I had no idea if he was telling the truth, but I suddenly felt like I needed a shower. Or ten. No matter how he spun it, it was clear that lurking just beyond his flashy Hollywood exterior lay the heart of a diehard pervert.

“Why did you plead not guilty?” Allie asked.

Pines cocked his head at her. “What are you, the brains of the outfit? Because I’m not guilty.”

“The cops found the magazines in your car.”

“They were planted,” Pines said. Though I could tell by the look on his face, even he was having a hard time believing that lie.

“Edward,” his lawyer warned. “Be careful.”

“What? I can’t tell the truth?”

“So,” Allie said, furiously scribbling, “you’re saying you were framed?”

“That’s right.”

“By whom?”

“The cops. They have it in for me. Did you see the movie I did about police corruption? I get a parking ticket every week now. Fuckin’ pigs.”

Persecution complex much? But I was happily dancing in my seat, picturing the headline that went with that quote: PIGS PERSECUTE PINES OVER PARKING.

“I think we’re done here,” the lawyer said, jumping in before Pines could do any more damage.

Both men rose, prompting Allie and I to do the same.

As we walked out, Allie was still jotting down notes. “I might suggest investing in a digital recorder,” I told her.

She looked up, a frown of concentration on her forehead. “What?”

“It’s a lot easier than trying to write down everything they say.”

“Do interviewees usually let you record conversations?”

I smirked. “I don’t actually ask.”

“But you have to disclose that you’re recording, right? Otherwise, well, that would be unethical, wouldn’t it?”

I shook my head. “Wow, do you have a lot to learn about working at a tabloid.”

When we got back to the Informer with our mega story, I stopped at Max’s desk first thing. “Hey,” I said, leaning over the fabric partition.

Max looked up, the droopy bags under his eyes a testament to his night with Jim Beam. “Hey, Bender. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’d do me a favor. I’d like to see an obit for her.” I handed him a slip of paper with Hattie Carmichael’s name on it. “Think you can dig up some stats?”

Max took it, frowning at the name.

“Who was she?”

“No one famous,” I told him. But before he could protest, I added, “But she was a friend. It would mean a lot.”

Max nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

I thanked him, glad I could do something for Mrs. Carmichael. I know, it wasn’t much. But at least it was something.