Private L.A. (17 page)

“What? You … you lying son of a—”

I ended the call, feeling like balance had been restored in the universe. You can only take so much grief from one person before you give it back.

I looked at Del Rio, hoping to … He was sleeping.

There was a recliner in the room. I sat in it, shut off my cell, kicked back, shut my eyes, and drifted off to a place where there were no mass killers, no celebrities, and no conniving attorneys, not like my hometown at all.

JUSTINE SUFFERED THAT
night.

In her nightmares, she kept hearing the muffled sounds of someone crying, kept seeing the chewed lips of Leona Casa Madre, and kept reliving the knife fight with Carla. Twice she woke up shaking and in a cold sweat, unsure where she was. Twice she wondered about the brutal vividness of the nightmares, worse than the actual experience. Was she infected? Running a fever? Hallucinating?

She woke for a third time a few minutes before five, feeling Carla’s fingers around her throat, seeing the woman’s insane eyes and the shiv sticking out of her back. Justine lay there panting, trying to figure out why the nightmares would not quit.

And then she thought she knew. She recalled hearing about this kind of relentless cyclic dream from soldiers returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Jack had had this very same sort of dream. The dreams were what had driven him to seek her out in the first place.

“I think I’m suffering from PTSD,” she said, as she sat up and turned on the light.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, rampant among vets, seen in cops and firefighters. And now her? Was that what was going on?

Justine pulled her legs up tight to her chest, realizing that the attack in the jail cell was the closest she’d ever come to dying, the closest she’d ever come to deadly violence. Once again she felt invaded, like a part of her, some basic innocence, had been ripped from her, leaving no visible wound other than the ones on her arm and upper chest.

The clinician in Justine clicked through the symptoms of PTSD that might affect her: recurring nightmares, hyper-vigilance, inability to sleep, inability to feel certain emotions, heavy drinking, heavy medicating, acting out sexually.

Her head ached. She was still tired but did not want to sleep again.

She got out of bed, got dressed for Crossfit, thought it would be good to go sweat the horrors away. She found a coffee shack open at five thirty, got a double-shot latte, and prayed that the workout of the day didn’t include running. She arrived at ten to six and parked across the street from the box, which, to her surprise, was already lit up. Usually Ronny, the trainer at the early class, arrived at the very last second. She went inside, finding Ronny talking excitedly on his cell. He hung up, looking shaken.

“You okay?” Justine asked.

“No,” the trainer said, puffing his lips. “My sister, she just went into labor, and her boyfriend left her. I said I’d be there for her.”

“Well, go on, then,” she said.

“I’ll have to cancel class,” he said.

“Go,” she said. “Give me the key. I’ll wait until ten past, tell whoever shows, lock the place up, and put the key back through the mail slot.”

Ronny hesitated but then ripped the key from a chain and took off. Justine looked around, thinking,
Life goes on, doesn’t it? Bud Rankin dies. A baby is born
.

JUSTINE KNEW SHE
probably shouldn’t use the equipment without a trainer present, but she’d been there long enough to feel she could at least do something, say, ten rounds of five pull-ups, ten push-ups, and fifteen sit-ups?

She was into round six, hanging off the bars, when she heard the front door open. It was that guy, Paul. His curly brown hair hung above his soft, nice eyes, which found her immediately.

“We the only ones?” he asked, coming in, looking up at the clock. It was five past six.

“No class this morning,” Justine said, and explained about Ronny.

“Oh,” Paul said. “What happened?” He was pointing at the bandages on her forearm. The one on her chest was hidden beneath her shirt.

Justine looked at her arm, hesitated, then said, “Fell Rollerblading.”

“I broke my wrist once doing that,” he said. “Are you working out?”

She told him she was.

“Mind if I join in?” he asked.

Justine once more noticed how appealing he was.

“Sure,” she said. “Just no weights or rowers. Liability issues, I think.”

Paul grinned. He warmed up and stretched while Justine finished her last four rounds, which left her sweating and heaving for air. When she got to her feet, Paul was crossing toward her, carrying a heavy green rubber band about three feet long.

“Can you show me how this kipping thing works?” he asked. “Ronny said I should use the bands to learn it.”

“Uh, sure,” she said, checking the clock. Six-twenty. No one else was coming.

She helped Paul set up the band, looping it over the bar at the top of a pull-up station. She showed him how to step into the band with one foot while holding on to the bars.

“Now fully drop down,” she said, recalling how she’d been taught to kip.

He did. The band stretched. His feet hung two inches above the floor.

“Okay,” Justine said, “now you want to get your body rocking, as if you were pushing your stomach out and then snapping it in and back toward your spine. That momentum carries you into the pull-up.”

Paul tried. It was a pitiful attempt. He was throwing his knees forward, not his belly. “Here,” she said. “Can I put my hands on you?”

He smiled down at her, a nice smile, a very nice smile. “If it will help.”

“It helped me,” Justine said.

“Okay, then.”

She smiled, nodded, moved around to his side, put one hand on his lower back and the other on his stomach. “Jump up.”

Paul jumped up and caught the bar with both hands. Justine pressed against his back so his belly arched against the band; then she pushed backward quickly. He swung on the band and lifted.

“Feel it?” she asked.

“I did,” he said, then began to play with the motion. “It’s almost like what trapeze artists do.”

“Exactly.”

In less than ten tries, he had it and was using his body and the band to snap himself up into the air, six, then seven times in a row.

Justine clapped. “You’ve got it!”

Paul slowed, stepped out of the band. He was grinning. They were very close. “You’re a natural, you know that? Teacher, I mean.”

Justine noticed how good he smelled, blushed, but did not look away or try to create space between them. “I just did what—”

“No,” he said, taking her hand. “I mean it, you … you’re really wonderful. I’m sorry to be so forward, but ever since I met you, I’ve thought about you a lot.”

They stood there looking at each other for several beats. Justine’s heart raced. She felt outside herself somehow. She heard her own voice as if from far off, like in a dream, saying, “Did you ever just want to give in sometimes and do something totally crazy? Totally not you?”

Paul’s gaze went lazy, and he nodded. “All the time.”

Justine could not believe that she replied, “We should lock the door, then. Turn out the lights.”

A moment of surprise, then Paul murmured, “Perfect. No one will even know we’re here.”

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
.

TWO HOURS LATER
, Justine sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban as Sci drove them north out of Thousand Oaks on the 101. Kloppenberg was monitoring up-to-the-minute radio coverage of the Harlow disappearance.

Justine barely listened. Her mind surged with battling thoughts and emotions about what she’d done so blithely earlier in the morning. How could she have done that? She barely knew Paul. And locked door or not, they’d taken such a chance, making love on the floor of the gym and up against the steel poles that supported the pull-up stations. But maybe the possibility of getting caught had only magnified the experience. Even now, hours afterward, Justine had to admit that the sex had been incredible, mind-blowing.

But that’s not me
, she thought in sudden desperation.
The Justine I know doesn’t hook up with strangers and …
She alternated between wanting to call Paul, to tell him how amazing it all had been, and wanting to sob.

Was this the kind of random sexual acting out she had feared? She couldn’t come to any other conclusion. The knife fight in the jail cell in Guadalajara had seriously affected her. For God’s sake, she knew risky sexual behavior was a symptom of PTSD, and yet she’d just gone ahead, almost as if she were an adolescent again, unable to make rational choices.

“You okay?” Sci asked as they drove into Ojai and headed toward the Harlows’ ranch.

“Huh?” she replied, feeling foggier than normal. “I’m just tired, Sci. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“Lot of that going around,” Kloppenberg offered. “You see the text from Jack and Del Rio?”