Idly, I kept flipping to the last few photos. Suddenly, a name caught my eye. “Guys.” I shoved the phone into the center of the table. “Look who Rosie was scheduled to meet tomorrow.”
“ElevenAM, Dakota B., her house. Claims new lead,” Scout read. “Does that mean Dakota Banks?”
“We know Rosie was working to clear Alden’s name,” I said. “And that’s all Dakota and her dad have wanted for years. Except no one’s ever taken them seriously.”
“Maybe Rosie did,” Brooks said. “Maybe she was going to give Dakota the platform of a lifetime in theNew York Times.”
Scout gripped the screen until her knuckles turned white. “Then we need to find out what new lead Dakota’s offering reporters. Rosie might not be making this appointment, but we sure as hell are.”
Chapter 23Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
“I can’t believe Dakota still lives in the same house where her brother hung himself,” Scout said as Brooks pulled to a stop across the street from the Banks estate. “Not to mention she’s a grown woman living alone in her childhood home. It’s wildly creepy.”
The Hollywood Hills were beautiful on this sun-dappled morning, trees swaying in the breeze, the street as ornate and showy as it had been ten years ago. I hated it. Despite the warm breeze, my body was covered in goose bumps, like we’d entered a chilly underworld. The two worst nights of my life had happened on this street, in that house. It wasn’t merely creepy—it was a pocket of hell on earth.
“The woman has a clear case of arrested development,” Brooks agreed, cutting the engine.
I didn’t point out that Scout lived only a mile away, on an adjoining hill, her dream of living in the Hollywood Hills realized. Or had it been my dream? The line between what she’d wanted and what I did were blurry after so many years together. Either way, I’d always thought Scout’s choice to live so close to the place her sister died was a way of clinging to the past.
Better Brooks say it than me.
He turned in the driver’s seat and gave me a once-over. “Wire comfortable?”
I nodded, feeling the tiny microphone taped under my blouse, trying not to remember how he’d placed it there, his fingers delicately brushing my skin, a mix of professional confidence and personal hesitation.
“Are you sure you can’t come?” Scout asked. “You have interrogation experience.”
“He can’t be seen with us,” I reminded her.
“I met the lead detective on Drake’s case this morning. Holloway.” Brooks ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “She’s sharp. I’d rather she not find out I’m working with you until we have a new suspect to offer. Plus, if it’s just you, Dakota’s more likely to talk.” He pulled up his phone. “I’ll be right here, listening.” He placed a hand on my arm. “If anything goes wrong, I’m a heartbeat away.”
“You really don’t have to babysit us,” I insisted. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
Brooks gave a curt shake of his head. “There’s no way I’m letting you walk into any situation without backup.” He patted the service gun at his waist, and I tried not to think about how good he looked with it, in his thin gray tee and jeans, dark baseball cap pulled low. “What’s the watchword?”
I sighed. “Banana.”
“Real smooth, Brooks.” Scout gave him a thumbs-up. “As always. Guess not even the FBI changes some things.”
News of Rosie’sdeath was being withheld from the media by the FBI, but Brooks had warned us there was a chance it could hit airwaves any minute, meaning our window of time was short. Nevertheless, Dakota answered the buzzer on the gate as soon as we pressed it, her voice anxious. “Rosie, is that you?”
“Bad news about the reporter, actually.” Scout leaned in to the intercom. “And even worse news about who’s at your gate.”
Scout and Isat stiffly across from Dakota in her sitting room, which was decorated within an inch of its life in grandma-style florals. Scout cast a discerning eye around the room and I knew what she was thinking immediately, down to the borrowed SoCal slang:Hella Grey Gardens vibes.
Dakota sat rigidly on her pink settee, across a table set for tea. She’d barely spoken two words since buzzing us in. Clearly, we’dcrashed her tea party. Grown-up Dakota looked in some ways exactly as she had when we were teens: an abundance of long, dark hair, preternaturally pale skin, vivid blue eyes rimmed with black liner. But she was puffier, deep circles carved under her eyes, the kind that came with permanent sadness. Perhaps it was the shock of Rosie’s death, but I didn’t think so.
“So…” I searched for a way to start. Brooks had said we should make Dakota feel comfortable.
A maid hurried in with a steaming teapot, dressed in full regalia like she’d come off the set ofDownton Abbey, a frilly white apron and everything. She began pouring our tea.
“You have a scullery maid?” There was no masking Scout’s disdain.
Dakota lifted her chin. “The old families in Los Angeles keep the traditions. Not that you wannabe celebrities”—the words dripped with judgment—“know anything about that. All your new money and no manners.”
I’d never thought about celebrities as disruptors of the old-money system before, but I supposed it had to be threatening to the elite, that people from any circumstances could suddenly skyrocket into wealth and influence, infiltrating a world that had once belonged exclusively to them. Dakota always had such a stick up her ass about the entertainment industry, going around telling everyone she and Alden came from an “original railroad” family.
