"Given your findings on the car trunk, do you think we should go back out to the mountain?" I asked.

"I would. It's dry now, and I'd like to take another look, in the light." She turned to Bailey. "You putting in the request?"

"As of now."

I was buoyed by the possibility that we might have the DNA of the killer. Then I considered who our killer might be from a logical standpoint. I didn't like where my train of thought was taking me, but maybe Bailey would find a way to knock it down.

"We're pretty sure at this point that Brian and Hayley engineered this kidnapping scheme," I said. "But obviously someone else got into the mix. Brian didn't have any friends, so if someone was in on it from the start, that person didn't come from his end-"

"And we know it couldn't be anyone in Hayley's circle."

"But here's the question: Why would Brian and Hayley have even wanted to bring in a third party?"

"No reason I can see," Bailey said. "She knew how to reach her dad, how much money he had, all the important stuff. It didn't take much to set up the drop in Fryman Canyon-"

"They didn't need any help. So I'm betting our killer was an uninvited guest at their party. That means he had to have found out about the kidnapping while it was in progress."

"You two want to blab, take it outside," Dorian said. "Some of us work for a living."

We started to apologize, but Dorian had already turned back to her computer. When we got to the elevator, Bailey started to speak but stopped when some others joined us. After we got out of the building, she said, "What about Legs? He 'sniffed' the ransom note before it was sent."

"True. But I have a hard time believing that the guy who called us with the tip-"

"Yeah. Hard to believe, but you never know." Bailey shrugged.

"He just doesn't fit the bill." The skinny, pierced, and tatted soon-to-be doctor of neuroscience was a tough sell as a killer. "But you're right. I guess we should at least check his alibi."

"I'll put Harrellson on it," Bailey said. "Assuming it doesn't turn out to be Legs, who else could've found out about the plan in time to jump in?"

"Other 'cyber-sniffers,' I guess-"

"Jeez, I don't know. Legs Roscoe was enough of a coincidence. How many others could have jumped in at just the right time?"

"But it wouldn't hurt to try and run down everyone who was in that cybercafe," I said.

"I'll add it to the list."

I moved on to consider other possibilities. Only one came to mind. "Assuming it wasn't some random person at the cafe, all we're left with is someone who was close enough to Russell to find out on his end...like someone who was in the house when the kidnapping message came in."

Bailey pulled out of the parking lot and didn't answer for a few moments. "That fits. And God knows Russell's place always seems to have a boatload of people running around in it."

"Good thing we decided to keep Brian's death under wraps."

But life is all about balance, as Toni's boyfriend, Judge J. D. Morgan, always says. That good thing was balanced by a nasty bad thing: since no one knew about Brian, I'd have to get Vanderhorn's permission to interrogate Mr. Moviemaker's inner circle. It'd be like slamming my hand in the door, only not as much fun. Then it occurred to me that there was a better option-at least for me. My boss, Eric.

23.

I asked Bailey to stop by the courthouse so I could make my pitch to Eric in person. He was thrilled to talk to Vanderhorn for me, though his display of joy was subtle.

"Don't you think you're in a better position to explain why you need to dig into Russell's entourage?" he asked.

"No. I think you are. Even an idiot like Vanderhorn will get it if you talk slow. And you know he likes you more-"

"He likes acid reflux more than he likes you, but that's not the point. He'll listen because he'll hear the name 'Antonovich.' And he'll want a complete explanation for why a potential major campaign contributor has to strap on a poly and answer questions about his daughter's murder. I'm bound to run out of answers."

"We're not going to poly him...yet. And if you get in a bind, just call me. I'll fill you in."

"'Yet'? I was just kidding. Knight, what the hell are you up to?"

"Nothing. I was just kidding too." I crossed my fingers. I don't know why I still do this when I lie. But at least I don't throw salt over my shoulder...anymore. Waste of good salt if you ask me. "Come on, Eric. I don't have time to fiddle around with Mr. Potato Head and I really need to get this ball rolling. Whoever murdered these two children is going to be in the wind if we don't move fast."

"Fine. But do me a favor. Start on the periphery and go easy until I give you the all clear."

"Okay, but don't let the idiot tell his new best friend, Russell, that we're looking his way. We need spontaneous answers."

Eric sighed. "Keep your cell phone close. I'll be in touch."

