PART TWO
SQUEEZE PLAY
Chapter 17
STELLA THE BULLDOG sprawled on her side, panting hard, as if she had run for miles in a torrid heat. Justine lay on the veranda floor, stroking the poor beast’s head and laying wet towels over her body. Justine has a thing for dogs. And they have a thing for her. She owns two, spoils them silly.
“She’s been getting progressively worse,” said Justine when I exited the main house with Sanders and Del Rio. “We’re going to have to take her to a vet.”
“No vets,” Camilla Bronson snapped. “I know for a fact that Thom and Jennifer put a chip under her skin. They’ll ask questions.”
“So what? The dog’s sick,” Justine said firmly.
“She probably got into some bad meat and now she’s suffering for it,” Sanders said.
“Yes, just keep her out here so she doesn’t dump or puke in the house,” Terry Graves said.
Justine set her eyes on the attorney, the publicist, and the producer in a way I’d seen before. She no longer liked the Harlow team. They were clients. She’d do the work, but she wouldn’t like them. She stated flatly, “This pup gets any sicker, I’m taking one of the Suburbans and going to—”
Trying to defuse the situation, I said, “Tell me about the house staff.”
“What about them?” Sanders asked.
“I need to know their story.”
“I just spent two hours with them, Jack,” Justine said, then looked at Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Anita Fontana, thirty-four, the head housekeeper, had been with the Harlows for twelve years, ever since the actors bought the ranch. She appeared the most upset, kept looking at a picture of the family she had by her bed and weeping. She said she loved the Harlows, especially Miguel. The Harlows were demanding but fair, generous at times, surprisingly cheap at others, and somewhat aloof from their children.
“Aloof!” Camilla Bronson cried. “That goes nowhere. Do you understand?”
“How couldn’t they be aloof at some level?” Justine shot back. “Busy careers and philanthropic work chew up vast amounts of time.”
“Jen and Thom are excellent parents,” the publicist retorted. “Anyone who says otherwise is either a fool or a liar.”
“Then all three of them must be fools or liars,” Justine replied.
The cook—Maria Toro—agreed in large part with the housekeeper’s take on their bosses. She’d been with the Harlows eight years; said Jennifer was always trying to keep Thom on a vegan diet, but that he loved meat. Jacinta Feliz, the maid, had been at the ranch two years before the furlough they’d been given during the Harlows’ sojourn in Vietnam.
“She said Malia suffered nightmares and was a lonely girl,” Justine said.
“That’s not—” Camilla Bronson began.
Terry Graves cut her off, said, “Listen to the woman and quit trying to spin things.”
The publicist was indignant. “I’m not spinning—”
“Yes, you are, Camilla, and it’s not helping,” Sanders said. “Go ahead, Ms. Smith.”
“The boy wets the bed regularly,” Justine went on. “Jin has several imaginary friends and believes her stuffed animals come to life at night.”
I said, “What about the Harlows? When was the last time they were in contact?”
Justine replied that Anita said she’d been in touch with the Harlows several times in the last month, trying to coordinate their arrival with the house staff’s. The original plan called for the three women to return to the ranch two days before the Harlows, but then, Anita said, she’d gotten a call from Cynthia Maines. A change of plans. The women were to return three days after the Harlows’ return.
“First I’ve heard of that,” Sanders said.
Camilla Bronson threw up her hands. “Which means what?” Justine said, “Changing the arrival date makes it possible for the Harlows to disappear. That way the caretaker is the only other person to deal with, which makes me think that Cynthia Maines is of interest to us, perhaps our insider.”
“My God,” Terry Graves protested. “I can’t believe that.”
Sanders shook his head. “Cynthia was devoted to the Harlows.”
The publicist, for once, said nothing.
I said, “I think there’s sufficient cause to bring in the FBI.”
That soured the Harlow team.
“Do you know the shitstorm you’ll cause?” Camilla Bronson demanded.
“For me? Or for you?”
Her jaw clamped shut, but she was staring bullets at me.
“I agree with Camilla,” Terry Graves said.
“I do too,” Sanders said. “At this moment, there’s insufficient evidence to bring in the FBI.”
“Dave, you called us in,” I began. “I think the missing two hours and the dog’s reaction are enough.”
“I don’t, and you work for us, and for the Harlows, Jack,” the attorney said firmly. “I, we, want Private to find them.”
“Yes,” Camilla Bronson said, more sure of herself. “We don’t want this getting out unless it absolutely has to.”
“Anything you need to do, you do, Jack,” said Terry Graves. “Just keep this quiet for a few days to see if they show up or we get a ransom note. In the meantime, you keep your people working.”
“What’s this about?” I asked. “Money?”
“Damn right,” the producer retorted. “We have a lot riding on Saigon Falls. All of us have sacrificed for this project, and word of the Harlows’ disappearance could cause the entire project to collapse, taking tens of millions of dollars and our futures with it.”
Sanders and Camilla Bronson nodded.
I glanced at Justine, whose expression was hard. I could feel it too. These three had some other angle on this that we weren’t seeing. But they were paying, and I had to agree that other than the traumatized bulldog there was no sign of violent struggle anywhere inside the compound. Except for the power and security system issues, they could have just walked away. Hell, for all we knew, maybe Thom and Jennifer had screwed with the security system, wanting to disappear for one reason or another. Thom liked keeping secrets. It would not be entirely out of the question.
“I’ll give you two days,” I said.
“Three,” Sanders said.
Camilla Bronson said, “Where are Anita, the others?”
“In their quarters,” Justine said.
“I’m getting them out of here,” she said, turning. “They’re coming with me to L.A. I don’t want any of them talking to anyone.”
My cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID: LAPD Chief Mickey Fescoe.
I squinted, trying to think of what my fair-weather friend might want this time. I flashed for a second on my brother, Tommy, who was being investigated in the murder of Clay Harris, a surveillance expert who once worked for me. I’d been in the next room when the shooting went down, heard the shots but saw nothing. My brother told me it was self-defense. I’d left him at the crime scene to deal with his own mess. Had Tommy implicated me? It was all I could think of, unless Fescoe had gotten wind of the Harlows’ disappearance?
I turned away from the others, walked off the veranda out onto the lawn beneath the live oaks.
“Mickey,” I said, trying to sound even, nonchalant.
“Jack, how soon can you and Del Rio be in the mayor’s office?”
“What’s going on?”
“How long, Jack?”
I looked over at the helicopter parked on the Harlows’ front lawn. “Give me clearance to use the helipad?”
“Done.”
“Forty minutes, tops,” I said.
“We’ll be waiting,” Fescoe said.
“No clue, Mickey?”
“Turn on the radio, Jack. Turn on the TV. It’s on every goddamned station in L.A., and they don’t know the half of it.”