Chapter 60
AT FIVE MINUTES to eight that morning, Terry Graves entered his office in the Harlow-Quinn Productions bungalow on the Warner lot. He carried a grande Starbucks and was reading that morning’s Hollywood Reporter. Dave Sanders was trailing him, chewing on a bagel, engrossed in the Los Angeles Times.
The office was surprisingly small and the furniture surprisingly understated given the success of the company. Except for the various framed movie posters, you would not have pegged the room as belonging to a Hollywood power player.
The producer was almost around the back of his desk before he noticed me sitting in his chair, looking at him. I was finishing an egg-and-bacon sandwich, one eye on the television, which showed a clip from Bobbie Newton’s footage of the Harlow children.
“What the hell are you doing in here, Jack?” Graves demanded.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Sanders said.
“I’m resourceful, remember?” I said. “That’s why you hired me.”
“What’s this all about?” Graves said, indignant now.
“Bobbie Newton’s footage of the Harlow kids?” I said. “I just heard it’s the number one clip on YouTube, something like seven million hits since yesterday. And it’s the number one most-linked-to site on Facebook. There isn’t a news channel or newspaper in the world that isn’t carrying the story.”
“Does that surprise you?” Sanders demanded.
“The question is: Does it surprise you?”
“What?” The producer scowled. “Of course it doesn’t surprise us.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The attorney caught the edge in my voice. “What’s that mean?”
“Bobbie Newton told me that Terry here is the one who tipped her about the kids. I suspect you were in on it too, Dave. And maybe even Camilla.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Terry Graves snapped.
“The coverage. The uproar. The publicity value of the Harlows disappearing, especially when they’re making the movie of a lifetime. Makes me wonder what’s really going on here.”
The producer’s eyes flared. “I have no, zero, nada interest in this kind of publicity. And what Bobbie told you? That’s an out-and-out lie from a lunatic lush who will say anything to further her own ego-glorifying ends.”
I had to admit, Terry Graves knew the Bobbie Newton I knew.
Sanders became livid. “And for thinking that we had anything to do with any of this, you’re fired, Morgan. Vacate the premises. Invoice me for your time.”
I watched him, saying nothing.
“Get … out … of … my … chair,” Terry Graves said.
“I don’t think that’s in your best interests, gentlemen,” I said, not moving.
“Our best …?” the producer shouted. “Should I call security?”
“I dunno, will that be how you handle the FBI?”
“What are you talking about?” Sanders demanded.
“You don’t think they’re coming here eventually, Dave?” I asked. “For an attorney, you have no sense of how criminal investigations go forward. They’ll be wanting to review the books, look at every file that Terry and you and Camilla Bronson have concerning the Harlows.”
Sanders stiffened. “My files are protected under attorney-client privilege.”
“And mine are protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution,” Terry Graves said.
I shook my head. “I don’t think any of that will fly in a case this high-profile. You will not be able to control this story, gentlemen, no matter what you do. It’s taken on a life of its own. Stand in its way? Get ready to be trampled.”
Sanders thought about that. His tone turned more businesslike. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I replied. “I’m telling you that if you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll allow me and my investigators access to all your files. We’ll look for anything amiss and notify you. That way you’ll have a heads-up before the FBI hands it to you with your head down.”
“You don’t think I know what’s in my files?” Terry Graves asked. “I do. And I’ll tell you, Morgan, I’m more than comfortable with what’s in there.”
“How about you, Dave?” I asked.
The entertainment attorney grimaced. “I’m fine too. And we’re not interested in your proposition. I stand by my decision. You and Private are fired. We don’t need your advice or services anymore.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, standing up finally and reaching out to shake Terry Graves’s hand.
The producer looked at my hand with extreme distaste, did not take it. Neither did Sanders. I exited as gracefully as I could, thinking that the Harlow-Quinn team really did need my advice, and really did need Private’s services. Take their security system, for example, especially the computer security system.
Like most people, Terry Graves was lazy when it came to things like passwords. I’d found his written down on a sticky note under a divider in the top drawer of his desk.
Leaving the bungalow and heading toward the gate and my car, parked just outside the Warner grounds, I kept my hands in my pants pockets and gripped the flash drives I’d used to copy everything I could find in the producer’s computer regarding the Harlows and Saigon Falls.