Malibu is about thirty-five miles north of L.A. proper, along the historic Pacific Coast Highway, which hugs the California coastline in single lanes. And which between the hours of three and eight resembles a parking lot. Thankfully, at ten in the morning, things were relatively free of traffic heading north. Relatively. We were still stuck behind a slow Mercedes (hybrid of course—this was, after all, L.A.) the entire way. Though, in the towering oil hog, we were a good three feet above the car, a completely unobstructed view of the morning sun glinting off the ocean as we snaked past crab shacks, brightly colored sushi joints, and towering glass-walled mansions.

Half an hour later we rolled up to the Sunset Shores rehabilitation clinic. Of course, the term clinic was completely misleading. This was nothing like the crowded waiting room of the place that gave out free condoms in Burbank. This looked like something out of a Club Med brochure. Only nicer.

Huge glass windows spanned the front of the building, capitalizing on the natural California sunshine. Dark woods framed the structure, punctuated by palm trees and flowering agapanthus circling the perfectly manicured lawn. A small slate fountain with three coy fish circling in the pond at its base sat off to one side of the ornately carved front doors.

Cal did a low whistle. “Nice place.”

“No kidding. It has a nice price tag, too. Rumor has it, two weeks here is more than my yearly salary.”

“I’m in the wrong business.”

Cal pulled up the circular drive and handed his keys to the valet before we pushed inside the impressive mahogany doors.

The interior smelled faintly of lavender and Pine Sol as we made our way across the expanse of marble floor to the large granite counter spanning reception. A young woman dressed more like a cruise director than a nurse sat behind it, typing away at a computer. She looked up as we approached, a name tag reading “Sandy” visible on her lapel.

“May I help you?” she inquired in a soft, evenly modulated voice that I’m sure the patients found very soothing.

“I hope so,” I answered. “My name is…Laura. Laura Petrie. This is my associate, Rob,” I said, gesturing to Cal. “We work with Blain Hall’s publicist.”

The receptionist nodded. “How can I help you, Laura?”

“Well, we’re trying to head off a little potential trouble before the media gets wind of it. We’d be extremely grateful if you could help us, Sandy.”

Her brows furrowed, creating teeny lines on her forehead that suggested she’d yet to hit that thirty-year mark when, in Hollywood, Botox became as necessary as flossing. “What sort of trouble?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, straightening my spine. “We’re not at liberty to discuss that.”

Sandy looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure how I could help.”