“You coming?” Szymanski asked as she stood glowering at Luke’s unfairly fine rear view.
“I am,” she confirmed darkly. Unlike the movie star, she was perspiring. She huffed her slightly damp bangs from her forehead.
She promised herself Glamour Boy wouldn’t trick her like that again.
*
Constitutionally unable to refrain, the first thing A.J. did was quickly walk the house and grounds. Though she’d studied floor plans prior to their arrival, experiencing the layout for herself was integral to her process. Her survey assured her the LA branch had swept and rearranged in accordance with Parker Hoyt’s strict standards. The security personnel whose paths she crossed seemed amenable to accepting her leadership. Also promising: Luke’s house manager had designated an appropriate space for her to run ops from. With that to-do item handled, briefing Luke’s staff on safety procedures was her next order of business.
Though she had a well-trained team, they couldn’t control everything. Instilling vigilance in Luke’s people was important. Knowing how to handle deliveries, to reduce information leaks, and to spot anything out-of-place increased the chances of good results.
As she’d expected, Luke’s live-in employees had different aptitudes for the task.
The kitchen where Martin called them together was at the back of the house and on a lower floor. The room was cavernous, with large high-set windows and enough equipment for a restaurant. Though her imagination wasn’t as wild these days, for just a second, she could picture an army of 1920s servants preparing a big dinner.
Luke was hugging a woman in a chef uniform. He released her when he saw A.J. had arrived.
“Ah,” he said neutrally. “You’re here. Why don’t I introduce everyone?”
He began with the house manager, Mr. Nettles. Tall and portly in an old-fashioned three-piece suit, he was indistinguishable—at least to A.J.—from a butler. Bookending him was the polished-looking female chef who doubled as a nutritionist. Rachel Fischer was something of a celebrity herself, due to having written a popular cookbook. Luke mentioned occasionally loaning her out to friends.
A.J. earmarked Fischer as a possible spreader of gossip.
Two Ukrainian maids seemed innocuous. They were young and didn’t speak much English. Luke introduced an older Hispanic couple as gardeners, which set off a tiny ping in her brain. Earlier, he’d said “my gardener”—singular. Wanting to focus, she let that pass momentarily.
His personal assistant, Eliza Crawford, raised the strongest flag of all. She was a nervous type, way too twitchy for comfort.
Guilty conscience
, her former cop-self thought.
“Is this everyone?” she asked when Luke was done.
His lip muscles contracted. “Everyone who lives in,” he said.
Well, that was interesting. For some reason, he’d lied to her.
Martin had been leaning on the door to a big steel fridge, watching Luke and his employees interact. From the way he straightened slightly, he’d also caught the telltale sign.
“Okay,” A.J. said to Luke. “If you’re finished reassuring everyone you’re all right, I’ll explain the new safety procedures.”
Maybe this was too brusque. Luke gave her a funny look. “I’m done. I’ll . . . let you do your thing.”
He left without saying he’d catch up to her later. Was she supposed to say it? Probably he was still annoyed over her reaction to their quickie on the plane. Screw it, though. She couldn’t let soothing his ego be her priority.
Protecting his person from more attacks superseded handholding.
She shoved the thought of him from her head as she ran through her directives. Though his staff listened attentively enough, she knew she’d have to repeat herself at some point. Civilians almost never picked up new habits on the first try.
Her father had taught her to at least pretend patience.
“So that’s it,” she said, wrapping up. “If you think of questions, any Hoyt-Sands employee can answer them.”
No one raised their hand. The staff who didn’t work in the kitchen began leaving. Eliza Crawford, the PA, seemed especially keen to slip away. Martin smiled when he saw A.J. notice her eagerness.
All yours
, he mouthed to her.
She knew without asking he’d handle the roving chef.
That, A.J. thought, was the value of good coworker chemistry. With the quickening pulse of a coyote scenting a juicy rabbit, she followed the PA to the corridor.
“Hold up,” she said to the young woman.
“Me?” Eliza’s expression was dismayed. She was in her early twenties, plumply pretty with soft blue eyes and not-quite-natural blonde hair. Those sleek straight locks had to cost her a pretty penny at a salon. The headband Eliza used to control them was that of a TV-style schoolgirl.
Twenty-four was the same as sixteen on the small screen.
