JORDAN
You can take the girl out of Beverly Hills, but you can’t take the Beverly Hills out of the girl.
—Kim Richards
“She’s on the bus,” said Jordan. “Has to be.”
Jordan, Wen, and the rest of the marshals stood around a paper map that had been spread out on the hot hood of the black Ford Explorer outside the house in Reseda. Ellett had used Uber Eats to order Winchell’s donuts and coffee, but all that was left was a greasy box and empty cups. After a two-hour search of the surrounding blocks, going house to house and yard to yard with the help of LAPD, they had once again come up empty.
“He may dress like a tourist, but Burke’s right,” said Hart. “She’s paying cash and taking public transit. No idea how she learned the system so fast. Istilldon’t know how to ride the bus.”
Wen rubbed her face tiredly. “ETA on surveillance video?”
“I ask every fifteen minutes, but you know LA Metro,” said Ellett. “They probably haven’t gotten into work yet.”
“Probably still stuck in traffic,” said Crosby, making Hart laugh.
“We need to think about where she’s going and her most likely landing points,” insisted Jordan.
“What are those?” asked Wen. “Her house went to her stepdaughter, who hates her for obvious reasons. And her friends all unfriended her after the verdict, except for one die-hard with an Instagram account.”
“We need to put somebody on her.”
Wen looked at Hart, who said, “On it, boss.”
Jordan made a mental note to call home as soon as he could, then asked, “Who called in the tip?”
“Willow Kania, the woman who owns the house. But that was after the tweaker heard her talking on the phone.”
“Any idea who to?”
“Somebody named Dylan.”
Dylan Danvers? Jordan’s skin prickled. He started to say something and thought better of it. Every time Wen and her team came in hot, they came up empty-handed. He needed to think things through.
Wen’s phone chirped and she took the call. She listened for thirty seconds and hung up.
“A waiter named Rolf says he’s pretty sure Cara Campbell just turned up at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
SIXTY-THREE
CARA
One thing’s for sure, that woman definitely didn’t look like she came from Beverly Hills.
—Willow Kania, speaking to CBS Los Angeles
Behind the wheel of her convertible Porsche Carerra, Stephanie removed a pair of Fendi sunglasses from the console, handed them to Cara, and smiled. “I don’t know what’s worse: your situation, your hair, or your clothes.”
Cara put them on and slouched low in her seat, praying Stephanie didn’t drive too fast or too slow.
“What did you tell your assistant when you left?”
“I told her a certain tech billionaire wanted to see a house right now, so I had to go. I told her the whole thing is NDA’d, so I couldn’t give her any details.”
Which was actually pretty crafty.
“So how, exactly, do you plan to prove your innocence?” asked Stephanie.
