“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?”