Blackmail

Blackmail


Bob McElwain

ActionTales Cedarburg, Wisconsin

Copyright © 2004 Bob McElwain. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any part of this publication in any way requires written permission from the author. Second Edition Published by ActionTales.com, an imprint of ForemostPress.com, a division of CM Technologies, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity of characters or events to real persons or actual events is coincidental.

To the Reader: I hope you enjoy reading this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it. — Bob

vii

Chapter 1 Jack shook what he hoped was a teaspoonful of Folger’s instant into the cup, poured hot water from the electric coffee pot, then took a sip. “Damn,” he muttered. The smile on his lips was reflected in eyes the color of the coffee. He tried to remember the last time he had got it right. He worked at it. He didn’t want to think about the two weeks he had booked in the Fiji Islands. If he did, he would have to consider canceling in order to make time for another case. When he opened the kitchen slider and stepped out onto the redwood deck, the brisk breeze slapped the tails of the tan cotton shirt against the canary-yellow shorts. He leaned against the railing, letting the late afternoon sun toast his back, as he gazed at that sprawling part of Los Angeles locals call the Valley. To the north, the San Gabriels were crisply outlined against the bright blue sky. It was unseasonably warm for October. Near ninety, he guessed. It wouldn’t last. Arctic storms were already stacking up to the north. Some were predicting a heavy winter that would bring relief to the entire drought-ridden state. He ignored opposing forecasts. A good snow pack and frequent fresh falls made for swift, reckless dashes down Sierra slopes. He stared at the distant peaks as if urging the storms to come on in. When he had finished the coffee, he started back inside. A tall man of lean strength. Moving easily, efficiently, as if the course had been plotted precisely. Faint flecks of gray in the soft waves of rusty brown hair. Arresting features, something of sandstone mesas touched by first light. As he fi xed more coffee, he listened to the message wrapping around the corner from the living room. “You’re listening to KLON. FM 88.1.” Then came muted strains of “Stardust,” the magic of Miles Davis. Ducking under the wagon-wheel chandelier, he settled into a chair at the ancient black walnut table. Colorful brochures littered the surface. Near-white sand. Impossibly clear blue water. They had been essential in planning the trip. 1

2 Bob McElwain

It had been six years since he’d been there. Snorkeling. Spear fishing. Piling up the Zs. Lazy sunny days of fine company and good fun that made for great memories. “Damn,” he muttered, realizing his thoughts had shifted focus without his bidding. He was willing to become involved, given a situation in which he could make a difference. He could ignore that part of himself demanding to know why he had not packed it in long ago. Nine years with Jason Stone. Capital cases. Part of a top investigative team building that ever-brilliant defense. Then working on his own with a private license until at last he had begun saying no, hoping to decrease both the quantity and depth of downer time. He wasn’t surprised to find himself gazing at the photo in the center of the table. Eyes filled with merriment. Eyes that were such an enigma to him. In some inexplicable way, beyond simple genetics, eyes that were also those of the boy’s mother. “What do you think, Billy?” he asked. “It’s your thing, dad,” the boy would say. “It’s what you do.” Then he would flash that radiant smile that was also his mother’s. “Mellow out, man. It’s not that heavy.” It would be easier to believe the boy, if he were here to say it himself. The brass ring in the bull’s nose rapped sharply against the striker on the front door. When he looked toward the sound, the luminous coffee-brown eyes reflected hesitation. It was only a hunch, but he was willing to bet think-time had ended. At the second resolute stroke, he rose, rinsed his cup and tucked it away. He buttoned the shirt as he strode toward the door. His reluctance did not show in the stride or the set to the shoulders. What he glimpsed through the peephole supported his hunch. He opened the door to face litheness, draped in a rich creaminess. Bold pleats of the jacket, drawn snugly in at the waist. Matching slacks clinging to lean hips and long thighs. A bright sheen to the milky-white, silk blouse. Two silver bracelets about the left wrist. Dark brown hair cut short in a casual breezy style. “I’m Terri Delaney, Mr. Collier,” she said, offering her hand. “Make it Jack.” Her grasp was cool, firm, polite. In three-inch heels, the eyes were nearly level with his. And close. Distracting. Lake Tahoe came to mind, looking down from thirty thousand feet. The same shade of blue, seemingly bottomless. He wondered if the cameras she faced each night captured this impact.

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“If you have time, I’d like to talk with you.” He said nothing, simply studied her face. Very little makeup. Not much need for what she wore. A softness to the hair that invited caress. And those remarkable blue eyes. Deep beneath delicate but pronounced brows. Eyes seemingly intent on revealing all. Could he say no, with these eyes upon him? “May I come in?” she asked. Was there a trace of uncertainty? Apprehension? He thought there might be. He was sure there was no polite way to duck her request. “Sure,” he said, opening the door further and stepping aside. He caught a faint fragrance that reminded him of honeysuckle. As he closed the door, she paused in the archway, letting her glance sweep the living room. The architecture was Old Spanish. The high vaulted ceiling supported by massive oak beams was stained so dark as to appear black. Three windows spanned the north wall, each offering a picture postcard view. Jack had awakened this morning with a case of neats. Things were more or less in place. “It’s fantastic,” she said. “The view, I mean.” “It’s always that.” The rich resonance in the words offset the Western unconcern for diction. He stepped around her into the dining room and began clearing brochures off the table, aware of faint tensions. The female in the male cave. Fundamental. Primitive. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said, watching him closely. “But you didn’t return my calls.” Each word was wrapped delicately with faint sensual shadings, captivating counterpoint to precise articulation. “I’ve been meaning to.” When he reached for the photo, he noticed her watching. “My son. Billy,” he said, setting it on the counter beside the reel-to-reel recorder. “He’s a fine looking young man.” “That’s so,” Jack said, looking back at the photo. The boy had been fifteen when it was taken. The laughter in the eyes hadn’t changed much. “Maybe too good looking for his own good. He’s something of a rascal.” “Does he live with you?” “He owns the bedroom in the far corner,” Jack said, nodding in that direction. “He’s away at the moment.” With the words came that familiar twisting ache, deep in the gut, where it can’t be ignored. For all his skills, his best efforts, there hadn’t been one damned thing he could do to prevent the boy’s going to jail. Usually, he believed this. Those times he couldn’t were not good ones.

4 Bob McElwain

He noticed her glance at his ring finger and said quietly, “His mother died before his first birthday.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” “No problem. Have a seat,” he said, waving at the chair as if also hoping to brush his thoughts aside. “Something to drink?” he asked. “A martini?” “I’ve Beefeaters and tonic.” “That will be fine,” she said, sitting down, the bracelets jangling pleasantly against the table and each other. He reached for the makings in the cabinet over the sink and poured Bacardi over ice for himself, adding water. When he set the drink in front of Terri, she took a sip. “About right?” he asked. “Yes, thank you.” He started the recorder, then sat down, noting her uneasiness. “Do we need that?” she asked. “It beats taking notes I can’t read.” She nodded acceptance, toying with her bracelets. She remained uneasy. To get beyond that, he asked, “How’s June doing? She sounded good on the phone.” “Very well. The bars on the windows are gone. And the alarms. The armed guards. All those efforts to protect her father’s art collection were smothering her. Now that it’s been sold, she’s enjoying her freedom. I think she’s at peace with herself for the first time in her life.” “How did you meet her?” he asked, remembering their own meeting. They had established the fiction he was her new love. To the delight of both, it had become reality. It had spoiled it for them, in ways he had not yet defi ned, when he discovered an ex-boyfriend who had decided if he could not have her, no one would. When he had come for her, Jack had shot that sick, sad, sorry son of a bitch. And as blood spread upon the snow white carpet, he had cried, “That’s damned well enough of this shit!” Suddenly he realized he had missed part of what Terri was saying. “. . . when she sold the collection, the station asked me to look at the personal side, what the loss would mean, what she hoped to gain, and so forth. We had a good deal of fun, taping that spot. We still

Blackmail 5

do, when we’re able to get together.” She hadn’t been sidetracked by the brief excursion. There was a tenseness about her now. “The station,” he said, for lack of anything better. “That would be?” “KTSV. The evening news. You haven’t seen the show?” “I’m not much into television. What’s your part of it?” “I do a human interest segment each night. Sometimes a broader piece for other shows.” “Are you good?” The lips tilted upward at the corners. “I’ll let you decide.” “June thinks you’re great. ‘Born to it,’ she said.” “I wouldn’t say that,” she said, a distinct flush flooding into her cheeks, “but there’s nothing I would rather do.” “And there’s a blackmailer who can stop you.” “Unfortunately, that’s true.” “Why me?” he asked. At her sharp probing glance, he continued. “I can name several firms with good track records. I’ve never tackled such a situation.” She straightened in the chair, her forehead creased with a frown. “I have found it difficult to trust strangers with this.” He tugged at his ear, aware of her intense scrutiny. “You don’t know me,” he said quietly. “June does.” “So?” She met his questioning glance, her eyes revealing hints of her thoughts. He liked what he could see of them. “It has all gotten beyond me,” she said evenly. “It may not make much sense, but I feel I’ve absorbed June’s confidence in you.” He gazed out the window. Lengthening shadows dimmed earlier brightness. Upper winds drifted jet trails across the deepening blue of the sky. Wasn’t it past time to cry enough? He took a slow, measured breath, turned back to her and asked, “Want to tell me about it?” She glanced at the recorder, then back at the drink she had ignored beyond the first polite sip. “Terri, June told me all this went down eight years back. It’s old news. Besides, I’m not in the judgment business. Even if I made one, would it matter?” “Yes. It would.” “Then I won’t.”

6 Bob McElwain

“I’ll hold you to that.” “Do it.” She straightened in the chair. Her eyes were fi xed on a point on the table midway between them. He was sure she had mentally rehearsed the scene, over and over again. But faced with laying it out for him, that tedious preparation wasn’t helping much. Long slender fingers gripped the glass, as if seeking support. “It happened while I was in Las Vegas with some people from the studio.” She paused, tightening her grip on the glass. “To make a grim story short, I invited a complete stranger into my bed. It was a sick, sadomasochistic encounter, to put the best light on it. I have no idea how I could have been so foolish. Too many martinis hardly explains it.” Each word came more quickly than the one before it. “Someone has it on videotape. Three years later, I received a copy with the first demand. I’ve been paying ever since. It must end.” She leaned on her forearms, clinging to the glass with both hands. “Is it keeping you from getting together with Mr. Right?” “No. There’s nobody special.” “What is it, then?” “My work,” she said, tension easing some. “If that tape were delivered to the station, I would be dumped immediately. I would never work in the industry again.” “I don’t want to seem flippant, but so what? Lots of us do spectacularly stupid things in those crazy years of youth. If you weren’t in public view, no one would be uptight about a sex scene, played eight years back.” “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said, the words oddly truncated. “However, it’s beside the point. I would continue paying to keep what I have, but I’ve nearly exhausted my resources.” “I see,” he said, tugging gently at his ear. “But you don’t really, do you?” “I can’t seem to get beyond you making a career change, then telling this creep to bug off.” Slowly, deliberately, she clasped her hands on the table, watching every move as if in each lay the words she sought. “Do you ever think about your childhood?” she asked, without looking up. “Often. It was great time for me.” “For me it wasn’t.” She looked up, blasting him with those blue, blue eyes. “I can sum it up in one word: lonely.” Her grip tightened;

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the knuckles began to whiten. “My parents divorced when I was little. Mother fought for custody of my sister and me. And she won.” Disgust wrapped each word. “She dumped us both into a private boarding school. I seldom saw her. I haven’t seen her at all since my sister died. Father tried in his way, but it wasn’t enough. Weekends and holidays were exciting, when the other kids had escaped back to their homes.” “A lot of kids deal with worse.” “That’s true. There are those who would have said I was on top of the world. But I wasn’t in it. Or of it. Don’t you see? Every waking moment, I wanted desperately to participate, to be part of what lay beyond the wrought iron fence outside my window. “Then one morning, I awoke with a certainty I wanted to be a part of television, part of filling the empty hours of others.” She unclasped her hands and placed them flat upon the table. “I started as a receptionist. For me, life began only then. I felt I was part of real happenings. That what I was doing was significant. Important. I became addicted. Hooked completely.” She grabbed her glass and swallowed thirstily; she seemed unaware of having done so. “I had only dreamed of being on screen. I never expected it to happen. Then it did. I’ve never come down off the high of that. “The mail is filled with compliments, suggestions, and ideas. People recognize me on the street. They smile and want my autograph. And to shake my hand. I know it’s meaningless, in the long scheme of things, but I thrive on this interaction. Is anything wrong in that?” “Nothing comes to mind,” Jack said, sure she hadn’t heard him. “I don’t know,” she continued, speaking more slowly, “whether people relate to me or to what I represent. When a man makes a pass, I wonder if it’s me he wants. Really me. Or my body, which is more or less an accidental arrangement of genes. I can get hung up on that. “But with my work, I don’t care. I am an integral part of what people respond to. It’s sufficient for me, however small that part may be. I won’t give it up. I can’t.” She collapsed back into the chair. Her hands fell to her lap. “I’ve never tried to enunciate such thoughts,” she said, the words hushed, muted. “It didn’t sound grand or heroic.” “I’m impressed.”

8 Bob McElwain

She nodded. A thank you, maybe. For several moments Jack listened to Dexter Gordon’s haunting sax, drifting in from the other room. He sensed those incredible eyes upon him, sensed tension, and a patience he liked. He looked up and asked, “Suppose I was willing, how do you see this going down?” “I’m expecting another demand soon. I’m hoping you can follow the money.” “It doesn’t always work out.” “So I’ve been told.” Each word was laced with disgust. “I don’t understand why.” “The pickup is the part of the exercise most carefully planned. A dozen well-trained people can miss it.” “I still don’t understand.” For a moment, he considered giving further explanation. But it occurred to him she might not be able to even hear the words just now. “Look, Terri,” he said quietly. “It’s worth trying, but face it. There’s no guarantee. We could easy come up empty. So I’d also look around in Vegas, since that’s where the tape was made.” As he spoke, tension returned to the set of the shoulders, a touch of fear to the eyes. “I’d check on those who were with you. If that didn’t lead to anything useful, I’d start down the list of everyone you know.” “I’m uncomfortable with that.” “Can you tell me why?” “I’m not sure.” She paused, her forehead creased with a frown, the eyes downcast. “Why involve so many people? Wouldn’t it increase the risk of discovery?” “Whatever we do, there’ll be risk. Still, it’s not as if you were putting your life on the line.” Her look was sharp, piercing. He felt as if he had tripped over a dark obscure corner of private thoughts. “You’re right, of course,” she said. She combed hair back over her ear with long slender fingers. At the end of each stroke, there was a faint tremble in them. When she looked up, she said. “But to be forced to give up my career, . . .” She shook her head slowly. “That would be a death of sorts.” She turned to gaze out over the Valley, as if to be certain the sun was still on course. When she turned back to face him, she said, “If you’re willing, I’d like you to do whatever you think best.”

