Bailey studied me for a moment. “You look ridiculously sober. You stuck with water, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Didn’t trust yourself?” she asked.
“Of course I trusted myself.” I cadged a cube of cheese off Bailey’s plate. “I just want to keep a clear head.”
“Time to put a stop to that,” Drew said. “What’ll you have?”
I ordered a glass of pinot noir, and Drew moved off.
“So…you didn’t trust yourself,” Bailey said.
“Nope, not for one second.”
We laughed, and when Drew set down my glass of wine, we toasted.
“To knowing your limits.” Bailey raised her glass, and I clinked it with mine.
“To that.”
We took a sip.
“And he really didn’t see anyone else?” I asked.
“Not unless she worked the cleaning crew at the station. From what I saw, he was in the office night and day. I’d guess he was keeping himself distracted.”
“Know what I’d guess?”
But I never got a chance to say, because Bailey’s work cell phone rang. If Bailey was next up on the roster, she wouldn’t have been drinking, so it couldn’t be work. I listened, hoping to get some information, but all I heard was “Yep” and “Got it” and “Let me write that down.” Finally, Bailey ended the call and drained her water glass in one long gulp. Then she took my glass of wine-still practically full-out of my hand and set it down.
“Hey!”
“O’Hare’s sick, so I’m up. Got a kidnapping call. Russell Antonovich.”
Russell Antonovich. A name attached to so many blockbusters even I, who knew nothing about Hollywood hotshots, recognized it.
“Someone kidnapped him?”
“No.” Bailey made sure no one was near us, then lowered her voice. “His teenage daughter, Hayley. Antonovich delivered the ransom and was supposed to get her back within the hour. That was two hours ago.”
Bailey motioned to Drew that she’d call, and we headed for the road.
Bailey got off the 405 freeway and headed east on Sunset Boulevard. I was about to ask where we were going when she turned onto Bellagio Road-which led to the heart of Bel Air. If I were a billionaire director I’d live there too.
Bel Air is in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, and it’s the highest of the three legs known as the Platinum Triangle-the other two being Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills. The most expensive homes in the world occupy real estate in that wedge of land, and the majority of those homes are in Bel Air. The biggest and most lavish are usually closest to Sunset Boulevard, but you’d never know that, because massive trees and dense shrubbery hide all but the gated entries, and even those gates are tough to find, hidden as some are by deliberately overgrown leafy climbers.
Which explains why Bailey was frowning and muttering to herself as she scanned the road for house numbers. But when we reached Bel Air Country Club, she made a U-turn and pulled over. “Do me a favor and look for this number. The navigation says we’re there, but I don’t see a damn thing.” She handed me a scrap of paper with an address and headed back down the road. One minute later I told her to stop and peered closely at a set of massive black iron gates that were almost completely obscured by towering elm and cypress trees. The tops of the gates met in an arc, and there in the apex, woven into the iron scrollwork, was the number.
“This is it.” If I hadn’t been parked in front of it and looking hard, I’d never have seen it.
I pointed out a discreet black metal box mounted on an arm in the brick wall, and Bailey pushed the button. A voice that sounded like a British butler’s said, “Yes?” Bailey identified us, and he told us to hold out our badges. I couldn’t see any cameras, but I didn’t imagine he’d have asked us to do that just for giggles, so I held them outside the window, not sure where to aim them. After a couple of seconds the gates swung open, and Bailey steered up the brick lined road.
Los Angeles has some of the most outrageously opulent manses in the country and Bailey and I had seen our share over the years, but nothing compared to this. The road opened to a bricked-in area that was the size of half a football field, in the middle of which was a massive Italian Renaissance-style fountain, complete with cherubs’ and lions’ heads that spewed water. Towering over the grounds was a palatial two-story Tudor-style house all in that same matching brick. It was tastefully covered in ivy that obediently climbed where it best accented the archways and latticed windows and formed a large
