Chapter 94
THE HARLOW-QUINN TEAM sat there, looking at us in stunned silence. It was the kind of moment where someone might lose it and go for a weapon. My right hand moved slowly to my pistol.
But instead of running amok, Sanders gave a shudder and his shoulders trembled. His eyes watered. His face twisted in open despair as he choked, “I tried to rein them in.”
Camilla Bronson panicked. “Shut up, Dave.”
“Fuck you, Camilla,” said Terry Graves, then looked at me, trying to project earnestness. “Dave and I both tried to keep Thom from chasing every grandiose dream that came into his unbe-fucking-lievably creative genius brain.” He threw up his hands to an invisible audience. “I couldn’t stand up to Thom when it came to spending.”
“You two are making a monstrous mistake,” the publicist warned.
The attorney ignored her. “And I couldn’t stop Jennifer from spending like a freak in their personal life, a fucking OCD spending freak!”
Terry Graves said, “Thom would come in, all explosive energy, manic with it, and he’d make you see his visions. And then later, in the theater, he’d show you far beyond what he’d caused you to imagine in the first place, right up there thirty feet high on the screen, like he was some kind of supermagician, or god.
“The way he looked at life and his stories, they made you want to laugh, to cheer, and to cry, didn’t they? Thom could make you endure deep tragedy and know the far reaches of love and humanity.” He shook his head, now gazing at Justine in bewilderment. “How do you deal with someone who can do all that?”
I reappraised him but said nothing, leaving Justine to ask, “What really happened to Thom and Jennifer Harlow?”
“We don’t know,” Camilla Bronson said, tears forming in her eyes. “We honestly don’t. And all I can think is that it’s a tragedy that the world might never see Saigon Falls, never see their final incredible vision.”
“Save that crap for a retrospective in Entertainment Weekly,” I said. “Tell us about Adelita Gomez.”
“Adelita?” Sanders said.
Terry Graves blinked. “What about her?”
“She’s from Guadalajara,” Justine replied. “Which is where a blogger was murdered recently after posting that Jennifer and Thom had been seen in that city after their disappearance, highly intoxicated, or on drugs.”
“I saw that,” the publicist said as if she’d chewed something bitter. “National Enquirer nonsense.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Again, tell us about Adelita.”
“She was the nanny,” the attorney said. “She went to Vietnam with them, which is where I met her briefly twice during my trips over there.”
Terry Graves was studying his hands. “They loved her. Thom and Jennifer gave her a small role in the film.”
“Why?” Camilla Bronson said. “Where is Adelita? What is she saying?”
“We have no idea where she is or what she’s saying,” I replied. “Cynthia Maines told us Adelita left Saigon two days before the Harlows, bound for Mexico on a vacation.”
“There you are, then,” Sanders said.
“Don’t you think it’s strange she hasn’t contacted someone about the Harlows? It’s international news.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, and I believed him.
“Then tell us about the cameras in the panic room above the Harlows’ bedroom,” Justine said.
All three of them squinted at her. “What?” Terry Graves asked.
She told them what she’d found. They listened, openly confused.
“You didn’t know they had a panic room?” I asked when she finished.
“I had only a vague idea they did,” Sanders said.
The producer said, “I’ve never seen it, but Thom said it was installed when Sandy Shine owned the place. Maybe Sandy put those brackets there. He was a professional degenerate, you know.”
Sandy Shine was a hyper, mercurial actor who’d been nominated for an Oscar at sixteen, only to turn wild in his twenties: drugs, alcohol, and a long series of scandals, rehabs, and tawdry affairs that somehow transformed him into a comedic superstar with his own top-rated television show.
“We’ll check it out,” I said, stood, and motioned to Justine that we were leaving.
“What are you going to do with all this information?” Camilla Bronson asked.
“We haven’t decided yet,” I replied.
The attorney rubbed his hands together and said in a beseeching tone, “What can we do? How can we help you?”
Terry Graves picked up on his angle, said, “That’s right. What can we change so this isn’t made public?”
I thought about that. Justine beat me to it. “How about you start by firing the cook and maid you hired and bringing in the Harlows’ help in their place? The children love them. It will help stabilize them. It’s what I would tell a court.”
“Of course,” Sanders babbled as if he were suddenly our fawning servant. The trio followed us out of the man cave back down the hall toward the screening room. “I should have thought of that before.”
“We should have thought about that,” echoed Terry Graves.
“But none of us ever had children, you know?” said Camilla Bronson.
Why didn’t that surprise me?
In any case, I tuned out their blather, turned the corner, glanced into the screening room, and saw the Harlow children and the Harlow help. Miguel sat in Anita’s lap. The others were on the floor, giving the bulldog a belly rub.
Justine gasped beside me. I startled, looked at her. She was staring into the screening room, watching them, her lips parted in wonder.
“What?” I asked.
Justine tore her attention away, looked at me, deeply puzzled, but then shook her head and said, “Nothing. I just thought I saw something I hadn’t … but it’s nothing, I’m sure.”