Eric sighed. “Keep your cell phone close. I’ll be in touch.”
When I got back to the car, I filled Bailey in. “So we’ll start with the bottom rung,” I finished.
“We’d start on the fringe of the circle anyway.”
“Housekeepers, runners, security-”
“Then personal assistants, manager, personal friends, and-”
“I’d do the personal assistants last, just before Russell, Raynie, and Dani,” I said. “They know more than anyone else.”
Back when I was a baby DA in the Beverly Hills branch court, I caught a burglary case in which the victim was a lead actor in a primetime detective series. Burglary was the most common felony in Beverly Hills. The burglar turned out to be the piano teacher for one of the actor’s children. That case had been an eye-opening primer on how “the other half”-really more like the other one percent-lived. Everyone had a personal assistant. Some of the assistants even had assistants. And all of them were treated like furniture. The residents were so used to having assistants around all the time, they became invisible. So the most intimate of conversations about sex, deals, money, and custody battles took place in full earshot of the assistant. Luckily, most assistants were pretty loyal and damn scrupulous about not leaking what they heard. Or maybe they were just scared. But one thing was for sure: assistants were a fount of information and we’d learn a lot if we could get any of them to talk.
Bailey announced us on the intercom and the gates swung open smoothly. A young man in faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the title of Russell’s last film, Princess Warrior, met us in front of the house.
“Mr. Antonovich will be back in about an hour, but he said you could wait inside. We’ve got a lot of people in and out all the time, so it’d be better if I took care of your car.”
Bailey wasn’t wild about the idea, but she tossed the keys to the kid. “I need easy in and out,” she ordered.
The door was answered by a guy in a crew cut and an FBI-style suit. I say FBI-style because I didn’t see the standard earpiece and I knew the FBI hadn’t been called in on the case. He put out his hand and gave his name in a serious voice. “Kenneth Krup. You’d be Detective Keller and DDA Rachel Knight?”
I barely resisted the urge to say “affirmative.” I didn’t remember seeing any security types like this on our last visit. It seemed a little late for Russell to bring in the troops now. Bailey confirmed our identities. “This way,” he said.
