by Marcia Clark
Bailey took the lead. “I’m Detective Keller and this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
Mom waved us toward the chairs with an irritable “You’re welcome.”
“And your name is?” I asked the mother.
“Patricia Caren. Russell said this was important, so I made time for you. But Brittany has an early call, so let’s make this brief.”
I bit back the answer that would’ve gotten us thrown out and turned to Brittany. “Do you know that Hayley Antonovich is missing?”
Brittany leaned forward and knitted her brow. Her frown showed concern, but there was a vagueness to her expression that made her look as though she were trying to see me through a cloud of smoke. “I—no. I didn’t.” She turned to look at her mother.
Mom broke in. “I did tell you, sweetie. You probably don’t remember.” She turned to us. “She works very hard. She has a lot of lines in her next scenes, so sometimes it’s hard for her to tune in.”
The words were protective, but the tone was condescending and controlling. We hadn’t been here ninety seconds and already I was restraining the urge to smack Mother Caren. I turned back to Brittany, who practically swayed in her seat. It was pretty obvious that Brittany’s condition had nothing to do with hard work.
“What…what happened to Hayley?” she asked.
“She’s missing, Brittany. We’re trying to find her.”
“Oh, no…Hayley…that’s horrible.” Brittany teared up and bit her lip. “I love her. What happened? What can I do?”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” I asked.
“Uh…no…I don’t remember exactly. Maybe a few months ago?”
Not according to the cell phone record. “Could it have been a few weeks ago?”
Brittany squinted with the effort to remember, but then her gaze drifted off. She was silent for so long, I thought she might not have heard the question, but at the last minute she rallied.
“Um…it could be.” She gave me a wobbly smile. I smiled back, hoping to encourage her.
“Do you remember what you guys talked about?”
“Now, how would she remember that?” Mrs. Caren interrupted. “She’s got way too much on her plate to remember whatever they might’ve gossiped about.”
On second thought, a smack wouldn’t be satisfying enough. I needed the satisfaction of a good solid punch to the midsection. “Why don’t we let Brittany tell us?” I turned back to the daughter. “Brittany?”
Brittany glanced at her mother, then looked over my shoulder at the piano. “N-no. I’m sorry.”
For Brittany, a train of thought was only loosely joined to begin with, so the uncoupling didn’t take much. I tried to come at it from another direction. “Did you and Hayley get together in the past month or so?”
Brittany tilted her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. “We might have…I seem to remember seeing her at some point. I just can’t say exactly when.”
“Do you know where you saw her? Maybe she came here?”
This time her answer was immediate. “No.”
It was the quickest, most definitive answer we’d had yet. I had a feeling I knew why. “Where else might you have seen her?”
Brittany opened her mouth, then gave a sidelong glance at her mother. I took the hint.
“Patricia, you really don’t need to stay,” I said as diplomatically as I could. “Besides, you both could wind up testifying, and if that happens, you being here now could pose a problem for me in court.”
My standard—and true—advisory to all witnesses. Defense attorneys loved to thrash witnesses for having heard each other’s version of events because they could claim the witnesses had altered each other’s memories. Of course, that really wasn’t a concern here. We weren’t talking about eyewitness descriptions of a robbery suspect. But I didn’t have to tell Patricia that. The truth was that Brittany would be a lot more forthcoming if we were alone.
“Testifying?” Patricia’s eyes widened. “To what? It’s perfectly obvious Brittany doesn’t have any information that could be of use to you.” Her eyebrows dipped into what would’ve been a frown if her face hadn’t been frozen by megadoses of Botox.
She looked angry enough to throw us out. I didn’t want her to end the interview, so I reassured her. “I’m not saying I intend to put either one of you on the stand—we don’t even have a case yet. But I always have to prepare for the possibility. And interviewing witnesses separately is standard practice.”