When I got back to the car, I filled Bailey in. "So we'll start with the bottom rung," I finished.

"We'd start on the fringe of the circle anyway."

"Housekeepers, runners, security-"

"Then personal assistants, manager, personal friends, and-"

"I'd do the personal assistants last, just before Russell, Raynie, and Dani," I said. "They know more than anyone else."

Back when I was a baby DA in the Beverly Hills branch court, I caught a burglary case in which the victim was a lead actor in a primetime detective series. Burglary was the most common felony in Beverly Hills. The burglar turned out to be the piano teacher for one of the actor's children. That case had been an eye-opening primer on how "the other half"-really more like the other one percent-lived. Everyone had a personal assistant. Some of the assistants even had assistants. And all of them were treated like furniture. The residents were so used to having assistants around all the time, they became invisible. So the most intimate of conversations about sex, deals, money, and custody battles took place in full earshot of the assistant. Luckily, most assistants were pretty loyal and damn scrupulous about not leaking what they heard. Or maybe they were just scared. But one thing was for sure: assistants were a fount of information and we'd learn a lot if we could get any of them to talk.

Bailey announced us on the intercom and the gates swung open smoothly. A young man in faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the title of Russell's last film, Princess Warrior, met us in front of the house.

"Mr. Antonovich will be back in about an hour, but he said you could wait inside. We've got a lot of people in and out all the time, so it'd be better if I took care of your car."

Bailey wasn't wild about the idea, but she tossed the keys to the kid. "I need easy in and out," she ordered.

The door was answered by a guy in a crew cut and an FBI-style suit. I say FBI-style because I didn't see the standard earpiece and I knew the FBI hadn't been called in on the case. He put out his hand and gave his name in a serious voice. "Kenneth Krup. You'd be Detective Keller and DDA Rachel Knight?"

I barely resisted the urge to say "affirmative." I didn't remember seeing any security types like this on our last visit. It seemed a little late for Russell to bring in the troops now. Bailey confirmed our identities. "This way," he said.

Back to the great room, which still truly was. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll send Sophie in to get whatever you need." He turned on his heel-which must've been rubber, because it squeaked on the highly polished wooden floor-and left us. A mixture of light green and floral smells gave the room a garden-like atmosphere. I didn't have to look far for the source: there was a gigantic arrangement of white dahlias and lotus flowers on a low table in the far-right corner of the room, and Chinese vases filled with hydrangeas, roses, and calla lilies on glass shelves, coffee tables, and side tables. Maybe it was the size of the room, maybe it was my state of distraction, but I hadn't noticed the floral display the last time we were here.

I leaned toward Bailey. "Think Sophie would bring us a couple of dry martinis?"

"I think Sophie would bring us a couple of male strippers if we asked her to."

I considered the idea. "We should probably get some interviews done first."

Bailey shrugged.

One second later, a slight young woman, no more than five feet one, dressed in a black cotton dress and white apron and looking like she was in her late teens, entered the room. I made the deductive leap that this was Sophie. Sophie asked what she could get us. We said water would be nice. She inquired whether we wanted tap or sparkling; we opted for tap. When she returned with two glasses, I asked in what I hoped was an offhand manner how long she'd been working there.

"Three years."

"Pretty long time." Especially for someone who looked no older than twenty. "What are your days?"

"Tuesday through Saturday," she said.

"So you get Sundays off. That must be nice."

Sophie shrugged. "Sure."

I was trying to make this sound conversational so she wouldn't get scared off, but Sophie was edging away from us. I'd have to get to the point.

"Do you ever work on Mondays?"

"Around the holidays and awards season, or if Frankie calls in sick, or if there's a party and they need extra help. But then they pay me extra."

"As they should. Glad to hear it." And I really was. "Then Frankie usually works Mondays?"

Sophie nodded.

"So you weren't here last Monday?"

"No. And thank goodness because the twins were home sick and I didn't have anyone to stay with them."

That meant she hadn't been here on the day of the "kidnapping." Also, she probably wasn't eighteen. "You have twins?"

"I'm twenty-seven." She smiled at my stunned expression. "I know, I'm lucky."

"Good." I hate it when people with baby faces complain, "I still get carded at bars." Yeah, that really sucks.

Sophie zipped off to amaze others with her youthful appearance.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess Sophie isn't our guy," Bailey said.

"Ruthless killers come in all packages, you know."

