Marcia Clark - Killer Ambition

“I’m guessing byyour expression that dinner went pretty well after all,” Bailey said. Her expression had an obnoxious “told-you-so” tinge to it that made me want to lie. But I knew there was no point. Bailey was not only a top-notch detective in the elite Robbery-Homicide Division of LAPD, she was also one of my very best friends. She would see right through it. Still, I didn’t have to give it up all at once.

I gave a noncommittal shrug, hung my purse on the hook under the bar, and slid onto the cushy leather stool. “It went okay.”

It was ten o’clock on a Monday night, so the after-work crowd had largely cleared out of the Biltmore Hotel bar. The only exception was a well-dressed middle-aged couple on one of the velvety couches against the wall. They were enjoying Manhattans with a leisurely attitude that told me they didn’t have to worry about a morning commute. Though I didn’t recognize them, I guessed they were staying in the hotel. Being a permanent resident of the hotel myself, I could usually tell who was a guest and who had just dropped by for a drink.

Drew, the gorgeous bartender, who’d been my buddy ever since I’d moved into the Biltmore a few years ago, gave me a knowing smirk. “Just okay? I don’t think so.” He tilted his shining black head toward the mirror behind him. “Take a look at yourself, girl.”

Even in the dim light I could see the sappy expression on my face. Damn. Drew and Bailey exchanged an amused smile. They’d been together for about two years now-the longest stretch either of them had ever managed with a single partner. Most of the time, it was a beautiful thing. But there were stomach-turning moments like this, when their “oneness” made me want to bang their heads together. Hard.

Bailey turned back just in time to catch my nauseated look-and ignore it. “And in case you were worried, you’re not alone out there. Graden was actually whistling.” Bailey made a face. “All day.”

Since Lieutenant Graden Hales was Bailey’s boss, she knew he never whistled. But I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing how good it made me feel. I looked at her, deadpan. “Funny how annoying little things like that can be.”

“Isn’t it?” Bailey deadpanned right back at me.

Graden and I met a couple of years ago when he worked the case of Jake Pahlmeyer, a dear friend and fellow Special Trials Unit prosecutor, who was found dead in a sleazy downtown motel room, not far from the Biltmore. We’d begun dating, and I was just starting to believe Graden and I would go the distance when we had a major blowout over a violation of privacy; specifically, his violation of my privacy. He’d done some digging, otherwise known as “Googling” me, and found out that my sister Romy had been kidnapped when she was eleven years old. And was still missing.

He hadn’t known that Romy’s abduction was my closely guarded secret, one I’d kept from even my besties, Bailey Keller and Toni LaCollier, also a Special Trials prosecutor. But my breakup with Graden had forced me to tell them about it. Bailey and Toni had been sympathetic to my upset-well, actually, fury-at what I called the trampling of my boundaries, but they’d made no secret of the fact that they thought I’d overreacted…wildly. “He surfed the Web, Knight,” Bailey’d said. “Hardly an act of high-level espionage,” Toni’d added. I knew they were right, but knowing something intellectually and dealing with it emotionally are two very different matters. It’d taken me a while to come around.

But I did get there. At least enough to recognize that my reaction was over the top, and that I wanted to give Graden another chance. So we’d been taking baby steps, getting together for coffee breaks and lunches over the past few months. Tonight had been our first real date since the breakup-or, as Toni and Bailey called it, breakdown. I’d been a little apprehensive. Would he try for a sentimental play and take us to the site of our first date, the Pacific Dining Car? Or to the romantic hilltop restaurant that had become a mutual favorite, Yamashiro? I’d hoped not. I wasn’t ready for any trips down memory lane.

“So where’d you go?” Drew asked.

“We went to Craig’s-”

Drew nodded sagely. “My man, Graden. Excellent choice.”

It really was. The leather and white tablecloth steakhouse in West Hollywood had that same Sinatra-Dean Martin feel as the Pacific Dining Car-great food and a comfortable ambience for real dining and conversation-with none of the emotional undertow of having been “our” place. It wasn’t cheap, but money was no concern for Graden, who’d made a fortune on Code Three, the video game he’d designed with his brother.

Bailey studied me for a moment. “You look ridiculously sober. You stuck with water, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t trust yourself?” she asked.

“Of course I trusted myself.” I cadged a cube of cheese off Bailey’s plate. “I just want to keep a clear head.”

“Time to put a stop to that,” Drew said. “What’ll you have?”

I ordered a glass of pinot noir, and Drew moved off.

“So…you didn’t trust yourself,” Bailey said.

“Nope, not for one second.”

We laughed, and when Drew set down my glass of wine, we toasted.

“To knowing your limits.” Bailey raised her glass, and I clinked it with mine.

“To that.”

We took a sip.

“And he really didn’t see anyone else?” I asked.

“Not unless she worked the cleaning crew at the station. From what I saw, he was in the office night and day. I’d guess he was keeping himself distracted.”

“Know what I’d guess?”

But I never got a chance to say, because Bailey’s work cell phone rang. If Bailey was next up on the roster, she wouldn’t have been drinking, so it couldn’t be work. I listened, hoping to get some information, but all I heard was “Yep” and “Got it” and “Let me write that down.” Finally, Bailey ended the call and drained her water glass in one long gulp. Then she took my glass of wine-still practically full-out of my hand and set it down.

“Hey!”

“O’Hare’s sick, so I’m up. Got a kidnapping call. Russell Antonovich.”

Russell Antonovich. A name attached to so many blockbusters even I, who knew nothing about Hollywood hotshots, recognized it.

“Someone kidnapped him?”

“No.” Bailey made sure no one was near us, then lowered her voice. “His teenage daughter, Hayley. Antonovich delivered the ransom and was supposed to get her back within the hour. That was two hours ago.”

Bailey motioned to Drew that she’d call, and we headed for the road.

Bailey got offthe 405 freeway and headed east on Sunset Boulevard. I was about to ask where we were going when she turned onto Bellagio Road-which led to the heart of Bel Air. If I were a billionaire director I’d live there too.

Bel Air is in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, and it’s the highest of the three legs known as the Platinum Triangle-the other two being Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills. The most expensive homes in the world occupy real estate in that wedge of land, and the majority of those homes are in Bel Air. The biggest and most lavish are usually closest to Sunset Boulevard, but you’d never know that, because massive trees and dense shrubbery hide all but the gated entries, and even those gates are tough to find, hidden as some are by deliberately overgrown leafy climbers.

Which explains why Bailey was frowning and muttering to herself as she scanned the road for house numbers. But when we reached Bel Air Country Club, she made a U-turn and pulled over. “Do me a favor and look for this number. The navigation says we’re there, but I don’t see a damn thing.” She handed me a scrap of paper with an address and headed back down the road. One minute later I told her to stop and peered closely at a set of massive black iron gates that were almost completely obscured by towering elm and cypress trees. The tops of the gates met in an arc, and there in the apex, woven into the iron scrollwork, was the number.