Free Fun and Games by Duane Swierczynski Page A

and took a mic stand from the studio and hid in the downstairs bathroom and now we’re all caught up.”
    “What time was this?”
    “I don’t know—a couple of hours ago?”
    That couldn’t be right. According to Virgil, the client—Andrew Lowenbruck—caught his flight late last night, not just a few hours ago. That was the whole reason for leaving the keys in the mailbox… right?
    “So let me get this right—a couple of hours ago you saw the owner of this house leave?”
    “Yes.”
    “So you do know Andrew Lowenbruck?”
    “Who?”
    Hardie smiled. “The owner of this house.”
    “No, no idea. Why do you keep asking me that question? Everybody in Hollywood doesn’t, like, know each other.”
    It was an old cop trick. Asking the same question over and over again. You’d be surprised how many people answer it differently the second, third, fourth time around.
    Hardie watched Lane carefully. He was no mastermind interrogator—as a matter of fact, he’d never interrogated anybody before. That wasn’t his job. He’d observed Nate do it countless times. Nate claimed that Hardie’s observations were invaluable, and that he was good to have in the room. Hardie knew that was crap. Nate Parish was the genius detective with a mind like a lynx. He wondered what Nate would make of the actress and her story.
    Actually, Hardie wondered what Nate would make of the whole situation. No doubt he’d have it figured out in 10.7 seconds. He was like goddamned Sherlock Holmes, plucking a few details out of the air and piecing them together into a logical, hard reality.
    Not Hardie.
    Not with his slow, lizard-like brain.
    Lane reached out and touched his hand. “Hey, I’m not boring you or anything?”
    “No. Just thinking. Keep going.”
    “So I waited in here. I was hoping they’d give up, and later I’d have a chance to go for help. But apparently they’re still out there. And now they know I’m in here.”
    “You think so?”
    “I don’t know… no. I think if they knew for sure, they’d come kicking in the doors. But then they probably saw your car, and—”
    “Ms. Madden—”
    “You can call me Lane, you know.”
    “Okay, Lane. I’ve saved the million-dollar question for last. Why do you think these people want to kill you?”
    She hesitated. “I have no idea. All I know is, they’re serious.”
    “You have no idea at all?”
    “Isn’t that what I said? I was out late last night driving, just to clear my head—and I hadn’t been drinking, thank you very much, you can ask my manager, Haley. And then, boom, they came out of nowhere.”
    Hardie considered this.
    “Let me see your arm.”
    “Why?”
    “Just let me see where they injected you.”
    She obediently made a tight little fist and extended her arm, showing him the crook of her elbow. Hardie looked. There was a needle mark, as well as some bruising around it. She’d been injected hard, and some veins had collapsed around the site. Still, she could have done it herself. Like shooting up before/during/after a Hollywood party.
    “Mind if I touch you?”
    Lane smirked. “You’ve already put me in a bear-hug death grip and sat on me. Now you’re asking if I mind if you touch me?”
    “Just thinking of the lawsuit. Don’t want you and your lawyers tacking on extra items.”
    Lane raised a right hand.
    “I give you permission to touch me, Mr. Hardie.”
    “Call me Charlie.”
    Hardie gently took her by the wrist and rotated her arm inward. So strange to touch her. So strange to touch another female human being, actually. When was the last time he’d done that? He examined her arm quickly. No finger-shaped bruises. No other marks at all, except for random scrapes and cuts.
    “Huh.”
    “What?”
    “Just wondering why a speedball.”
    “Because they probably wanted my death to look like an accident. Like I was some dumb two-bit cokehead actress who went out cruising late and ended up rear-ending some poor father of three or