun but was a devotee of the spray-on variety. Dark hair covered his head - well, most of it. A large thinning patch sat on top, though I could tell by the obvious plugs that he was doing his best to fight nature. A Bluetooth was implanted in his ear, and he spoke seemingly to the air as we entered.

“
Baby, you’re great. You’re a fucking John Lennon, a Bob Dylan, a Kurt Cobain. You speak to the generation. No one can touch you, baby. You’re king, got me? King. Call me when the tour gets to Baltimore. Keep rockin’, baby.”

He touched a button on his ear, then turned his attention our way.

“
Prima donnas. Fragile artist egos, need all the help they can get. Poor kid, probably won’t make it past Philly. So, what can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward onto his desk, hands clasped in front of him.

“
Uh, hi. I’m Lisa, and this is my colleague Oliver.”

He nodded, motioning me to go on. Unless our names were Brad and Angelina, it was obvious he could care less.

“
We’re… freelancers for
Rolling Stone,
” I lied. “We’re doing a piece on Blain’s brave battle with addiction.”

Levanthal shook his head. “I’m sorry, Blain’s not up for interviews at the moment.”

“
Oh, I completely understand. His treatment has to be paramount. We actually wanted to talk to you.”

“
Me?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“
You recently visited Blain in rehab, didn’t you?”

“
Yes,” he hedged slowly. This was a man who’d dealt with the fickle media before and was not going to let some juicy quote slip out unnoticed.

“
What did you discuss?”

“
I’m sorry, but that conversation was private.”

“
Did you talk about his treatment?”

“
Some.”

“
His plans when he gets out?”

“
A bit.”

“
How does he feel about what the media’s been saying? I hear that Tina Bender at the
Informer
has been roasting him?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Exactly what are you getting at?”

“
Where were you last night?”

Levanthal stood, planting both hands on his massive desk. “Okay, that’s it. This conversation is over. I want you both out, or I’m calling security.”

Shit. Too far.

But Cal stood up, matching Leventhals’s height and then some. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said.

“
Oh really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And why not?”

“
The truth is we’re working with the police. We’re investigating a murder, and your client is a suspect.”

All the color drained from the agent’s fake tan.

“
Murder? Are you serious?”

“
As a heart attack,” Cal said, holding the man in his steely gaze.

Slowly, Levenathal sank back into his chair. “Jesus, when the tabloids get wind of this…”

Little did he know.

“
Look,” he continued, “I don’t know anything about any murder, but Blain’s been in rehab the past four weeks. He couldn’t have killed anyone.”

“
Blain has plenty of resources. He could have had someone else do his dirty work,” I pointed out.

“
Like who?”

“
Where were you last night?” I repeated.

If it was possible, Leventhal paled further. “Me! You have got to be joking. You don’t seriously think I killed someone for Blain, do you?”

Neither Cal nor I answered, both giving him the cold stare.

“
I was here,” Leventhal finally squeaked out.

“
Alone?”

“
The cleaning lady saw me. She can vouch for me. Maria. Or Juanita. Something like that. I was brokering a deal for my latest act, a punk band from Milwaukee. Here, you guys want a free CD?” He shoved two unmarked discs at Cal and me.

“
Has anyone else been to see Blain?” I asked. I know the guest book had been free of signatures, but I was desperate here.

But Levanthal shrugged. “I don’t know. Look, he’s under pretty tight surveillance. Trust me, Blain’s not your guy.”

“
Maybe we should ask Blain directly,” I said.

“
No!” Leventhal jumped in his seat at the suggestion. “No, you can’t talk to Blain.”

“
Why not?”

“
He’s in treatment.”

“
We’ll be gentle.”

“
Please. I know Blain isn’t your guy.”

Cal leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the man. “You seem pretty anxious to divert attention from your client.”

“
It’s bad publicity.”

“
I don’t buy it,” Cal said. “He’s a rock star. The badder he seems, the more records he’ll sell.”

Leventhal swallowed audibly.

“
What’s the real reason?” Cal pressed.

Leventhal licked his lips.

I leaned forward.

“
Alright. I’ll tell you. But it goes no further than this room.”

I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I swear.”