Mother Caren cooled off a few degrees, but not enough to capitulate. “I’m sorry to hear that, but Brittany doesn’t do interviews alone.” She turned to Brittany and patted her hand. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Ms. Caren, this is a criminal investigation, not a movie promo for Allure magazine. It is inappropriate to have you here while we talk to Brittany,” I said, keeping my voice as low and level as I could.
Patricia Caren narrowed her eyes at me. “You can either talk to her with me here or not at all. Your choice.”
Mommy Dearest ruled this roost with an iron hand. That’s why Brittany had been so certain she hadn’t seen Hayley at the house. She probably never brought anyone here if she could help it. It didn’t matter that she was legally an adult, or that she had paid for everything and everyone in this house. Brittany was mommy’s prize pony and mommy was going to keep her in the race. I’d have to capitulate for now. I sat back and Bailey took over.
“Do you happen to know whether Russell had any enemies?” Bailey asked. “Anyone who held a grudge against him?”
We knew that Brian was our kidnapper, but we didn’t know whether he was in league with someone else. Since Warden Patricia wouldn’t leave, and she—like Brittany—had known Russell for a long time, Bailey had wisely decided to use the opportunity to grill her too.
Patricia gave a bark of a laugh. “Anyone who held a grudge? There’re probably thousands. Every actor—”
I’d heard this litany enough to repeat it in my sleep. I shook my head. “We’re talking about something out of the norm. Very few actors or producers are going to do something as crazy as kidnap his daughter just because he didn’t hire them or buy their script.”
Patricia gave me an incredulous look. “You don’t know much about this town, do you?”
I knew enough to say I was sick of hearing about “this town.” And all the people in it. Besides, I’d lived here long enough to know that although there were vampires in the industry, there were a heck of a lot of smart, talented people who were just decent, hardworking folks.
At that moment the bouncer came in and announced that the script had been delivered. Should he sign for it?
Looking annoyed, Patricia sighed and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
Brittany had been leaning on the arm of the sofa, staring off, but I noticed that when she’d heard the bouncer mention a script, her brow had furrowed.
“You okay, Brittany?” I asked. A thought of some kind? Was it possible?
Brittany nodded. “Yeah. You got me thinking about Hayley…and the script…it reminded me. Back before Russell was a big director, when he was a co-producer on my show. It was when he’d just sold his first film script, Wonderland Warriors—you’ve heard of it, right?”
“Maybe,” I said. The name was somewhat familiar.
“It was huge. Wonderland Warriors was what made Russell. Tommy said Russell stole that script from him.”
“Tommy? Who’s that?” Bailey asked.
“He was a writer on Circle of Friends.” Brittany peered at us hazily. “You’ve heard of Circle, right?”
We both nodded. “Of course,” I said, eager to get her to refocus on this Tommy guy. “So Tommy said Russell stole the script for Wonderland Warriors?”
Brittany nodded. “Yeah. Tommy always wrote by hand on a legal pad. He was kinda strange. But I always thought he was a pretty good writer.” She started to drift off again,
so I quickly reeled her back in.
“What happened when Tommy accused Russell of stealing his script?”
“It got really gnarly. Tommy—”
“Do you remember his last name?”
She squinted for a second. “Maher. Tommy Maher.”
“What did he do?”
“They got in a big fight. Tommy got moved to the other end of the lot—”
The rapid click-clack of heels on marble told me Patricia was on her way back. Brittany’s expression told me she’d noticed that too.
“Did Tommy file a lawsuit against Russell?” The theft of a script was no little thing—especially if the script had been the star maker Brittany said it was.
“No. I don’t think—”
Patricia had the ears of an owl. As she entered the living room she said, “Don’t think what?”
“Nothing,” Brittany said. Her face had closed. We’d reached the end of this line.
I tried another tack. “Did Hayley ever talk to you about a boy named Brian?”
At this, Brittany looked puzzled. “Brian? No, I-I don’t think so.”
Patricia walked over but remained standing. “I never heard her mention the name either.” She reached down and took Brittany by the hand. “Now if you don’t mind, Brittany’s got an early call—”
I stood and pulled out a card. “Brittany, thank you. I know you and Hayley were very close at one time. If you remember anything else, will you get in touch?”
