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Holy crap. Was that a reference to Howard Devlin? I have a hunch it was. So, I decide to act like I’m in the know, to suss out more information. “Howard,” I say matter-of-factly. Like there’s no doubt in the world that’s who we’re talking about. “Yeah, I know all about him. I’ve actually been warned to stay away from him, for my safety.”
Francesca’s eyebrows shoot up. “By Isabel?”
And there it is. Confirmation my hunch was right. Because she didn’t say, “Howard who?” Or, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nope. She immediately linked the name Howard to the name Isabel. Which tells me everything I need to know. “No, Isabel’s never mentioned Howard’s grabby hands. An older woman warned me. Someone I trust implicitly, who’s very well connected in Hollywood. She told me he’s rumored to have assaulted several young actresses—and that she fully believes the rumors to be true.”
“She’s right to believe them. You’re an actress, then? A model?”
“No, I work for the older woman who warned me about Howard. My boss knows lots of celebrities.”
“A word of advice? Listen to your boss and steer clear of Howard. Certainly, never accept a drink from him, if you know what I mean.”
I inhale sharply, and she nods ominously.
“I didn’t know what he was up to for a long time, or I never would have let him near my girls. None of them told me anything, at first. Apparently, he was masterful at dangling all sorts of carrots to get my girls—all of whom were aspiring actresses—to do all sorts of things they didn’t want to do, off the books.” She rolls her eyes. “And when they finally started tiring of his dangling carrots, and started refusing him services, he’d say he understood, and then invite them to his hotel room to ‘have a drink’ and ‘discuss a part’ he supposedly had in mind for them. And the next thing they knew, they were waking up in his bed, naked, groggy, with a terrible headache... and scorching pain in every hole.”
My stomach physically revolts. “Oh my God. He needs to be stopped, Francesca. Maybe he’s still doing it.”
“Who would come forward to accuse him? They all know it’d be their word against his—and career suicide. Add to that, plenty of women are worried he’d out them for having worked for me. Or, possibly, saying yes to him to further their careers.”
Crap. I know CeeCee told me not to pursue an article about Howard, but I can’t imagine she’ll stand by that position, once she hears all of this.
“Francesca, if any of the women who used to work for you came forward to—”
“They won’t.”
“But, if they did, would you—”
“They won’t. Trust me on that.”
“Just hear me out. Please. In a fantasy, a fairytale, an alternate reality where they did speak up about Howard, would you be willing to back them up and reveal what you know?”
“It’s a pointless question. Nobody’s going to say a word.”
“Could you play along? If I could get some of the women who worked for you to speak up, maybe band together, would you come forward to support them with whatever you know?”
A puff of air escapes Francesca’s nose. “I’m a felon, remember? My word is shit, according to the world.”
I can barely stand still. This is it. The big story I’ve been waiting for! I feel it in my bones.
“I have a confession to make. My boss, the older woman I mentioned, is CeeCee Rafael—the owner of Rock ‘n’ Roll and another magazine called Dig a Little Deeper. I’m a summer intern at Rock ‘n’ Roll, assigned to write about music artists, but CeeCee’s given me the green light to find interesting stories for Dig a Little Deeper, too. And I think this story about Howard is the one I’ve been searching for.”
Francesca looks annoyed. But, thankfully, slightly amused by my exuberance, as well. “I don’t talk to reporters. I told you that, right from the start.”
“Yes, I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you. I really do know Isabel. And someone really did blackmail her about her connection to you. Which is what brought me here. Also, my boss really did tell me to stay away from Howard Devlin. But the full truth is that I’m trying to get hired onto the writing staff of CeeCee’s magazine that’s devoted to investigative journalism. I swear I have no desire to write about you, in particular. You’re entitled to your privacy. And your story’s already been written about quite a bit. I also promise I won’t write about any of the girls you employed or the men who hired them. Except for one client. Howard Devlin. Who needs to be exposed and taken down by someone.” I puff out my chest. “And that someone is me.”