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“You’re sure?” The eyes were clear, calmer now. “As sure as I can be.” Jack sipped at his drink, watching her work at erasing fears. One of the good ones, June had said. One we can’t afford to lose. When he found himself gazing at Billy’s picture, he looked away. If he could get his hands on that tape, it would make a difference to Terri Delaney. There would be the wondering about what awaited around the next corner, behind the closed door, the figurative leaning into the edge of the downhill slope. And, with luck, the winning. He glanced longingly at the travel brochures stacked on the counter, then turned back to her and said, “Let’s do it.” “I brought some money,” she said quickly, reaching for her purse. “Let me nose around a bit. If I can do you any good, I’ll bill you.” “Suppose it’s more than I can afford.” “We’ll work something out.” “Such as?” she asked quickly, a frosty tint in the blue of her eyes. He chuckled. “Get real. Do I look to be hurting?” “No,” she said, meeting his glance evenly. “You don’t.” “It might be fun, though.” “Uh huh.” The eyes showed hints of sparks growing brighter, ready to be showered upon him. “Laugh a little, Terri. It beats hell out of crying.” “I don’t feel like it, even if you’re right.” He smiled, content with the touch of lightness in her eyes. “Now I need details. Are you up to it?” “What kind of details?” The sparks were back.

Chapter 2 With a cup of coffee and the cordless phone, Jack stepped out onto the deck. As he strode to the redwood lounge, the suede desert boots crunched golden-yellow leaves from the maple that knew more of winter’s coming than did the warm breeze lingering from yesterday.

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He wore brown trousers with a side-buckled Hollywood waistband and a brown cotton shirt with a button-down collar, open at the neck. When he donned the lambskin suede car coat he had left inside, he would be dressed in the latest fall fashion. He would have been surprised to learn this; comfort was his principal selection criteria. He settled into the lounge chair and punched out the number, thinking of Robin Ashton. Ashton Investigations owed its success to her years in the field, a solid business sense, and an imagination backed by a quick mind. Central to her operation was an elaborate computer system she had dubbed Mr. Maestro. A name will lead to a mass of information, more than most would want known about themselves. “How are you, Jack?” Robin asked, in that vibrant contralto he had fallen in love with years back. “Good, Robin. And yourself?” “Never better, thank you. It’s been a while.” “That’s so. How’s Ed?” “He keeps telling me I’m wonderful. And June?” “She sounded fine on the phone when I last talked with her.” “Oh, oh.” “I’m free tonight.” “Ed is a fine man, Jack.” “Fate’s against us.” She laughed, a lusty heartiness that lingered. “One day we’ll have to do something about that.” “We ought to.” “Did you call just to raise my pulse rate?” “Sorry, but no. I need all you can get on five people.” “All?” Within an hour, she could obtain comprehensive backgrounds adequate for most needs. But it was in examining those blanks the Maestro found, that good legwork might pry loose little bits that could lead to big chunks of the finished puzzle. “Yes, Robin. All you can get.” He spelled out Terri’s name and those of the four who were with her in Vegas. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” Robin asked. “A blackmailer.” “Do you only take the nasty ones?” “A self-destructive urge, maybe.”

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“Probably,” she said. He could almost hear the whir of her thoughts. “Is it possible the blackmailer is one of these five?” “It’s not likely. I’ve got to make a start, is all.” “Then we’ll do what we can to make it a good one.” “Thanks, Robin. Catch you later.” After hanging up, Jack headed for the garage. With the door to the house closed, he held the light switch up, activating the interior alarm system. When he turned to the car, he paused. A turbo Trams Am, one of the limited run of the twentieth anniversary model, the last of a fine line of machines. He could hear the whistling wind its passing created. When the nitro setup kicks in, she hits sixty in three seconds flat. He climbed behind the wheel, fired the engine and tried to hear every roaring rumble as he backed out and drove off. Terri had given him the addresses to which she had mailed payments. All were post office boxes. He wanted to check on two locations. Post offices were not of consuming interest to him, but cars were. His lips tilted upward at the corners as he pulled onto the 405 freeway and let the engine wind toward redline in second. Traffic was light. He let the trans shift into third. He passed on the right now and then, as the car accelerated. The handling was stiff. And there was a bit too much under-steer; rough-surfaced corners must be respected. But what a machine! He spotted a Highway Patrol car near a mile ahead and laughed, then eased off the gas. He could outrun the cruiser, but not its radio. He opened the window and leaned back, letting the wind stroke his face.


A year ago, Alfred & Styles had missed, trying to follow Terri’s money. From what he could see of the swank offices, they seldom missed in collecting their fees, acknowledged by even themselves as being inordinately high. They occupied an entire floor of Gateway East on Wilshire Boulevard in Century City. Thick carpets and heavy brocade drapes conspired with the hum of the air conditioning to stifle sound. Shelden Winthrop ushered Jack inside the well-appointed office without delay. He waved toward the chairs facing the desk,

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then walked to an array of file cabinets. The thick bifocals added a bookkeeperish look. Dressed in casual slacks, a pale blue sport shirt and burgundy penny loafers, he didn’t look the part of an investigator. Seated, Jack had an expansive view of about a mile of buildings, far enough apart to allow for broad green carpets of lawn. Shrubs and trees were artfully placed and meticulously cared for. Choice real estate. Maintained accordingly. When Winthrop pulled up a chair beside him, Jack glanced at the filing cabinet. He had guessed right. It had been closed and Jack hadn’t heard a sound. When Winthrop opened the folder and began to read, the pages were handled without the usual rustle and occasional snap. When he finished a page, he laid it in front of Jack who stared at each in turn, trying to look as if he understood the office jargon. When the last page had been placed on the desk, Winthrop leaned back in the chair. Scratching thinning brown hair, he said, “A routine sort of thing, don’t you agree?” “Seems like it,” Jack said, without any notion of what might be routine in this office. “We missed the wicket, is what it amounts to,” he said. “Unfortunately it happens.” “It’s never a for-sure thing,” Jack said, inwardly urging the man to tell him what went wrong. Gazing at the ceiling, Winthrop continued. “Our outside man was in an excellent position to observe anyone entering or leaving the postal box lobby. Of course, he could not see the box itself.” Jack nodded. He’d found this to be true. “And, as you undoubtedly noted,” Winthrop continued, “the package was wired. We scheduled those available to drop in as possible. No one stayed long enough to be noticed. “The package was reported as still in . . .” He paused, reaching for a page from the file. “Box 409 at 1:35 a.m.” He laid the page back on the desk. “It had been picked up by 2:15. Three people were observed entering and leaving during that time. Unfortunately, the man scheduled to be inside was delayed. Since the bug failed, our outside man missed it entirely.” “Sounds as if you had it covered,” Jack commented. All that manpower had cost a bundle. No wonder Terri didn’t understand how they could have missed.

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“Standard procedure, actually. It’s generally quite effective.” He shook his head, almost as if seeking to reassure himself there had been nothing wrong with the procedure. “That’s about it,” he said, standing in a way that announced he had pressing matters to attend to. Jack also stood, but there was less snap to it. As Winthrop tucked the pages into the folder, Jack said, “It figures the name, Erlin Thomas, is a phony.” “I thought the report quite clear on that,” he said, striding toward the file cabinet. “Neither the address nor phone number given on the box rental form exist.” He closed the file drawer soundlessly, turned toward the door and opened it. His eyes, enlarged by the thick glasses, reflected thoughts of his next chore. This one had been completed. “Thanks for your time,” Jack said. Winthrop nodded as if expecting more gratitude. He didn’t offer his hand, but then neither did Jack. The door, closing behind Jack, bumped the heel of his shoe.


“Milo Hetch” was spelled out in an arc on the glass door in gold Roman lettering. “Confidential Investigations” filled a single straight line of smaller letters. Terri had come to this man after receiving the first demand. She had been so put off by the experience it had taken her four years to get to Alfred & Styles. Jack stepped inside to face the smiles of welcome on two lovely faces. “I’m Penny,” the woman nearest the door said. She leaned forward and asked, “Can I help you?” The ruby red blouse had fallen away from her throat. Jack was more interested in the speculative curiosity in the hazel-green eyes than in the milky white breasts. “I’m here to see Mr. Hetch,” he said. “The name’s Collier.” Penny continued to gaze at him, ignoring the desk calendar open in front of her. “Won’t you sit down? He’s expecting you. Let me see if he’s available.” She stood and walked toward the inner door. She was accustomed to the three inch heels. The short black cotton skirt hugged hips and thighs in all the right places. Jack glanced at the other woman, returned her smile, and sat down in one of the chairs. The fabric was stiff, crinkly, not the

14 Bob McElwain

naugahyde it had appeared to be. He had thought the floor was surfaced with cork tiles. Seated, he could see it was linoleum, reasonably new but showing signs of wear. When Penny stepped back into the room and nodded, Jack stood and moved toward her. Nice, he thought, the way she’s posed herself. Chin up. The back arched a bit. The stuff of centerfolds. He paused to look into inviting eyes. “Thanks,” he said, then stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. The big man behind the desk stood. His welcoming smile clashed with the watchful look in the bright blue eyes. His movie-star looks included brows jutting out over the eyes, a patrician-like nose, full lips, and a heavily muscled jaw that bespoke power and determination. He leaned out over the desk, offering his hand. As Jack took it, he couldn’t fail to note the .357 magnum, tucked into the holster under the left arm. “Milo Hetch, Mr. Collier,” he said, gripping Jack’s hand tighter than need be. “Make it Jack.” “Right. Park it,” he said. When he straightened, the gun bulged under the wine corduroy jacket. The string tie featured a jade stone mounted in gold. He sat back down with care, then glanced at the full length mirror to his left. He tucked errant strands of black hair back where he decided they belonged. He leaned out over the desk and said, “Terri Delaney. What a babe that one was.” He shook his head, remembering. “But that was some time ago.” “About five years.” Hetch nodded. “You got credentials?” Jack laid his identification wallet on the desk, open to his license. Hetch regarded it at length, almost as if he were a slow reader. Finally, he shoved it back toward Jack. “Can’t be too careful. Know what I mean?” The grin that accompanied the words acknowledged Jack’s membership in the same elite club in which he himself was a member of high standing. “So what are you looking for?” “Nothing special,” Jack said. “Just trying to get an idea about what I’m up against.” “That’s always good to know,” Hetch said. “But like I told you on the phone, I don’t have much myself. I wired the package she mailed to the Van Nuys branch. When I’d eyeballed it in the right box, I parked my butt. Three damned days. Boring shit. Know what I mean?” As if to accent the point, the chin jerked forward slightly. The face followed along, eyes intent.

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Jack nodded and Hetch continued. “When anybody was inside, I kept a fi x on that box. Nobody went near it. For no reason I’ve got, the bug quit. So I went inside to check. The package was gone. I got no idea how.” “How many people were inside when it quit?” “Three or four. I’d have to check my notes.” “One of them must have grabbed it and silenced that bug some way.” Hetch leaned closer. “I told you. Nobody went near that box.” There was a touch of bristle in the words. “That’s right. You did.” Hetch leaned back in the chair, then propped two polished wingtips on the desk. “So now you’re going to give it try?” “That’s so. Any suggestions?” Hetch stared at Jack’s coat for several moments. He nodded as if in approval, glanced up at the ceiling, then back at Jack. “You’re a guy who likes good things. Right?” “That’s true.” “A coat like that, it costs some change. And somebody’s got to pay the bill. Know what I mean?” Jack wondered if it was hard to grin and jerk the chin forward at the same time. He leaned closer, hoping his slight smile suggested interest. “I’m not real sure I do.” “What I’m saying is, don’t take it too serious. Just walk it around the block. Shoot some pool. Catch up on the sack time. This broad will pay.” “You mean just kind of go through the motions?” “Yeah. There’s no sense busting your butt for nothing. Right?” Hetch eased his feet to the floor and again leaned out over the desk. “She was something. Get’s a man to thinking. Know what I mean?” “You’ve two lively ladies out front.” Hetch chuckled. “Indispensable types on cold rainy nights.” “Penny comes on kind of strong.” “Not often.” His grin broadened. “You ought to move on those goods.” He stared down at his hands for a moment. “Penny can show you things that Delaney broad never thought of.” “I’m not sure I follow.” “Believe it, I tried to get close to that babe. Popped for dinner at the Brown Derby even. Nothing. A cold type. What’d she tell you was on that tape she’s after?”

16 Bob McElwain

“Some kinky sex.” “That’s what she told me. I couldn’t buy it.” “Why not?” “She’s not the fun type. A man can tell. Know what I mean?” “I think so.” “When I’m on, I make out fine.” Jack had never seen a man strut while seated behind a desk. This was a dandy, the king of roosters at work. “He thinks he’s irresistible,” Terri had said. “What he is, is a sleaze,” she had added. Jack let his grin broaden and leaned closer to the desk in a conspiratorial manner. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, lowering his voice further on each word. “I ought to get something better than a stick.” “What do you mean?” Hetch asked, leaning closer. “To beat them off with.” “Beat off who?” Hetch asked suspiciously. “The broads. A stick, see, it just doesn’t hold up. Know what I mean?” His grin was no match for the leer Hetch has been tossing across the desk and he didn’t brother to jerk his chin forward. “You’re putting me on.” Caution had flooded the eyes. “Ms. Delaney isn’t a client, mister.” Jack leaned closer. “She’s a very dear friend.” Hetch straightened. “Anything else you need, Mr. Collier?” “I was by that post office this morning. The boxes can’t be seen from outside.” “So?” “So you sold her a tale for three thou.” Hetch slowly stood, the heavy jaw clenched, the eyes sparking with anger. “Move your ass on out of here.” “Ms. Delaney thinks you were scared off.” “Up yours.” From his billfold, Jack counted out ten one hundred dollar bills. Hetch watched intently. “Sit down,” Jack said. “There’s no profit in beating on me.” For a moment, Hetch seemed undecided. Then he eased back down into the chair. “So what’s with the bread?” he demanded. “It’s the bet.” “What are you betting, wise guy?” “That you were not bought off.”

Blackmail 17

Hetch’s glance flicked between the stack of bills and Jack’s eyes. “What do you need to prove I was?” he asked finally. “Everything you know.” With his eyes fi xed on the money, Hetch said, “There’s this guy, Randal Smith. He . . .” “Smith?” Jack interrupted. “I didn’t ask for no birth certificate. Okay?” Jack nodded, fingering the stack of bills. “He said he had a problem. When he laid down two thousand, I listened. You would, too,” he declared bluntly. “Go ahead,” Jack said. “It was simple, really. Smith said this Delaney broad had problems. Disturbed was how he put it. He said he represented a guy looking out for her. Know what I mean?” “I hear what you’re saying,” Jack said. Hetch scowled, then continued. “So she has a sugar daddy, see? And he only wants to protect her.” “What were you asked to do?” “Nothing, unless she looked me up. If she did, I was to go through the motions, but not waste time. I did like Smith said and that was the end of it.” “For all that grand and noble service, how much more did you pull in?” “Don’t get wise, asshole.” Jack covered the stack of bills with his hand. “How much?” “Another five. Now what the fuck else you need?” “A phone number. An address, maybe.” “He called every day.” “Description?” “Six feet. Close to one-eighty. About forty. Expensive conservative threads. Pale curly blond hair.” When Jack pulled his hand back and stood, Hetch scooped up the stack of bills. “I have this feeling,” Jack said. “Move it out of here, wiseass.” “Like you’re holding out.” “Up yours.” Jack strode to the door. He turned with his hand on the knob. “I’ll be disappointed if I find you’ve done something dumb like that.” “Fuck you.”

