I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

“Bender?”

I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. “Did you want something, chief?”

“You finish up that Wood piece yet?” he asked.

“Just emailed it to you.” I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.

“What about Pines?”

“Pines?”

Edward Pines was the director who’d recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don’t care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.

“What about him?” I asked.

“Being arraigned today. It’s your story, right?”

Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine’s arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINTSIZED PRETEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.

But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn’t thrilled with the timing.

“He’s being arraigned now?” My stomach growled. “It’s dinnertime.”

“The news waits for no one, love. Cam’s meeting you at the courthouse,” he said, ducking back into his office.

So much for my burrito. “Shit.”

“Bender…”

“I know, I know.” I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.

At this rate, I’d be broke by Christmas.

The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.

I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that’s right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin’ hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I’ll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, five foot three on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.