A.J. smiled pleasantly. “You can help me fill in a couple blanks. We can walk and talk, if you like. You seem to know the boss pretty well.”
This didn’t flatter Eliza the way she hoped. The assistant scrunched her nose. “I wouldn’t say ‘well.’ I mean, I’ve been here eighteen months, but we’re not BFFs.”
“Oh come on.” A.J. shortened her stride to match the petite woman’s. “A year and a half is forever in La-La Land. You keep Luke’s schedule. You know everyone he sees. Plus, you’ve been living in his house.”
“I just do my job. Mr. C and I don’t fraternize.”
A.J. had expected a different reaction. Most young women in Eliza’s shoes would have inflated their importance. Deciding to change tack, she dropped her voice confidentially. “I need the skinny on the other staff. And anyone Mr. Channing sees regularly.
Someone
doesn’t wish him well. Part of my job is discovering who that is.”
They’d reached a door Eliza seemed to want to disappear behind.
“Are these your rooms?” A.J. asked. Apprehension flicked into the woman’s face. She opened her mouth to utter some refusal, but A.J. didn’t give her a chance to speak. “Perfect! We can talk inside, one-on-one.”
“Fine,” Eliza sighed resignedly. “But you can’t stay forever. I have work to catch up on.”
A.J. followed her into a suite that included a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bath. A pair of vintage walkout windows overlooked scrubby grasses in the side yard. It was a pleasant space—feminine, well kept, with a few expensive items among the thrift store finds. One in particular caught her eye. Luke probably paid well but not enough for a signed Erté print. A.J. had worked for a client who collected deco art. Pieces like that
Queen of the Night
sold for upwards of $10,000. Intrigued, A.J. strolled closer.
“That was a gift,” the girl said defensively.
“Nice.” A.J. didn’t ask from whom. Another of Eliza’s colleagues might supply the answer without risking the assistant shutting down. A quick glance around revealed zero personal photographs. Not spying other suspicious items, A.J. sat in one of the small armchairs. “So. Who’s got a beef with your employer?”
With a second long-suffering sigh, Eliza plopped down across from her. “No one. Mr. C is nice. Everyone gets along with him.”
A.J. let one eyebrow express her disbelief.
“Okay,” Eliza relented. “His partner, Kevin Reyes, is a toad. He’s always hitting on female staff. Doesn’t like to hear ‘no’ either.”
“He ever push it too far?”
“Not
push
, push. He’ll just call you a bitch if you turn him down. Once, he made one of the maids cry. Tried to kiss her at a party when he was drunk. I don’t think he’d hurt Luke, though. Luke is his meal ticket. He’d be down the drain without him.”
Reyes probably didn’t relish everyone thinking so. The behavior fit what Martin had dug up online: that Luke’s partner settled a sexual harassment suit out of court a year ago. Add that to his gambling debts and his jealousy, and a picture began to form. That the PA didn’t like Reyes seemed a point in her favor.
“What about people who don’t live in?” A.J. asked. “People who visit regularly.”
Eliza twisted her mouth in thought. “Like the masseuse or his personal trainer?”
“Sure.”
“The masseuse is nice. Sometimes she gives the rest of us a discount. The personal trainer seems like he’s on the make, but he’s okay otherwise.”
“On the make?”
“You know, he drops hints that he’d like Luke to help him get discovered.” Eliza shrugged dismissively. “Mr. C never takes the bait, but the trainer probably talks that way to all his clients. Out here, everyone wants to act.”
“So no big deal.”
“Not a big enough deal to kill over.”
The PA seemed confident of her assessment, and A.J. was inclined to believe her. Eliza was relaxed now, her previous twitchiness absent.
A.J. tried a new question. “What about girlfriends and costars?”
She’d hit on a sensitive spot. Eliza’s arms retreated in the chair. “You’ll have to be more specific. Mr. C’s had a lot of both.”
A.J. leaned forward across her knees, careful to keep her body language soft. She pretended she hadn’t noticed the evasion. “I’m interested in any relationship that didn’t end happily.”
“Well, no woman is
happy
when Mr. C ends things. He’s a good guy. And since they’re usually actresses or models, they like being seen with him.”
This struck A.J. as a sad statement. Luke had more to offer than PR value. Possibly he should also broaden his dating pool. Shaking off that idea, she forced herself to focus. “What about Christie James?”
