Mickey Haller 4 - The Fifth Witness

get into the back of the car. We moved carefully and soon I was in my usual place, ready to roll. Rojas jumped behind the wheel and we jerked forward and down the hill.
    “Easy, Rojas. It hurts too much for me to wear a seat belt. So don’t send me into the front seat.”
    “Sorry, Boss. I’ll do better. Where are we going today? The office?”
    He had gotten that Boss stuff from Cisco. I hated being called a boss, even though I knew that was what I was.
    “The office is later. First we go to Archway Pictures on Melrose.”
    “You got it.”
    Archway was a second-tier studio across Melrose from one of the behemoths, Paramount Pictures. Started as a studio lot to handle the overflow demand for soundstages and equipment, it grew into a self-sustaining studio under the guidance of the late Walter Elliot. It now made its own slate of films each year and created its own overflow demand. Coincidentally, Elliot happened to be a client of mine at one time.
    It took Rojas twenty minutes to get from my house above Laurel Canyon to the studio. He pulled up to the security booth at the signature arch that spanned the studio’s entrance. I lowered the window and told the security man who approached me that I was there to see Clegg McReynolds. He asked for my name and ID and I gave him my driver’s license. He retreated to the booth and consulted a computer screen. He frowned.
    “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re not on the drive-on list. Do you have an appointment?”
    “No appointment but he’ll want to see me.”
    I hadn’t wanted to give McReynolds too much advance notice.
    “Well, I can’t let you in without an appointment.”
    “Can you call him and tell him I’m here? He’ll want to see me. You know who he is, right?”
    The implication was clear. This was one you didn’t want to screw up.
    The guard slid the door shut while he made the call to McReynolds. Through the glass I saw him talking. He had a live one on the line. Then he slid the door open and extended the phone to me. It was on a long cord. I took it and then raised the window on the guard. Tit for tat.
    “This is Michael Haller. Is this Mr. McReynolds?”
    “No, this is Mr. McReynolds’s personal assistant. How can I help you, Mr. Haller? I see no appointment here in the book and, frankly, I don’t know who you are.”
    The voice was female, young and confident.
    “I’m the guy who is going to make your boss’s life miserable if you don’t get him on the line.”
    There was a bubble of silence before the voice responded.
    “I don’t think I like your threatening manner. Mr. McReynolds is on the set and—”
    “It was not a threat. I don’t make threats. I just speak the truth. Where’s the set?”
    “I’m not telling you that. You’re not getting anywhere near Clegg until I know what this is about.”
    I noted that she was on a first-name basis with the boss. A horn blared from behind me. The cars were stacking up. The guard rapped his knuckles on my window, then bent down to try to see in through the smoked glass. I ignored him. A second horn honked from the rear.
    “This is about your saving your boss a lot of grief. Are you familiar with the deal he announced last week regarding the woman accused of killing the banker foreclosing on her home?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Well, your boss acquired those rights illegally. I’m assuming this was through no fault or knowledge of his own. If I’m right, he’s the victim of a scam and I’m here to make it right for him. This is a one-time opportunity. After this, Clegg McReynolds gets pulled down into the quicksand.”
    The final threat was punctuated with another long blast from the car directly behind me and a sharp rap on the window.
    “Talk to the guard,” I said. “Tell him yea or nay.”
    I lowered the window and handed the phone out to the angry guard. He held it to his ear.
    “What’s it going to be? I’ve got a line of cars out to Melrose here.”
    He listened and then stepped back into his booth and hung up the phone. Then he looked at me as he pushed the button that opened the gate.
    “Stage nine,” he said. “Straight ahead and left at the end. You can’t miss it.”
    I threw him a told-you-so smile as I raised the window and Rojas drove under the rising gate.
    Stage 9 was a soundstage big enough to house an aircraft carrier. It was surrounded by equipment trucks, star wagons and craft services vans. Four stretch limos were parked end to end along one side,