"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, nee 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.

"Did you order for me?" I asked. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the large pot on the table.

"Yeah, your pathetic little egg whites and stewed tomato are over there." She pointed to a silver dome on the side table.

I sat down and spread a napkin on my lap. "What do you think of the story Brittany told us about that writer, Tommy Whatsisname?" I uncovered my sad little egg whites, scooped up a forkful, and tried to look ecstatic.

"Tommy Maher," she said. "So now we've got someone with a possible motive."

"If that script really did turn into a mega-blockbuster, I could see how someone would go nuts enough to want to destroy Russell."

"But it's been what? Ten years since that movie came out?"

"At least. Yeah, that's an awfully long time to wait for revenge."

"Still, we may as well see where it takes us. I looked up the show Brittany starred in at the time: Circle of Friends. They shot it at the Warner Brothers Ranch Studio in Burbank. We can go talk to them and see if anyone remembers the story."

"You want to call ahead and make sure they get us a 'drive-on'?" I said as I slithered my fork toward Bailey's pancakes. I was getting into position to sneak a bite while she made the call.

"Look at you, using the lingo," Bailey said. "Been there, done that. And I see you, Knight, so put down the fork."

Seeing my crushed look, Bailey relented and pushed her plate forward. "I'm done anyway. But make it snappy, we've got to get moving."

Ten minutes later, and a little high on carbs and syrup, I was in the car and we were heading for the freeway.

The Warner Brothers Ranch Studio is a little gated city. The head of security had arranged a parking space for us and sent out a guard in a golf cart to escort us to his office. Bailey and I had discussed whether we should just ask Russell about what happened with Tommy. But if this argument had some significance to the case, it would be better for us to find out all we could from uninvolved-or less involved-third parties before we heard Russell's side of things.

The guard drove us to a building at the far end of the studio lot and stopped in front of a door marked HEAD OF SECURITY. The nameplate under that title said NED JUNGER. We knocked on the door, and a ruddy-faced man as wide as he was tall-and he was at least six feet two-answered.

"Detectives," he said.

We shook hands, and mine disappeared into his gigantic paw as I told him I was a prosecutor. No sense getting off on the wrong foot by pretending to be someone I'm not. This time at least. He gestured for us to take a seat in the wire-framed chairs in front of his desk, and he settled into his own much larger and cushier chair behind it.

I told him what we'd heard about Tommy Maher and Russell. He nodded.

"I remember that. I'd just started here. That was, what, ten years ago? But I heard about it. You thinking that has something to do with Hayley being missing?"

"We don't know," Bailey said. "We're just checking into all possibilities."

"Sure. Though it's hard to see the...well, why don't I just tell you what I know and leave you two to connect the dots?"

Ned leaned back and held on to the arms of his chair. "Russell came up with that screenplay, and right away there was talk about it being a blockbuster. Wonderland Warriors. You ever see it?"

We admitted we hadn't. I could see Ned was winding up to tell us a story that was probably recycled for every newcomer on the lot.

"Movie wasn't half bad. Kind of a kid thing, but adults liked it too. Can't go wrong when you hit the whole family that way. Action-type film like The Transformers but with a fairy tale attached to it, like The Princess Bride. Anyway, the buzz started right off the bat about this great script and the big deal Russell would be getting. For a young TV writer-hell, for anyone-it was a huge deal. You ask him, he'll tell you."

Bailey nodded encouragingly and Ned continued.

"So Tommy gets wind of it and goes apeshit. Starts yelling that it was his script, that Russell stole it from him. Now, Tommy always had been a bit of a loose cannon. Wasn't the first time he'd complained about someone taking credit for something he'd done. Got into a lot of fights in the writers' room over people stealing his story ideas-"

"Maybe they did," I said.

"Sure, maybe they did. Problem was, he cried wolf one too many times in the past. So when he got all nuts about this script, no one really paid attention." Ned sighed and sat forward. "But that film script was the end of him. Tommy started coming to work drunk, sometimes even got drunk while he was at work-and he wasn't a nice drunk. Got more and more belligerent. Then, one day, he got into it with Russell over some network notes and decked him. Just 'boom'! Coldcocked 'im, knocked Russell on his ass." Ned shook his head. "After that, they moved Tommy out to the edge of the lot-"

"Why didn't they just fire him?" Bailey asked.

"He was under contract. Easier to put him in Siberia and let his contract run out at the end of the season. 'Course Tommy had to know that was coming."

"So did he ever sue Russell over the theft of the screenplay?" I asked.

"No." A look of sadness crossed his face. "Day after the holiday party for the cast and crew, he went home and blew his own brains out."

"Damn," Bailey said.

"Did not see that coming," I said. I guessed we could probably scratch Tommy Maher off our suspect list.

Ned leaned forward and poked the keyboard of his computer with his thick finger. As it whirred to life, he said, "There was a blurb about it in the papers. See if I can pull it up for you." He scrolled for a few minutes, then turned the monitor so we could see it. "Article doesn't tell you much, but that's the holiday picture of the cast and crew on the set." Ned pointed to the right side of the screen. "Tommy's the guy on the end."

Bailey and I leaned in to get a better look. There was something about him that I couldn't put my finger on. I tried to analyze what it was. He was of average height and size, not the look of a big bruiser who'd have the guts to knock someone down. But everything else about him fit that bill: the sour expression, hunched posture with hands shoved into his pockets; every bit of him telegraphed misery and barely restrained anger. I could see that guy getting wound up enough to coldcock someone. Or even commit suicide. I remembered one of the forensic shrinks saying that it takes a violent person to commit suicide.

I'd been staring at the photo as these thoughts circled, but then the something I couldn't put my finger on suddenly became clear. "He looks like Brian."