Private L.A. (Private 6)

Sanders became livid. “And for thinking that we had anything to do with any of this, you’re fired, Morgan. Vacate the premises. Invoice me for your time.”

I watched him, saying nothing.

“Get … out … of … my … chair,” Terry Graves said.

“I don’t think that’s in your best interests, gentlemen,” I said, not moving.

“Our best …?” the producer shouted. “Should I call security?”

“I dunno, will that be how you handle the FBI?”

“What are you talking about?” Sanders demanded.

“You don’t think they’re coming here eventually, Dave?” I asked. “For an attorney, you have no sense of how criminal investigations go forward. They’ll be wanting to review the books, look at every file that Terry and you and Camilla Bronson have concerning the Harlows.”

Sanders stiffened. “My files are protected under attorney-client privilege.”

“And mine are protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution,” Terry Graves said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think any of that will fly in a case this high-profile. You will not be able to control this story, gentlemen, no matter what you do. It’s taken on a life of its own. Stand in its way? Get ready to be trampled.”

Sanders thought about that. His tone turned more businesslike. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I replied. “I’m telling you that if you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll allow me and my investigators access to all your files. We’ll look for anything amiss and notify you. That way you’ll have a heads-up before the FBI hands it to you with your head down.”

“You don’t think I know what’s in my files?” Terry Graves asked. “I do. And I’ll tell you, Morgan, I’m more than comfortable with what’s in there.”

“How about you, Dave?” I asked.

The entertainment attorney grimaced. “I’m fine too. And we’re not interested in your proposition. I stand by my decision. You and Private are fired. We don’t need your advice or services anymore.”

“Suit yourself,” I said, standing up finally and reaching out to shake Terry Graves’s hand.

The producer looked at my hand with extreme distaste, did not take it. Neither did Sanders. I exited as gracefully as I could, thinking that the Harlow-Quinn team really did need my advice, and really did need Private’s services. Take their security system, for example, especially the computer security system.

Like most people, Terry Graves was lazy when it came to things like passwords. I’d found his written down on a sticky note under a divider in the top drawer of his desk.

Leaving the bungalow and heading toward the gate and my car, parked just outside the Warner grounds, I kept my hands in my pants pockets and gripped the flash drives I’d used to copy everything I could find in the producer’s computer regarding the Harlows and Saigon Falls.

Chapter 61

TWO HOURS LATER, Justine sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban as Sci drove them north out of Thousand Oaks on the 101. Kloppenberg was monitoring up-to-the-minute radio coverage of the Harlow disappearance.

Justine barely listened. Her mind surged with battling thoughts and emotions about what she’d done so blithely earlier in the morning. How could she have done that? She barely knew Paul. And locked door or not, they’d taken such a chance, making love on the floor of the gym and up against the steel poles that supported the pull-up stations. But maybe the possibility of getting caught had only magnified the experience. Even now, hours afterward, Justine had to admit that the sex had been incredible, mind-blowing.

But that’s not me, she thought in sudden desperation. The Justine I know doesn’t hook up with strangers and … She alternated between wanting to call Paul, to tell him how amazing it all had been, and wanting to sob.

Was this the kind of random sexual acting out she had feared? She couldn’t come to any other conclusion. The knife fight in the jail cell in Guadalajara had seriously affected her. For God’s sake, she knew risky sexual behavior was a symptom of PTSD, and yet she’d just gone ahead, almost as if she were an adolescent again, unable to make rational choices.

“You okay?” Sci asked as they drove into Ojai and headed toward the Harlows’ ranch.

“Huh?” she replied, feeling foggier than normal. “I’m just tired, Sci. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“Lot of that going around,” Kloppenberg offered. “You see the text from Jack and Del Rio?”

Justine shook her head.

“Rick moved his right big toe about an hour ago. Jack saw it.”