Page 6 of Casualties of War
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They questioned Sedona’s party guests one by one and either arrested them or told them to go home. As Sedona was a popular producer, there were well over a hundred guests and as usual, the big names got released first, to escape before thesun came up.
Adán waited his turn along with all the other unknowns. He sat with his jeans rolled up and his feet in the pool, wishing he could dive in. Swimming cleared his mind, even if it was pool water and not the ocean. While he waited, he watched cops pick through the remains of the cabana.
House staff were roused from their beds to sweep up the glass from the broken windows. More of themcleaned up paper cups and empty bottles and other debris about the pool and the big lounge room connected to it by sliding doors.
“Mr.…Caballero?”
Adán looked up. The redhead was standing behind him, her notebook in hand. He lifted himself up from the brick edge and padded over to where she stood.
She had taken off the helmet. Now he was standing beside her, he could see she was taller thanhe’d first realized. She could almost look him in the eye. Hers were green, making her a classic redhead.
“Caballero is your real name?” she asked.
“It really is my name. I’d tell you to ask my father but that would be difficult.”
“As he’s in Mexico?”
“He’s dead,” Adán replied. “I don’t think he ever set foot in Mexico.”
Her eyes narrowed, puzzled.
“Hugo Caballero,” Adán said patiently.
Her face was blank.
“TV producer,” he added. “Director.”
Still nothing.
“What’s Next, Wednesday Smith?” he said.
Her face cleared. “I loved that show! I wanted to be Wednesday Smith so bad. I used to watch reruns when I was a kid. Your father was in it?”
“Hemadeit,” Adán said.
“Your dad?” She was back to frowning again. “Then you’re a producer, too?”
“I’m an actor.” One who couldn’t geta job despite his famous parents—at least, famous to most people. Just not to this girl.
Her nose didn’t quite wrinkle. He saw it twitch. Then she lifted the notebook. “A few questions, Mr. Caballero, then you can go.” The switch from person to impersonal cop was abrupt.
“You have something against actors?” he asked.
“Do you have some ID I can see?”
He gave up and pulled his wallet from hisback pocket and dug for his driver’s license and held it out to her.
She rested the license on her notebook and copied down the details. “What time did you get to the party, Mr. Caballero?”
“Around ten.”
“That’s late, isn’t it?”
“My shift ended late.”
“I thought you were an actor?”