Leventhal took off his Bluetooth, dropping it on the table as if someone might hear him through the device. “Blain’s not really in rehab for drug addiction. We floated the story to stave off the media.”

Cal cocked his head to the side. “Floated?”

“
They spread the rumor themselves,” I explained. Unfortunately, it was something studios did all the time to protect the real secrets of their stars. “Remember how many times Lance Bass was linked in the media with some supermodel or another before stepping out of the closet? All floaters.”

“
Okay,” Cal said, addressing Leventhal, “so, you’re saying he’s not even at Sunset Shores?”

“
Oh no, he’s in rehab alright,” Leventhal assured us. “Just not for drugs.”

“
What then?” Cal asked. “Alcohol? Gambling? Sex addiction?”

“
World of Warcraft.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“
Poor kid got caught up in this online game, World of Warcraft. It’s this whole virtual reality world with these complicated plotlines and battles and all kinds of crazy characters. Blain started playing it on the road. At first it was a nice way to relax, wind down from a show. But then he got so into it he started missing gigs.” Leventhal shook his head. “Poor kid became obsessed. He couldn’t focus on anything else. He was playing up to twelve hours a day. So I checked him into Sunset to help him break the addiction.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. The big bad rock star was a closet gamer nerd. I would have given my first born to run with the story.

Though, sadly, it also cleared Blain of motive to want me out of the picture. The longer I kept reporting the floater story, the safer Blain’s secret really was. It was in his best interest to keep me writing, not stop me.

“
Mr. Leventhal, does the name PW Enterprises mean anything to you?” I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt to make some connection here.

He scrunched his forehead up. “PW?”

I nodded. “They’re local.”

He snapped his fingers. “Production company! They were interested in an act of mine to do a soundtrack at one point. I think they’re in Hollywood somewhere.”

“
Got any idea who runs it?” I asked, perking up.

“
Sure do.” He nodded, clearly pleased to be talking about something other than his client. “The owner is Edward Pines.”

Mental forehead smack.

It had been Pines calling me all along! Which, now that I thought about it, made perfect sense. Who else had that kind of time on their hands? Thanks in part to my column, the public thought he was total scum. And I’d just visited him yesterday, trying to dig up more dirt, before someone had broken into my house and killed Hattie. It fit like a dream.

“
There’s just one problem,” Cal pointed out as we hopped back into his gas guzzler and I told him my theory.

“
What’s that?”

“
That first call was made from the PW number, not the L.A. County jail.”

I waved him off. “Simple. Pines is a director, people are used to taking orders from him. He could have easily had one of his flunkies do his dirty work.”

“
But why would he go through all that trouble to disguise his voice, then call on a number that links directly back to him?”

I chewed my lower lip. Beats me. I looked down at the dash clock. 1:30 pm.

“
Let’s go ask him.”

* * *

We made tracks toward the courthouse, stopping at a newsstand along the way just long enough to pick up copies of
Playboy
,
Penthouse
, and some magazine called
Naughty Bits
that Cal swore Pines would love.

“
It’s the best,” he said.

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

He shrugged. “You know, so I’ve heard.”

“
Uh huh.”

“
Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

I paid for the magazines and hopped back in his Hummer, making our way through town to the courthouse. We pulled into a spot in the lot and quickly jogged up the steps and through the metal detectors. I felt my cheeks heat as the guy manning the x-ray machine got a load of the stash in my bag, but we cleared security and hit the lobby at two on the dot.

As did a perky blonde in a mini skirt and knee-high boots with four-inch heels.

Right. I’d forgotten about Allie.

“
I’m not late, am I?” she asked, all breathless like a porn star.

I shook my head. “No.” Unfortunately.

“
I just talked to the clerk. Pines is in conference room 4A with his lawyer,” she informed me.

“
Great. Let’s go talk to him.”

We made our way up the stairs and past the courtroom, where shortly Pines would be sitting behind the defendant’s table, to a small wooden door to the right that served as chambers for the prisoners to meet pre-trial with their counsel. A bailiff stood outside 4A, a sure sign that a prisoner was inside.

I threw my shoulders back and walked up to the guy like I owned the place.

“
Excuse me,” I said, doing my best imitation of a Harvard Law grad. “My client is inside. I need to speak with him.”