I wondered how far we could push a missing persons investigation before the Feds found out, took over, and tried to hit us with obstruction charges. That likelihood would be amped by the celebrity factor. The FBI loves celeb cases.
“Fair enough,” I said at last. “But any evidence of violence and we’re notifying the cops and the Feds.”
Before any of them could respond, the helicopter swung on the wind and dropped suddenly. I had a moment of flashback to the Chinook, right after we were hit by ground fire and the rotor disintegrated above us. I glanced quickly to Del Rio, who looked unaffected as he said, “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe the Harlows did take off to some unlikely place, wore disguises, managed to avoid the paparazzi.”
“Not a chance,” Sanders replied. “I checked the Harlows’ Visa and AmEx records. They haven’t spent a dime since they bought gas down in Ojai the night they arrived.”
“Which is an absolute impossibility,” added Camilla Bronson.
“Why is that?” Kloppenberg asked.
The publicist said, “Because Jennifer Harlow is a certifiable, world-class shopaholic.”
Chapter 10
“IT’S TRUE,” SANDERS said. “The Harlows, and Jen in particular, rack up a lot of credit card charges every day. But since the night before last, nothing.”
Out the helicopter window the Harlows’ Ojai ranch came into view, a beautiful, otherworldly place with a sprawling white ranch house, gardens, fountains, barns, and other outbuildings flanked by horse pastures and groves of almond, orange, and pecan trees.
I spotted the two Suburbans in the driveway before we landed. As the rotors died down, I finally released the tension in my fists, and all sorts of ideas bounced around in my mind. Were we on some kind of wild-goose chase? Would the Harlows just be sitting inside having breakfast?
Climbing from the helicopter after Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves, I spotted three middle-aged Latina women in maroon uniforms trotting toward us from one of the outbuildings.
The publicist, the producer, and the attorney immediately veered off course and went straight to the women, with my team in tow.
“Have you spoken to anyone?” Camilla Bronson demanded.
The three wrung their hands, shook their heads. The tallest, whose blouse was monogrammed “Anita,” said, “No. I swear to you. We do exactly what Mr. Sanders say. We go to our rooms, say nothing to nobody. Just wait for you. We no sleep.”
“Let’s continue to keep it quiet,” Sanders replied.
The publicist glanced at me, said, “The press jackals will be all over this if we let them.”
“Besides, we really don’t know anything yet, do we?” Terry Graves said.
We followed him. Behind me, I heard Sci whisper to Mo-bot, “Well, I was thinking alien abduction, little green men looking to perform experiments on the most beautiful beings on Earth. What about you, Maureen?”
“Specters? Ectoplasmic transport?” she said.
I had to suppress a grin.
“Who ya gonna call?” Kloppenberg whispered. “Private Ghostbusters!”
I glanced over my shoulder to find the two of them beaming at their wit, and Del Rio and Justine hiding their smiles.
Sanders turned from the three Mexican women. “Is there something funny in all this?”
“No, Dave,” I said, covering. “Not at all.” Looking to Justine, I said, “You interview the help.” To Del Rio, I said, “Take the outbuildings and the security system. Sci, Mo-bot, you’re inside with me.”
“We’re coming inside too,” Camilla Bronson said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “At least until we’ve done our initial sweep.”
“Not a chance,” the publicist replied icily, and followed Sci and Mo-bot toward the veranda. Terry Graves and Sanders followed her.
Before I could argue with them, Justine squealed with delight. A female Old English bulldog had appeared out of nowhere, panting, nervous, her white fur and paws soiled as if she’d been digging in the dirt.
“That’s Miss Stella Kowalski,” Anita choked, tears welling in her eyes as Justine went to pet the bulldog. “She’s the children’s. Miguel’s. You see? The dog goes everywhere with them. Even Vietnam. This no good. She’s therapy dog. Miguel … he loves her.”