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thousand
dollars richer.
    Bolvana Studio was small in comparison with its neighbor,
Warner Brothers, but still expansive, with eighteen sound stages on over
seventy acres. Gunther had been working with Bolvana for years and had a
comfortable bungalow on the lot with offices for his production company, which
Alix had visited at Christmas. As they pulled to a stop outside the main gate,
Nick held up a security tag for a guard who stood in a small white building at
the edge of the enormous compound. With an impassive nod, the guard turned away,
and a red-and-white arm rose to allow them entry.
    “Did you want anything from the cafeteria? Water? Coffee?”
    Alex shook her head. “What’s on the schedule today? I
won’t be interrupting, will I?”
    “They’re just rehearsing. Ryker wanted me to bring you by
right away.” Nick stopped in front of a multistory, square building. It looked
like an enormous warehouse with brown stucco walls and no windows. A small sign
identified the building as “Studio Twelve.” A light hung over the doorway,
along with a sign promising dire results if the door was opened when the light
was red.
    Nick led them inside. The studio held an open, unfinished
space with cavernous ceilings crawling with wooden scaffolding, lights, and
black electric cords. A three-sided living room set faced them, complete with
an overstuffed couch, two large windows with lace curtains, and dark cherry
coffee table. On the right-side wall was an entry door with a row of locks. A
small army of empty canvas-backed chairs faced the set, one bearing the logo
“Director.”
    Lena Mandaval, lead actress in Salva’s Revenge , sat
on one side of the sofa, shoulders back, jaw set. Jake Redburn, the actor who
played Hank McAdams, the bulldog cop who was Salva’s nemesis, stood a few feet
away, arms crossed over his chest, a frown cutting deep grooves into the sides
of his mouth. A group of people clustered around the other side of the coffee
table, including Ryker. He was intent, scratching notes on a thick tablet of
white paper.
    “Do it again,” Ryker ordered, looking up to glare at the
actors.
    “It’s not working,” Jake said. He was shorter than Ryker,
with the lean, hard muscles of a wrestler and short, cropped hair. Defined
biceps stood out from the edges of a worn cotton T-shirt. “I’m telling you, you
can rework the scene a dozen times, but if Lena doesn’t warm up, it’s never
going to work.”
    “Oh sure, it’s all my fault.” Lena shook a mane of
thick, black hair and turned her back more fully to him. “How typical. Blame
someone else for your inability to get it up.”
    “Maybe if I wasn’t kissing a doormat, I’d have a little
more interest in my work,” Jake snapped.
    “Enough!” Ryker held up his hands. “You’re acting like
children. We’re going to do it one more time and then take a break. Now pretend
you’re professionals and take it from the top.” He took a few steps back from
the set and focused on each of them in turn, barking instructions. “Lena, you
don’t want him thinking about what he saw earlier today. You’re desperate.
Distracting him is your only hope. Jake, you’re fighting a losing battle and
you know it, but your job is too important to you to give up easily.”
    Nick started to open his mouth, presumably to announce
their presence, but Alix shushed him with a hand and slid into one of the
canvas chairs. Nick shrugged and sat down beside her.
    “You shouldn’t be here,” Lena said, turning to look at
Jake. In the time it took her to rearrange her position on the sofa, her body
changed completely, from defiant and angry to inviting, concerned. To the
casual observer, her posture—leaning forward, hands clasped together—appeared
designed to draw him closer. But Alix could see the tension in her mouth and
the stiffness of her back.
    Jake moved around the room, checking the window and locks
on the door as he spoke. “I saw Rinaldo by the bank this