“Off the record. Were you and Julie Larimore friends?”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” The lioness look returns, and she is in my face again. “Don’t make the mistake everybody else does. And don’t judge me—” she shoves her chest at me “—by these.”
“I’m not judging you by anything except your answers. You know I can find out whatever I need to. I never give up. If you can make my job easier for me, I’ll keep what you tell me off the record.”
She moves close enough that I can see the filmy circle of her contacts, feel her breath in my face. Mint first, then, yes, the unmistakable scent of a smoker. “Contrary to what you may have heard, no one was friends with Julie Larimore.”
The hoarse honesty of her voice shoots chills through me. I was right.
“She criticized Princess Gabby in an interview after those photos of her were printed, and I don’t even know what she did to turn Tania Marie against her. Again, no one was her friend.”
“Not even Bobby Warren?” I ask.
“I won’t discuss Mr. Warren with you. Not on the record, not off, not over or under. He made the right decision for his business, and Julie’s done a great job for him.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m really tired. My husband’s waiting outside.”
“You’re not the only one who hates her,” I say.
The smile spreads. She nods. “I know.”
“Why?”
She leans close to me, and her cigarette breath overpowers the fading mint, the too-strong perfume. “You ever meet a perfect person?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, meet Miss Julie. She’s smug and sanctimonious, but she thinks she’s earned the right because she’s perfect. And sheis, damn it. Perfect skin, perfect shape, perfect voice, perfect dedication to her job.”
“What else?”
“Off the record?” Her stare is greedy; she doesn’t want to stop. I remember Hamilton telling me that all an investigative reporter needs to do is find an angry person for a source.
“Yes, off the record.”
She turns away from me, says it to the wall. “I thought she’d be grateful for my help. Instead, she stabbed me in the back, tried to make Bobbo distrust me, made unflattering statements about me to the press. And they sayI’ma bitch?” Then, still looking at the wall, she says, “I have to leave now.”
“I’ll walk out with you.”
I hate to admit it, but there’s something almost likable about Rochelle, something you have to dig for underneath all of the makeup and, yes, the anger.
“Another off the record,” I say. “Why are you always so ready to attack?”
She digs the glasses out of her hair, shoves them over her eyes. Jesse drives their Lexus up to the sidewalk, and I can sense her relief. There’s no parking place, however, and he drives down the street, away from us.
“Why am I such a bitch? Admit it. That’s what you’re asking.”
“No, it’s not.” I join her outside, beneath a jacaranda, still green, not yet in bloom.
“You know how the lofty princess says everything she doesn’t like isso California?Well, IamCalifornia, honey. I’m every battle every woman in this state and this industry ever fought. If a man my age had fought the battles I have, you’d call him a war hero, or maybe like Bobbo, a pioneer.”
“Maybe.” I start to say more, but the Lexus pulls up to the curb and Rochelle brightens. “I have to go,” she says. “Call me if you need more. I don’t want to appear uncooperative.”
She’s like a pendulum, swinging from anger to the media cooperation I’m sure Bobby Warren insists on.
I walk with her to the car. “You’ve been very helpful,” I say.
“Call me if you have any questions.” She’s focused on her husband now, moving like a sleepwalker toward the car.
Every time I see Jesse McArthur, I’m struck by the same thought. He doesn’t look married. All scrunched-back ponytail and photogenic smile, he leaps out of the car, runs around to open the door for Rochelle.
