"No, but we'll tell him soon," Bailey said.

Raynie nodded ruefully. "Better you than me."

I thought that was probably true.

10.

As Bailey drove us back down the hill, I looked at the address Raynie had given us. "Brittany lives in Hancock Park." Which was on the way downtown.

"Go ahead and call, see if you can get her. But I'm going to need to get an update from Harrellson pretty quick, so we won't be able to stay long."

"What's Harrellson doing?" Don Harrellson, a great detective and a funny guy, was one of the team Bailey had assembled to help with the investigation.

"He's checking into Russell's associates."

Meaning Russell's possible enemies. "I guess it has to be done, but what enemy would risk a possible life sentence to get back at him?"

"If we limited our investigation to rational possibilities, our solve rate would be two percent."

Hard to argue with that one. I fished out my cell phone and squinted at the number Raynie had written on an orange star-shaped Post-it. The late afternoon sun was hanging low enough to shoot a white-hot laser through the windshield, practically blinding me. I had to put on my sunglasses to read the number. I got Brittany's voice mail. "Hi, it's Brittany. Leave a message...or don't. Beeeeep." I chose the former and gave her my number and Bailey's and told her to call ASAP.

When we got to the station, Harrellson was at his desk in rolled-up shirtsleeves. "Having fun out there in Tinseltown, girls?"

I don't usually like being called a girl. But it's all in the attitude. Harrellson gave the word an ironic twist that made it funny instead of condescending.

"Probably not as much fun as you're having," I said.

"Well, not everyone appreciates the joy of banging their head against a brick wall the way I do. Our boy Antonovich has helpers and advisers crawling around his house like it's an anthill, and they all thought they had to "advise" yours truly about the galactic importance of His Supreme Highness Antonovich and the nefarious ways of jealous Hollywoodites. Man oh man, did they. Between that shark fin of a manager, whatsisname, Ian Powers, with the big swinging dick attitude, and his security adviser, Duncan Donuts-"

"Donuts?" Bailey laughed.

"Nah, Duncan Froehman. They had a lot to say about who I should look into and how I should do it. Got to the point I offered them a ladder-"

"A ladder?" I asked.

"Yeah, so they could climb out of my ass."

I barked out a laugh but Bailey was all business.

"So what'd you get?" she asked.

"Nada. Just a boatload of genius suggestions from Antonovich's advisers about pretty much everyone in the film business and half the folks in television. Apparently everyone who labors to fill screens large and small is envious of Mr. Blockbuster."

"I'm about to check out the cell phone records," Bailey said. "Maybe they'll give us something we can work with."

"Already done, jefe," Harrellson replied. "I made a copy and highlighted a few calls that might be worth checking out. Antonovich's record has a million different numbers, but there are some calls after the first text message from our bad guy we should check out. The girl was pretty consistent. Same numbers every day. Only found one stray number that wasn't a store or a club."

He handed the pages to Bailey, and I moved next to her so I could see. On Russell's cell phone bill, Harrellson had highlighted a few calls that were made after the first kidnapping message-but before the ransom e-mail was sent. I held out Russell's phone records. "Do you recognize any of these highlighted numbers?" I asked.

Harrellson glanced back at the pages. "Not yet. But from what I've seen, a lot of these clowns have multiple numbers and they may not all be listed. So it'll take a minute to run 'em all down."

We moved on to Hayley's phone records for the past month.

One highlighted number jumped out at me. Hayley had made a call to Brittany Caren just three weeks ago. Bailey and I exchanged a look.

Bailey pulled out her cell phone. "This time, I make the call." She punched in the number. And got Brittany's voice mail. Then she punched in another number.

"Russell, this is Detective Keller. I've been trying to get hold of Brittany Caren, but I keep getting her voice mail. Can you put me in touch with her?" Bailey listened for a moment. "I don't know that she does." Bailey listened again. "Yes, that'd be great. Thank you."

Five minutes later we were back in the car and headed to Hancock Park.

11.

"So how'd you get her to pick up the phone?" I asked.

Bailey was threading her way through the traffic, taking surface streets because after three o'clock, the freeways were anything but free. Especially the 101. It crawled like a giant metal beast with thousands of agonizingly slow-moving parts.

"I didn't. Russell did. Don't ask me how."

But we soon found out how. A young man whose Neanderthal-bouncer aesthetic clashed almost audibly with the Mediterranean tile-roofed mansion showed us into a massive living room. I found that the clashing aesthetic was a continuing theme. It was a house at war with itself. The outside had promised earthy simplicity and lots of open space. But the inside delivered a mishmash of styles that cluttered every available square inch. The only thing any of the furniture, window treatments, and objets d'art had in common was a high price tag.

Heavy velvet drapery held back with gold-braided and tasseled tiebacks fought with giant Aubusson rugs. Overstuffed beige chenille sofas, pink leather ottomans, and barrel chairs covered in powder blue and rose fabric that nominally matched the rugs but clashed with everything else; vases, mini-sculptures (both ceramic and bronze) that cluttered every horizontal surface. If it's true that a room sets a tone, then this one set off a screeching cacophony.

The bouncer gestured to the other end of the room, where two women, presumably Brittany and her mother, sat side by side on a love seat.

Had I seen her out on the street, I might not have recognized the once famous star. Brittany Caren had packed a lot of miles into her twenty or so years. Her long blonde hair was dull and overprocessed and her soft brown eyes had an unfocused, weary look. And she was far too thin-her cheeks were hollow and her arms protruded from her sleeveless silk blouse like winter twigs. But still and all, I could see what had set her apart: that indefinable "something" that turns all eyes to her, and only her.

Whatever you called that "something," it had skipped over Brittany's mother. Mom was thickening through the middle, but she had good legs that were crossed primly at the ankle, the pose most likely dictated by her tight, above-the-knee skirt. Short blonde hair and a less than stellar face-lift topped a bright green and hot pink ensemble. No mystery about who was responsible for the interior design that was making my eyes cross.

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?"