Killer Ambition - [24]

We headed for our respective bedrooms, and Bailey warned me we’d be starting the day bright and early. The downside of Bailey as an overnight guest was that when she said “early,” she meant the crack of dawn. She’d yanked me out of bed in the past, and let me tell you, it’s bracing. I set my alarm for six thirty to make sure I didn’t give her the chance to do it again.

I woke up before my alarm, which tells you how much I didn’t want to relive the Bailey Shake. I put on my robe and walked onto the balcony to sample the weather. The sky was an unmarred powder blue and there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. An early harbinger of yet another cooker of a day. Damn. I’d planned to wear a dress, but that’s such a pain when I’m running around in the world, as I knew I would be today. I pulled out the lightest pair of cotton slacks I could find, a sleeveless buttoned blouse, and a light cardigan to combat the blast of air-conditioning I’d be in and out of all day.

When I came out to the living room, Bailey, who’d left some clothes behind when she’d had an extended stay at my place during our last case, was already dressed and digging heartily into her breakfast. It was a tantalizing stack of pancakes with a side of bacon. Bailey is tall and lean and one of those obnoxious people who can eat anything and not gain weight; and she loves to rub my nose in it every chance she gets. Toni and I have plotted her demise on many an occasion. I noticed that Bailey was dressed in similar attire to mine, except she wore a jacket to hide her shoulder holster. Personally, I preferred to carry my gun in my purse. It accommodated everything from my little.22 Beretta to my.44 Glock.

“Did you order for me?” I asked. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the large pot on the table.

“Yeah, your pathetic little egg whites and stewed tomato are over there.” She pointed to a silver dome on the side table.

I sat down and spread a napkin on my lap. “What do you think of the story Brittany told us about that writer, Tommy Whatsisname?” I uncovered my sad little egg whites, scooped up a forkful, and tried to look ecstatic.

“Tommy Maher,” she said. “So now we’ve got someone with a possible motive.”

“If that script really did turn into a mega-blockbuster, I could see how someone would go nuts enough to want to destroy Russell.”

“But it’s been what? Ten years since that movie came out?”

“At least. Yeah, that’s an awfully long time to wait for revenge.”

“Still, we may as well see where it takes us. I looked up the show Brittany starred in at the time: Circle of Friends. They shot it at the Warner Brothers Ranch Studio in Burbank. We can go talk to them and see if anyone remembers the story.”

“You want to call ahead and make sure they get us a ‘drive-on’?” I said as I slithered my fork toward Bailey’s pancakes. I was getting into position to sneak a bite while she made the call.

“Look at you, using the lingo,” Bailey said. “Been there, done that. And I see you, Knight, so put down the fork.”

Seeing my crushed look, Bailey relented and pushed her plate forward. “I’m done anyway. But make it snappy, we’ve got to get moving.”

Ten minutes later, and a little high on carbs and syrup, I was in the car and we were heading for the freeway.

The Warner Brothers Ranch Studio is a little gated city. The head of security had arranged a parking space for us and sent out a guard in a golf cart to escort us to his office. Bailey and I had discussed whether we should just ask Russell about what happened with Tommy. But if this argument had some significance to the case, it would be better for us to find out all we could from uninvolved-or less involved-third parties before we heard Russell’s side of things.

The guard drove us to a building at the far end of the studio lot and stopped in front of a door marked HEAD OF SECURITY. The nameplate under that title said NED JUNGER. We knocked on the door, and a ruddy-faced man as wide as he was tall-and he was at least six feet two-answered.

“Detectives,” he said.

We shook hands, and mine disappeared into his gigantic paw as I told him I was a prosecutor. No sense getting off on the wrong foot by pretending to be someone I’m not. This time at least. He gestured for us to take a seat in the wire-framed chairs in front of his desk, and he settled into his own much larger and cushier chair behind it.

I told him what we’d heard about Tommy Maher and Russell. He nodded.

“I remember that. I’d just started here. That was, what, ten years ago? But I heard about it. You thinking that has something to do with Hayley being missing?”

“We don’t know,” Bailey said. “We’re just checking into all possibilities.”

“Sure. Though it’s hard to see the…well, why don’t I just tell you what I know and leave you two to connect the dots?”

Ned leaned back and held on to the arms of his chair. “Russell came up with that screenplay, and right away there was talk about it being a blockbuster. Wonderland Warriors. You ever see it?”

We admitted we hadn’t. I could see Ned was winding up to tell us a story that was probably recycled for every newcomer on the lot.