“Thanks, Eric. I’ll keep it in mind.”
If we never found a suspect, I wouldn’t have to make any decisions. But for now, I couldn’t let go. I wanted to find Hayley, even if we never nailed the kidnapper.
I headed downstairs to the lobby and found Bailey sitting in her detective-mobile in the circular drive. Angel, the doorman, was talking to her through the passenger window. I walked out of the air-conditioned hotel into a wall of heat. Only eight o’clock in the morning and it already was eighty degrees and felt like it was about ninety.
“Hey, Angel, they ever going to let you get a summer uniform?” I asked. He wore the same wool slacks and gold-braided jacket all year long. It pained me to look at him.
“Sure, Rachel. Didn’t you see the memo? Starting tomorrow, we all get to wear Speedos. I can’t wait.” He pointedly looked down at his size-forty slacks as he opened the passenger door for me.
Angel shut the door and patted the roof, and Bailey took us out to Fifth Street and northbound on the 101 freeway. Southbound traffic was virtually at a standstill, but the northbound side was blissfully wide open. I almost felt guilty as we sailed down the freeway in full view of those poor slobs mired in commuter quicksand.
“You got your buddy working on the cell site locations?” I asked.
“Yep. With a little bit of luck, she’ll be able to triangulate the source of that first text message sent from Hayley’s phone. And we’re pulling all of Russell’s and Hayley’s cell phone records.”
“But that’s only going to help with the first message. The actual ransom demand was an e-mail.” Which meant it didn’t necessarily come from a cell. There hadn’t been any standard sign-off like “Sent from my iPhone,” so we couldn’t yet tell what device it had come from.
Bailey gripped the steering wheel. “I know.”
I shifted in my seat and tried to control my agitation. I could feel time passing, the seconds turning into minutes, minutes into hours, the hours into days. Although it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the ransom note was sent, Hayley’s peril increased exponentially with each passing moment. The tightness in Bailey’s voice told me she was feeling it too.
We got off at Highland and took Sunset Boulevard west. Prosaic strip malls, dry cleaners, and thrift shops gave way to giant billboards touting the latest movies, television series, and vodka, and chic little shops selling belts that cost more than a month’s salary. Bailey turned north and we headed through narrow winding streets into the Hollywood Hills. High atop one of those hills sat Russell Antonovich’s “party” house: a low-slung Spanish-style with tiled roof and arched wooden door. As was the case with so many of the homes perched on hills like this, the house looked tiny from the street. But I knew from past experience that most of it stretched backward, propped up on stilts, cantilevered out over the hillside. One of the gardeners was blowing leaves and grass cuttings off the neighbor’s sloped driveway. We would’ve gotten a windshield full of it, but Bailey stopped short and honked. The gardener waved and aimed his wind gun elsewhere.
