“ID yet?”
“Sci and Mo-bot are working with the FBI on that.”
Her eyebrows rose. “So we’re back on that case again?”
“Just the lab for now,” I said. “But there’s a twist in the demand No Prisoners made to the mayor that might bring us in deeper.”
“A twist you can’t discuss?”
“For now,” I said.
She nodded absently.
“You wanted to tell me something?” I said. “If not, I was going to head over to see Rick.”
Justine startled, confused, but then nodded. “That picture Sci sent me? I know who the mystery girl is. Her name is Adelita. I’ll tell you her last name later.”
Intrigued now, I sat in a chair across the coffee table from her, sipped the whiskey, and listened as she told me all she’d learned about Adelita from Cynthia Maines.
Six weeks before the Harlows were to fly to Saigon for filming, Maines was sent over to organize the family’s living arrangements and to hire a staff in Vietnam. She was not there when Adelita came into the Harlows’ life. Jennifer was always hiring and firing nannies, usually one a year, sometimes two. She’d fired her last nanny twelve days before the family was to fly to Vietnam, and no one she’d interviewed in the meantime suited her.
Enter Adelita. She’d only been in Los Angeles three days, here on a student visa from Mexico to study acting for six months. She had defied her parents on her eighteenth birthday and used a small inheritance from her grandmother to fund a plane ticket, a few months’ rent, and the acting lessons.
Eight days before their flight to Vietnam, the Harlows were at their Westwood apartment, staging up before the big move overseas. Adelita ran into Jennifer Harlow, one of her acting idols, on the sidewalk outside a deli. Jennifer was harried, trying to deal with Miguel, who was throwing a fit, while she juggled a phone call regarding Saigon Falls.
Star-struck as she was, Adelita charmed Miguel into calming down. Impulsive, perceptive, Jennifer talked to Adelita, took her to lunch with the children, got her to admit she wanted to be an actress.
“Jennifer offered her the job as nanny,” Justine said, reaching to pour herself more whiskey. “The idea was that she’d get to see the world and get to really understand the life of an actor.”
I said, “Sounds like the offer of a lifetime, one of those fated meetings you used to hear took place at soda fountains where stars found their fortunes.”
“Right?” Justine said. “Anyway, Maines said Adelita accepted, flew to Saigon with them a week later. She said Adelita was great with the kids, and the entire family seemed to love her. The nanny was evidently a pretty good actress as well. They gave her a minor role in the film. She plays the daughter of an American diplomat fleeing Saigon as the Vietcong advance.”
“Where is she—Adelita?” I asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Justine said, taking another large draw on the whiskey, which surprised me because I’d never seen her drink like this before.
Maines said something happened to Adelita about halfway through the nine months in Vietnam. The girl who had been so enthralled by the Harlows’ world, so excited to be given a part in their film, became infinitely more subdued. She worked just as hard, cared for the children just as well, but something was definitely off about her.
“Maines tried to get her to open up once, but Adelita forcefully shut her down,” Justine continued. “In any case, before they returned from Vietnam, Adelita was offered the same vacation Cynthia was, three weeks off with a bonus of an additional three weeks’ pay. She took them up on the deal and left Saigon two days before Maines and the Harlows.”
“Where’d Adelita go?” I asked.
“Home,” Justine said, closing her eyes. “Mexico. Guadalajara, in fact.”
“Really,” I said, piecing some of it together. “So what’s her last name?”
“Gomez,” Justine said, eyes still closed, but wincing. “Same last name as the Jalisco State Police captain who put Cruz and me in jail down there.”
Chapter 82
BEFORE I COULD put that information into context, Sci knocked at my doorjamb, entered. He saw the Midleton bottle. “That looks good.”
“You look like you could use a snort,” Justine said, turning in her seat.
“A snort?” I said.
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, reaching for the bottle again. “What else do you call it?”