Chapter 27
TWENTY MINUTES LATER I was looking at copies of Cynthia Maines’s financials courtesy of Sci.
“Maines receives a base salary of four hundred K a year,” Kloppenberg said. “But she is underwater on six different investments she made before the crash, three of them in Vegas real estate. Her cash flow is strong, but she’s got no savings to speak of. I’d describe her lifestyle as self-indulgent and her investment philosophy as incoherent. Other than a total lack of use of credit or debit cards over the last four days, Maines has a long and wide history of extravagant purchases. Luxury goods. Robb Report baubles.”
“No bangles?” I asked.
“Plenty of those too,” Sci said. “Tiffany’s most recently.”
“What else?” I asked.
“I think she was lying about the Harlows’ sex life,” Mo-bot said.
“Either that or she’s a prude,” I said.
“But what are the chances of that in Hollywood?” Mo-bot asked. “And there was another thing she was being evasive about.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Guadalajara,” Mo-bot said. “I got the impression that she was conflicted, less than forthright.”
I thought back and felt she was right. “Good thing Justine and Cruz are on their way there right now.”
Sci frowned. “They took the jet?”
“Yeah, so?” I asked.
“I never get to take the jet,” Kloppenberg said, openly pouting.
“Report it to a human rights commission,” I said. “And I want this same sort of report drawn up on Sanders, Bronson, and Graves.”
“Give us a couple of hours,” Mo-bot said.
My cell phone rang. Mickey Fescoe.
“Chief?” I said.
“Get down to the Huntington Pier ASAP,” Fescoe said. “I want you and Del Rio to see what we’re up against.”