Brittany nodded. “Of course. I want to help any way I can.” She took the card and held it in front of her as though she didn’t know what to do with it. Bailey added her card to mine and gave one to Patricia too. I knew Bailey did it just to tweak her. I also knew both cards would land in the trash before we made it to the car.
“Thank you both for your time,” Bailey said.
Time flies when you’re trying to pry information out of a zombie and end-run the zombie’s keeper. It was six thirty by the time Bailey and I left the Carens’. Too late to knock on any more doors.
“Feel like a drink?” I asked.
“I feel like day-old bacon. I’d like a drink. Maybe several.”
“Brittany looked like she had several before we got there,” I said. “If I had a mother like that, I would’ve been dipping my pacifier in vodka.”
“She’s a classic Momager—”
“And a classic something else.” I thought back on Brittany’s vague expressions and floaty demeanor. “But I think it’s more than booze. That girl’s a pill head too.”
Bailey nodded. “So I guess the stories are true.”
“Sadly, some of them are.”
Bailey headed for the 101 freeway south, taking us back downtown.
12
We decided to have dinner at the Biltmore bar—or rather, Bailey decided we’d have dinner at the bar. She said it was because it would be faster, less hassle.
“Admit it,” I said. “You just wanted to come here so you and Drew could coo and slobber all over each other.”
“You really want to say that in front of the person who makes your martinis?” asked Drew, who’d walked over to where we were seated.
“Ignore her, she’s in a cranky mood,” Bailey said. “We’ll have the usual. How was your day?”
“Same-o. But it looks like the loan’s coming through. Just waiting for the broker to okay the deal on the space,” Drew said.
Drew was on the brink of realizing his dream of opening his own upscale bar. Though his place would be within walking distance, nothing beat the convenience of living an elevator ride away. Yet another perk I enjoyed as a permanent resident of the Biltmore.
“How’re you doing? Any leads?” he asked Bailey.
Bailey ran a hand through her short blonde hair and sighed. “Nothing that blows my skirt up at the moment.”
Drew gave her a lascivious look.
I pointed to Drew and Bailey. “No. You may not do that in front of me—” Drew went off to fix our drinks when my cell phone buzzed. It was Graden. The sound of his voice immediately brought a smile to my face. I turned away to take the call. We exchanged brief updates on our day—something I’d sorely missed during our breakup.
“I know you’ll be running hard on this case, but if you catch a quiet pocket, want to do dinner sometime this week?” he asked.
“Love to. If my elopement hunch plays out, this could wrap up pretty fast. Want to play it by ear for this weekend?”
“Sounds perfect. And you’ll let me know if you need anything in the meantime?”
The cool thing was, he didn’t just mean he’d pick up my dry cleaning; he meant knocking around investigative leads and ideas. It was one of the nice perks of dating a smart cop. But it also had a downside. Graden had an obsessive need to know everything about everyone. Bailey and Toni said it was what made him such a great cop, and there was no doubt they were right. But that particular trait was about as incompatible with my privacy issues as you could get. Graden swore he could rein himself in for my sake. Only time would tell. But right now, things were good and getting better by the day. When I ended the call and turned back around, I saw that Drew had delivered our drinks and was about to put our steaks down. Both he and Bailey were looking at me with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I asked.
“Good phone call from the boyfriend, I see,” Drew said.
“I seem to remember someone saying something about cooing,” Bailey said.
I had to laugh.
“Seriously though, you guys are doing pretty well, right?” Bailey asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I think you should consider letting Graden check out those reports Lilah mentioned in her last text.”