Eliza shook her head firmly. “She and Luke never hooked up like people said. That was just fans inventing stories they wanted to believe. Making up their own soap opera.”
“You’re sure?” A.J. asked, Eliza’s manner inspiring her to probe.
“Positive. They’re strictly coworkers.”
Not blissful coworkers, if Martin’s report were trustworthy. Because A.J. bet it was, she had to wonder why Eliza didn’t mention the pair’s animosity. She, of all people, was in a position to have observed it directly.
The PA road-blocked her chance to ask by smoothing her skirt primly. “Is that all? I have work to catch up on.”
A.J. saw she wouldn’t get any more out of her right then. Surrendering for the moment, she pushed up from her chair. “That’s all for now. Thanks for giving me the time you did.”
The manners were a lesson from her mom the lawyer. She said always be extra nice if your questions tick someone off. That way, they ask themselves if maybe they shouldn’t have been annoyed. With any luck, guilt leaves them softened up for your next session.
A.J. was pretty sure Luke’s personal assistant warranted one of those.
*
Getting a new job in gear took time. A.J. didn’t reconvene with Martin and Szymanski until later that evening. Because she knew them best, she’d entrusted them with questioning people. The LA guys manned the spacious ops room, which was on the second floor in the near center of the house. Once a fancy drinks parlor, it was now their onsite HQ. Everything they needed had been moved in: desks, computers, a whiteboard for assignments. Two techs monitored the multiple surveillance screens while another worked on a computer. He was organizing information they’d likely need tomorrow.
Over dinner at the table in the corner, she and her New York colleagues traded what they’d discovered.
Fortunately, Rachel Fischer wasn’t a health zealot. Szymanski made happy noises around a serving of spicy ribs. He was a big guy—not fat but fond of food. Of the three of them, he sweated the most over staying fit.
Laughed silently at his moans of pleasure, Martin opened the note-taking app on his tablet. “Since Brian is busy with his new friends, I’ll start. Mr. Nettles, the house manager is respected but also feared. He
may
have a deal going with suppliers he orders from. General opinion is the chef likes to namedrop too much. Two people called her a ‘phony bitch,’ but said her cooking made up for it.”
“Mmm,” Szymanski agreed with his mouth full.
Martin swiped onto a new page. “A housemaid was fired last year for selling information to the paparazzi. I’ve asked the LA office to track her down. See if she’s still in the area. The other thread I’d like to tug is that nobody—and I mean nobody—thinks much of Kevin Reyes. If I could figure out his motive, I’d move him to the top of our suspect list.”
Szymanski swallowed. “The current maids don’t like him either. They seem on the level—and loyal to their boss, as far as I can tell. Admittedly, the Ukrainian my nana taught me is rusty. The gardeners didn’t send up red flags. The salary Channing pays them comes in welcome for sending back to relatives in their home country. Same for the maids, I gather.”
“Maybe the motive is insurance,” A.J. conjectured.
Szymanski’s brow furrowed a moment then cleared as he realized she’d backtracked topics. “You mean a key person policy. Channing and Reyes are partners in Two Dudes. Reyes could get a big payout if Luke dies.”
“Not if Reyes is the one who kills him.” This injection of reality came from Martin. “Plus, Luke isn’t just a partner. He’s a seriously bankable star. He’s got to be worth more to Two Dudes alive than dead.”
“Reyes might think he’d get away with it,” Szymanski tried. “Or what if he’s racked up more debts and needs money right away?”
“Please,” Martin said. “There are a million easier ways for a producer to make money in Hollywood—including legal ones.”
A.J. let out sigh. She’d enjoyed her theory while it lasted.
“You know I’m right,” Martin said. “If Reyes is behind this, he’s has a reason with some logic. He may be a douche, but I get the impression he’s not crazy.”
“Crazies are harder to pin down,” A.J. said glumly.
Martin patted her forearm. “Harder but not impossible. I’ll ask your dad to dig deeper into Reyes. You having Channing’s PR firm send him the iffy mail?”
“Already done,” A.J. said, glad she could confirm. “Scans anyway. Hard copies should arrive tomorrow. Dad will CSI the creepiest ones.”
“So we’re doing what we can.
You’re
doing what you can. How was the jumpy assistant, by the way?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not catching anger from her toward Luke . . . or romantic obsession. She’s hiding something, though. I’ll tackle her again when I get a chance.”