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She shook her head again. “They don’t drink. They made that pact when they got married. Neither of them has had a drop in fifteen years.”
“Okay,” I said. “Any reason for them to be in Guadalajara, drunk or not?”
The Harlows’ personal assistant sat there a long moment, blinking, then slowly rocked her chin right and slightly up before twisting it sharply left. “No idea.”
“No business concerns there?” Mo-bot asked. “No plans for an orphanage?”
“Not that I can remember. You could check with Camilla. She handles the schedule when it comes to Sharing Hands projects.”
“You don’t have working knowledge of the foundation?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Camilla and Sanders took most of that load. My involvement was limited to arranging up-to-the-minute itineraries for visits, photo shoots, that kind of thing. Why haven’t the police or the FBI been notified?”
I shrugged. “The three amigos asked us to keep it quiet. To wait and see if your employers turned up or if we heard from any kidnappers. I told him I’d wait until tomorrow latest before contacting the FBI.”
“Well,” Maines huffed, and made to get out of her seat. “I’m not waiting, I’m going to—”
“Before you do anything, could you answer a few more of my questions?” I asked.
“Like what?” she said impatiently.
“Oh, I don’t know, like do you stand to benefit personally in any way from the Harlows’ vanishing?”
Chapter 26
MAINES’S MANICURED FINGERS rolled to form fists, and her words came out hot. “There is absolutely no benefit to me. What are you, crazy? What possible benefit could there be to me in that situation? Look, I hitched my wagon to Thom and Jen six years ago when I had a lot of other compelling offers.
“It’s been the best experience of my life,” she went on. “Demanding and maniacal at times. But magical more often than not. And fulfilling. And lucrative. In no way whatsoever would I jeopardize that. No way. Ever.”
I believed her. “Had to ask.”
“Any more questions?” she asked coldly.
“As a matter of fact.”
“What if I don’t wish to answer? I mean, it’s not like you’re cops.”
Mo-bot said, “We both have the same goal, Cynthia, to find the Harlows and find them alive, right? I mean, the more people working the better, no matter who’s paying the bill, Harlow-Quinn Productions or Uncle Sam.”
Maines remained stiff but nodded. “What do you want to know?”
“Give me thumbnails on Sanders, Bronson, and Terry Graves and their relationships with the Harlows.”
Maines thought about that.
“Dave’s a typical attorney-agent, all business, with almost all his business coming from the Harlows,” she said. “Camilla’s a bitch but very good at what she does. She and Jen are friends. They enjoy plotting.”
“Graves?”
“I like Terry,” Maines said. “He’s also very good at what he does, which allows Jen and Thom to do what they do best: be creative.”
“No beefs between any of them and the Harlows?” I asked.
She shrugged. “No more than the normal give-and-take. Their wagons are hitched to the Harlows too. Why would they upset the golden cart?”
“Tell us about life with the Harlows leading up to their arrival back in the States,” Mo-bot said.
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Maines went on to describe the Harlows’ whirlwind existence in the last year and what it took for her to help steer their personal and professional lives. She worked for them but considered Thom and Jennifer friends, people she admired and trusted. The time spent in Vietnam had been exhausting but exhilarating. And she’d been stunned at the breadth and depth of the saga the Harlows were depicting in Saigon Falls.