Lilah Bayer, née Rossmoyne, was a sociopath responsible for three murders that I knew of, not to mention the near demise of myself and Bailey. We’d set a trap for her majordomo, Chase Erling, that nearly cost us our lives. But the trap had worked. We got Erling. Unfortunately, we didn’t get Lilah. She’d managed to hop a private plane to parts unknown. But on her way out of town, she texted me, claiming to have found two reports filed one month and six months after Romy’s abduction, reports that might prove my sister was still alive. The text was an implicit threat and message: if I backed off and didn’t pursue her, she’d get me more on Romy’s whereabouts—if I didn’t…you can fill in the blank with just about anything, including a biochemical attack, because for Lilah there was no such thing as overkill.
Bailey, taking my hesitation as resistance to the idea of drafting Graden to help with Lilah’s leads on Romy, added, “Graden has the resources, and the time—which you don’t. And take it from me, he doesn’t get out in the field as much as he likes.” She gave me a long-suffering look. “It’s driving some—who shall remain nameless—crazy.”
Bailey knew that since the DA investigators had their hands full chasing down leads on Lilah herself, I’d been doing the legwork to track down the alleged reports on Romy. So far, I’d come up empty. I’d thought more than once about asking for Graden’s help, but after our fight, I hadn’t been sure how he’d react. Hearing Bailey suggest it now, though, I couldn’t imagine him being anything but happy to help. “I think it’s a great idea, actually.”
“Oh.” Bailey looked surprised. Whether it was because I’d responded rationally, or given her props, I’d never know.
“Yeah, I’ll ask him about it tomorrow.”
“Speaking of tomorrow,” Bailey said. We talked about our plans for the next day as we ate. Tired from too many hours chasing down too few leads, Bailey and I were both ready to collapse by the time we finished dinner.
“You should probably crash with me,” I said. “It’s too late and you’re too wiped to drive home.”
Bailey yawned. “I am thrashed. Okay. And I’m never saying no to room service for breakfast.” Drew was at the other end of the bar filling a drink order for a waiter, so Bailey blew him a kiss and we headed for the elevator.
A permanent room at the Biltmore didn’t come cheap, and it would’ve been way out of my league but for a sweetheart deal I fell into by happenstance. A few years ago, I’d prosecuted the man who’d murdered the Biltmore CEO’s wife in the underground parking lot of the hotel. During the trial, the CEO had given me a room so I could stay near the courthouse. After I got the conviction that put the killer away for life without parole, the CEO offered to let me stay on as a permanent resident for a deal no sane person could refuse. And so I’d moved into the Biltmore for good. Last year, he’d upgraded me to a suite with two bedrooms because it got so little use. That meant it was easy to accommodate overnight guests, like Toni and Bailey. It hadn’t yet meant Graden.
We headed for our respective bedrooms, and Bailey warned me we’d be starting the day bright and early. The downside of Bailey as an overnight guest was that when she said “early,” she meant the crack of dawn. She’d yanked me out of bed in the past, and let me tell you, it’s bracing. I set my alarm for six thirty to make sure I didn’t give her the chance to do it again.
I woke up before my alarm, which tells you how much I didn’t want to relive the Bailey Shake. I put on my robe and walked onto the balcony to sample the weather. The sky was an unmarred powder blue and there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. An early harbinger of yet another cooker of a day. Damn. I’d planned to wear a dress, but that’s such a pain when I’m running around in the world, as I knew I would be today. I pulled out the lightest pair of cotton slacks I could find, a sleeveless buttoned blouse, and a light cardigan to combat the blast of air-conditioning I’d be in and out of all day.
When I came out to the living room, Bailey, who’d left some clothes behind when she’d had an extended stay at my place during our last case, was already dressed and digging heartily into her breakfast. It was a tantalizing stack of pancakes with a side of bacon. Bailey is tall and lean and one of those obnoxious people who can eat anything and not gain weight; and she loves to rub my nose in it every chance she gets. Toni and I have plotted her demise on many an occasion. I noticed that Bailey was dressed in similar attire to mine, except she wore a jacket to hide her shoulder holster. Personally, I preferred to carry my gun in my purse. It accommodated everything from my little .22 Beretta to my .44 Glock.