Private L.A. (Private 6)

A scan of the check appeared on the screen, made out to Harlow-Quinn. The check was drawn on a Panamanian bank and dated two days prior to the Harlows’ disappearance. The account holder was identified as ESH Ltd.

“Who’s ESH Ltd?”

“Don’t know,” she admitted. “Yet. But here’s the really interesting thing.”

Mo-bot gave her computer another command, and records of four other payments from ESH Ltd to Harlow-Quinn appeared. One for two million. Three for five million each. All had been made within the last twenty-four months.

I glanced at the total, said, “Twenty-seven million. There’s the deep, deep pockets. Whoever ESH Ltd is, they own a third of this film, maybe more.”

“Sounds about right,” Mo-bot agreed. “Whoever they are, they’ve got lots of money in the Harlow-Quinn game.”

“And yet Terry Graves never mentioned getting a ten-million-dollar cash infusion,” I said.

“Hard to believe,” Mo-bot said.

Chapter 71

“SIR, YOU’RE NOT supposed to be here,” a voice complained, and I felt my feet rudely pushed out of the way. “You need to sleep, go home, find a hotel room or something.”

In a chair in the corner of Del Rio’s room in the medical center, I blinked awake to find a Filipina nurse named Angela glaring at me, hands on her hips. She could not have been more than five feet tall, but she was imposing and I sat up quickly, saying, “I didn’t know I was—”

“Don’t listen to him, Angela,” Del Rio called from the bed. “Jack’s been a freeloader going way back. He’ll sleep anywhere he can.”

I grinned. That sounded like the Del Rio I knew and loved. Then I looked back at the nurse, who was still royally ticked off. My face fell. She tapped her nurse’s clog on the floor, arms crossed, said, “I have to bathe this poor man. You want to watch?”

“I think I’ll spare Rick that final indignity,” I said, stood, edged away from her, feeling like she might try to bite me if I wasn’t careful.

Del Rio was laughing, so I went out the door with a major smile on my face. There were many things about my life at that point that were muddy, to say the least, but hearing my best friend laugh was not one of them. Hearing that laugh gave me hope that no matter what Tommy or Carmine or the team at Harlow-Quinn or No Prisoners might be plotting, an important part of my life was going to be all right.

That thought was enough to keep me in a positive state as I waited until six a.m. for the cafeteria line to open, then ordered up two bacon-and-eggs-over-easy breakfasts and carried them back to Del Rio’s room, mulling over events prior to my coming to the hospital last night.

Sanders, Terry Graves, and Camilla Bronson had not returned my calls. But Special Agent Christine Townsend had, and after hearing what we’d found in the Harlow-Quinn files, she’d promised to have someone look into ESH Ltd. The rub was that she didn’t know how long that would take.

On the way over to the hospital, Sci had given me a full oral report on what had been discovered and not discovered at the Harlows’ estate, including the body of Héctor Ramón, the secret shaft, and the camera mounts in the panic room. He also said Justine wasn’t feeling well and had asked him to take her home early. He said she’d been quiet the entire trip down from Ojai.

“Doesn’t sound like her,” I’d said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Sci had admitted.

I’d called Justine’s house and cell phone several times, left messages, but had not heard back until shortly before I fell asleep in Del Rio’s hospital room. Around midnight, she’d texted me that she was okay, but dead tired and crazy for sleep.

I knew the feeling and yawned as I entered Del Rio’s room with breakfast, only to come up short when Angela blocked the way, looking at the food suspiciously.

“What’s that?” she demanded.

“Bacon and eggs over easy, English muffin, black coffee,” I replied. “His all-time favorite breakfast.”

She shook her head. “Richard is on a special diet.”

“No worries,” I said, sweeping past her. “I’ll eat Richard’s bacon.”

“Wait—” she sputtered angrily.

“Angela?” Del Rio called. “C’mon, I can’t take the stuff they bring around on the carts. There’s nothing wrong with my swallow reflex. A speech pathologist lady checked yesterday. She said I was good for anything I wanted.”

“Humph,” Angela said, glancing at me as if I were public enemy number one. “I’ll look at the chart again. If it’s not on the chart, he’s getting out of here.”

Then she stormed out of the room. Del Rio said, “She’s kind of protective.”