An hour later, Max hustled me in the back door of the Derby with Oscar trailing behind. “You don’t need to be here,” Max had told Oscar. But Oscar had given him a look that meant business. I had to say, I was glad he was there. He’d set things up with Brody, after all, and another person on our side of the table somehow made me feel better.
Max had a quiet talk with Norb, then tucked me close to his side and tweaked the ivory hat closer over my face. “No need for everyone to see you before the show.”
When we took our seats at the back table, a stocky man withsparse hair and a terrific mustache appeared. Oscar made the introductions. The detective stuck out a huge hand. “It’s a pleasure.” His grip was firm. Surely, he’d read about me in the paper, yet here he was, acting as if he were glad to meet me. A rush of gratitude for this stranger who was sticking his neck out—and not only for me—had me all but choked up.
Brody took off his hat and sat down. “Miss Sinclaire, fill me in.”
It was a nervy plan. Not foolproof by any means, but I didn’t have any other ideas and it might save Angel and Roman. I pulled the blue book from my handbag. “This is what they’ve been looking for.”
Detective Brody opened it up, and the pages fluttered, thin and translucent as onion skin, the writing on them bold and dense. I turned to the relevant passage and let him read, then outlined the plan. He rubbed his mustache, considering. “So we don’t know for sure who killed Lester?” he confirmed. “Or Feng?”
“No,” I said and took a breath. “But we know enough.”
He let out a long breath. “Let’s hope so, Miss Sinclaire.”
I swallowed hard and put the diary back in my handbag.
The little bell over the front door jingled and I about jumped out of my skin. Louella sidled in and, right behind her, William Randolph Hearst. Louella looked like she’d swallowed a rotten egg. Hearst gave us a bored stare, as if he were attending a rather dull business meeting. I had told them to come alone, but another man—tall and blond with a face like the hero’s best friend—walked in behind them.
Oscar stiffened in his chair as they approached.
The blond fellow looked at Oscar like he was gum stuck to the underside of his shoe. “What’s the wetback doing here?”
In an instant, Oscar was on his feet, nose to nose with the stranger. “Call me a wetback again,” he demanded.
The man’s hand reached under his jacket. My heart ricocheted to my throat.
“Adams.” Brody jumped up quick for a big man. “Hands where I can see them.” Brody’s voice was easy. “We don’t want to mess up Norb’s nice place here.”
A cold chill went through me. That was a gun under Adams’s arm. And if I didn’t miss my guess, Brody had one too. My throat went as dry as sawdust and my stomach twisted like a tornado. Oscar sat down but his jaw was clenched tight and his shoulders tense.
“Take a seat,” Max said smoothly to Louella and Hearst, pointing to the two empty chairs. “We weren’t expecting your goon, so he’ll have to stand.”
Adams stood, his feet spread wide, staring bullets at Oscar. Louella and Hearst settled down across from us. Florence brought us coffee, giving me a wide-eyed look as she filled my cup.
“Let’s get it over with. Where’s the diary?” Hearst said in a monotone. He didn’t look at me. It was as if he’d never sat on a divan while Roy Lester pawed me, never plied me with drinks or made suggestive comments.
Max’s hand tightened over mine. This was my part. “All in good time, Mr. Hearst,” I said, my voice as cool as a spring morning. I nodded at Brody. That was his cue.
“Mr. Hearst. I have a few questions,” Brody said pleasantly.
“We’re not here to answer to you,” Louella said with a sniff. I could see a mist of perspiration under the brim of her tweed hat. I’d read the diary and knew why she was hot and bothered.
Brody raised bristling eyebrows at them. “Maybe you’d like to hear a story then. About two murders. It’s very interesting, from what I’m told.”
Hearst shrugged as if it didn’t concern him in the least. Louella looked worried.
Brody tipped his head to Max.
Max pulled out his cigarette case and snapped it open. “It goes like this.” He tapped out a cigarette. “Roy Lester, may he rest in peace, had a gold-plated contract that renewed just last month. Guaranteed him over two hundred thousand per film for the next five years.”
Brody let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard the studios can’t afford that kind of jingle since the crash.”
“You heard right,” Max said, putting the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and talking around it as he struck a match and lit his smoke. “With ticket sales in the ditch, and Roy Lester drunk or hungover on the set, you gotta ask yourself who he was blackmailing to get such a plum deal.”
“Blackmail.” Brody tutted. “Bad for business.”
Hearst started drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
