Private L.A. (Private 6)

“They promised us an orphanage and a school,” Aboubacar wrote. “They say they have built several in my country. But ignore the Harlows’ glamour. Come here and look for yourself. There are none that I can find.”

Justine said, “He’s probably just a kook, don’t you think?”

The rest of the testimonials we’d looked at had been so uniformly full of praise that I was about to agree with her. But then I noticed something that had been staring us in the face all along.

Doors began to open in my mind, and through them I saw dimensions we’d never considered before when it came to Thom and Jennifer Harlow.

“What?” Justine said, seeing something in my expression. “You believe him?”

“We have a bunch of things to check out before I’ll say that,” I replied. “And then we’re going to have a face-to-face chat with the friendly crew over at Harlow-Quinn.”

Chapter 92

DAVE SANDERS LIVED in Brentwood in a sprawling Georgian manor surrounded by a high wall and a gate that faced North Carmelina Avenue. Driving one of the company Suburbans now that my Touareg was totaled, I pulled up to the gate around seven thirty that night, about forty minutes after the Kid alerted us that Sanders had returned home and, surprise, was entertaining this evening. His guests? Camilla Bronson and Terry Graves.

I hit the buzzer by the gate, looked up at the camera. After several moments, Sanders answered gruffly, “What do you want, Morgan?”

“I’ve got the Harlows’ staff from the ranch with me,” I said. “They’d like to see the children.”

“Impossible,” he snapped. “What business do you—?”

“I’ve got a writ here,” I said, cutting him off and waving a piece of paper out the window. “Signed by Judge Maxwell, ordering you to allow them to see the Harlow children. If you do not open this gate, I will call LAPD, and they will see the order carried out.”

For several seconds Sanders said nothing, then, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Jack. But fair warning, I don’t trust you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Dave,” I said brightly. “Now open the gate.”

A pause, then a loud click and the steel gates swung back. We drove onto a lighted drive that split before a long narrow reflecting pool that finished in a fountain in front of the house.

“Wasn’t this place in The Beverly Hillbillies?” I asked Justine as I took the right fork in the drive.

She looked at me quizzically. “Sorry, that show was a bit before my time.”

“Mine too, but watch it sometime,” I replied. “A classic. I really think this might be the place where Jethro and Miss Hathaway did their funny business.”

She looked at me like I was nuts, and then laughed. It was good to see her smile again. We parked out front where the cement drive gave way to a mosaic of inlaid stone. We got out, opened the back doors, released Anita Fontana, Maria Toro, and Jacinta Feliz, who turned nervous and submissive when Sanders opened the massive front door and came out under the portico, followed by Camilla Bronson and Terry Graves.

“Where’s this writ?” Sanders demanded.

I handed it to him, winked at the publicist and the producer, said, “Amazing how swiftly judges react when the FBI’s special agent in charge requests something. And you’ll see that Justine Smith is named as court-appointed supervisor of this and future visits.”

For once Camilla Bronson was at a loss for words. Terry Graves acted as if we were unpleasant bugs come to call.

Sanders read the writ closely, looking for loopholes, I suppose, but the document was ironclad. He handed it back to me, sniffed, “You could have called and made an appointment.”

“And miss breaking bread with the Harlow-Quinn team?” I said. “Not a chance. But first: the kids?”

The Harlows’ attorney nodded stiffly toward the door. The housekeeper, the cook, and the maid went by him quickly into a large marble foyer with a sweeping staircase that rose to a second floor. I came in last, nodded, said, “In the old Beverly Hillbillies show, didn’t Jed Clampett live here, in this house?”

Sanders looked insulted. “He most certainly did not.”

“Striking resemblance.”

In a deepening huff, the attorney led us off the foyer to a screening room where the children were watching a movie about a tailless dolphin.

“Miguel!” Anita cried.

The boy looked over the seat at her, acted as if he’d expected never to see her again. “Nita!” he yelled, and ran into her arms.