18 Bob McElwain


In shorts and a shirt, Jack sat at the table listening to the tape of his meeting with Milo Hetch, as he copied it to the larger reel-to-reel machine on the counter. He had made a small hole in the side of his jackets. The tiny mike he used was the latest technology. When the tape ended, he asked of the photo, “How’d he sound to you, Billy? Like a liar, maybe?” Yes. A liar, Jack decided. But about what exactly? And who had Randal Smith represented? No blackmailer would expose himself, even indirectly, to a private investigator. Terri might be playing house with a guy she hadn’t mentioned. But disturbed? No way. He tried to picture what those blue, blue eyes would reveal, if she were here now. He let himself flow into that blueness. When he glanced at his watch, it was a few minutes past five. He grabbed a Michelob from the fridge, went into the living room and settled into the recliner. On the remote, he pressed buttons until KTSV came up on the screen. He let his mind wander, ignoring the hyped news accounts of assorted tawdry happenings. The Ford truck caught his attention. He watched it do things no owner would ask of it. Then a chubby happy thief explained how, if Jack would only hurry right down, he could sell him that truck for a thousand dollars less than he had paid for it. The sports announcer led with the news that Minnesota was two to zip over Atlanta in the World Series. Next came an earnest explanation of why the Dodgers hadn’t made it. But considering their corral of millionaire talent, Jack thought they ought to have. He chuckled. Knocking the Dodgers didn’t change the fact his beloved Angels had finished dead last. Maybe next year they’ll . . . Terri Delaney burst upon the screen. Come morning, Jack realized he might not remember what she was saying. But he would remember the impact. The camera zoomed in on delicate features. An intense, immediate presence. He realized he hadn’t noticed what she was wearing. She came across as if her message were vital to him, one he had to grasp. Speaking quickly, each word still reached out and drew him ever closer.

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There was a shot of a kid in a hospital bed. Then she led him so deeply into the sorrow of his parents, Jack felt as if the boy were his own son. All with a passionate caring. Her image seemed etched into the screen when it went blank in that instant before they cut to commercial. Jack punched the TV off and stared at the darkened screen.

Chapter 3 Headed for Hollywood on the Ventura Freeway, Jack remained alert for harried, hasty drivers. This stretch of freeway always seemed jammed, even mid-morning. His thoughts were of Charlie Hoffler, head of the news division at KTSV. He was Terri’s boss and had been when he had invited her to join him for a weekend in Las Vegas. Although she had declined several times, she had said she would have been interested, if she hadn’t been seeing another man. But when she discovered her boyfriend was cheating, she had abruptly changed her mind and driven up Friday evening. She hadn’t realized how foolishly she was behaving, until she walked into the room Hoffler had taken for her. The circular waterbed. Mirrored walls and ceiling. She had wanted to leave right then, but hadn’t felt up to another five hour drive. In the morning, getting away proved to be easy. Hoffler had brought another woman from the office. Terri excused herself and left the two together at a crap table in the motel. She hadn’t said much more. Still ashamed, probably. She had stopped for a drink in the bar, met Archie, and the rest was history tough to forget. Now that little scene might cost her the career. After seeing her on the tube last night, Jack could better understand her determination to not let that happen. No one that good at anything willingly gives it up. It was easy to remember the impact she had made. Those remarkable eyes. He didn’t see how it was possible, but they had come across . . . “What in hell?” His glance was locked on the rearview mirror. His pulse rate had jumped. His mouth felt dry. It was the same black Chrysler that had followed him onto the freeway earlier. Occupied

20 Bob McElwain

with his thoughts, he had been dawdling along in the right lane. Not many do. He didn’t doubt for a moment he was being followed. But why? It couldn’t be related to the situation with Terri. It was much too soon. Some things seem to have no ending. But the situation with June had been wrapped tighter than most. A man had died. And Jack had pulled the trigger. Brothers, even cousins or friends can take to the feud. But the man had not had that kind of friends. And no relatives at all. So what is this? From the Ventura freeway, a part of the traffic stays to the right for the Hollywood freeway. The rest continue east toward downtown L.A. Jack worked his way into the leftmost lane for southbound traffic, already bunching and slowing for the junction. He stopped at the last moment in the small V-shaped island where traffic flowed passed on both sides. He grabbed a map from the glove compartment and opened it, watching the rearview mirror. The driver of the Chrysler had no choice. There was no way to stop and it was too late to avoid taking one fork or the other. He opted for the Hollywood freeway and was soon lost to sight. A plate number would have helped; Jack’s view had been blocked. He tucked the map away, waited for a gap, then continued east toward the city. The Hollywood freeway was the obvious route. But there would be a black Chrysler waiting up ahead. Surface streets would take longer, but he would be impossible to find.


Jack had never been inside a television studio. He was looking forward to it. Gorgeous women. Handsome men. Hints of the casting couch in the eyes of all. His first disappointment was the five story building on Sunset Boulevard, near Vine. It looked like any other on the block, in need of cleaning and paint. His visions faded further when he faced the uniformed guard at the door, packing a .357 magnum. No smile softened the battered features. “I’d like to see Charlie Hoffler,” Jack said. “Got an appointment?” he asked, the eyes expressionless. “I was in the neighborhood,” Jack said, showing his license. “If you can tell me how to get to his office, I can maybe make one.”

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The guard stared at him suspiciously. Jack heard a group of people coming up behind. The guard gave gruff directions then stepped forward to confront the newcomers. Jack headed toward the stairs. The people he saw were disappointingly ordinary. A few were working at looking younger than their years. More were trying to look as if they weighed less. Like people anywhere. He decided what he had been expecting might lie behind the doors to the broadcast studios on the second floor. But it seemed unlikely, when he paused to look at those in the hall. The third floor was done in that modern vogue that gives nobody enough privacy to make a personal call, or to pick their nose. Waisthigh blue plastic panels topped with two feet of glass created small cubicles, room for only one or two desks. All was bombarded with bright white florescent light. Everyone appeared to be engaged in tasks of great importance. Jack would have bet most had mastered the art of seeming to be busy, while doing as they pleased. To the left of the center aisle, the cubicles were larger. Upper-level types, maybe. But there didn’t seem to be anything special about the occupants. Terri was ensconced in one, the standout of the bunch. He felt a distinct urge to pause and gaze at loveliness clothed in sea-blue. Their eyes met, then she bent her head to her desk. He was surprised at the impact of that brief look. It was if she had managed to close the distance between them to inches. At the end of the aisle were four enclosed offices. Behind the large desk sat a middle-aged woman of stoic features. A formidable challenge. A moat filled with hungry crocodiles. “I’d like to see Mr. Hoffler,” Jack said, looking down at thin disapproving lips. “Your card?” she demanded. “It’s personal. The name’s Jack Collier.” “I see,” she said. But Jack sensed what counted was he didn’t have a business card. He couldn’t be of help to KTSV, or to Charlie Hoffler. “I’m afraid he has a tight schedule today.” She glanced down at the calendar. “He might be able to see you at two, the day after tomorrow. I would have to check with him first.” “Do you mind?” Jack asked, reaching for the note pad and pen. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing. He printed the word, “Blackmail,” tore off the top sheet, and folded it. “When it’s convenient, would you give him this?” he asked. “He may think it’s

22 Bob McElwain

important enough to squeeze me in some way.” His smile was warm, pleasant. If she’d been only a bit less reserved, her mouth would have been gaping open. She looked down at the folded slip of paper and back at him three times before pushing back her chair and striding to the office door on the right. She knocked twice, then entered. Jack had hardly become comfortable when the door opened and she stalked back to her desk. The man who followed her was over six feet in his elevator heels. He was packing at least fifty unneeded pounds, most of them bulging out over his belt, taxing the buttons on the white silk shirt. The hairpiece was first rate. Jack stood and took the offered hand. It felt as if he had clasped a dead fish. “Jack Collier, is it?” Hoffler asked, the pleasant smile a habit, as was the watchfulness in the light brown eyes. “Make it Jack.” “I’m sorry, but I don’t place the name.” The words came quickly, interspersed with a raspy rush of wasted breath. The sun-lamp tan failed to hide the ruddy complexion that stemmed not from good health but from a lot of drinks at a lot of bars over a lot of years. The deep creases about the eyes suggested through those years, there had been many nights of too little rest. “We’ve never met,” Jack said. “Your name came up around the edges of something I’ve been looking into.” “Are you a licensed investigator?” As Jack showed his ticket, he said, “It’s more personal, than business. I’m trying to help a buddy.” “I see,” he said, glancing down at the slip of paper in his hand. “I can spare a few minutes. Why don’t you come in?” “Appreciate your time,” Jack said, preceding him into the office. As Hoffler closed the door, Jack chose the nearest of three chairs facing the desk. When Hoffler had settled into his own, he better fit his role. The extra pounds showed only in the fullness of face and the slight bulge over the shirt collar. “Now,” he said, in a manto-man tone, placing his palms down on the desk, “What’s this about blackmail?” “My buddy is one of your key people.” “Are you serious?” Hoffler demanded, clasping chubby fingers. “I’m afraid so.” “In the news division?”

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“Let’s just say he’s with KTSV.” Hoffler nodded, mentally running down names for a fit, searching diligently. “Blackmail,” he said to the desk. “I’m not sure I can help, but I’ll certainly try.” He straightened in his chair. “What would you like to know?” “You and Bobby Silverton, along with three young women, spent a weekend in Vegas at the Wonderland Motel, eight years back. Do you happen to remember that?” “Hell yes. I had a ball,” he assured me, his eyes guarded. “But I gather your friend isn’t Bobby. He’s now with KTSN.” “That’s so,” Jack commented. Hoffler was totally focused, as if determined not to miss the slightest nuance. Maybe he had enjoyed his time in Vegas, but he wasn’t enjoying this. “Do you recall who was with Silverton?” “Sylvia. I believe her last name is Brenster now. She got married about four years ago. But back then, she and Bobby were a number.” “Then I don’t suppose you saw much of them that weekend.” Hoffler chuckled as if Jack had just hammered out the punch line to a locker-room joke. “Not much. When old Bobby gets into something good, he makes the most of it.” He chuckled again. “And you were with?” “Angie Bergoin. She’s also married now. What are you getting at?” “The third woman. I’m not clear who she was or how she connected with the group.” “I invited her.” He leaned out on the desk, his forehead beaded with perspiration. The office was close, stuff y. “You’re getting personal, don’t you think?” The doors were closing. Time for a course change. “It’s like that sometimes, Mr. Hoffler.” He dug up his own version of a lockerroom grin. “Besides, it sounds as if I might pick up on something useful.” “Such as?” “How to get two broads in the sack at the same time.” Hoffler’s look was a mix of reservations and skepticism. “Really,” Jack said, leaning closer. “I’ve never managed that.” “Oh, hell,” Hoffler muttered, relaxing back into his chair. The grin that was so near a leer began to reorganize itself. “Her name’s Terri Delaney. She’s with our news team now.”

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“You’re kidding. The brunette with that gorgeous figure and those fantastic blue eyes?” “The same,” he said, warming to the subject. “Back then, she was just one of the secretarial pool. All starry eyed. Hooked on the glamor and glitz. She had more dreams than sense.” “I’ve got to ask, Mr. Hoffler. Did you score?” He chuckled. The last of tensions faded. He clasped chubby fingers and said, “No. I didn’t. But I don’t fault myself. She seems to think of herself as forbidden fruit. For all I know, she’s still got the cherry.” “I’ll be damned,” Jack commented, leaning back as if fascinated by profound revelations. “Even though I was making it with Angie,” Hoffler said, eyes bright, remembering, “I had my eye on Terri. She really turned me on. So damned young. Actually, Angie has better equipment.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, grinning. “And she was a goer. So I can’t say why, but I kept working on Terri. “It came to me there was a slot in research she might fit into. When I mentioned the possibility, she was hot for it. So I invited her to come up to Vegas with me.” He paused, then grinned ruefully. “She kept saying no. So I asked Angie. She jumped at it, of course.” Jack tried to look like a man who understood the tragedy of striking out. He decided he had done fine when Hoffler leaned closer and continued. “That Friday morning, Terri waltzed in and said she’d like to come. So I said sure. Right away, I got to thinking.” He gave Jack a knowing wink. “I thought Angie might go for a threesome. I spent that evening with her, trying to set it up. “Terri drove, so I don’t know when she got there, but it was late. I’d popped for the Emerald Suite, the sexiest layout they have. God, that room is hot. But she was dragging her feet Saturday morning. I was still trying to find a way to ditch Angie so I could take a real run at Terri when she split.” He sighed. “But I guess it worked out. Angie picked up the pace. We had some far out fun that weekend. “I never did understand why Terri backed off,” he commented almost wistfully. “I could have showed her one hell of a time.” While Hoffler had been trying to sell how much Terri had passed up, Jack had been trying to take eight years off both their lives and figure how she could have given him a second look, even then. “I wonder why Terri changed her mind,” he said.

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“Angie was being considered for the same spot. Terri may have decided to protect her interests.” He shrugged. “When she saw me close to Angie, she may have decided to bow out.” “Who got that promotion?” “Terri,” Hoffler said with a chuckle that was beginning to bore Jack. “Despite what you may have heard, damned little is decided in the sack around here. It’s talent that makes it go. When I turned Terri loose on a couple of specials, she blew everybody away. Now that she’s a regular, everybody can see I was right.” “Is there anything about Angie getting married that strikes you as odd?” “No. When Terri got that promotion, Angie was pissed. She made it clear to me,” he said ruefully. “Then she walked. I don’t think she was really serious about a career.” Hoffler leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “Look,” he said with his man-to-man grin in full stride, “I don’t mind talking about my love life. But I’ll be damned if I see what it has to do with blackmail.” “Probably nothing, Mr. Hoffler. But when you haven’t got much, you check everything. KTSV wouldn’t like to lose a guy it needs.” “No. We wouldn’t want that.” Again he went to searching for a name that might fit. “I understand you and Silverton were after the same job.” Hoffler nodded, as if disturbed at the change of subject. “Was it the one you have now?” “Yes, it was.” Earlier wariness returned. He was a bit tense, uneasy. “Why do you ask?” he demanded. “I was just curious to know if it was a tough fight. Or did it kind of fall into your lap?” “It was tougher than chewing ten-penny nails,” he said emphatically, relaxing. “Bobby is one hell of a scrapper. I’m not sure whether I won or got lucky. Either way, I’m fighting almost as hard to keep the damned thing as I did to get it. It’s a competitive business. Lose two or three rating points, and you can be looking for work.” “I’ve heard that,” Jack said. “Take a sec, will you? Think back on that weekend. Did anything unusual happen?” Hoffler was still for a moment. He was a bit slower latching on to his grin. He settled his palms to the desk and said, “Hell. I was buried in good things. I wouldn’t have noticed a cyclone.” He paused, frowning. “But, no, I don’t believe so. Bobby and I put the gals on

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a plane, early Monday morning. We stayed on for a network meeting. Very boring, actually.” He drummed two chubby fingers on the desk. Watching them, he said, “That was about it.” He glanced at his watch as if suddenly remembering he had one, then stood. “Damn,” he muttered. “I’m really running late.” Jack rose and said, “One last thing?” Hoffler nodded reluctantly. “Did you happen to run into a guy named Archie? Fortyish. About six feet. One-eighty. Dark hair. In good shape. Dressed to match snakeskin boots.” “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Could it be important?” “Mr. Hoffler, you just never know.” Jack extended his hand, reluctant to grasp remembered clamminess. Hoffler hesitated. He glanced again at his watch, then grabbed the offered hand and said, “You ought to have told me more.” “Playing the cards close goes with the job. I’m sure you can understand.” Clinging to Jack’s hand, Hoffler persisted. “If I knew who was on the spot, I might be able to help in a more direct manner.” Jack tugged his hand free and headed for the door. “Good thought. I’ll check with my buddy. It would be up to him whether or not to bring you in.” Trying not to be obvious, Jack studied Terri as he walked down the long center aisle. She was a sail-full of fresh air, compared to the lecherous loser he had left behind. He realized he was hoping she would look up. He was disappointed she did not.


