Private L.A. (Private 6)

He’d told us that Thom Harlow claimed to have a new secret investor who was willing to front him enough money to finish Saigon Falls. And yet the financial records clearly showed that the twenty-seven million transferred to Harlow-Quinn Productions came from another Harlow-owned concern. Why? Was that how the investor wanted it? Was he or she offshore to begin with?

“Jack?”

“I’m here,” I said finally. “Did you ask the attorney how much money the company had?”

“Of course,” San Cielo replied. “The answer cost you another five grand.”

“Another?” I replied, turning a corner. “How much did this conversation cost me altogether?”

A hesitation. “Uh, twenty in all.”

“Twenty?” I said, my eyebrows rising. “This had better be good information, Carlos, or I’ll have to seriously reconsider our business relationship.”

“No, no, Jack, it is the best information money can buy about this ESH Ltd,” San Cielo assured me. “The agent was very happy after all to show me and to make copies of records. Much money in ESH. More all the time.”

“From where? From who?

“Many places and companies and peoples from all over the world,” he replied. “There is currently another twenty-three million in account of ESH Ltd in Panama.”

Twenty-three million. “That it?”

“Well, I scan and send all records to your office. You can see for yourself where money comes from.”

“Do that,” I replied, turning onto Justine’s street. “Send them to Maureen Roth.”

“The Mo-bot. Yes, of course, within two hours tops.”

“Carlos?”

“Yes, Jack?” he replied, sounding a tad defensive.

“Good job. Glad to do business with you.”

I could almost hear him smile from four thousand miles away. “I look forward to representing Private’s interests in the future.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, pulling into Justine’s steep driveway.

I hung up, parked, set the brake, and sat there a moment, car still running, thinking that there could be another explanation for the money in ESH Ltd’s accounts, and for its sources. The Harlows were international superstars. They made movies all over the world. Their movies were shown all over the world, generated income from all over the world. It probably made sense in a lot of ways to have a company with an account off-shore, someplace tax neutral, or something like that.

I was still dwelling on that scenario as I started to climb out of the SUV, figuring I’d check on Justine at the door, be on my way, no need to even shut the motor off. So I was barely aware that another vehicle had stopped in the street behind me, and that a man in dark denim clothing was climbing from the car. But as I took that first step, turning to close the door, I caught a glimpse of something in the man’s hand, and felt panic explode when he swung a suppressed pistol at me.

Chapter 88

“THEY DECIDE IT is better to pay ten million dollars than seven,” Cobb said quietly when Alice, the waitress who had taken their lunch order, walked away. “Why?”

He and the rest of his men, Watson, Nickerson, Hernandez, and Kelleher, sat in a booth at the Robby Eden Café on Atlantic Avenue. The café offered burgers and interesting sandwiches. But more importantly, it was less than a mile from the garage where they’d been living the past two months.

In that time they’d become regulars at Robby Eden’s, wearing olive-green work clothes that made them part of the crew at L.A. Standard Demolition, a fictional service devised to allow them to move about unnoticed.

Cobb looked out from behind the heavy makeup and the dark glasses he wore in addition to the uniform, peered around the table at his men, still waiting for an answer. Only a few minutes before, they’d seen the phrase “Ten Tomorrow” appear on the city’s website, notifying them of the mayor’s decision.

“Ten million is a lot these days, no matter who you are, Mr. Cobb,” Kelleher offered. “Probably take time for them to get the money together.”

“Sounds right to me,” Hernandez said.

“Who cares?” Nickerson said. “It’s ten million, right? Which is a lot better than seven million. Or am I missing something?”

“We’re not after seven million, or ten million, Mr. Nickerson,” Cobb said.