by Marcia Clark
We waited till we were in the car to discuss our latest find, courtesy of Dr. Legs.
“If Brian sent the ransom note from that café, and this was a righteous kidnapping, then how could he let Hayley float around like that?” Bailey asked.
“My question too. The only thing I can think of right now is that maybe he hadn’t made that video with her yet. Until Brian had her record that video, she didn’t necessarily know what he was doing. But the fact that he hustled her out of there shows he didn’t want anyone to see them together, that’s for sure. And we know he was somewhere else when he made that video and sent it with the ransom note.”
Bailey stared out the window for a few seconds, then nodded. “It’s possible. We’ll have to see whether we can figure out where the final ransom e-mail and video were sent from.” She checked her cell. “Russell’s and Hayley’s cell phone records are in. Still waiting on Brian’s.”
“They’re at the station?”
Bailey nodded. “Yeah. And our computer whizbangs are checking to see what they can get on the ransom e-mail, see if they can track down the computer it was sent from…so far, nothing,” Bailey said. “But now that Legs put Brian and that ransom note together, it’s less of a priority.”
True. Regardless of where Brian was when he sent the note, the important thing was to prove he’d written it, and Legs did that for us. “Be nice to find Brian’s laptop, though.”
“Probably won’t happen until we find Brian.”
I couldn’t argue with that point either. And I agreed with Bailey that we should get a look at those cell phone records sooner rather than later, but I knew that once we headed downtown, we’d probably be done for the day unless something else broke. “How about we check in with Hayley’s mom before we go back to the station?”
“Okay, but then we’ll need to get back and hit those records.”
The tension in Bailey’s voice matched my own anxiety level. Every passing minute made Hayley’s safe return seem farther and farther away. But now that Brian was looking like our number one suspect, I wanted to see for myself whether either parent knew anything about him. Mackenzie didn’t think Hayley had told them about Brian, but I couldn’t rely on that, and I had a hunch that if Hayley had told either parent, it was more likely to be her mom.
Bailey floored it to Raynie’s house, which was, indeed, close to Russell’s house in the hills—just five blocks away. It was a low-slung modern home set into the hillside with an entire wall of sliding glass doors that opened to two feet of balcony and an expansive view of the city. And just like Russell’s—and so many of the houses in this hood—it was propped up on stilts. Those things always made me nervous, and it didn’t matter that I knew they were set in granite and probably more earthquake-proof than the courthouse.
Raynie greeted us at the curb as Bailey drove up. “Just pull in here.” She pointed to a small space on the street a few feet from her front door. In the hills, all space, including parking space, was at a premium; all of the roads were steep, winding, and narrow. Raynie had her hair up in a loose bun and she wore a long white cotton skirt with multicolored embroidery around the hem and a turquoise tank top. She looked fresh as a daisy, a perfect counterpoint to my straggly hair, wilted gray slacks, and rumpled jacket. I reminded myself to pick a lighter, cooler ensemble tomorrow. I couldn’t get away with Raynie’s boheme maxi skirt stylings, but a dress of almost any kind would be a vast improvement over a pantsuit in this heat.
We followed Raynie inside. The house was an oven. The windows that looked out over the city also let the sun bake through. No doubt those windows could provide a stunning view, but today, all they showed was a city hazy with smog, a dark yellow–tinged basin of indistinct concrete, metal, and glass. Raynie picked up a remote, and at the push of a few buttons, the electronic blinds covered the windows. Instantly the room felt ten degrees cooler.
“Sorry,” she said. “I forgot to turn on the air and close the blinds this morning.” She paused and swallowed. “It should cool down pretty quickly now. Can I get you anything to drink? Ice water?”
We accepted gratefully. Raynie gestured for us to have a seat on the white leather sectional couch and brought us each a glass. The walls were adorned with pictures of Hayley from birth to the present. Some were of Hayley alone, some included her friends, and others were with Raynie. None were with Russell. Not that I was surprised. A husband who decamps for a younger trophy isn’t someone whose picture you need to see every day. What did surprise me was that I hadn’t noticed photos of any kind at Russell’s house. At least not anywhere I’d been able to see.
I dived right in. “Did you know if Hayley was dating anyone?”
Raynie took a sip of water, then held the glass in her lap between her hands and stared down at it. “She didn’t bring anyone around, but she did mention having met a boy recently.”
“Do you remember when she mentioned it?” I asked.
“I want to say a month ago?”
“She say when she’d met him?”
