We got Brittany’s contact information and address, and since there didn’t seem to be anything else we could learn at the moment, we thanked Raynie and said our good-byes.
“Does Russell know about Brian yet?” she asked as we headed for the door.
“No, but we’ll tell him soon,” Bailey said.
Raynie nodded ruefully. “Better you than me.”
I thought that was probably true.
As Bailey drove us back down the hill, I looked at the address Raynie had given us. “Brittany lives in Hancock Park.” Which was on the way downtown.
“Go ahead and call, see if you can get her. But I’m going to need to get an update from Harrellson pretty quick, so we won’t be able to stay long.”
“What’s Harrellson doing?” Don Harrellson, a great detective and a funny guy, was one of the team Bailey had assembled to help with the investigation.
“He’s checking into Russell’s associates.”
Meaning Russell’s possible enemies. “I guess it has to be done, but what enemy would risk a possible life sentence to get back at him?”
“If we limited our investigation to rational possibilities, our solve rate would be two percent.”
Hard to argue with that one. I fished out my cell phone and squinted at the number Raynie had written on an orange star-shaped Post-it. The late afternoon sun was hanging low enough to shoot a white-hot laser through the windshield, practically blinding me. I had to put on my sunglasses to read the number. I got Brittany’s voice mail. “Hi, it’s Brittany. Leave a message…or don’t. Beeeeep.” I chose the former and gave her my number and Bailey’s and told her to call ASAP.
When we got to the station, Harrellson was at his desk in rolled-up shirtsleeves. “Having fun out there in Tinseltown, girls?”
I don’t usually like being called a girl. But it’s all in the attitude. Harrellson gave the word an ironic twist that made it funny instead of condescending.
“Probably not as much fun as you’re having,” I said.
“Well, not everyone appreciates the joy of banging their head against a brick wall the way I do. Our boy Antonovich has helpers and advisers crawling around his house like it’s an anthill, and they all thought they had to “advise” yours truly about the galactic importance of His Supreme Highness Antonovich and the nefarious ways of jealous Hollywoodites. Man oh man, did they. Between that shark fin of a manager, whatsisname, Ian Powers, with the big swinging dick attitude, and his security adviser, Duncan Donuts-”
