Private L.A. (Private 6)

“Oh, honey cheeks, I know,” Johnson said, turning to her and laying on a sweet effeminate accent. “I’ll take ’em off ’fore I eat, but this girl’s gotta pee.”

Without waiting for an answer, Johnson darted by her toward the restrooms. “Sir!” the hostess called after him. “Ma’am?”

But Johnson paid her no mind as he pushed into the men’s room and let the door shut behind him. Finding an empty stall, he entered, got the guns from the pack, and put it back on. He held the suppressed pistols reversed, butts facing the front, palm to the action, fingers cradling the trigger guards, barrels flush to his lower forearms, a carry that often fooled the best trained of men and women, even if only for an extra moment or two.

Stepping from the stall less than twenty-five seconds after he’d entered, Johnson said, “Minute thirty, maybe less.”

“He’s waiting,” Cobb said.

From that point forward, Johnson did not pause. He pulled open the door, skated past a family of five chatting with the hostess. Dodging around them, he passed between a waitress filling a coffeepot next to the stainless kitchen door and a mom with three Cub Scouts, never heard them giggling at him.

Rolling now across the gray-green floor, seeing the cops in tunnel vision, Johnson crossed his hands, popped the left gun into the air and let go of the right weapon. He grabbed the guns with opposite hands. Unfolding his arms, swinging the suppressed barrels inward, past each other, and forward, he found the triggers and aimed at point-blank range.

Chapter 77

JUSTINE FOUND CYNTHIA Maines just where she’d said she would be: in Burbank, in the cafeteria on the Warner Brothers lot. It was late afternoon and the place was quiet, just a few people having coffee. Justine had not seen the Harlows’ personal assistant since the children were released. She remembered how Maines had been angry, defiant. Now she appeared overwhelmed, sick, almost defeated.

“What’s happening?” Maines asked as if she couldn’t take any more.

Justine had called Maines and requested the meeting. But she’d found over the years that understanding up front the state of mind of the person she was interviewing helped immensely during investigations. She said, “Tell me what’s going on with you first.”

Maines made a disgusted noise and gestured toward the cafeteria window. “Evidently I don’t have an office at Harlow-Quinn anymore. I was told to leave this morning.”

“By Terry Graves?”

Maines nodded bitterly. “Camilla and Dave were there too. My God, I’ve known them all for more than ten years. They just cut me off.”

“You tell this to the FBI?”

“Of course,” Maines said.

“And?”

“They said that’s their prerogative, and then asked me all this stuff that was all BS.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know,” Maines said, throwing her napkin on the table. “About the studio, and whether Warner and the other investors were freaking out, wondering if all the money invested in Saigon Falls is gone. They said the studio execs hardly mentioned Thom or Jennifer, said it was just the money they were interested in, which is fucking depressing, you know?”

“That all?”

“No, they asked me the same kind of stuff you did. And about Terry and Camilla, and Sanders, and everyone who works at H-Q.”

Tears began again. “It’s like I’ve been shipwrecked or something, cut off.” She choked. “I miss Jen and Thom. This is the only job I’ve ever had, and I …”

Maines wept. Justine sighed, and, wondering about all the hurt that seemed to be going around lately, she moved to the other side of the table to hold the woman.

Maines said, “I feel helpless. I feel like people are blaming me.”

“Helpless is a horrible place to be,” Justine said, rubbing her back. “Being blamed for things beyond your control is worse. Dealing with this sort of situation usually involves letting go and focusing on what you can control.”

Maines stilled, looked embarrassed, grabbed the napkin and wiped at her tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

“How about helping me find the Harlows?”

That seemed to offer Maines some hope to grasp because she said, “Anything you want. Any time you want. Same as I told the FBI.”

“Okay,” Justine said, returning to her seat. “Did you know about the secret passage off Jennifer’s closet, the one that led down to Thom’s editing room and also up to a panic room with a two-way mirror that overlooks their bedroom?”