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disappeared?” Justine asked. “They’ve got two days left, right?”
    The Harlows’ publicist said, “True, but they just stopped answering their phones, texts, and e-mails.”
    “When?”
    “Night before last,” the producer said. “I called all day yesterday on their private cell numbers, and Cynthia’s cell, and got no response from any of them.”
    The Harlows’ attorney said, “Finally, around midnight last night, the housekeeper at the ranch, Anita, answered the house phone.”
    The housekeeper claimed to have just returned to the ranch with two other members of the staff. The Harlows had given them all nine months off with partial pay while a caretaker maintained the place in their absence.
    “Anita said the ranch was empty,” Sanders said. “She said there were signs that the Harlows had been there, but that there was no one there now. No one. I told her not to touch anything, that she and the others were to go to their quarters and wait for me. Then I hung up and called you, Jack.”
    “So let me get this straight,” I said, trying to wrap my head around the situation, looking for fact, not conjecture. “Not only are the Harlows and their children missing, but the Harlows’ assistant—”
    “Cynthia Maines,” said Camilla Bronson. “Yes, she’s missing too.”
    “And the caretaker?”
    “As I understand it,” the attorney said.
    “No one else?” Justine asked.
    Sanders hesitated, replied, “Not that we know of.”
    “How do you know they haven’t just gone off somewhere on vacation?” Mo-bot asked.
    “Because TMZ or one of the other gossip sites would have found them,” Terry Graves said.
    “Okay,” I said, skeptical. “Ransom notes?”
    The attorney said, “Maybe there’s one at the ranch. We don’t know yet.”
    “I’m not questioning your judgment here, Dave,” I replied. “But why not call the FBI in? They’re the missing persons experts.”
    “We can’t do that,” Camilla Bronson said. “At least not until we find out what’s going on.”
    Sanders nodded. “We don’t know what’s happened, and until we do, we’re not going anywhere near law enforcement.”
    I said, “It’s also a question of business, isn’t it? If the people already invested in Saigon Falls were to find out the Harlows were missing, all hell would break loose.”
    Terry Graves stiffened but said, “Understandably, we don’t want that.”
    I wondered how far we could push a missing persons investigation before the Feds found out, took over, and tried to hit us with obstruction charges. That likelihood would be amped by the celebrity factor. The FBI loves celeb cases.
    “Fair enough,” I said at last. “But any evidence of violence and we’re notifying the cops and the Feds.”
    Before any of them could respond, the helicopter swung on the wind and dropped suddenly. I had a moment of flashback to the Chinook, right after we were hit by ground fire and the rotor disintegrated above us. I glanced quickly to Del Rio, who looked unaffected as he said, “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe the Harlows did take off to some unlikely place, wore disguises, managed to avoid the paparazzi.”
    “Not a chance,” Sanders replied. “I checked the Harlows’ Visa and AmEx records. They haven’t spent a dime since they bought gas down in Ojai the night they arrived.”
    “Which is an absolute impossibility,” added Camilla Bronson.
    “Why is that?” Kloppenberg asked.
    The publicist said, “Because Jennifer Harlow is a certifiable, world-class shopaholic.”

Chapter 10
    “IT’S TRUE,” SANDERS said. “The Harlows, and Jen in particular, rack up a lot of credit card charges every day. But since the night before last, nothing.”
    Out the helicopter window the Harlows’ Ojai ranch came into view, a beautiful, otherworldly place with a sprawling white ranch house, gardens, fountains, barns, and other outbuildings flanked by horse pastures and groves of almond, orange, and pecan trees.
    I