Private L.A. (Private 6)

“Absolutely,” Terry Graves said. “Whatever you’ve turned up, don’t expect to be paid for it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of that,” I said, marveling at the way the man’s brain worked. “But you should know that people who work at Private are suckers for lost causes. We also have a deep aversion for jobs left unfinished.”

The producer’s eyes darted to Justine and back. “What have you found?”

“That the three of you are colossal liars,” I said, speeding up before any of them could protest. “We can’t figure out exactly why yet.”

“But we’re close,” Justine said.

“Get out,” Sanders said hotly. “Take the help with you. Time’s up.”

I didn’t move, said as firmly as I would to one of Justine’s terriers, “Sit down. The three of you. Or I will make a call to the FBI that will turn your world so fucking far upside down and confining, it will take a Houdini act on your part to get any of it right again.”

They watched me for a long beat, trying to see if I was bluffing. Then, one by one, and more contritely, they took seats.

Camilla Bronson cleared her throat, said, “What is it you think we’ve lied to you about?”

“All sorts of things,” Justine said.

Sanders scowled.

I said, “But we’ll limit the discussion at present to the Harlows’ finances.”

That got their attention. “What about them?”

“You told us, Dave, that they were on the verge of bankruptcy,” I said. “Nothing could be further from the truth, isn’t that right?”

“No, it’s not right,” he snapped. “They were spending far beyond their means, and they were in danger of personal bankruptcy, Chapter Seven.”

I saw the nuance. “But not corporate bankruptcy, Chapter Eleven?”

He studied me. “They were on more solid ground there.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because Thom got the cash from the mystery investor you told us about?”

“That’s right,” he said, sounding like he was on surer ground himself.

“Or should I say Harlow-Quinn got the money?” I said, looking at Terry Graves. “Is that right?”

The producer hesitated but then nodded. “Yes, it was … a good thing.”

“No doubt,” Justine said agreeably. “So who is Mr. Mysterious Deep Pockets?”

Sanders rolled his palms outward. “As I’m sure you understand, this kind of investor prefers to remain anonymous, and we can’t breach the attorney-client and fiduciary privileges.”

Terry Graves almost smiled. But Camilla Bronson was scratching her right forearm. It was the first unpolished thing I’d ever seen her do.

“Lying again,” I snapped. “You three are pathological. What did that come from? A genetic defect? A rotten childhood? Or did you all study hard to be lying asses?”

As one, their faces reddened and twisted in anger. Sanders struggled to stand. The publicist did too, saying, “I’m not listening to—”

Justine said, “We know that ESH Ltd is the deep pockets.”

“Nicely done, by the way,” I said. “The offshore company. The Panamanian bank. Just enough distance that you could claim the money came from a mysterious investor.”

Sanders’s face had looked ready to explode, but now he sank into his chair. Camilla Bronson followed, scratching at her forearm again.

Terry Graves had paled considerably. “How could you know about ESH?”