“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 firstborn 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. One thirty p.m.

“Let’s go ask him.”