Private L.A. Read Online Free PDF Page B

breakfast?
    Climbing from the helicopter after Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves, I spotted three middle-aged Latina women in maroon uniforms trotting toward us from one of the outbuildings.
    The publicist, the producer, and the attorney immediately veered off course and went straight to the women, with my team in tow.
    “Have you spoken to anyone?” Camilla Bronson demanded.
    The three wrung their hands, shook their heads. The tallest, whose blouse was monogrammed “Anita,” said, “No. I swear to you. We do exactly what Mr. Sanders say. We go to our rooms, say nothing to nobody. Just wait for you. We no sleep.”
    “Let’s continue to keep it quiet,” Sanders replied.
    The publicist glanced at me, said, “The press jackals will be all over this if we let them.”
    “Besides, we really don’t know anything yet, do we?” Terry Graves said.
    We followed him. Behind me, I heard Sci whisper to Mo-bot, “Well, I was thinking alien abduction, little green men looking to perform experiments on the most beautiful beings on Earth. What about you, Maureen?”
    “Specters? Ectoplasmic transport?” she said.
    I had to suppress a grin.
    “Who ya gonna call?” Kloppenberg whispered. “Private Ghostbusters!”
    I glanced over my shoulder to find the two of them beaming at their wit, and Del Rio and Justine hiding their smiles.
    Sanders turned from the three Mexican women. “Is there something funny in all this?”
    “No, Dave,” I said, covering. “Not at all.” Looking to Justine, I said, “You interview the help.” To Del Rio, I said, “Take the outbuildings and the security system. Sci, Mo-bot, you’re inside with me.”
    “We’re coming inside too,” Camilla Bronson said.
    “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “At least until we’ve done our initial sweep.”
    “Not a chance,” the publicist replied icily, and followed Sci and Mo-bot toward the veranda. Terry Graves and Sanders followed her.
    Before I could argue with them, Justine squealed with delight. A female Old English bulldog had appeared out of nowhere, panting, nervous, her white fur and paws soiled as if she’d been digging in the dirt.
    “That’s Miss Stella Kowalski,” Anita choked, tears welling in her eyes as Justine went to pet the bulldog. “She’s the children’s. Miguel’s. You see? The dog goes everywhere with them. Even Vietnam. This no good. She’s therapy dog. Miguel … he loves her.”
    At that the bulldog began to whimper and cry.

Chapter 11
    IT TOOK US several hours to make an initial inspection of the Harlows’ ranch house. Most rooms remained in mothballs, the furniture still wrapped in plastic. But the core area of the sprawling home spoke of a family wearily trying to resettle after a long journey, and, yes, of a life interrupted.
    Littering the kitchen counters were dirty dishes, half-eaten meals, and glasses crusted with dried red wine. The fridge was filled with vegetables, fruit, cartons of soy milk, and the pantry was stocked with a multitude of gluten-free items. The trash in the compactor stank of chicken blood. A cold mug of coffee sat in the microwave, which flashed “Finished.”
    The telephone answering machine was filled with multiple messages from Camilla Bronson, Terry Graves, and Sanders, as well as several production assistants, film editors, and fashion designers, all of them apologizing for intruding but desperate for a few minutes of the Harlows’ time. The television in the den off the kitchen was on, muted, showing the Cartoon Network and Scooby-Doo facing down yet another monstrous imposter. Lining a hall that led out to the garage was evidence of Jen Harlow’s legendary consumerism: stacks upon stacks of unopened boxes, recent and past shipments from various catalog merchandisers. In the garage, we found five wheel-less cars set up on blocks under custom covers that identified them as a Bugatti, a Maserati, a classic Corvette, and two Land Rovers.
    “That’s not right,”