It was near three when Jack parked in front of the sprawling ranch-style house in Chatsworth. A high-rent district, that was certain. But this place needed better care. The cedar shake roof would be leaking soon, if it wasn’t already. The overgrown plantings had not been set out by Angie or her husband; neither was into gardening. As he walked up the flagstone walk, he settled on three thousand square feet for size. Worth close to a million. The car in the garage was a late model caddy. Angie Bergoin seemed to be doing fine in the bucks department. At the porch, he caught the scent of roses and glanced to his left. An untended bush, overgrown by

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eugenia, ignored the threat of winter with a cluster of bright yellow blooms. The woman who answered his knock flunked the mommy test, despite the two toddlers he could see through the slider cavorting in the wading pool. She wore snug fitting white slacks that accented the slender waist, hips and thighs. The short-sleeved mint green blouse was cut low in front, revealing a good deal of her lovely breasts. To keep the short blond hair so neatly groomed took time, and regular visits to the beauty parlor. The shade of the lipstick matched that of the scarlet red nails. There was no smile on her lips, or in the hazel eyes. “Ms. Bergoin?” he asked. Her slight nod wasn’t a conversation starter. Jack let the silence linger. Finally, he said, “If you have a moment, I’ve a couple questions.” “What sort of questions?” she asked hesitantly. There was a breathy rush of sound around each word. “About the weekend you spent in Vegas with some others from KTSV.” He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if her face had paled. He couldn’t remember having frightened anyone simply by introducing himself. “Who are you?” she asked, as if afraid to know. “Sorry. Jack Collier,” he said, showing his ticket. She stared at it for a long while. Her glance lingered on his car, then she went to examining his clothes. “A private investigator?” She shook her head. “It’s an original, isn’t it?” She was staring at the lambskin swede coat. “I don’t know what you mean.” “It is,” she decided. “Bill Robinson’s collection.” “Oh, the coat. The clerk might have mentioned that name. Or something like it. Is it important?” She glanced at the Trans Am again, then met his quizzical gaze. “I had no idea private investigators were doing so well these days.” Sarcasm dripped off each word. “They’re simple questions,” Jack said, puzzled at developments. “Men with guns,” she muttered under her breath. She shuddered suddenly, making no effort to hide it. Jack was considering showing her he wasn’t carrying, when she opened the door further. He stepped past her and on into the living

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room. He chose a corner of the electric blue velour couch without waiting for an invitation that might not be forthcoming. It wasn’t as comfortable as it had looked to be. The game table by the slider was warped, a veneer of oak over pressboard. A chemical imitation of pine scent emanated from an obscure corner. Only the boisterous yelps from the kids in the wading pool seemed authentic. She sat down in the chair opposite him, each move enticingly enhanced with sexual overtones. But all was habitual, not played for his benefit. “I’ve told all who asked everything I know.” Her fingers gripped the arms of the chair. “I’m sure you did,” Jack said, wondering who else had asked what. “I was only hoping something new had occurred to you.” “If it had, I would have called.” Baffled, he said, “Let’s try this. I’ll tell you what I’ve got and you correct me if I goof. Maybe add a point here and there.” “I don’t believe this is necessary.” She had a mouth that was an invitation to be kissed. A warm lush body a lot of guys would love to get next to. But maybe not just now. There was a certain grimness to the set of those lips. A sullen wariness in the eyes. What the hell. He plunged right in. “As I have it, Charlie Hoffler invited Terri Delaney in hopes of making it with her.” “That bitch had him panting from the first day she showed up at the station,” she snapped. “But he invited me first.” “Why do you think she backed off, giving you a clear field?” “She’s frigid, some say. I think she’s a lesbian. She talked herself into going, then lost her nerve.” “Were you disappointed when she got that promotion?” “I wanted to scratch her eyes out. Literally.” Terri had admitted to mutual dislike. Were she sitting here beside him, she would have been startled at the depth of this woman’s hatred. More talk of Terri was futile. “Tell me,” he said, “how serious was your interest in Hoffler?” “I intended to marry the bastard, if it’s any of your affair.” “Any particular reason it didn’t work out?” “That’s none of your goddamned business.” She had said it softly, almost as if unsure she had the right. She was incredibly bitter. With a little time, Jack thought he might

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come to understand why. But he hadn’t picked up even a clue to the sense of dread that seemed to envelop her. He felt a bit uncomfortable himself; the last thing he had wanted was to disturb anyone this early in the game. “You seem to have landed on your feet,” he said, hoping to ease things. “You’ve a nice home and two fine looking youngsters. And you’ve stayed in shape. Some women let go, once they’ve latched on to a guy and had a kid or two.” “My husband wanted children. That doesn’t mean I am to wither away and become part of the wall paper.” “Believe me, you haven’t.” This woman depended heavily on her looks and the attention it brought her. Yet she seemed not to have heard him. “I was wondering,” he said, “if you happened to run across a guy named Archie that weekend?” “No. And that name didn’t come up before. Why now?” “What do you mean it didn’t come up before?” “Exactly what I said. I’ve never even heard the name.” “You might have seen him without knowing who he was.” Nothing. Only rigid determination to wait him out. “He’s six feet, about oneeighty. In good shape. Black hair. Likes snakeskin boots. Fortyish. Quite a charmer, they say.” “All men are charming in the beginning,” she said sharply. “You’ve a point,” Jack commented, wishing once again he could read minds. “Listen. You seem uptight about this. It’s just routine. I sure didn’t mean to upset you. But the truth is, I’ve no idea what’s frightening you.” “At the moment, you are.” It wasn’t working at all. And it was a game he was good at. Should he probe? He would like to know the source of that fear. Everything pointed to it being connected to that weekend. “Maybe I should move on,” he said. “I would appreciate that.” The knuckles of her hands gripping the chair were white. When Jack stood, she turned to stare at the kids. He doubted she heard him let himself out.

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Chapter 4 The Santa Anna winds had lost some punch, but it was another clear fall morning. Jack clung to the feel of it as he backed the Trans Am out and drove off, the windows open. Thoughts of the black Chrysler interfered. There had been no sign of it last night. This morning, he had taken an early walk in hopes of spotting it. Robin and the Maestro can do wonders with a plate number. As he passed Park Street, he thought he saw it, parked up the hill to his right. When it nosed around the corner behind him, he knew he had been right. He took a left and let the Trans Am pick up speed down the hill. The Chrysler turned after him. He was of half a mind to stop and chat. The street is narrow; his car sideways would block it. But he wasn’t ready. He needed more. Like a who. And why. The question was, could he risk waiting? If it had anything to do with Terri, things were moving far more quickly than expected. But now didn’t feel right. At Ventura Boulevard, he turned east into heavy traffic. This stretch had been master-planned for the even flow of three lanes of traffic in each direction. But some fiendish engineer had arranged for nearly every car to stop at nearly every light. Jack hugged the right lane. The Chrysler did the same, leaving two or three cars between them. A mile later Jack found the situation he needed. The Honda in front slowed for the yellow. Jack eased to the curb and passed on the right as the light changed to red. Blaring horns announced disapproval of his tardiness. Two blocks later, he angered oncoming drivers with a left that forced them to brake suddenly. Clear of the intersection, he was lost to the Chrysler.

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At KTSN, it seemed to Jack he was watching a rerun of his visit to KTSV. The guard was grim and packing a .357. But from that point on, there were few similarities. Jack gave his name, said he would like to see Mr. Silverton, and was politely directed to the elevator. These offices were also created by partitions, but glassed in up to the ceiling. Some people were chatting. Others nursed cups of coffee. He was certain that in the end, more work would get done here, than in the sterile domain of KTSV. The woman behind the reception desk wore a navy blue bolero jacket over a white satin blouse. Long fingers rippled across the keyboard. As Jack approached, she looked up, smiling. “I’m Ms. Waite,” she said crisply. “How can I help you?” “I’d like see Mr. Silverton. The name’s Jack Collier.” “May I tell him what it’s about?” “Just say it’s personal.” She nodded, then stood. “Let me see if he’s free.” She turned and walked through the nearest doorway. When she stepped back outside, she paused and said, “Please. Come right in.” “Thanks,” Jack said, as he stepped past her. The man behind the desk rose gracefully, a quiet sense of confidence about him. As he moved to greet Jack, inquisitive brown eyes measured him. “I’m Bobby Silverton, Mr Collier,” he said with a gracious smile of welcome. “Make it Jack.” He took the offered hand; the grip was firm. Silverton rotated a chair to face away from the sun-bright window and said. “Please. Have a seat.” Then he took the chair next to it. Jack always found it easy to like a man who didn’t need the barrier of a desk to protect himself. “Ginger told me it was personal,” he said, “so I assume it has nothing to do with KTSN.” “That’s so. I’ve a buddy who’s being blackmailed. I’d like to end it.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sympathetically. “What led you to me?” “Do you remember spending a weekend in Vegas, about eight years back, with a woman named Sylvia?”

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“Have you met her?” he asked, grinning. “I just left her place, kids and all. A lovely woman.” “Well?” He leaned back, lifting his hands, palms up. “Why ask?” He chuckled, a pleasant hint of memories in it. “One doesn’t forget a woman like that.” “I think you’ve got that right.” “Charlie Hoffler was there as well, trying to make it with Terri Delaney. He struck out and settled for Angie Bergoin. That’s her married name.” “I have that.” “Then I think you have it all.” “I’m trying to picture what’s happened since to those in the group.” “Do you believe one of us is the blackmailer?” “Not really.” “I’ll be damned. You haven’t even eliminated me.” “Yes. I think I have. And Sylvia.” “I’m relieved,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And I’ve about ruled out Ms. Delaney.” “I hope so. Did you catch her PBS special?” “I hadn’t even heard about it.” Silverton leaned toward Jack, his eyes bright. “ ‘Leukemia: The Neglected Killer.’ From start to finish, it was her show. She handled it beautifully. She’s already been credited with raising several million dollars.” “Where does KTSV fit in?” He chuckled. “They don’t. She offered them the concept. When they turned it down, she went to KCCT and donated weekends and vacation time.” Silverton leaned back, his forehead creased with a frown. “Her sister died of leukemia. While in high school, she began volunteering time to the foundation. She’s been involved ever since. It may have helped, for she hit every conceivable point and drove it home convincingly. That’s the word for it. Convincing. She cares for people. And it comes across. She makes you itch to reach for your wallet.” “I caught her on the news, night before last. She is impressive.” “Tell me about it. I’ve been after her to move over here. Experience will boost her confidence. And that’s all she needs. Even if she stays with KTSV, she’ll be doing in-depth features before you know it.

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Within two years, she’ll be co-anchor. And in another, she’ll take over the show. From there, it’s hard to say. “She could carry a national show. But the infighting at that level is vicious. I don’t sense in her a sufficient ruthlessness to deal effectively with it. And she relates beautifully to the audience. She couldn’t hold that intimacy at national. No. She’ll be happier at local where she can remain largely free of the political bullshit.” “That’s quite an endorsement,” Jack commented. “Sometimes I’m overly enthusiastic. Then again, perhaps I’m only trying to convince you she’s no blackmailer.” “I think you’ve managed that,” Jack said with a smile. “Have you any thoughts about Angie Bergoin?” “I didn’t know her well. She was too manipulative of those around her to suit my taste. But that hardly suggests she’s a blackmailer.” “And Charlie Hoffler?” “I don’t think he’s got the nerve.” “He told me you gave him a fight for the job he’s got now. Care to comment?” Silverton laughed. “For over a year, I came up with the ideas and he came up with the credit. I was the one who first noticed Terri and he’s still taking bows for that.” “Did he ever twist your arm? Like with a threat?” “Sure. But there was nothing of blackmail about it.” “He seemed uptight to me.” “The television world is relatively small. So I’ve run into him here and there. And I’ve heard things.” He leaned closer. “You know what I think? It was his marriage. It ripped him apart in some way. His self-vaunted love life has been racing down hill ever since. Considering the shape he’s in, I’m not sure the poor bastard can even get it up any more.” “I didn’t know he’d been married.” “It seems to me he tied the knot about the time I left KTSV. That would make it about three months after that Vegas trip.” “Interesting,” Jack commented. “I heard Angie had staked out that claim.” “I heard that as well. I don’t think Charlie thought of her that way. In fact I was surprised to find he thought of any woman that way. He stayed over in Las Vegas. He never said, but I thought it

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must have been a woman, one who really turned him on. He was a mess when he got back, all jumpy-hungover for days.” When Ms. Waite stepped inside the doorway, Silverton looked up expectantly. “It’s Roger,” she said. “Something has come up with the Stanley account.” Silverton looked at Jack and asked, “Do you have what you need?” “Close enough,” Jack said, starting to stand. “No. No.” He waved Jack back down. “We’ve time.” He turned back to Ms. Waite. “Will you tell him I need a few minutes?” She nodded and left. “You add new dimensions to the open-door policy,” Jack commented. “It’s the only way,” he said seriously. “Communication makes it happen. To sustain that you’ve got to be damned sure there are no barriers.” “How in hell did Hoffler beat you?” He laughed. “Best thing that ever happened to me. I like it here.” He leaned back. “What else can I tell you?” “Does the name Archie bring anything to mind?” “No,” he said thoughtfully. “Lots of wavy black hair. Fortyish. Some six feet and a solid oneeighty. He goes for snakeskin boots.” “Nothing clicks, I’m afraid.” “Was there anything at all unusual about that weekend?” “A young man was murdered. But it had nothing to do with us. Is that the sort of thing you’re looking for?” “I don’t really know. But tell me a bit more.” “His name was Bruno Ravone. He was last seen in the bar at Wonderland. Our only connection was that we were staying there. He was something of a stud, I’ve been told. One rumor has it that he hit on a married woman and the husband took offense. That’s about all I know. “I was questioned by L.A. police officers. And later, I spoke with two men his father, Franco Ravone, sent down. They were rather abrupt, even rude. But if my son had been murdered, I would do what I could to find out who was responsible.” “I hear that,” Jack said, standing. “I appreciate your time.” “I hope I’ve been of help,” he said, also standing. He shook Jack’s hand and escorted him out of the office, more as if he were a friend than a total stranger. “Drop in again, if you need to.”

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“Thanks. I will.” Silverton nodded, then turned toward the nervous looking guy fidgeting in his chair. “Come on in, Roger,” he said, as if he already had a solution to the man’s problem.

