Killer Ambition - [20]

“Donuts?” Bailey laughed.

“Nah, Duncan Froehman. They had a lot to say about who I should look into and how I should do it. Got to the point I offered them a ladder-”

“A ladder?” I asked.

“Yeah, so they could climb out of my ass.”

I barked out a laugh but Bailey was all business.

“So what’d you get?” she asked.

“Nada. Just a boatload of genius suggestions from Antonovich’s advisers about pretty much everyone in the film business and half the folks in television. Apparently everyone who labors to fill screens large and small is envious of Mr. Blockbuster.”

“I’m about to check out the cell phone records,” Bailey said. “Maybe they’ll give us something we can work with.”

“Already done, jefe,” Harrellson replied. “I made a copy and highlighted a few calls that might be worth checking out. Antonovich’s record has a million different numbers, but there are some calls after the first text message from our bad guy we should check out. The girl was pretty consistent. Same numbers every day. Only found one stray number that wasn’t a store or a club.”

He handed the pages to Bailey, and I moved next to her so I could see. On Russell’s cell phone bill, Harrellson had highlighted a few calls that were made after the first kidnapping message-but before the ransom e-mail was sent. I held out Russell’s phone records. “Do you recognize any of these highlighted numbers?” I asked.

Harrellson glanced back at the pages. “Not yet. But from what I’ve seen, a lot of these clowns have multiple numbers and they may not all be listed. So it’ll take a minute to run ’em all down.”

We moved on to Hayley’s phone records for the past month.

One highlighted number jumped out at me. Hayley had made a call to Brittany Caren just three weeks ago. Bailey and I exchanged a look.

Bailey pulled out her cell phone. “This time, I make the call.” She punched in the number. And got Brittany’s voice mail. Then she punched in another number.

“Russell, this is Detective Keller. I’ve been trying to get hold of Brittany Caren, but I keep getting her voice mail. Can you put me in touch with her?” Bailey listened for a moment. “I don’t know that she does.” Bailey listened again. “Yes, that’d be great. Thank you.”

Five minutes later we were back in the car and headed to Hancock Park.

11

“So how’d you get her to pick up the phone?” I asked.

Bailey was threading her way through the traffic, taking surface streets because after three o’clock, the freeways were anything but free. Especially the 101. It crawled like a giant metal beast with thousands of agonizingly slow-moving parts.

“I didn’t. Russell did. Don’t ask me how.”

But we soon found out how. A young man whose Neanderthal-bouncer aesthetic clashed almost audibly with the Mediterranean tile-roofed mansion showed us into a massive living room. I found that the clashing aesthetic was a continuing theme. It was a house at war with itself. The outside had promised earthy simplicity and lots of open space. But the inside delivered a mishmash of styles that cluttered every available square inch. The only thing any of the furniture, window treatments, and objets d’art had in common was a high price tag.

Heavy velvet drapery held back with gold-braided and tasseled tiebacks fought with giant Aubusson rugs. Overstuffed beige chenille sofas, pink leather ottomans, and barrel chairs covered in powder blue and rose fabric that nominally matched the rugs but clashed with everything else; vases, mini-sculptures (both ceramic and bronze) that cluttered every horizontal surface. If it’s true that a room sets a tone, then this one set off a screeching cacophony.

The bouncer gestured to the other end of the room, where two women, presumably Brittany and her mother, sat side by side on a love seat.

Had I seen her out on the street, I might not have recognized the once famous star. Brittany Caren had packed a lot of miles into her twenty or so years. Her long blonde hair was dull and overprocessed and her soft brown eyes had an unfocused, weary look. And she was far too thin-her cheeks were hollow and her arms protruded from her sleeveless silk blouse like winter twigs. But still and all, I could see what had set her apart: that indefinable “something” that turns all eyes to her, and only her.

Whatever you called that “something,” it had skipped over Brittany’s mother. Mom was thickening through the middle, but she had good legs that were crossed primly at the ankle, the pose most likely dictated by her tight, above-the-knee skirt. Short blonde hair and a less than stellar face-lift topped a bright green and hot pink ensemble. No mystery about who was responsible for the interior design that was making my eyes cross.

Bailey took the lead. “I’m Detective Keller and this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

Mom waved us toward the chairs with an irritable “You’re welcome.”

“And your name is?” I asked the mother.

“Patricia Caren. Russell said this was important, so I made time for you. But Brittany has an early call, so let’s make this brief.”