Free Honeymoon in High Heels by Gemma Halliday

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 PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS.  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 dinner time.”
    “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  Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.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, 5’3” 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. 
    I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair.  Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn’t much of a problem.  I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place.  Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights.  Though, I’ve been through so many shades in my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.         
    I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside.  Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades.  After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.
    A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.
    “Hey, Tina,” she said, raising a hand in greeting.
    “I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?” I said, gesturing to her camera.
    She nodded.  “Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow.  And Britney had reservations today, too.”
    Cameron Dakota was the Informer ’s only full-time photographer.  Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer ’s pages.  And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch.  Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself. 
    Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.
    “Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.
    Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks.  “He’s up next.  Right now