Chapter 5 When Jack checked the recorder for messages, he found Robin had the backgrounds ready. He called. After the hellos, she asked, “When will you be by to pick up the report?” He wasn’t planning to. And she knew it. He loathed tedious detail. “How thick is the stack?” he asked. “About an inch. Why?” she asked innocently. “You could give me the highlights.” “Computers, Jack. That’s where it’s at. You’ll have to get into it sometime.” “Sure.” He disliked what computers produced. To his way of thinking, they say too much and don’t say it well. “Just the key points. Okay?” Robin sighed in feigned frustration. “Terri Delaney is your victim,” she said, as if having solved a riddle that had bothered scholars for ages. “That’s so. How did you figure it?” “Her bank records show substantial cash withdrawals twice a year. She’s only a few dollars this side of Chapter 11. That last refi on her condo is as far as any bank will go. But she’s making fifty thousand a year now. She can recover, if you get her off the hook.” “That’s the plan. How about the others?” “Bobby Silverton is making nearly two hundred thousand a year. His latest ex takes a fat slice, but he pays his bills on time and the balances are in line. “Sylvia Brenster and her husband manage well. There’s only limited use of personal credit. The savings account is modest, but growing. “With Angie Bergoin, it’s difficult to say. She and her husband are over-extended in a dozen different ways. Some can handle that; some can’t. I think these people can. I can put people on it if you need to be certain.”

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“No,” Jack said. “Your hunches are good. How about Hoffler?” “He’s more interesting. For one thing he’s broke by the time he gets paid. His records show lots of cash withdrawals. We found one arrest for cocaine possession. No conviction. The two may fit together. If he’s using in any quantity, he needs more than he’s making.” “I get the point,” Jack said, thinking about coke. And a man aging before his time. “We could answer that question if you like.” “Let’s pass on that for now. Help me rough out some balance sheets.” Robin collapsed categories to give Jack an abbreviated picture. When she had finished, she asked sweetly, “What do you want me to do with the full report?” “If you bring it by my place, I promise I’ll read it.” “Things could get out of hand.” “I was hoping they would.” “You’re a bastard.” “Likeable though, don’t you think?” “Yes. That and much more. But I’ll mail it.”


Jack punched in the code, then hurried back to the car as the wrought iron gate rolled open. He knew it was silly, but he hurried anyway. He was always afraid the damned things had it in mind to trap him, then squeeze, hard. Never mind they all have an automatic reverse mode, like elevator doors. He didn’t much care for elevators, either. Clear of the gate, he examined the condos, crowded together. The drives were barely wide enough for two full sized cars to pass. The landscaping was minimal with a bit of lawn in front of each unit. All was well maintained, but without frills. He drove to the end of the short drive and parked in front of Terri’s place. The For-Sale sign, centered in the square of green, grabbed at him. It said a lot about a sick nasty situation and a woman running out of ways to cope with it. Terri opened the door on his first knock. Stone-washed jeans snugged hips and upper thighs. The burnt-orange cotton shirt draped loosely from shoulders and breasts. He was fascinated by

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the slender feet embraced by the narrow leather straps of the sandals. Her smile of welcome seemed hesitant, almost shy. It contradicted the determination in the remarkable eyes. “Come in,” she said, with remembered quickness and husky, dusky shadings. “Thanks,” Jack said, stepping past her. Yes. Definitely the scent of honeysuckle. For a moment he studied what he could see of the living room. It had size, but a sense of coziness. The modest furnishings had been chosen with care. When he noticed her waiting on him, he said, “Nice. There’s a comfy feel I like.” “It’s home for now,” she said, leading the way toward the kitchen. He followed, remembering the sign out front. Something of resignation about it. A melancholy foreboding that subdued the warmth created inside. She led him out into the small fenced patio between the condo and the garage. “Something to drink?” she asked. “I have Bacardi.” “Sounds good.” As he sat down at the redwood table, his glance lingered on Terri. There was an easy grace to her movements, a calmness he hadn’t seen before. More relaxed and comfortable, maybe, in her own cave. Hints of evening were underlined in the flickering shadows of the sycamore tree. Fallen leaves had been swept off the brick by the breeze into narrow gardens where mums persisted in blooming, where marigolds and petunias ignored the lateness of the season. When he heard the door open, he turned to it, surprised at his eagerness. She set down his drink, then sat down opposite him with a glass of white wine. Light reflecting off the kitchen window highlighted the fine thick hair. “Thanks,” Jack said, taking a sip. “I’m glad you were able to stop by. I guess I’m the nervous type. I worry too much.” “Most do when they’re up against it.” He stared at the table, trying to decide what needed to be said. And how to say it. “I started with Alfred & Styles,” he began, looking up. “They gave it a first rate effort, Terri. Like I said, the pickup is usually well planned. We could run up against the same wall.” “Why is it so hard for me to believe that?”

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“Too many movies, maybe. But don’t give up on it. We could get lucky.” “Were Mr. Hetch’s efforts first rate?” she asked, her eyes locked on his. “No.” He sipped at his drink, wondering at his hesitation. There were two men, last seen in a black Chrysler, that he needed to know more about. It could be important. He ought to ask if she knew someone with clout. Ask right out if he was a friend or the sugar daddy Hetch had claimed he was. “I’m not sure I believe anything Hetch told me,” he said finally. “Chalk it up as a waste and forget him.” “I’ve already done that,” she said bleakly. He liked the set to the shoulders, the pertness in the angled chin and jaw. “As for those who were with you that weekend,” he said, “scratch Sylvia Brenster and Bobby Silverton. They’re both too much in love with life to be mucking about with blackmail. With Angie Bergoin, you were wrong about one thing.” “What do you mean?” Terri asked. The words had slipped out quickly, then rushed across the table at him. “You told me she disliked you,” he said. “But it’s heavier than that. She’d love to slice you up and feed the chunks to a colony of hungry fire ants.” “I had no idea,” she said, long slender fingers stroking her glass, her forehead creased in a frown. “Did you know she had her cap set for Hoffler?” “No. I guess I didn’t know her well after all.” “She and her husband are overextended. She could use the bucks. And she’d get a kick out of bankrupting you. Any thoughts?” “I’ve considered everyone I’ve ever known. Over and over again. I’ve never felt any of them could be responsible. Certainly not Angie.” “Anything specific?” “Not really.” She stared down at the table for a moment, then said, “Hers is a small world with herself in the center of it. I guess I thought blackmail would be outside her realm. Of course I didn’t know she hated me. That could make a difference.” “It might. But she’s an outside possibility at best. The same’s true of Hoffler. He seems uptight about that weekend some way. And he’s not handling it well. But it likely has nothing to do with you. I’d be interested, though, to know if he’s got a coke habit.” “What makes you think he might?”

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“He spends more cash each month than most do; some of it could be going to dealers. He was arrested for possession. There was no conviction, but first offenders are often cut loose. It doesn’t mean he’s using, but if he is, he needs more than he makes.” “I hope you’re wrong.” She combed hair back with her fingers. “He’s been very supportive. I wouldn’t want to lose that.” “What about Bobby Silverton?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “He said he asked you to join his team. The way he feels about you, I’m kind of curious as to why you haven’t accepted. Seems to me he’d be a lot easier to deal with.” “Everyone hated to see him leave KTSV. I still miss him. And he does like my work. But, you see, he heads up advertising. I’ve never even met George Hamilton, their news director. I probably should look into it, but my self-confidence is at an all time low.” “That’s understandable. And if Silverton’s right, you’ll do fine where you are.” “Did he tell you something I ought to know?” “He said you’d be co-anchor in a couple years and head the show in another.” “He didn’t,” she said in hushed tones. “I’ll play the tape.” “Excuse me.” She fled the table, but not before Jack saw tears welling in her eyes. He sighed. He had dropped by to reassure her, not upset her. Wondering if he should, he wandered back inside, then into the bright cheery kitchen with the empty glasses. At least he didn’t have to go poking about. The bottle of Bacardi was on the counter. He built a fresh drink and sipped at it, gazing out the window at the settling dusk. Terri passed the kitchen entry without seeing him. “Another?” he called after her. “Yes, thank you,” she said from the hallway. She moved up beside him as he poured. “Sorry about that,” she said. “About what?” “Do you still think I ought to change careers?” “I think we better nail this bastard.” “God, I like the way you say that.” He handed her the glass. “We best grab all we can of this Indian summer. It won’t last.”

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Terri nodded and he followed her back to the patio table. As he sat down, he said, “Silverton gave you high marks for that special you did on leukemia.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “I know,” she said quietly. The eyes showed hints of shyness he liked. “He sent me a wonderful letter. I’m a little awed by it all. I’ve been receiving applause from unexpected corners.” “He thought maybe it was your sister’s death that got you interested.” “It was. But the whole scene has just seemed to envelop me. There are so many out there who need help. There’s a lot of satisfaction in doing what you can.” “That’s so,” he said, thinking that right now she needed help and he had damned well better do it right. “Listen, Hoffler stayed on after that network meeting. Silverton thinks he found another woman. Any thoughts?” “I didn’t know that,” she said, tightening the grip on her glass. “I was so disgusted with myself, a good many things slipped past me for much too long a time.” “Any ideas about his marriage?” “Not really. It only lasted a short while. A matter of months, I think. I didn’t know he’d been married, until I heard he’d been divorced.” “Did you ever meet the woman?” “I don’t even know her name.” “Hoffler’s career seems to have started down hill about then. I was wondering if his promotion had anything to do with it.” “How could it?” she asked, puzzled. “He wouldn’t be the first guy given a job over his head.” “Oh, no. That’s not it. Some might not rate his work outstanding, but most would say he does it well.” “Expect it’s academic. He doesn’t figure as our blackmailer. Along that same line, you didn’t mention that a young man was murdered that weekend. Bruno Ravone.” The tendons in her wrists tightened. For an instant he thought he glimpsed something of pain in her eyes. Of hurt, maybe. Then he wasn’t sure. He continued, picking his words with care. “Was it something you overlooked?” “It had nothing to do with us,” she said, staring down at the ripples in the wine. “But it frightens you.”

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“It was the men his father sent to talk with me.” When she lifted her head and met his gaze, all that blueness was brimming with unwanted memories. “They terrified me.” “Did they threaten you? Rough you up, maybe?” She shook her head. “Not directly.” “I’m not following.” “The threat was there. In the guns under their arms. In the polite empty smiles. In the vacant way they looked through me, as if more interested in the wall.” “ ‘Men with guns,’ Angie said.” Jack tugged gently at his ear. “What do you mean?” Terri asked. “I frightened her when we met. I couldn’t figure why. The whole scene was weird. But maybe she jumped to the conclusion I’d been sent to see her.” He gave a final tug on the ear and asked, “Did those guys ask you to call if something came up?” “It was an order.” “Do you know if the killer was ever found?” “I think I would have heard, if the police had arrested anyone.” She shuddered. “No one would have heard, if Mr. Ravone dealt with it.” “Then you see him as a power in Vegas.” “I’ve been told he’s a high ranking member of the Mafia.” “I was only curious, is all. I don’t see how it relates, so let’s drop it. Okay?” “I would appreciate it,” she said with a wane smile. Jack had stopped by only to let her know what he had been doing, to erase uncertainties. Triggering nasty memories had been unintentional. He had said all he had to say, but this didn’t seem the time to shove off. “More wine?” he asked. “Thanks, but let me get it. Another for you?” He didn’t need it; he still had work to do. But there was something in her eyes. In the way she stood. Poised. As if for fl ight. “Sounds good,” he said. Her smile was better. She moved with easy grace. He was fascinated with the way the sandals clung to the bare feet. He found he was watching the empty doorway. When she reappeared, the sun’s rays highlighted one side of her hair. Her features were partially shadowed, softened. He watched the changing textures as she sat back down. “It’s a nice spot,” he said, with a wave that encompassed the plantings, tree and sky. “For so late in the year, you’ve a lot in bloom. It adds something.”

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“I can’t take much credit. I like to putter, but I’m not a gardener.” “You just painted a good picture of me. I’ve roses out front I manage to prune and feed. The rest of it is pretty much on its own.” He sipped, watching her glance roam the small garden. “Incidentally,” he said, when her gaze shifted back to him, “I caught you on the tube, night before last. Impressive.” “Thank you,” she said with a faint tilt to the lips. “It’s always nice to hear from a new fan.” “Want me to start a club?” “Be serious.” “I am. I don’t often get to enjoy the company of a rising young star. Someday I’ll be able to say I knew you when.” “Come on.” The glow in her cheeks was a full blush now. The eyes sparkled brightly. “Flattery will get you everything.” “That info could come in handy.” He liked the openness to the eyes, the hints of what might yet be revealed. It’s time, he told himself sternly. “I ought to be going.” “I’ve chicken defrosted. There’s enough for two.” “I’ll be damned. A cook, too.” He liked the sparkling mischief in those eyes. “I best not.” “Why?” she asked innocently. “A lovely woman? Good food? That combination does things to me. We wouldn’t want that.” When he realized he was drifting closer to that remarkable blueness, he stood. “No,” she said softly. “We wouldn’t want that.” For an instant he was certain she was lying. As if to prove him wrong, she stood and moved past him toward the door. “By the way,” he said. When she turned, those eyes were even closer. Distracting. “Did you mention you had talked with me to anyone?” “No one,” she said, puzzled. “Why?” “Someone’s been following me.” At her sudden alarm, he said quickly, “I doubt it’s connected to you. It likely old trouble.” “Trouble?” “Now and then, someone who doesn’t like the way a situation turned out decides to do something about it.” “I don’t understand.” “As in get even.” “Are you in danger?”

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“Likely all it will come to is wild threats.” He had managed to ease her concern somewhat, but he was left feeling he shouldn’t have brought it up. “’Night,” she said as she opened the door. The eyes added a becareful. “Stay loose,” he said, stepping past her. “I’ll be in touch.” As he drove off, a part of him laughed at himself for doing so. It might be some kind of crime to ignore a lovely woman’s wishes. Clear of the gate, he snapped on the radio in time to hear Atlanta had scored. They had won last night; they were scrapping to tie the series tonight. Likely he would miss the end of this game as well. He wasn’t smiling now.

Chapter 6 There had been no listing in the phone book. But a call to Ashton Investigations and a five minute wait on the Maestro had produced the address. Jack parked a block down from the apartment unit, in the deep shadows of an elm. From beneath the seat, he retrieved the vinyl gun case and removed the 9 mm. Smith & Wesson autoload. He checked to see a round was chambered, dropped the three extra clips into the jacket pocket, then tucked the pistol behind his waistband. The three story complex was U-shaped, with twenty units on each floor. All but the corner apartments opened to the center. Not a home for swingers, Jack decided. It was quiet. The pool was still, except for ripples directed randomly by the gusting breeze. No one was out or about. Judging from the number of lighted windows, most of the tenants were home, probably parked in front of television sets. #216 was dark. There were two stairways up from the subterranean garage. Jack examined the most likely path. He grabbed a chair from beside the pool and walked up one flight. Light and the blaring television set suggested those in the corner apartment were settled in for the night. Silently he unscrewed the bulb in the light fi xture until it went out. He positioned the chair back inside the hallway, then sat down. He covered the Smith in his lap with his hands.

