A brief look of annoyance was quickly replaced by a self-deprecating smile; it got me at first, but there was a too-polished feeling about the expression that said he’d probably been working it from his earliest child-star days. “Right.” He held out his hand. “Though I actually go by Ian Powers.”
We shook, and I collected myself. “Sorry,” I said. “I just wasn’t expecting-”
Ian Powers held up a hand. “Hey, don’t apologize. At my age, I’m only glad that people can still recognize me.”
It was somewhat remarkable. Though he definitely didn’t look it, Ian Powers had to be in his forties. I knew it’d been more than thirty years since he’d starred as the eight-year-old boy in the sitcom Just the Two of Us, about Mattie, a charming, wise-beyond-his-years boy and his single father. I remembered watching the show when I was a kid, though by then, the show had long since been in reruns. It was weird to see the vestiges of that sweet little-boy face in this fully grown, casually elegant man.
“I take it you two are the detectives?”
“Actually no. I’m Rachel Knight, deputy district attorney.”
“Detective Keller.” Bailey put out her hand. “And your connection…?”
“I’m Russell’s manager.”
Ian led us to the left side of the room, where a short man, no more than an inch taller than me, dressed in a baseball cap, faded jeans, and a forest green Henley, sat on the arm of a plush burgundy couch. “Russell, this is Detective Bailey Keller and, ah-”
“Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight,” I filled in. Clearly, I was already making quite the impression.
Russell stood and rocked on his toes-I’d bet so he could look down on me. But he’d have needed a step stool to look down on Bailey, all five feet nine inches of her. He took her in with a sidelong glance that avoided his having to look up at her, and didn’t offer his hand to either one of us. He took a deep breath, expelled it through his nose, then started to dive in. “Got the first message about-”
Bailey held up a hand and looked around the room. “Mr. Antonovich, before you get into it, can you tell me who all these people are and why they need to be here?”
With a pained expression he said, “Russell, okay? Call me Russell.” His tone was peremptory, almost impatient, and his voice was high enough that if I hadn’t been looking at him I’d have thought he was a woman. “They all pretty much live here.” He pointed to a willowy blonde who looked to be in her mid-twenties and easily twenty years his junior. “My wife, Dani. That’s her assistant, Angela,” he said, nodding at a trim young girl with a mop of curly brown hair who was pouring bottled water into a glass for the missus. He pointed to a sturdy-looking girl in overalls and a matching baseball cap. “My assistant, Uma.” I noticed she was the only one in the room who was shorter than Russell. I was sure that was no accident. An older woman came in carrying a trayful of plates bearing finger food. Russell followed my gaze. “That’s Vera, the cook.” No last name-unless you counted “the cook.” In fact, none of these people had a last name. Not as far as Russell was concerned anyway.
