"Stick with Althea," Lucy said.

Bryce nodded without so much as a backward glance in the direction of Mary Vanity's room. "Thanks, Lucy. I'll-"

"There's something else," Lucy said, and Bryce drew himself up, probably prepared to play the outraged star if she went too far. "Stephanie's been hurt," she said and watched him deflate. "She's in the hospital. She had an accident in Nash's van."

"My God," he said, but she could see the wheels turning even while he looked shocked, concerned, and saddened, all appropriate emotions he could project at the drop of a hat. He took her hand. "You know, Stephanie loves this movie. She would want us to keep filming."

Right, Lucy thought and took her hand back. "Do me a favor. Go back to the cast hotel and tell Althea and Rick when they wake up. You're the star, they'll want to hear it from you."

She watched him expand again.

"We're still shooting tonight, right?" he said. "I can tell them that?"

"Yes," J.T. said.

"I don't think so," Lucy said, ignoring him. "I'll know more later."

"Well," Bryce said. "We should keep shooting." He stopped, as if not sure what to say next, and then collected himself and said, "I'm glad you're here, Lucy. You're doing a great job, handling everything for us like a real pro. We know we can depend on you. I think I can speak for the rest of the cast when I say we all appreciate what you've done for us, and we know you'll be there for us tonight."

"Uh huh," Lucy said, not particularly gratified to know she existed to serve. "Thank you very much." She nodded toward the door. "Best get back to the cast hotel before anybody wakes up."

"Right," Bryce said and then stopped. "How did I find out about Stephanie?"

"I called you," Lucy said. "Because-"

"-I'm the star!" Bryce said, nodding. "Thanks, Lucy."

"You bet," Lucy said and watched him go. She thought about what his face would have looked like if she'd started rattling off the nightmares that had their fingers in his movie. "The CIA is not SAG, Bryce," she could have said. "The Russian mob is not looking for a piece of the back end."

And the Teamsters had not taken out Stephanie.

Lucy took a deep breath.

"Now we go squeeze Mary Vanity," J.T. said.

"I'm pretty sure Bryce just did that," Lucy said and followed him across the lobby.

When Mary Vanity answered the door in her robe, she was beaming. Then she realized they weren't Bryce.

"Hi," Lucy said, feeling guilty about sending Bryce oft to Althea until she remembered who Mary had been talking to. The hell with her, the little mole. "We have a few questions."

Mary's face had fallen when she'd recognized them, but now it hit the floor. "I have a right to my private life," she said, chin down.

"Of course you do." Lucy pushed past her into the room, where the bed showed every sign of having been slept in by one person. No romping. Poor Mary. "It's your phone life we're objecting to," she said, turning in time to see J.T. look at her in warning. Yeah, yeah, okay, partnership, but I'm the Bad Cop. "Captain Wilder has some questions."

He looked startled and then recovered enough to smile at Mary. He looked about as comfortable smiling at Mary as Mary did having them in her room. "We know you've been talking to Mr. Finnegan, Mary."

Mary flushed and ducked her head lower. "Have not."

This should be good, Lucy thought, folding her arms. Rambo meets Jessica Simpson.

"I realize you thought it was harmless," J.T. went on, his voice gentle. "But Mr. Finnegan is not a movie backer, he's a terrorist."

Mary jerked her head up. "No. No, he's Irish."

This is going to take a while, Lucy thought and sat down.

J.T. nodded. "Yes, he was with the IRA and now he's with the Russian mob. They're laundering money through the movie."

Mary swallowed. "I don't even know what that means. I don't know anything about this."

J.T. nodded again. "What he's really doing is using the movie as a front for the Russian mob."

Mary blinked. "I don't know any Russians."

"You do now," Lucy said grimly. "And these aren't fun-loving, vodka-toasting Russians. These guys kill people." She leaned forward. "And you're helping them."

"No." Mary moved closer to J.T., shaking her head. "No, no. I didn't do anything."

J.T. smiled, which Lucy supposed was intended as reassurance. He really had to work on that.

"Mary, we know you called Finnegan when Stephanie took the van," he said, his voice full of understanding.

"And you told him when Captain Wilder came on the set." Lucy made her voice as sharp as possible. "Bryce told you he was here, didn't he? And you told Finnegan, and then the next day somebody pulled a knife on them in a bar." She saw Mary's eyes flicker. "You almost got Bryce killed, Mary."

"No," Mary moaned.

"And yesterday when Bryce fell off the helicopter…" Lucy shook her head. "I don't know how he's going to take it when he finds out you're responsible for him getting hurt twice."

"No, wait." Mary stood up. Her robe fell open and Lucy expected J.T. to look politely at the ceiling but instead he looked into her eyes.

"We know you'd never hurt Bryce," he said, and Mary nodded like a bobble-head, stepping closer to him as she pulled her robe together.

That robe falling open was no accident, Lucy thought, and then remembered she was the Bad Cop. "How do we know that?" she said to J.T. "It's because of her that Bryce's been hurt twice. I think it's our duty to tell him about her. She's with the mob. She could be setting up an ambush in her room." Although why the Russian mob would want to take nut Bryce is a mystery.

Lucy straightened, trying for indignation. "She could be part of a plot to ruin the movie by killing Bryce."

"No, no, no" Mary said, blinking her false eyelashes as she moved another step closer to J.T.

Does she sleep in those? Lucy thought and then decided she probably did, in case Bryce stopped by.

"I'm sure Mary meant no harm," J.T. said, going for noble understanding. He was going to have to work on that, too. "Right. Mary?"

"Mr. Finnegan gave me ten thousand to tell him what was happen-ing on the set," Mary said. "He didn't ask me to do anything except tell him what was going on, if anything new happened, what Nash was doing."

Hello, Lucy thought. Doesn't trust Nash. Smart Irishman.

"And I really needed the money," Mary was saying to J.T. "Bryce likes big boobs and I'm only a B cup, but he doesn't like the cheap ones so I needed enough money for the expensive ones."

J.T. blinked. "There are different kinds?"

Hey, Lucy thought. Off topic here.

"It's really the surgery," Mary Vanity said, confiding in him. "In the cheap ones, they just cut open your boob and put the implant in so you can see the scar."

"And the expensive ones?" Lucy asked, not wanting to ask but helpless not to.

"They go in, like, through your stomach," Mary said. "No scar. Much better."

Lucy put her hand on her stomach. "Right." She looked at J.T. "I am never getting implants."

He looked confused. "Why would you?"

"Well, she's only a C cup," Mary said. "I mean, right?''

"Right." Lucy crossed her arms over her chest.

"Bryce likes Ds," Mary said, helpfully.

"Uh huh." J.T. was clearly sorry about the turn the conversation had taken. "I don't think there's any need to tell Bryce any of this."

"Oh, thank you]" Mary Vanity said, clutching his arm.

"As long as you give us Finnegan's phone number," J.T. said.

"Sure." Mary pushed past him to grab her bag, a pink leather number with the initial in on it, the hot trend in purses from 2003. "Here it is." She shoved a piece of paper at J.T.