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It was a night for goblins and witches. For the sake of the kids, Jack hoped it would hold until Halloween. Leaves, hustled by the breeze, scratched along the concrete deck, piling up against the wrought iron railing. Watching them eased the waiting time. He heard footsteps from his right and tensed. A man. And he had size. When the shadowy figure appeared, he said, quietly, “Mr. Hetch, I’m disappointed.” Hetch whirled, his hand diving up under his coat. Without lifting the Smith, Jack flicked the safety off. The slight sound rolled outward with the wind-swept leaves. Hetch froze, then slowly eased his hand out from under his coat. “You know where my office is, asshole.” “I’m pressed for time,” Jack said, standing, watching caution intrude into angry eyes. “I need to know how you set me up. And why.” “Where’s your billfold?” Hetch snapped. “I paid a thou for all.” “Then what’s in it for me?” “Call it professional courtesy.” “Fuck off.” Jack’s arms felt heavy; they seemed to be pulling him to his knees. The pistol seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Why are there so many guys who can’t tell a bluff from a promise? Jack let his glance sweep the emptiness about them. Two leaves lingered between Hetch’s feet, then rustled on their way. He stepped closer to the man, watching caution grow in the bright eyes. He had hoped for a trace of fear, but he saw none. Inwardly he sighed. Forcing his smile, he took another step which put him but inches from the bigger man. The mints Hetch had chewed seemed to accent the odor of bourbon. Jack raised the pistol. As if planning a surgical incision, he scraped a cheek with the front sight. “What the fuck?” Hetch cried, trying to back away, trapped by the wrought iron railing. Jack jabbed upward. Hetch flinched. A small drop of blood welled up from the nick. “My,” Jack said softly, “that is really sensitive skin.” Jack backed away, watching the drop fall. It splattered on Hetch’s forefinger. He rubbed with his thumb, watching the spreading stain. Jack leaned closer, staring at the cheek. “Such a handsome face. It’s a shame.” He shook his head in mock pity, then suddenly lifted

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the pistol back to his ear. He had flashed the order to strike, when Hetch cried, “643-5547. I made a call.” Jack held the pistol where it was, fighting to hold back trembles at the closeness of it, working at his smile. As if from a distance, he noted another drop of blood growing on the cheek. “Why hold that out?” “You could have blown the deal,” Hetch said, eyeing the pistol. “And that was?” “For your name, I got another five thousand this morning.” “Randal Smith was by.” Hetch nodded. He was leaning further backward now. The second drop of blood landed on his shirt, spreading with surprising rapidity. “You’re bleeding all over yourself,” Jack said. “You best get inside and take care of it.” Hetch was still for a time, then cautiously stepped to the right. Jack lowered the Smith to his side. “I might just look you up,” Hetch said, glowering now. “Whatever’s right, mister.” As if tired of holding his version of the drop-dead look, Hetch turned and shuffled to the door of his apartment. He didn’t look back as he stepped inside. The moment Jack was certain the door would slam, he rushed for the stairs, tucking the Smith away.


Jack disconnected and lay the phone down. The number Hetch had given him belonged to Valley Services, an operation that provided the gamut of secretarial support twenty-four hours a day. He had been handed over to Ms. Dexter, who had politely declined to say anything, until she had verified who she was talking to and that she was free to speak. She had said she would call back. Jack freshened his drink and sat back down, trying to listen as the day’s tapes were copied to the larger machine. Light from the chandelier accented the luster in the rusty brown waves of hair. The face was shadowed. The set to the lips was grim. The coffeebrown eyes seemed focused somewhere deep within the earth below the house. It had been close; he had nearly scarred that handsome face. For what? A lousy phone number? Sure. He needed it. But there ought to be a better way.

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His willingness to act where others might hesitate often frightened him. Maybe Hetch had seen that willingness. Maybe that was why he had spoken up. But what if he hadn’t? At the sound of the phone, he shook his head, hard, as if to clear cobwebs that might capture needed thoughts. He stopped the tape transfer so the call could be recorded, then answered. “Jack Collier, here.” “This is Ms. Dexter. I have the address you requested.” “Go ahead.” “6359 Lasson Drive, Suite 409, Glendale.” “Thanks, Ms. Dexter.” “You’re welcome, Mr. Collier. Good night.” Jack restarted the copying, trying to pull together a picture of Mr. Smith. He could probably find the man, but it wouldn’t be easy. The setup with Valley Services almost guaranteed he was buried deep. Unless he could tie Smith to the blackmailer, it wouldn’t be worth the time. At the clap of the brass ring on the striker, Jack’s thoughts jumped back to Terri’s visit. He had enjoyed the enticing scent of honeysuckle again, just hours back. For a moment he let hope surge. Maybe she had thought of something important enough to stop by and tell him. He glanced at his watch. It was after one. “Damn,” he muttered. Only trouble drops in at this hour. When the brass ring hit the striker again, he rose and scooped up the Smith from the drawer under the recorder. A round was chambered. He flicked off the safety. He snapped off the lights, stepped into the entry, and opened the closet door. The twenty inch monitor could not reveal who was at the door in the recessed entry. But it gave him what the video camera could see of the street through the wide angle lens. A black Chrysler. The man behind the wheel, smoking. He waited a slow count to thirty. Nothing moved. He snapped on the porch lights, then peered through the peep hole. The sudden brightness didn’t seem to bother the well-dressed man, except he was blinking rapidly. One hand was tucked into the pants pocket of the conservative dark blue suit. The other toyed with a business card. The hair was thick, curly, and pale blond. Jack closed his eyes tightly, counting again, as he tucked the Smith into the waistband at his back. At thirty, he snapped off the porch lights and opened the door.

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“Good evening, Mr. Smith,” Jack said. The man stiffened. “Attorney at law,” he said, extending the card, trying to peer through the sudden darkness to which Jack’s eyes had already adjusted. Jack tucked the card into his shirt pocket. Anyone can buy a thousand like it for less than thirty dollars. “May I come in?” Smith asked formally, with a cultured, precise diction. “I’ve company.” “I see.” “What’s your client’s offer?” “I would like to make the same arrangement with you I made with Mr. Hetch.” “Guys like him give us all a bad rep. I wouldn’t be interested.” “Ms. Delaney is a deeply troubled person.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” “She’s fortunate someone is looking after her interests.” “Thanks for stopping by, mister. I wanted to tell you I don’t like being followed.” “We have only been trying to learn more about you.” “Since you have all you need, I don’t expect to see you again.” “Mr. Collier, we must come to an understanding.” “I hope we have.” Jack closed the door and wandered back into the kitchen. He snapped the lights back on, tucked the Smith away, then reached for his drink. He dug the card out and dropped it to the table. There might be an office at 6359 Lasson Drive. And the phone number might be legitimate as well. He couldn’t see that it mattered. Whoever Smith was representing, it wasn’t the blackmailer. And he could forget about something lunging up at him from the past; Smith was interested in Terri. Sugar daddy, Hetch had said. “Damn,” he muttered, wondering how it could matter, remembering the look of her, the scent of her, the way she moved, and those blue, blue eyes. Puzzled by his reluctance, he picked up the phone and punched in Robin’s number. He wanted all he could get about Mr. Smith. It seemed likely they’d meet again.

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Chapter 7 When Jack glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Chrysler following again, he sighed. He had already made a friend for life of Milo Hetch. Now it seemed he would have to become better acquainted with Mr. Smith, or whoever was back there. Wouldn’t it be nice if people listened? He pulled on to the freeway and let the engine wind. The car leapt to its duties. When he could no longer see the Chrysler in the rearview mirror, he slowed quickly, pulled off the freeway and stopped on a quiet residential street. He retrieved the Smith from beneath the seat, checked the load and slipped it behind his waistband. He dropped the three extra clips into the pocket of the Pendleton jacket, then drove off, trying to remember a situation that had shown such early signs of turning mean.


Jack had followed Angie Bergoin from her home to the Ralphs supermarket. When she rolled the grocery cart out into the parking lot, he eased away from the wall of the building and strode after her. She had opened the trunk of the baby blue caddy and tucked one bag inside before she saw him. Her eyes widened. Her lips settled into a thin narrow line. She wasn’t frightened now; she was mad. As he closed, Jack could see perspiration beginning to gather on her brow. He hadn’t thought it that warm today. “You bastard,” Angie snapped, when Jack stopped by the rear fender of the car. “You’re not from Vegas.” “I didn’t mean to suggest I was.” “Get the hell away from me.” “If you hadn’t left out a couple things, I wouldn’t be here.” “I don’t have to answer your questions.” “That’s so. But I’m a persistent type. You can save aggravation by answering them now.” She was even more beautiful than he remembered, but anger erased all thoughts of that. “They’re simple

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questions,” he said, forcing mildness into the smile. “Like why Charlie Hoffler stayed over after a fun time with you.” “Another woman, you fool. One who proved too much for the great cocksman. He was a wreck when he got back.” “You didn’t mention he got married about then.” “So what? He didn’t marry me.” “What was the woman’s name?” “I’ve had enough of this.” “Me, too. So let’s get it over with. Okay?” Her only response was to intensify the glare. He took a long slow breath, then asked, “What can you tell me about Bruno Ravone?” The questioned jolted her. The eyes clouded over with something quite different from mad. “He made a pass at me, the day he was murdered. I’ve never made a secret of that.” The words lacked anger. Or any emotion he could detect. She had just laid them out and left them there. “Where were you at the time?” “At the bar in the motel, if it’s any of your goddamned business.” The voice lacked depth, intonation. Jack was intrigued. “Tell me, do you think that pass was serious?” “You must be a complete fool.” The mad was back. “Look at me, you bastard. It would have become serious very quickly, if I’d been interested.” Jack decided she was probably right, but he couldn’t be sure. He had never seen her smile. “Why were you so frightened of me when we met?” “That’s my business and none of yours. Now get the hell out of my face.” There was a tremble in her voice. “Why do I frighten you now?” Jack’s wave encompassed the hundreds of cars in the parking area, the dozens of people within hailing distance. “I’ll scream.” “Rape, maybe.” “I would enjoy it, you bastard.” “The screaming? Or the rape?” She screamed. She put a lot into it. Heads swiveled in their direction.

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Jack turned back the way he had come. Two eager guys of size moved to block his path. Jack glanced down at the asphalt. Being dumped to it would be tough on the Pendleton jacket. Tougher still, on his hide. Behind him, the trunk of the caddy slammed closed, the grocery cart stopped rolling against a parked car. Jack fished out his identification and dangled it in front of him. Two pairs of eyes glanced at it, then went back to measuring him, as if estimating how far they could throw him. “Relax, guys,” he said. “She’s upset, is all.” “You some breed of creep?” the taller man demanded. Behind him, the door of the caddy slammed closed and the engine roared to life. Smiling, Jack said, “The lady thinks so. It must have been that last question. I asked if she needed an extra broom for Halloween. It set her off some way.” The caddy’s tires grabbed hard. Another set screeched as brakes locked. Then came the crunch and jangle of fenders being mangled. The two men he faced stared past him at the collision. “Excuse me,” Jack said, stepping between them.


The Shoe Horn appeared to be a swinging singles joint for older types. Many of the cars in the lot had been status symbols when purchased. That status had been erased by time. He had followed Charlie Hoffler from the station. Now he watched as the man parked an older Mercedes. Jack pulled into the lot, then into the slot next to him. Hoffler didn’t notice; his attention seemed riveted on the bar as he hurried away from the car. “Mr. Hoffler,” Jack called after him. “Have you got a minute?” Hoffler stopped abruptly. Jack had closed the distance between them by the time he turned around. The eyes were empty of color, the cheeks red in the late afternoon sun. “Hell,” he muttered. “I thought I recognized the voice.” He glanced back over his shoulder toward the bar, then at his watch. His shoulders slumped in resignation. “Why are you following me?” he asked suspiciously. “A couple things came up. Nothing worth messing up your calendar.” “Such as?” he demanded. “Have you any ideas about the murder of Bruno Ravone?”

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“What the hell has that got to do with blackmail?” “Maybe nothing, Mr. Hoffler.” There was a faint tremble in his hands, as if he really needed a drink. “Do you know if anyone was ever tagged for the killing?” “Mitch Saldino owned Wonderland. He and most of his people were blown away about a month after the kid was killed. Franco Ravone may have decided Saldino was involved. You’re good at pestering people. Why not ask Ravone yourself?” “Might do that,” Jack said, wondering about the source of the anger. “Listen. I’d like to know why you stayed on after that meeting.” “That’s my business.” “You got married shortly after that trip.” The eyes fuzzed out, then cleared, showing more than anger. Some kin to fear, maybe. “I understand it didn’t work out.” Hoffler clenched chubby fingers, took a deep breath and spoke to the asphalt. “So I was a damned idiot. So what?” “What are you afraid of?” Jack asked softly. “Nothing. I’m getting pissed.” “Why?” “Because you’re treating me as a suspect, for Christ’s sake.” “You are,” Jack said, broadening his smile. “It costs bucks to support a coke habit. How big’s yours?” “You fucking sonofabitch.” Hoffler swung, a roundhouse effort. Jack ducked easily. He stepped in close, grabbed the lapels of the coat and hoisted the man up off his heels. He watched the mad drain out of the eyes, leaving a trace of fear within the bitter frustration at having been defeated so easily. Jack eased off, released his grip, then smoothed the lapels with the backs of his hands. “Maybe we’ll dance again, mister.” He backed until he could feel the door of the Trans Am, then slipped behind the wheel and fired the engine. Hoffler looked as if he was about to cry.


Sgt. Kyle Sykes often worked into the short hours of the morning. But the fifth game of the World Series was about to start. As Jack parked in front of the house, he glanced at his watch. Kyle was due.

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As always, the overgrown shrubbery and trees brought to mind thoughts of chainsaws and pruning shears. The house needed a coat of paint. A couple of the weathered shutters ought to be replaced. All had been kept neat and trim back when his wife was still alive. Before his son had drunkenly mistaken a concrete bridge abutment for an extra freeway lane. At least Billy is alive and well, Jack thought. And I damned well know where he is. The sky-blue Lincoln rounded the corner, then held the turn into the driveway as the garage door opened. A new car every three years, was the only luxury Kyle allowed himself. All else was his job. He would work it twenty-five hours a day if he could find a way. The man who stepped through the side door of the garage was near sixty but looked ten years younger. The Marine sense of fitness was locked in, the stockiness unburdened by extra pounds. The shoulders were broad, squared. A round face. The blunt nose was a perch for the gold rimmed spectacles. Pale thinning blond hair was brushed straight back, a match for the baby-pink complexion that reddens at the touch of the sun’s rays. An unlit Lucky dangled from one corner of his mouth. He held a Bic lighter and his keys in one hand. The other cradled a Domino’s pizza. “What the hell do you want?” Kyle asked, with the calm demand of a drill sergeant, crisp edges to the words. “To help you get rid of that pizza.” Pale lips stretched out in a faint smile. “It’s a double order of pepperoni.” “I don’t like your beer, either.” Jack followed Kyle inside, closing the door behind him. Kyle paused at the library table to lay down his badge and the holstered .357 magnum, then moved on into the kitchen. He was still a cop, even without the badge and gun. Jack had always thought the only reason he hung in was the hope of putting one more killer away. But when he thought of Terri, it occurred to him they might have something in common. Kyle was good. The best, some said. Maybe it was simply too hard to walk away from that. Kyle has few guests and fewer rules. Get it yourself is the first canon. Jack snagged two Miller Lites from the fridge and tossed one to Kyle, end over end. He plucked it out of the air, scowling at the can. It was sure to spit when opened; Kyle hated that. Jack wandered into the living room and punched on the televi-

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sion set. For several moments he gazed out at what could be seen of the city between the pines. If he’d had a telescope, he could have seen his place, on the south rim of the Valley. He considered the platform rocker; it was Kyle’s favorite. He decided it might be pushing things too far, and settled in on the couch. The furnishings were sparse. Nothing matched. Everything precisely positioned. Two copies of Time were stacked in the upper left corner of the coffee table. The marble ashtray beside the rocker glistened. Kyle paid a woman to come in once a week; Jack had always thought she had an easy time of it. When Kyle carried the pizza in, the pale blue eyes were fi xed on the screen. He had hung his suit coat and gotten rid of the tie. He set the pizza down, then collapsed into the rocker, propping the plain-toed black oxfords on the table. He slipped off the specs and massaged his nose, peering around his fingers at the tube. When Atlanta got a hit, he slid the specs back on, reached for the remote, then turned down the roar of cheering fans. As if remembering the Bic he still carried, he fired up. He leaned back, seemingly unaware of the smoke through which he peered at the set. Jack helped himself to a slice of pizza, waving the smoke away. Kyle ignored him. “I noticed the Dodgers aren’t playing,” Jack said innocently. Kyle snorted. “Your precious Angels are parked in the cellar without their halos; it’s where they belong.” “Atlanta’s not going to make it.” “They evened it up last night.” “Minnesota’s got the class. I’ll go three bills and give you three to two.” “Shove it.” “Tell me something about Franco Ravone,” Jack said. Kyle jerked his head around. Up through the murky blue of the eyes lunged something prehistoric, a glint like that in those of an ancient lizard spotting prey. He blinked at the smoke drifting upward. “You said you were quitting the business.” It was a demand for adequate explanation. “Something came up.” Jack watched the glint in the eyes recede behind the murkiness. “Shit,” Kyle murmured. He turned back to the set in time to see Minnesota turn a nifty double play. “Shit,” he murmured again, then pressed the mute button. “You planning to head up to Vegas?”