“No. Just that he was a really good guy and that he wasn’t like the other boys. That he had more…substance to him. And something about him having had a tough childhood, I think.” Raynie stopped and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more. I know you’ll think I’m a bad mother for not pressing her for more details. But I always seemed to learn more by just letting Hayley talk than by questioning her. And in all honesty, I expected I’d meet him pretty soon if it was really serious.”
“She ever mention the name Brian?”
Raynie’s eyes widened. “No. Is that the boyfriend?” She looked from me to Bailey. “Is he the kidnapper?”
I looked at Bailey, who nodded. We had to tell her what we knew about Brian. Bailey filled her in. Raynie sat stunned for several long moments, then she leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. When she collected herself and sat up, she looked three shades paler.
“Do you know of any reason why someone would target Russell, or Hayley?” I asked.
“I’m sure a lot of people have an ax to grind with Russell. You don’t get as big as he has in this town without collecting a raft of enemies. But Hayley?” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine who’d have an issue with her.”
“Do they get along?” I asked. “Hayley and Russell?”
Raynie sighed. “Since the divorce…not so much. Hayley really held it against him.” She grimaced. “I think that’s why she spends so much time at his house in the hills. It’s kind of an ‘in your face’ thing. Russell feels guilty and keeps trying to make it up to her by spending money on presents and being the ‘cool dad’—”
“Meaning permissive?”
“Exactly. So she takes advantage. She uses the party house, his SUV limo, his credit card, as much as she can. I think it’s her way of punishing him, and I don’t like it. I’ve told her that if she’s upset with him, she should talk to him about it, not use him that way.” Raynie paused and gave a sigh that felt more like resignation than disappointment. “Bottom line, no, she isn’t his biggest fan.”
If I pulled that thread to its source, it’d lead me to believe that Hayley could’ve been in on her own kidnapping. The fact that we had no evidence of a struggle or any kind of force used against Hayley lent some support to that theory. And I have to admit I liked that possibility because it meant Hayley probably wasn’t in danger.
Raynie’s mouth stretched into a grim line. “I should’ve known there was something wrong when Hayley wouldn’t tell me his name.” She stopped and frowned. “By the way, how old is this boy?”
“Nineteen? We won’t know for sure until we find out his true identity.”
“Well, that’s one reason she didn’t bring him around,” Raynie said. “I’d never have let her date someone that much older.”
“Do you know all of Hayley’s friends?” I asked.
“Until just now I would’ve said yes. I guess all I can say is that from what I k
now, she’s had the same girlfriends since fifth grade—” Raynie abruptly stopped as her lips trembled.
I patted her hand.
Raynie took a deep breath. “The waiting…it’s…I just want her home.” Her voice faltered on the last word. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.
When she’d recovered, I went back to the subject of friends. She gave us the names of the same three girls we’d already interviewed at the school.
“Hayley never was one for the big crowds or cliques,” Raynie said. “That whole clubbing scene was just an act she was trying on. Like I said, partly a way to get back at Russell. The real Hayley is more of a homebody. Not a lot of friends, but they’re for real; girls she’d go to the end of the world for. And, I think, vice versa.”
“So she doesn’t have any other friends? Girls who go to a different school, maybe?” I asked.
Raynie thought for a moment. “I don’t know whether they stayed in touch, but Hayley used to be pretty close to Brittany Caren.”
“The actress?” Bailey seemed taken aback. “Brittany Caren, as in the star of Circle of Friends?”
Raynie nodded.
Now the name rang a bell. “Wasn’t she in a few films too?” I asked.
“Yeah, Russell casts her a lot. We’ve known Brittany since she was a kid, when Russell was a co-producer on Circle. Hayley was a huge fan. She used to come to the set and watch the taping. Hayley was a lot younger, so to Brittany, she was just a kid. But Brittany was incredibly sweet to her. She’d always invite Hayley to hang with her in her trailer. It sent Hayley over the moon.” Raynie smiled softly at the memory. “When Hayley got older, they’d go shopping together, see movies. Brittany was the older sister Hayley wished she’d had.” Raynie paused, then added, “And I think Brittany felt the same way.”
“So there are no siblings from a prior marriage for either of you?” I asked. “Hayley’s an only child?”
Raynie nodded. “Not by choice. We tried for another baby, but…” She sighed.
I nodded.
“Any idea when Hayley and Brittany last got together?” Bailey asked.
“It wasn’t recent. Brittany kind of fell off the rails, as you probably know if you’ve seen the tabloids. It was so sad. She went from a sweet, lovely girl to a drunken pill head. When they canceled the show, everyone knew it was because of her.”
“But she’s still doing movies,” Bailey said.
