Her brow rose archly. “You are parenting me now, Jack?”
“Okay, we’re not going there,” I replied, hands up in instant surrender.
“No, we’re not, and let me be the first to tell you, I still don’t have squat on ESH Ltd. It’s a shell company, of course, registered in the Caymans, but all I’m coming up with is a filing agent in George Town, and he’s not answering his phone or returning my calls.”
I thought about Christine Townsend’s promise to look into the company. How long would that take?
“We have anyone on retainer in the Caribbean?”
“I’d be glad to pop over to Grand Cayman in the jet.”
“You’re too valuable here,” I said.
She pouted.
“What can I say? It’s the downside of being supercompetent.”
Mo-bot bit viciously into the last of her Krispy Kreme, gave her computer an order, scanned the screen, swallowed, said, “Carlos San Cielo, Puerto Rico.”
“I remember him, good guy,” I said. “Contact him. Have him fly in there, pay Mr. Registered Agent a vi
sit in person, tell him he represents someone with deep pockets who wishes to form, say, a dozen companies there, but in return, we need a little bit of information about ESH Ltd.”
She looked at me as if she’d caught me with my hand in the Krispy Kreme bag. “But you have no intention of forming companies in the Caymans.”
“Your point?” I asked.
Before Maureen could reply, Sci entered the lab, displayed a white iPhone in a plastic evidence sleeve, said, “It’s Malia Harlow’s. Last night it occurred to me that it was the only device with a memory left inside the Harlow house except those doctored security tapes.”
“Okay?” I said.
“I got it going at home and had a look,” Kloppenberg said, rolling his eyes at Mo-bot. “Some of the texts regarding Justin Bieber were a bit over the top.”
“Texts regarding Justin can never be over the top,” Mo-bot shot back. She had a picture of the teen crooner taped to the side of her computer along with a dozen other pop celebrities.
I frowned, checked my watch, and said, “Did you find anything? If not, I’m out of here. I’ve got a conference call with Peter Knight in the London office. He’s up to his waist in some sex scandal that’s breaking in Parliament.”
“Nothing as tawdry as that on Malia’s phone,” Sci said. “And nothing that answers any questions.”
“Too bad,” I said, heading toward the door.
“But I found something that raises questions,” he said, stopping me.
From his breast pocket, Kloppenberg removed a SIM card in a smaller evidence sleeve, donned latex gloves, got it out, and inserted it into a reader attached to one of the lab computers. A second later, a picture popped up on the screen. The photo was date-stamped September 24, roughly a month prior, and showed a group shot that must have been taken on a location set for Saigon Falls, with jungle vegetation and a muddy river visible in the background, perhaps the Mekong.
Thom Harlow was in the center of the picture, wearing Vietnam-era US Army fatigues, looking ruggedly handsome and yet sincere, sympathetic, and lovable—traits that had made him a bankable box-office star. Thom’s arm was draped lazily around his wife’s shoulder. Jennifer’s dark hair was pulled back tight, revealing the remarkable bone structure of her face. She wore a white short-sleeved blouse, khaki shorts, and aviator sunglasses. A vintage Nikon camera hung off one shoulder. Her pose, her entire look, said smart, adventurous, and yet oozed mystery and sexuality, traits that had made her an even more bankable star than her husband.
The children sat at their feet, arms around their knees. Malia and Jin were smiling. Miguel was looking off to his right somewhere. Cynthia Maines was there too, standing slightly to the left of the family, carrying a clipboard. Camilla Bronson and Terry Graves were there as well. My attention, however, swung to and held on the only other person in the picture.
Crouched above and behind the children, below and in front of Thom and Jennifer, she was stunningly exotic, mesmerizing in her own way even in the shadow of Jennifer, a woman whom People magazine twice voted “Sexiest Woman Alive.” Late teens, early twenties, she appeared to be at least partly Latina and partly Asian, with thick shiny dark hair pulled back in a long braid and skin the color of caramel. Her soft doe eyes seemed to speak of sadness or some hidden wound, making her look entirely vulnerable. But her cheekbones, teeth, and full lips were set hard, as if beneath whatever haunted her, she was built of iron or steel.
“Who is she?” I asked, gesturing at the photo.
“Exactly,” Sci said.
Chapter 75
JUSTINE FOUND THE address Anita Fontana had given her around ten thirty that morning. It was a small pale-blue fiftiesera bungalow on a sleepy side street off Lankershim Boulevard in Burbank.