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“In the morning.” “Then I won’t have to deal with it.” “With what?” “Cleaning up after your head’s blown off.” “Has he got that much clout?” “Birds don’t crap in that town without his say.” “His son, Bruno, was killed eight years back. Know anything about it?” “Yeah. He got wasted in Vegas, not on my turf.” “But did you hear anything?” “Complaints. Some punks hit town, talking at anybody who’d been at Wonderland when he went away. Some local civies became upset.” “About a month later, Mitch Saldino was hit. Anything there?” “Yeah. One less lowlife to worry about.” “You’re not helping much.” The head swiveled. Pale blue eyes bore into Jack’s. “Something I owe you I don’t know about?” “Don’t think so.” “Then here’s a freebie,” he said, leaning closer. “Saldino was in the video business. The tape I saw was good work. Two dudes in bed together. This was back before gays got organized and started stacking up their rights. One of them brought the tape into vice, looking for help. Seems he was a hot shot college professor, with his job at stake. “They called me in when he got blown away. Saldino ordered that hit. But I couldn’t pull the court-type proof together.” He sighed heavily. He stubbed out the cigarette, then picked up a slice of pizza. He stared in the direction of the tube, but at something only he could see, far beyond it. Jack settled deeper into the couch. He now had a better sense of the operation back then. But Mitch Saldino had been dead for eight years. He wasn’t any closer to the blackmailer. He mulled it over as he watched the game. When the pizza had disappeared, he stood. “Guess I best shove off.” “How was the pizza?” Kyle asked with that faint smile. “Terrific,” Jack said. “Love that pepperoni.” He worked at it a moment, then managed a decent belch. “Yeah, you do.”

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“I’ll catch you later.” Jack started for the door. “Take it slow,” Kyle cautioned to his back. Jack turned back. “Don’t I always?” “Stub your little toe up there and you’ll go away. That sandy desert makes for easy digging.” “Thanks for the concern.” “Shove it,” Kyle murmured, then turned back to the set. Jack closed the door behind him, harder than necessary. Kyle hated that, too. As he climbed behind the wheel, he asked himself why he had settled for pizza. Whatever Terri might put together would have beat it. All he’d had to do was see her first and Kyle later. Why was he dragging his feet when his gut was urging him on? Women. He smiled, as he fired the engine. They can put your mind into fibrillation.

Chapter 8 When the door opened, Terri was silhouetted by soft faint flickering light slipping past the corner from the living room. The smile was inviting, intriguing. “Come in,” she said. “Thanks.” Jack stepped past her, then paused. She led him into the living room. Light from the table lamps was warmed and softened by tall cylindrical golden shades. The glimmer from three square candles was heightened by the polished oak paneling behind them. The smaller candle on the coffee table was the source of the faint scent of orange blossoms. Flames in the Dutch fireplace cast flickering shadows. “That’s the most comfortable,” Terri said, pointing to the couch that matched the brown chair. “A drink?” “Sounds good,” Jack replied, as he sat down. The full folds of the black wrap-around skirt whispered to one another as she walked from the room. The oyster-white turtle neck reached up almost to the slender gold choker that matched the three bracelets on her wrist. When she returned, she handed him his drink, then settled in the chair on one bare foot, the skirt fluffed up around her. The bracelets jangled pleasantly as she lifted her wine in a casual

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salute he answered. “I’m as ready for those questions as I can be,” she said. “There’s nothing dramatic about them.” In her eyes he could see that blend of worries and fears, held at bay. He had a fleeting sense of more. Then it was gone. “For one, Angie and Hoffler are both uptight about that weekend. After all this time, three of five people still bothered? I keep looking for a connection. Any ideas?” “Charlie may have gotten into some sort of trouble when he stayed over. But even if he did, how would that relate to me?” “Nothing comes to mind,” he said, sipping his drink, watching the flickering light from the fire caress her face. “I saw them again today, but it didn’t help much. Angie must have talked to someone; she knew I hadn’t been sent down from Vegas. But I can’t see how that means much. That kid? Bruno?” Terri nodded over the rim of her glass, a sudden tenseness in the shoulders. “He made a pass at her.” “Why would that be important?” she asked quietly. “It’s probably not. But she seems frightened about it. Then again, like yourself, she may only be afraid of Ravone’s people.” “When are you leaving?” “In the morning.” She was gazing at the fire. Reflections of dancing flames hid the eyes. “Any thoughts?” he asked. She looked at him with a wistful smile. “Only that I wish you weren’t going.” “I may find answers we need.” “I know.” “Refresh my memory, will you?” She nodded. “It was the Emerald Suite Hoffler took for you. Right?” She nodded again, then shook her head in disgust. “Obscene. That’s the only way to describe that room.” The hand holding the drink trembled slightly. He waited. When she looked up at him, he said, “I was kind of wondering why you invited Archie back there.” Her mouth tightened, twisting into a grimace. “I mean, why not another room? His, maybe.” The silence grew, an awkwardness to it. Her shoulders settled into a slump. The eyes were fi xed on the carpet. “You tell me,” she said, hard edges on the words. “Why did I invite him anywhere?” It was past time for a change of subject. Jack set his drink down,

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rose and put his back to the fire. When Terri looked up, he said, “My guess was right. It is comfy.” “Yes, it is,” she said, then looked away. “I’m going to miss it.” “Hey, now. We’re not done yet.” “I know. But sometimes I get so discouraged.” She turned back and blasted him with those blue, blue eyes. “I can make another home for myself. Build other fires. And marigolds grow most anywhere. But if I’m forced to give up my work, I . . .” Slender fingers combed hair back over her ear. The bracelets tangled, their song lost to the moment. “There would be little left.” He wanted to take her hands in his, to explain that so long as there is life, each day brings new paths to be explored, new hopes for better tomorrows. “If it’s any help, Terri,” he said, “I’ve a feeling we’ll make it.” “I wish I had your confidence.” “Take all of it you need.” “I’m trying.” “Good,” he said, then walked back to the chair, enjoying the fire’s warmth. “Mind telling me what you paid for this place?” “Nearly a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, with escrow costs and fees.” “What are you asking?” “Two hundred and fifty. It’s a little high, but if I take less I won’t be able to cover what I owe.” Too high by about thirty thousand, if Robin’s estimate was correct. He couldn’t see any point to mentioning it. Instead he said, “I didn’t think television paid all that well.” “My father paid half. It brought the payments down to where I could manage. It’s him I’ll owe if I can’t get my price.” “What line of work is he in?” “He’s one of California’s senators,” she said, with a touch of pride. “Mike Delaney? Sorry. I didn’t make the connection.” He sipped at his drink, letting his thoughts rush about tripping over one another. A powerful friend, Randal Smith had said. To Jack’s way of thinking, senators had far too much of that. “Why didn’t you ask him for help? A senator has real clout.” “We’re not as close as I would like, but I wouldn’t want to lose what we have. I might, if I had to tell him about that tape. It wouldn’t be the first time the errant daughter was banished.”

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“It’s a point, but hell, before quitting, I’d try it. Senators have ways, Terri.” “I suppose you’re right. But I would rather not.” Jack hesitated. Why risk adding to her woes? He sighed inwardly, then asked, “Has it occurred to you he may already know some of it?” “How could he?” she asked sharply. “Can’t say. But I’d lay odds those people following me work for him.” “What are you saying?” Jack wished he hadn’t started, but he couldn’t see an easy way to break it off. “Who recommended Milo Hetch?” he asked reluctantly. “Father. Why?” Jack took a deep breath, released it slowly, then said, “Hetch did as he was told by a certain Mr. Smith. He didn’t even try to follow your money. He told you tales and Mr. Smith paid him seven thou to do it.” “I cannot believe that.” “The same Mr. Smith gave him another five thou for my name. He was by my place last night, offering me the same deal.” “I don’t believe you.” But she was beginning to. He could see it. And he could see the mad rising. “You could check with him.” “I certainly will. Who does he think he is? Interfering with my life this way.” “Likely a father, is all,” Jack said. “Worried about his daughter.” “You try to put a happy face on everything, don’t you?” “When I can.” “Damn it,” she said, pounding a fist into her thigh. The bracelets bounced about. “I paid that first demand partly because he was making his bid for the Senate and the race was close. If the papers had got hold of it, he might not have won. But now? His position is secure, don’t you think?” “Expect you’ll have to ask him.” “I will.” Jack shifted position. She was lost in her thoughts. Unpleasant ones. It was time to leave her with those questions only her dad could answer. The problem would at least occupy her attention for a while. “Expect I best be off,” he said finally.

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She looked up quickly, startled, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. “Was there something else?” he asked. “I guess not,” she said with a shake of her head. “Except for the demands I kept. I meant to show them to you last night.” “They might help,” he said, relaxing back in the chair, glad for the excuse. “I’ll get them,” she said, and was gone. Jack traced her passage up the stairs and into the room overhead. He gazed at the coals of the fire, trying to picture what she was doing. The way she moved in the doing. When she returned, she handed him a file folder. She perched on the edge of the couch, watching him as he read. All had been pecked out on the same manual machine. Several characters would tie to it. Particularly the oddly slanted s. A relentless bastard, Jack decided. A demand every six months with an increase of a thousand each time. The first had been for only two thousand. The last, eleven. Mentally he did the arithmetic. Eightyfive thousand dollars! Not many would pay that much to hold on to a career. He had a sudden urge to see that tape and wondered at that. To him, sex was not a spectator sport. When he looked up, Terri was watching him intently. What was it, lurking behind the fear in those eyes, hunkered down low, way back? She looked away, then asked, “Do they help at all?” “Nothing jumps out at me.” He thumbed through the stack. “It would be easy to connect them to the typewriter.” He laid the folder out on the coffee table, then leaned back. “Upping the ante a thou every six months seems odd. Even a dummy would know at some point you’re going to go bust. So maybe he wants you broke. Maybe he’s got an itch to dump on you. Or she.” “Angie?” “She’d love the dumping bit.” “I still don’t think it’s her.” “Neither do I,” Jack said. “Have you any idea why three years went by without a demand?” “None. It caught me completely by surprise.” “I’ll bet it did.” There would have been a rush of anger, overpowered in time by anguish and fear, and a growing bitterness that anyone could hold such a lock on her life. All that her eyes revealed

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at the moment was confusions and wonderings about tomorrow. “By then,” he said, “you probably thought you were clear.” “I did,” she said. “I was even fool enough to hope that first payment would be the last.” The hint of lostness in those blue, blue eyes was nearly tangible. He wanted to take her in his arms, to caress her hair, to stroke her back until it faded. “Well,” he said, “it looks like we need some luck. I can’t make us any sitting here.” He was quick to note he had made no effort to stand. “If you’ve time,” she said, toying with the bracelets, “I’ll fi x you another drink.” The lostness was fading, as if she had found a different focus. The eyes were clearer. More revealing. Inviting. Enticing, even. He glanced at his watch, wondering why. The time of day was irrelevant. “Guess I’ll pass, Terri. I’d like to get an early start.” “I understand,” she said, watching him closely. Inwardly he sighed, then rose. Terri led the way to the door. As she opened it, she said, “Good night.” “Take care,” he said, then strode down the walk. The door still hadn’t closed when he got to the car. He gazed for a moment at the tall slenderness dimly outlined, then climbed behind the wheel. “Women,” he murmured to the night. “They are a wonder.”


The garage door had started to open when Jack’s headlights picked up the black sedan parked up the street. He let the car roll on beyond his place, noting the porch lights were on. They wouldn’t be, if anyone had been inside. He was reasonably sure he had only to deal with the occupants of the car. He killed the engine and slid to a stop, nose to nose with the Chrysler, ten feet from it. He flicked on the high beams and unlatched the door. He locked the Smith in his left hand, propped it on the side mirror, then sat back, waiting. Night sounds became discernable over the snaps and pings of steel cooling. The driver of the Chrysler had a cigarette tucked between his lips. One hand was on the wheel. The passenger had identified himself as Randal Smith. The Maestro had uncovered a different name. Both men were largely blinded by the headlights of the Trans Am. Time can pass with incredible slowness. But Jack didn’t feel

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hurried. An ingrained patience had taken hold, stifling the demands of muscles pumped full of adrenalin. He wasn’t concerned about the faint trembles in his hands, arms, and legs. They would evaporate on the first move. A chorus of crickets picked up to his left. From up the hill, he heard the cry of an owl. Jack saw lips move briefly. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and both men got out of the car. While hidden behind the closing door, the driver’s hand had crept up under his coat. “You won’t make it, mister,” Jack called out, flicking the safety off, the faint sound ominous in the night’s quiet. The crickets paused in their singing. The men exchanged glances, then the driver eased his hand down to his side. Jack slipped out of the car, letting the pistol fall to his side. “Mr. Eckerman, isn’t it?” Jack asked of the passenger. “It’s a marvel what can be learned from a phone number,” Eckerman replied evenly. “Did you know you’re three days late with your Visa card payment?” “I had to leave home unexpectedly.” “That would be D.C. 284 South Lane.” Eckerman sighed audibly “And this little exercise proves what?” he asked. “People don’t always listen.” “You don’t want to be bothered.” “Good. Now we can duck the macho crap.” “Drop the case you’re working. That will end it.” “I’ve a softball bat in back. I can start in on the car.” “And then me?” “It wouldn’t hurt the bat much. It’s aluminum.” “A real badass, aren’t you?” “Have to be, to deal with powerful influential types.” “I work for one.” “You told me the Senator’s daughter was a disturbed person.” “The Senator?” “Tell him to stop worrying. It’s a miracle, maybe. Whatever, Terri’s not disturbed any more.” “Indeed.” “In fact she’s doing fine,” Jack said, wanting to end it. “She’d do even better if the Senator would butt out.”

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“He’ll be delighted to hear that.” “Then go. Tell him.” The silence grew. The crickets made a tentative effort to regroup. Still Jack waited. “Listen, Mr. Collier,” Eckerman said, “we need to . . .” “A little sleep is all I need, mister.” Eckerman gazed at Jack as if hoping to find, in his dimly lit figure, a clue to another approach. At last he turned, opened the door and got back into the car. The driver had moved when Eckerman had. He fired the engine, backed a few feet, then drove slowly down the hill. Jack watched until the taillights disappeared.