Bailey raised an eyebrow.

"She could be the mastermind, and her devoted protege did the killing."

"A devoted protege who also doubles as a babysitter for her twins," Bailey said. "Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

24.

We were able to eliminate others just as easily-Vera, the cook, who basically only spoke Hungarian, and had been busy in her wing of the house all day and well into the evening; Annabelle, the "interior plant designer"-I kid you not-who maintained the indoor flora on Tuesdays and Fridays; and Dani's personal trainer/yoga instructor, Shakti, who had taken Monday off to do a spiritual cleansing. Call me a skeptic, I just don't believe someone whose last name is Schwartz had "Shakti" on her birth certificate.

After about half an hour, I noticed that the Antonoviches took their air-conditioning seriously. It'd crept up on me and I didn't realize I was cold until I found myself suppressing shivers. So when Eric called during our interview with Annabelle to tell me we had the all clear to go after the major players, I used it as an excuse to step outside. I took an extra five minutes after ending the call to work the bluish tinge out of my fingers.

But now, just twenty minutes later, I was freezing again. I wanted to go out and take another sun break, but Russell chose that moment to show up with his manager, Ian Powers, and their respective assistants, Uma and Sean. The director rolled in with an earpiece in his ear, a cell phone in his hand, and his assistant glued to his side, monitoring the conversation on her own cell while scribbling notes on a small pad. When Russell ended the call and gave us a curt nod, I could see he looked haggard, but he radiated even more nervous energy than I remembered from our last visit. I guessed he was coping by staying busy. Bailey told him why we were there and said we'd start by talking to Uma. He sat down on the nearest couch, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. "Okay."

"Separately," I said.

Ian, who'd remained standing, examined me coldly, as though I'd just told him I had a screenplay I wanted to send him. "Why's that?"

I wasn't obligated to explain it to him, but Ian had been Russell's manager for over ten years and was used to standing between Russell and all things unpleasant. So I chalked up his attitude to protective habit and told him. "We need to make sure that each witness gives us his or her best memory without being influenced by anyone else's opinion or recollection."

Russell's features tightened, a mixture of confusion and irritation. "But what is there for anyone to remember? I was the one who got all the messages. They won't know anything."

Since I had no intention of telling him what we suspected, I breezed by the meat of the question. "We just have to follow procedures and cover all the bases, Russell. If they have nothing to say, we'll be done pretty quick."

My tone was polite but unmistakably firm. Russell gave a loud, exasperated sigh. "Fine. But I've got sensitive materials for my next film in the study, so you'll have to use the guest room."

Oh heavens, no, not the guest room. "That'll be fine. Uma, can you lead the way?"

She dipped her head and cast a baleful look at Russell, like a chastened pet, and led us down the hallway to a large bedroom decorated in hues of forest green and ecru. It had French doors that opened onto a courtyard featuring a waterfall fountain made of a dark slate-type stone and a black marble Buddha. Very feng shui.

Uma gestured to a corner near the French doors where a love seat faced two wingback chairs. Bailey and I took the chairs, and Uma, who I could now see habitually curved her head and shoulders down, like a walking comma, scurried onto the love seat. Had working for Russell bent her into this obsequious posture, or had she always been this way? Bailey tried to put her at ease, explaining that we didn't suspect her of anything and just needed to gather information. Uma dipped her head a couple of times. "I get it, not a problem."

"Can you give me a rundown of what you did on Monday?" Bailey asked.

Uma recounted their day at the studio: meetings and more meetings, phone calls and more phone calls with producers, writers, agents, casting directors. At about six o'clock, they came back to the house.

"Do you always ride home with Russell?"

"Yeah, pretty much. He rolls calls on the way home and he prefers if I'm in the car with him while I listen in."

"Listen in?" Bailey asked.

Oh, poor naive Bailey, who didn't know the ways of Hollywood. All assistants listened in on their bosses' phone calls. Though it was never announced and the uninitiated might never know unless the boss, in the middle of the phone call, told the assistant to make a note of something. The benign reason for this systematic eavesdropping is so the assistant can take notes and keep the "to do" list up to date. The not so benign reason is to protect the boss in case the actor/producer/writer/agent later claimed something was promised that hadn't been. Uma gave Bailey the former reason. Of course.

"So you listen and take notes while Russell drives?" Bailey asked.