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“I don’t work for you either,” Maines said, her voice rising. “And this cover-up you’ve been engaged in for whatever reason is frankly shocking and hardly in the Harlows’ best interest.”
The publicist’s eyes went wide. She grabbed Maines by the arm, spun her away from the cameras. “You tipped her!” she hissed, while Bobbie blathered on, getting only half of her facts correct, a record high for her.
“I did not tip anyone,” Maines retorted hotly. “But I was about to notify the FBI because I simply could not wait any longer for Mr. Morgan here to step up and do the right thing.”
“Ouch,” I said. “In my defense, I spent last night chasing a mass murderer and praying until dawn while my best friend underwent spinal surgery after he was injured in the pier bombing.”
Maines blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jack, I—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sanders said, still furious. He glared at me. “Help us get them out of here, now, Jack. I won’t have them treated like freaks. They need to be seen by qualified medical personnel, and—”
“Who died and made you their guardian?” Maines challenged.
Sanders turned cold. “No one has died, to my knowledge, Cynthia,” he snarled. “But Thom and Jennifer have stipulated in writing that in the event of death or incapacitation I will serve as the children’s trustee and guardian. I believe kidnapping fits the definition of incapacitation in anyone’s dictionary.”
He and Camilla Bronson moved toward the children.
Justine said, “I’ll help you.”
/> Cruz, Mo-bot, and Sci followed.
Maines said, “I’m coming with you.”
Sanders whirled around. “No, Cynthia, you most definitely are not. As I remember, you are paid by Harlow-Quinn, which means Terry Graves can and will fire you. Expect a call momentarily.”
Coats were draped over the children’s heads. Justine, Mo-bot, and Sci wheeled the three children past the cameras while Bobbie Newton prattled inanely that they looked “zombified.” Sanders got behind them. So did Camilla Bronson.
When Bobbie Newton tried to join the entourage, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out a pocketknife, slid behind her cameramen, and cut the cables that connected the cameras to their battery packs.
“Dead,” one said.
“Me too,” the other said.
I was already moving around them onto the escalator.
“What!” Bobbie cried as I disappeared below her. “No, I …”
She must have seen the cut cables because she appeared over the railing, looking like a nut job when she said, “Of course it was you: Murdering Jack Morgan. What’s your involvement in this, Jack? That’s what I want to know. What’s Murdering Jack Morgan’s involvement?”
I winked at her, pulled out my cell phone, and called the FBI.
Chapter 53
EIGHT HOURS LATER, after a long nap, a shower, and a change of clothes, Justine entered a large private suite directly across the street from the Beverly Center inside Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where the Harlow children were being kept overnight for further tests and observation. Sanders, Camilla Bronson, and Terry Graves had arranged it all.
Justine had not known such suites existed, but here was a common room occupied by Jack, Sci, Chief Fescoe, and a half-dozen others: two doctors, a private nurse, and government technicians linking cables to computer screens. Before joining Private, Justine had worked for the city and courts of Los Angeles as a child psychologist who interviewed and counseled victims of crime. Even though her horizons had broadened into investigations, she still felt confident that there wasn’t anyone on the West Coast better at this kind of thing.
Most of the people gathered in the common room evidently agreed with her assessment. Chief Fescoe had readily signed off on Justine’s involvement. So had District Attorney Blaze and Christine Townsend, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Los Angeles office. A tall redhead with a beaky nose, Townsend was familiar with Justine and openly valued her skills and judgment. The Harlow team had been the only ones to object. They had been summarily overruled.
“What’s their current status?” Justine asked.
“They’re up after a five-hour nap,” the nurse replied. “And Ms. Bronson just delivered them a large order from In-N-Out Burger.”
“Their favorite,” the publicist sniffed.
“Okay,” Justine said. “I need you to get me completely up to date on what we know before I go in there.”
She looked at Dr. Allen Parks, the pediatric specialist overseeing the Harlow children’s care.
