Private L.A. Read Online Free Page B

she said. “What are you doing here?”
    “We caught a case that feels epic. And I need you with me on it. Now.”
    Paul passed by. Justine’s eyes flickered to him and then back to Jack. She shook her head. “I’m already swamped. It’s not fair to our other clients, expecting me to—”
    Jack took a step closer, murmured, “Thom and Jennifer Harlow.”
    Justine blinked. “Give me ten minutes.”

Chapter 8
    FORTY MINUTES LATER we were harnessed into jump seats bolted to the interior walls of a helicopter that Dave Sanders had chartered for some ungodly sum of money. The lawyer, a bear of a man in a linen blazer, an orange Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and sandals, sat beside me.
    Next to Sanders was Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, or Sci, the hip polymath criminologist who runs Private’s lab in Los Angeles, and Maureen Roth, also known as Mo-bot. Roth works with Sci as a technical jack of all trades, is even quirkier than he is, and at fifty retains one of the sharpest and best-educated minds I know. Opposite us were Justine and Rick Del Rio, my oldest friend, a fellow ex-marine with a pit bull’s heart. Next to Del Rio were two people I’d heard of but never met before. Camilla Bronson, a very put-together blonde in her forties, was the Harlows’ full-time publicist. Originally from Georgia, she spoke with a soft, genial twang. The tall, ripped, and red-haired man in his midforties beside her was Terry Graves, the president of Harlow-Quinn Productions.
    “What we’re about to tell you goes nowhere without our permission,” Sanders announced as we lifted off and he handed me a folder. “I expect all of your people to sign these nondisclosure forms before we get to the ranch, Jack.”
    “Not necessary, Dave, you’re covered under client privilege,” I said, fighting off a general unease that had been growing since we’d boarded the helicopter.
    I flew choppers in Afghanistan. I got shot down in a Chinook and a lot of men died. I’ve never been truly comfortable in a helicopter since. I glanced at Justine, who was watching me. Dealing with the memories of the crash was how I’d come to meet Justine, one of the few people I’ve ever let get a glimpse of what goes on inside my head. I glanced at Del Rio, who’d been on the bird with me when it went down, the only other survivor of the crash. I guess I expected him to be agitated, or at least tense, but true to form, Del Rio was stone cold.
    “Just the same, we’d like them signed,” sniffed Camilla Bronson.
    “A lot at stake here,” Terry Graves agreed, removing sunglasses to reveal bloodshot eyes.
    “Suit yourself,” I said, taking the folder. “Tell us what’s going on.”
    Sanders hesitated, said, “Thom and Jennifer, and their three kids, disappeared from their ranch in Ojai. They’ve vanished.”
    “What?” Justine said. “How’s
that
possible?”
    Del Rio snorted, said, “Yeah, people like
that
can’t just disappear.”
    Mo-bot and Sci were nodding too.
    I understood and shared their skepticism. Thom and Jennifer Harlow were arguably the most powerful and glamorous couple in Hollywood these days, megacelebrities who had won multiple Academy Awards, written bestselling books, and given their time and names to causes worldwide, including a foundation they’d set up themselves called Sharing Hands that raised millions for orphanages across the Third World.
    During the twenty minutes it took us to fly north to the rolling hills of Ojai, Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves laid out what they thought we should know.
    For the past nine months, the Harlow family had been living in Vietnam, where they had been making a film,
Saigon Falls
, an epic and tragic story of love and intrigue that unfolds in the last doomed years of the American war. Thom Harlow was writer, director, and lead actor. Jennifer Quinn Harlow was starring opposite her husband. Through their company—Harlow-Quinn—they were also producing the film.
    “It’s the project