Private L.A. (Private 6)

“I did,” he said, then began to play with the motion. “It’s almost like what trapeze artists do.”

“Exactly.”

In less than ten tries, he had it and was using his body and the band to snap himself up into the air, six, then seven times in a row.

Justine clapped. “You’ve got it!”

Paul slowed, stepped out of the band. He was grinning. They were very close. “You’re a natural, you know that? Teacher, I mean.”

Justine noticed how good he smelled, blushed, but did not look away or try to create space between them. “I just did what—”

“No,” he said, taking her hand. “I mean it, you … you’re really wonderful. I’m sorry to be so forward, but ever since I met you, I’ve thought about you a lot.”

They stood there looking at each other for several beats. Justine’s heart raced. She felt outside herself somehow. She heard her own voice as if from far off, like in a dream, saying, “Did you ever just want to give in sometimes and do something totally crazy? Totally not you?”

Paul’s gaze went lazy, and he nodded. “All the time.”

Justine could not believe that she replied, “We should lock the door, then. Turn out the lights.”

A moment of surprise, then Paul murmured, “Perfect. No one will even know we’re here.”

Chapter 60

AT FIVE MINUTES to eight that morning, Terry Graves entered his office in the Harlow-Quinn Productions bungalow on the Warner lot. He carried a grande Starbucks and was reading that morning’s Hollywood Reporter. Dave Sanders was trailing him, chewing on a bagel, engrossed in the Los Angeles Times.

The office was surprisingly small and the furniture surprisingly understated given the success of the company. Except for the various framed movie posters, you would not have pegged the room as belonging to a Hollywood power player.

The producer was almost around the back of his desk before he noticed me sitting in his chair, looking at him. I was finishing an egg-and-bacon sandwich, one eye on the television, which showed a clip from Bobbie Newton’s footage of the Harlow children.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Jack?” Graves demanded.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Sanders said.

“I’m resourceful, remember?” I said. “That’s why you hired me.”

“What’s this all about?” Graves said, indignant now.

“Bobbie Newton’s footage of the Harlow kids?” I said. “I just heard it’s the number one clip on YouTube, something like seven million hits since yesterday. And it’s the number one most-linked-to site on Facebook. There isn’t a news channel or newspaper in the world that isn’t carrying the story.”

“Does that surprise you?” Sanders demanded.

“The question is: Does it surprise you?”

“What?” The producer scowled. “Of course it doesn’t surprise us.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The attorney caught the edge in my voice. “What’s that mean?”

“Bobbie Newton told me that Terry here is the one who tipped her about the kids. I suspect you were in on it too, Dave. And maybe even Camilla.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Terry Graves snapped.

“The coverage. The uproar. The publicity value of the Harlows disappearing, especially when they’re making the movie of a lifetime. Makes me wonder what’s really going on here.”

The producer’s eyes flared. “I have no, zero, nada interest in this kind of publicity. And what Bobbie told you? That’s an out-and-out lie from a lunatic lush who will say anything to further her own ego-glorifying ends.”

I had to admit, Terry Graves knew the Bobbie Newton I knew.