The girl laughed, said, “Stupido,” as Danny started the snazzy car. He gunned the engine. Piper yelped and flew back against the seat as the sports car shot toward Sisar Road.
It was traveling way too fast.
That was not in the script.
The crew and the bystanders stood and gaped as the car blasted through the open gate and kept going. The director yelled, “Cut,” but the car didn’t stop.
Instead, Danny took a hard left onto the two-laner, and the car became a vivid blue streak, getting smaller until it vanished from view and they couldn’t hear the engine anymore.
The director yelled, “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on here?”
Schuster, standing next to Del Rio, was punching numbers into his cell phone. Merv Koulos did the same.
“Danny. It’s Merv. Damn it,” said Koulos. “Danny, call me. This isn’t funny.”
“He’ll be right back,” Scotty said to himself. He turned to Del Rio. “He just likes the car and the girl. He’s going to turn back in a second. He’s just goofing around.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Del Rio.
Del Rio’s contentment was gone, replaced by a feeling like a cold wind blowing through his rib cage. He opened his cell phone, dialed Justine, and when she answered, he said, “We’re on the job for one hour and we lose the damned kid. Yeah, right, Danny. He took off at a hundred twenty in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. Brace yourself, Justine. He took the girl with him. Piper Winnick. No. Nope. If he said where he’s going, no one here got the memo.”
CHAPTER 66
IT WAS LATE afternoon, nearly five.
Justine and Scotty had spent the day looking for Danny. They’d been to his house and Piper’s house in the Hills. They had contacted both sets of friends and families and were only now leaving the studio after talking to everyone who had an opinion on Danny’s disappearance—which was everyone period.
Half the people they talked to said they thought Danny was irresponsible, immature, just didn’t understand the consequences of his actions.
The other half guessed that Danny understood the consequences full well, that his disappearance was a publicity stunt mimicking the movie plot. Several people suggested that Danny’s agent, Alan Barstow, had put Danny up to it.
In any case, Justine knew that soon the police would be looking for a blue Ferrari and two young movie stars.
Justine told Scotty to strap in, then she drove off the Harlequin Pictures lot with tires squealing, heading toward Beverly Hills.
As she drove, Justine beat on the steering wheel with her palms in frustration, furiously trying to make sense of Danny’s insane and dangerous escapade. He couldn’t claim that he’d had one of his blackouts when he’d driven that car off the location with Piper Winnick riding shotgun.
What had she missed?
Was he a narcissistic child?
Or was he a psychopath?
Either way, he was self-destructive.
Danny Whitman, the kid with everything to lose, could go to prison for twenty-five to life.
And that was if he hadn’t hurt Piper.
Justine sped through a yellow light, saying to Scotty, “You heard me tell him ‘Play it straight. Don’t go anywhere with the opposite sex.’”
“You have to turn in two blocks, Justine. Maybe you want to get over into the left lane now—”
“He agreed to our terms. I keep asking myself, is he crazy? I mean, is he actually crazy?”
Scotty stomped on an imaginary brake on his side of the car as Justine took a hard left through a red light.
Justine said, “See, I liked him, Scotty. I liked him a lot. Tell me that address again.”