Chapter 52
“IT IS THEM!” cried Bobbie Newton. “Wheelchairs? Wheelchairs! What’s happened to them? Where are Thom and Jennifer?”
“Downstairs!” Camilla Bronson cried, moving into the gossip reporter’s way. “Thom’s buying her a huge diamond at Cartier. The kids are just playing a game, that’s all.”
Bobbie Newton was having none of it. “I’ve got Cartier’s wired. They alert me when anyone of that stature comes in. Where are they? What’s happened to those kids? Tim, you getting this?”
Seeing the cameraman aiming tight on the children, Justine stepped up beside the publicist. “They’re minors. They have the right to privacy.”
“They’re Thom and Jen Harlow’s kids,” the reporter shot back. “Which means they are de facto celebrities, whoever you are. I have every right to … what’s wrong with them? Where are the Harlows?”
In a soothing tone, Camilla Bronson said, “Bobbie, we’ll have a statement later in the—”
“They’re missing,” Cynthia Maines called out loudly. “Someone kidnapped the entire family and only just released the children.”
Bobbie Newton’s trembling free hand shot to her mouth, unable to disguise her blossoming joy. “Oh, my God!” she said in a drawl that ended in a squeal. “Is that true? It’s the story of the year! It’s the story of the century!”
“Bobbie!” Camilla Bronson said. “Bobbie, calm down. It’s nothing—”
But the gossip reporter spun around gleefully, microphone in hand, ignoring the publicist. “Three, two, one,” she snapped at the second cameraman. The other focused on the Harlow children, who were still dazed, unsure where they were.
Part of me wanted to lunge for the cameras and hurl them over the railing, but a crowd was gathering, and I have always hated seeing other people grabbing cameras and destroying them. It smacks of thugs and book burning, and I despise both. So like everyone else, I had to just stand there and listen to her. “This is Bobbie Newton, your best friend forever,” she brayed. “I’m at the scene of a shocking, shocking story that’s about to rock Hollywood to its core. Jennifer and Thom Harlow, the most powerful couple in all of film land, have been kidnapped. You heard it here first. And in a dramatic update, their children have only just been released, drugged out of their loving little minds, and they’re right behind me. Look, just look at the poor darlings!”
“You’re fired,” Camilla Bronson snarled out of the corner of her mouth at Maines.
“You can’t fire me,” the Harlows’ personal assistant shot back. “I work for Thom and Jen.”
“But I can,” Sanders said.
“I don’t work for you either,” Maines said, her voice rising. “And this cover-up you’ve been engaged in for whatever reason is frankly shocking and hardly in the Harlows’ best interest.”
The publicist’s eyes went wide. She grabbed Maines by the arm, spun her away from the cameras. “You tipped her!” she hissed, while Bobbie blathered on, getting only half of her facts correct, a record high for her.
“I did not tip anyone,” Maines retorted hotly. “But I was about to notify the FBI because I simply could not wait any longer for Mr. Morgan here to step up and do the right thing.”
“Ouch,” I said. “In my defense, I spent last night chasing a mass murderer and praying until dawn while my best friend underwent spinal surgery after he was injured in the pier bombing.”
Maines blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jack, I—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sanders said, still furious. He glared at me. “Help us get them out of here, now, Jack. I won’t have them treated like freaks. They need to be seen by qualified medical personnel, and—”
“Who died and made you their guardian?” Maines challenged.
Sanders turned cold. “No one has died, to my knowledge, Cynthia,” he snarled. “But Thom and Jennifer have stipulated in writing that in the event of death or incapacitation I will serve as the children’s trustee and guardian. I believe kidnapping fits the definition of incapacitation in anyone’s dictionary.”
He and Camilla Bronson moved toward the children.
Justine said, “I’ll help you.”
Cruz, Mo-bot, and Sci followed.
Maines said, “I’m coming with you.”
Sanders whirled around. “No, Cynthia, you most definitely are not. As I remember, you are paid by Harlow-Quinn, which means Terry Graves can and will fire you. Expect a call momentarily.”
Coats were draped over the children’s heads. Justine, Mo-bot, and Sci wheeled the three children past the cameras while Bobbie Newton prattled inanely that they looked “zombified.” Sanders got behind them. So did Camilla Bronson.
When Bobbie Newton tried to join the entourage, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out a pocketknife, slid behind her cameramen, and cut the cables that connected the cameras to their battery packs.
“Dead,” one said.
“Me too,” the other said.
I was already moving around them onto the escalator.
“What!” Bobbie cried as I disappeared below her. “No, I …”
She must have seen the cut cables because she appeared over the railing, looking like a nut job when she said, “Of course it was you: Murdering Jack Morgan. What’s your involvement in this, Jack? That’s what I want to know. What’s Murdering Jack Morgan’s involvement?”
I winked at her, pulled out my cell phone, and called the FBI.