Private L.A. (Private 6)

The producer shook his head, looking highly irritated. “Thom is like that. Likes being mysterious for no reason at all.”

“Creative tension,” Camilla Bronson explained. “Thom—and this is off the record—believes in withholding information. He does it with everyone. So does Jen, for that matter. They believe it keeps people on their toes.”

“Okay,” I said. “So then what happens?”

Sanders replied, “They pleaded exhaustion and left along with Cynthia Maines, their personal assistant, in two rented Suburbans, bound for the ranch for six days of R&R.”

Terry Graves looked like he’d bitten into something sour. “Typical of them. They knew we had a week of endless meetings set up—they’d been out of the country nine months, for God’s sake—but they just announced that it would all have to wait, and away they drove, leaving us in the lurch.”

“Jen thought the kids deserved it,” said Camilla Bronson. “Six days to help them reacclimate.”

“Anyway, that’s the last we’ve heard of any of them,” Sanders said.

“So how do you know they’ve disappeared?” Justine asked. “They’ve got two days left, right?”

The Harlows’ publicist said, “True, but they just stopped answering their phones, texts, and e-mails.”

“When?”

“Night before last,” the producer said. “I called all day yesterday on their private cell numbers, and Cynthia’s cell, and got no response from any of them.”

The Harlows’ attorney said, “Finally, around midnight last night, the housekeeper at the ranch, Anita, answered the house phone.”

The housekeeper claimed to have just returned to the ranch with two other members of the staff. The Harlows had given them all nine months off with partial pay while a caretaker maintained the place in their absence.

“Anita said the ranch was empty,” Sanders said. “She said there were signs that the Harlows had been there, but that there was no one there now. No one. I told her not to touch anything, that she and the others were to go to their quarters and wait for me. Then I hung up and called you, Jack.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said, trying to wrap my head around the situation, looking for fact, not conjecture. “Not only are the Harlows and their children missing, but the Harlows’ assistant—”

“Cynthia Maines,” said Camilla Bronson. “Yes, she’s missing too.”

“And the caretaker?”

“As I understand it,” the attorney said.

“No one else?” Justine asked.

Sanders hesitated, replied, “Not that we know of.”

“How do you k

now they haven’t just gone off somewhere on vacation?” Mo-bot asked.

“Because TMZ or one of the other gossip sites would have found them,” Terry Graves said.

“Okay,” I said, skeptical. “Ransom notes?”

The attorney said, “Maybe there’s one at the ranch. We don’t know yet.”

“I’m not questioning your judgment here, Dave,” I replied. “But why not call the FBI in? They’re the missing persons experts.”

“We can’t do that,” Camilla Bronson said. “At least not until we find out what’s going on.”

Sanders nodded. “We don’t know what’s happened, and until we do, we’re not going anywhere near law enforcement.”

I said, “It’s also a question of business, isn’t it? If the people already invested in Saigon Falls were to find out the Harlows were missing, all hell would break loose.”

Terry Graves stiffened but said, “Understandably, we don’t want that.”