“Only because Russell keeps casting her—no one else will, she’s a walking nightmare. He probably feels sorry for her. But knowing Hayley, I’m sure she tried to stay in touch, show her loyalty. She’s not the type to cut off a friend, no matter what. She’d want Brittany to know she’s still there for her.” Raynie’s eyes grew wet and she dropped her head briefly before continuing. “How often they see each other, or whether they still get together in person, that I don’t know.”
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.
10
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—”
“Donuts?” Bailey laughed.
“Nah, Duncan Froehman. They had a lot to say about who I should look into and how I should do it. Got to the point I offered them a ladder—”
“A ladder?” I asked.
“Yeah, so they could climb out of my ass.”
I barked out a laugh but Bailey was all business.
“So what’d you get?” she asked.
“Nada. Just a boatload of genius suggestions from Antonovich’s advisers about pretty much everyone in the film business and half the folks in television. Apparently everyone who labors to fill screens large and small is envious of Mr. Blockbuster.”
“I’m about to check out the cell phone records,” Bailey said. “Maybe they’ll give us something we can work with.”
“Already done, jefe,” Harrellson replied. “I made a copy and highlighted a few calls that might be worth checking out. Antonovich’s record has a million different numbers, but there are some calls after the first text message from our bad guy we should check out. The girl was pretty consistent. Same numbers every day. Only found one stray number that wasn’t a store or a club.”
He handed the pages to Bailey, and I moved next to her so I could see. On Russell’s cell phone bill, Harrellson had highlighted a few calls that were made after the first kidnapping message—but before the ransom e-mail was sent. I held out Russell’s phone records. “Do you recognize any of these highlighted numbers?” I asked.
Harrellson glanced back at the pages. “Not yet. But from what I’ve seen, a lot of these clowns have multiple numbers and they may not all be listed. So it’ll take a minute to run ’em all down.”
We moved on to Hayley’s phone records for the past month.
One highlighted number jumped out at me. Hayley had made a call to Brittany Caren just three weeks ago. Bailey and I exchanged a look.
Bailey pulled out her cell phone. “This time, I make the call.” She punched in the number. And got Brittany’s voice mail. Then she punched in another number.
“Russell, this is Detective Keller. I’ve been trying to get hold of Brittany Caren, but I keep getting her voice mail. Can you put me in touch with her?” Bailey listened for a moment. “I don’t know that she does.” Bailey listened again. “Yes, that’d be great. Thank you.”
Five minutes later we were back in the car and headed to Hancock Park.
11
“So how’d you get her to pick up the phone?” I asked.
Bailey was threading her way through the traffic, taking surface streets because after three o’clock, the fr
eeways were anything but free. Especially the 101. It crawled like a giant metal beast with thousands of agonizingly slow-moving parts.
“I didn’t. Russell did. Don’t ask me how.”
But we soon found out how. A young man whose Neanderthal-bouncer aesthetic clashed almost audibly with the Mediterranean tile-roofed mansion showed us into a massive living room. I found that the clashing aesthetic was a continuing theme. It was a house at war with itself. The outside had promised earthy simplicity and lots of open space. But the inside delivered a mishmash of styles that cluttered every available square inch. The only thing any of the furniture, window treatments, and objets d’art had in common was a high price tag.
Heavy velvet drapery held back with gold-braided and tasseled tiebacks fought with giant Aubusson rugs. Overstuffed beige chenille sofas, pink leather ottomans, and barrel chairs covered in powder blue and rose fabric that nominally matched the rugs but clashed with everything else; vases, mini-sculptures (both ceramic and bronze) that cluttered every horizontal surface. If it’s true that a room sets a tone, then this one set off a screeching cacophony.
The bouncer gestured to the other end of the room, where two women, presumably Brittany and her mother, sat side by side on a love seat.
Had I seen her out on the street, I might not have recognized the once famous star. Brittany Caren had packed a lot of miles into her twenty or so years. Her long blonde hair was dull and overprocessed and her soft brown eyes had an unfocused, weary look. And she was far too thin—her cheeks were hollow and her arms protruded from her sleeveless silk blouse like winter twigs. But still and all, I could see what had set her apart: that indefinable “something” that turns all eyes to her, and only her.
Whatever you called that “something,” it had skipped over Brittany’s mother. Mom was thickening through the middle, but she had good legs that were crossed primly at the ankle, the pose most likely dictated by her tight, above-the-knee skirt. Short blonde hair and a less than stellar face-lift topped a bright green and hot pink ensemble. No mystery about who was responsible for the interior design that was making my eyes cross.
