“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.
