I turned to find Cal grinning at me.
“What?”
“Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Does that mean we’re going to Leventhal’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. Leventhal.”
I quickly pushed through.
Jerry Leventhal 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.”
Leventhal 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?”
Leventhal 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 Leventhal’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, Leventhal 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 knew the guest book had been free of signatures, but I was desperate here.
But Leventhal 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.”