“To that.”
We took a sip.
“And he really didn’t see anyone else?” I asked.
“Not unless she worked the cleaning crew at the station. From what I saw, he was in the office night and day. I’d guess he was keeping himself distracted.”
“Know what I’d guess?”
But I never got a chance to say, because Bailey’s work cell phone rang. If Bailey was next up on the roster, she wouldn’t have been drinking, so it couldn’t be work. I listened, hoping to get some information, but all I heard was “Yep” and “Got it” and “Let me write that down.” Finally, Bailey ended the call and drained her water glass in one long gulp. Then she took my glass of wine-still practically full-out of my hand and set it down.
“Hey!”
“O’Hare’s sick, so I’m up. Got a kidnapping call. Russell Antonovich.”
Russell Antonovich. A name attached to so many blockbusters even I, who knew nothing about Hollywood hotshots, recognized it.
“Someone kidnapped him?”
“No.” Bailey made sure no one was near us, then lowered her voice. “His teenage daughter, Hayley. Antonovich delivered the ransom and was supposed to get her back within the hour. That was two hours ago.”
Bailey motioned to Drew that she’d call, and we headed for the road.
Bailey got off the 405 freeway and headed east on Sunset Boulevard. I was about to ask where we were going when she turned onto Bellagio Road-which led to the heart of Bel Air. If I were a billionaire director I’d live there too.
Bel Air is in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, and it’s the highest of the three legs known as the Platinum Triangle-the other two being Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills. The most expensive homes in the world occupy real estate in that wedge of land, and the majority of those homes are in Bel Air. The biggest and most lavish are usually closest to Sunset Boulevard, but you’d never know that, because massive trees and dense shrubbery hide all but the gated entries, and even those gates are tough to find, hidden as some are by deliberately overgrown leafy climbers.
Which explains why Bailey was frowning and muttering to herself as she scanned the road for house numbers. But when we reached Bel Air Country Club, she made a U-turn and pulled over. “Do me a favor and look for this number. The navigation says we’re there, but I don’t see a damn thing.” She handed me a scrap of paper with an address and headed back down the road. One minute later I told her to stop and peered closely at a set of massive black iron gates that were almost completely obscured by towering elm and cypress trees. The tops of the gates met in an arc, and there in the apex, woven into the iron scrollwork, was the number.