Chapter 9 Clear of the air terminal in Las Vegas, the blistering desert sun pounced, as if to drive Jack to his knees. By the time he climbed into the cab, his shirt was clinging to his back. He sat in the corner, watching traffic behind them. He had seen no sign he’d been followed from his place to the airport. And it bothered some. Men like Eckerman are not often put off by words. And when they give up following, it often means they’re up ahead, in a place of their choosing, waiting. Satisfied he wasn’t being followed now, he gazed out the window at the gaudy trimmings of one of the most successful money machines in the world. The flashy newer clubs were left behind as they got closer to town. Jack decided The Dunes, like most of the others, would look better at night. It was always a high, cruising down the Strip, thinking of the money changing hands on either side of him. He had never played in a serious poker game, anything like the million-dollar shootouts here in Vegas. A five thousand dollar buy-in wouldn’t trouble him. But if he managed to last to the point where there was fifty thousand in the pot, he would miss something, blow it some way. Like the two dollar winner at the race track who loses every time he plunks down fifty. Still, as he watched the clubs slip past, it got him to thinking. A guy can get lucky. He smiled. He had always been good at dreaming

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while he was awake. Wonderland turned out to be north of the downtown clubs. It was a sprawling single-story structure, built years back. It didn’t look wonderful, even with the shiny new coat of paint. It looked like an older motel. It was early, not yet ten. Only one couple sat at the bar. At half a dozen tables, others lingered over breakfast. Through the archway, Jack could see two deserted crap tables. He could hear an occasional determined yank on the handle of a slot machine. Whatever it had been when Mitch Saldino owned the place, it was nothing special now. As he settled onto a stool, the slender older man behind the bar headed his way. He seemed sure he had better things to do. “What’s your fancy?” he asked. “Can you tell me who owns this place?” “I just serve drinks,” he said, the eyes watchful. “You want one?” “Bacardi light over ice, please.” He went off to build the drink. When he set it on the bar, Jack asked, “How could I get in touch with the guy?” He shrugged, then turned away. To his back, Jack asked, “Who would you call if you had a problem?” “I got no problem,” he said, turning back. He slipped one hand under the register. “Suppose I hop over this bar and pound on you some.” “What are you saying?” “I need a name.” He stared at Jack for several moments, then the eyes brightened and he turned away. A glance at the entry to the adjacent room made it clear a button had been pressed. This man was big, solidly compact, with bouncer, and more, written in the broad face and the uncaring look in the eyes. The heavy caliber auto in the shoulder rig bulged through the tan fabric of the suit. Take it slow, Kyle Sykes had said. Remembering added emphasis to Jack’s own sense of his situation. This man’s pleasant smile wouldn’t change much, even as he heaved Jack out the front door. Or buried him, for that matter. “I’m Blaine,” he said in a surprisingly mild voice. “What seems to be the trouble, buddy?” “No trouble. I need to see the guy who owns this place, is all.”

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“What have you got in mind?” Blaine asked, examining Jack with greater interest. “Bruno Ravone, for openers.” Blain mouthed the name silently, the lips barely moving. “I can put you on to Mr. Stern,” he said softly, “I’d appreciate it.” When Blain turned, Jack picked up his drink and followed. He was led into the next room, then over to the poker table in back at which the big man in the wheelchair was engrossed in dealing cards about the empty table. At his side stood a young woman, one hand on his massive shoulders. The pale yellow dress clung tightly; she wore nothing under it. Broad nipples pushed at the fabric. Her glance drifted unhurriedly down to Jack’s crotch, lingered, then lifted to study his face. He guessed she was not yet eighteen, but the eyes had an ageless look about them. The man had been a power once; it remained in the shoulders and arms. The hair was silvery gray, yet the round smooth features suggested he wasn’t yet fifty. Short stubby fingers manipulated the cards with delicate precision. He was dealing seconds; he didn’t need the practice. When Stern looked up, sharp bright eyes took Jack in at a glance, then shifted to Blaine. “So?” he said in a gravelly base. Blaine nodded at Jack and said politely, “He wants to speak to the owner, Mr. Stern. He mentioned a name.” “So?” he said again, impatiently. “Bruno Ravone,” Blaine answered. Stern’s look was harder now. The lips were set in a grim line across the broad mouth. He nodded curtly and Blaine strode toward the entrance. When Stern swung his heavy glance back, Jack felt as if the hairs at the back of his neck were lifting. A brutal dangerous man. One who plays by his own rules, unrelated to law or morality. There was a dryness to his throat. A tightening in his gut. He wondered what it would take to beat this man. And he wondered if he could. Stern reached out and plunged his hand up between the woman’s legs. When he squeezed, Jack was sure it hurt, but her eyes and face remained still. “Beat it,” Stern growled, still watching Jack. With a final appraising glance, she walked past Jack toward the entrance. “So I own the joint. Ya got a name?” he demanded. “Jack Collier.” He slid his license across the table.

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Stern’s glance touched it, then flicked back to Jack’s face. “That don’t buy dog shit in Nevada.” Jack smiled, working at making it appear natural, easy. “I wasn’t planning to buy anything.” “Shit,” Stern growled, watching Blaine return and take a position to the side from which he could watch both Jack and the entrance. At Blaine’s nod, Stern looked back at Jack and asked, “Why the interest in a dumb kid dead eight years?” “Mind if I sit down?” Jack asked politely. “Why the interest?” Stern demanded. “There isn’t any,” Jack said, pulling a chair out and sitting down, ignoring Stern’s hard disapproving scowl. He reached out and recovered his wallet. “Interest in the young man, that is. I need to talk to someone who was around when he died, is all.” “Why?” “I’ve a client being blackmailed with a tape made here that weekend. I’d like to end it.” “The name?” This was not the time for games. Or the town for them. “Terri Delaney,” Jack said. “She was checked into the Emerald Suite.” “What’s supposed to be on this here tape?” Stern demanded. “Some kinky sex with a guy named Archie. About six feet. Oneeighty. Lots of wavy black hair. Fortyish” “Mr. Ravone got the name of everybody near this joint. That one didn’t come up.” He wasn’t much interested in Archie. His look was loaded with suspicion. “Ya telling me this Delaney broad is forking out dough for a sex scene, eight years old?” “She’s part of the news team at KTSV in L.A. That tape would cost her the career.” “Somebody’s rattling your chain.” “How’s that?” “It never happened,” Stern said, shaking his head. “I worked for Mitch, see. He dealt with the heavy action. I handled the contract deals. Like if ya wanted to bury a business partner, or snag a better divorce settlement. Mitch wouldn’t a been interested in that Delaney broad. Not enough dough in the deal. And nobody ordered nothing from me. “But I carried a beeper, see, wired to the door. When it went off that Saturday, I went out back to check. That Delaney broad was packing. I told Janet to shut it down and left.”

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“Janet who?” “Fisher. She split a few days after. Fuckingest broad ever.” He leaned back, enjoying memories. “Christ what a tape would do to her. She’d go all crazy-like.” “Know anything about her?” “They come, stay a while, then split.” He shrugged. “It’s the action that interests me, not no résumé.” “Anything at all?” “She talked about L.A. like she’d spent time there. She grew up in a hick town down south. Bishop, it was. She got off on telling me things she’d done to boys there, while doing the same to me.” “She could have made that tape.” “She coulda, but she knew the rules. She’d a been buried in that desert out there, if she hadn’t done like I said.” He leaned out onto the table, scowling. “Now what’s all this shit got to do with Bruno Ravone?” “Nothing I know of. I only used the name to tie into that weekend.” He stared at the table for a time, then said, almost as if speaking private thoughts out loud to himself, “That dumb kid never thought a nothing except where to jam that cock a his. And he never could hear the word no.” Bitterness surrounded each word. “There was charges of rape, but he never faced no judge.” “You seem a bit uptight, seeing how this happened eight years back.” The eyes bulged. The face reddened. For an instant, Jack tensed, certain the man would lunge across the table, despite the wheelchair. Instead, Stern pounded on one dead leg with a heavy fist. “I gotta thank that kid for this.” “Care to connect that up?” “Things came apart, after he went away. The whole town was jumpy. A month later, three troops slid in and took us out.” “Did Ravone order that hit?” “It’s Mr. Ravone,” he growled. “And there’s no way. Those mothers were something else, like a team of Israeli commandos. Talking French, even. They took out Mitch and five soldiers. And stuffed me into this shitty chair. They blew a safe that woulda made a diamond merchant smile. Ya can’t get outa this town with cops looking, but they did, like they used a spaceship.”

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“How does this relate to the young man?” “Ya don’t need no more.” “I’m not asking for secrets.” Stern glared at him. Jack worked at maintaining his smile, at remaining relaxed in the chair, at pulling back at all the bits of him that urged a more aggressive stance. “Ya live as long as me, ya learn things, see. So I know. Understand?” For a moment Jack considered probing beyond the man’s words. But he couldn’t see how knowing more would help. Instead, he asked, “Did they take Saldino’s tapes?” “Everything in that safe was wiped out. Some sorta acid. Nothing left but a mucky slime. But what the fuck’s the difference? There weren’t no tape a that Delaney broad.” “You’re wrong, Mr. Stern. She received a copy, five years back, and she’s been paying ever since.” “Ya saying I’m a liar?” he growled. “No. It looks as if someone slipped past you, is all. Janet Fisher looks good to me.” “I woulda known. That numbering system couldn’t be beat. Now if that don’t suit ya, how about I set up a little ride out into that desert we got ’round here?” “I’ll pass,” Jack said, watching Blaine take a step toward the table. He stifled a coldness in the small of his back that threatened to translate into a visible tremble. He clasped his hands on the table and leaned out over them. “But if Janet didn’t make that tape, you’re my best bet. If you’re into blackmail, it would explain a lot.” “That was Mitch’s action, not mine, asshole,” Stern growled, his face red, the eyes bulging. “Now get the fuck outa here ’fore I lose my temper.” “We can’t have that,” Jack said as he rose. Blaine followed him out of the room. Jack could feel his eyes on his back, even after the outside door swung closed behind him. The heat pounced again, bringing instant perspiration. It took a moment to adjust to the brilliant desert brightness. The man in the lightweight gray suit blocked his path. One hand was tucked under the coat, resting on the butt of his gun. It took another moment to realize there was also a man standing behind him. The man he faced smiled at Jack’s discomfort. The eyes were void of emotion. Eyes that look through you, Terri had said.

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“Mr. Ravone wants a word with you,” the man said. Jack nodded, certain this man would kill with no more remorse than he would feel for an ant accidentally stepped on.


Jack was ushered through an outer office on the eighth floor, filled with people bent over computer screens. His host knocked twice on the tall double doors, then opened one. Jack followed him inside, aware of the man behind him. Two walls of the immense office were of glass. Jack could see a dozen clubs along the strip. The other two walls were paneled in teak. A guy could lose a set of keys in the long-napped carpet. There was a conference table with room for a dozen people and an informal area of upholstered furniture. Leather chairs faced the desk. The man standing behind it looked as if he belonged there. He was tall. With pronounced, angular features. The full head of black hair was neatly groomed, tapered into the sides of the neck. The conservative cobalt-blue suit fit as if he had been born to fi ll it. That people died on this man’s say, Jack did not doubt for a moment. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Collier,” The voice was overloaded with charm. “Please. Have a seat,” Ravone said, as he sat down himself. Jack toyed with the notion of saying he preferred to stand, then took the nearest chair. Ravone looked up from a page in the file folder on his desk and asked quietly, “What is your interest in the death of my son, Mr. Collier?” “Ms. Delaney was here when he died, is all. But that was eight years back. I only used the name to tie into that weekend.” “I see,” he said, studying Jack as if seeking confirmation. Apparently satisfied for the moment, he said, “When my associates talked with Ms. Delaney in Los Angeles, she said nothing of this man, Archie. That disturbs me. You see, we did not turn up that name.” “Likely she was disgusted with herself, too ashamed to mention him.” Jack was choosing his words with unusual care, hoping to erase any need to meet with this man again. Ravone’s near black eyes probed Jack’s as if searching for words not uttered, for his actual thoughts. He glanced at the notes on his desk, then returned full attention to Jack.

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“Our investigation showed Ms. Delaney was packing to leave, a few minutes before twelve. She checked out shortly after one and drove home.” He glanced again at his notes, then continued. “I fail to see how a tape of a sexual encounter, made in that brief time, could be damaging eight years later.” “I don’t know the television industry, but I can say this for sure. Ms. Delaney believes if that tape were made public, she’d be out of work. Permanently.” “I just spoke with Mr. Stern,” he said, nodding at the phone. “He’s convinced no tape was made.” “Janet Fisher could have made one. Have you any idea where I might find her?” “She was murdered, Mr. Collier, shortly after she arrived in Los Angeles.” Murdered, the man had said. With the concern one might have for a misplaced paper clip. Forced to deal with Stern, Jack would want an Engram or Uzi. It would be brutal, bloody work. Up close. But with Ravone, he would need to work from a distance, hit unexpectedly, with solid cover handy. There was a roguish corner of his soul, the consequence of a defective gene, perhaps, that demanded he accept the challenge. Now. Mentally he took a deep breath. Ravone was watching in a way that brought a clamminess to the skin at the small of his back. He let himself go into those rhythms of fear intent upon assuring his survival. “You’re well informed,” he said. Ravone leaned back in his chair. “It is part of my many responsibilities.” His wave seemed to encompass far more than the city that lay about them. “Someone did make a tape, Mr. Ravone,” Jack said evenly. “I don’t know who it could be unless Mr. Stern didn’t tell it straight.” “I would trust Mr. Stern with my life,” Ravone said easily. “That makes it clear,” Jack said, wondering if it was so. “Mind another question?” “Not at all.” “Whoever hit Mitch Saldino may have taken his tapes. Can you tell me who it was?” “I am afraid I cannot.” When he stood, so did Jack, his legs trembly. “My card,” Ravone said, handing it to Jack. “Please keep me informed.”

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“I’ll do that.” Ravone nodded as if trying to gauge the strength of Jack’s commitment. Minutes passed before he said, “Mr. Grimes will show you out.” Grimes had the door open and Jack was three strides from it when Ravone said, “Mr. Collier?” Jack turned back to face the shadowy figure outlined by bright desert light through the windows. “One thing further. I would rather you didn’t use my name, even by implication.” “I don’t follow.” “Ms. Bergoin was quite upset by your visit.” “I understand,” Jack said. It wasn’t the time to point out Angie had jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Good,” Ravone said finally, then looked away to gaze out the window. Jack turned back toward the door, stifling faint trembles as he could. He decided Ravone had believed him when he was dropped at the airport. He sensed Grimes, with equal unconcern, would have dropped him someplace in the vast emptiness of the desert, dropped him into a sandy hole, perhaps one Jack had dug himself.

Chapter 10 It was near four when Jack’s plane touched down at LAX. Twenty minutes later, he stepped into the lobby and began making his way toward the exit, weaving his way through the bustling rush. “Mr. Collier?” He turned back to face Eckerman. “Have you made that Visa payment yet?” Jack asked, sensing a man moving up behind him. Eckerman smiled. “It’s being taken care of,” he said. “Now if you will follow me.” Jack was sure there would be no guns used in these crowds. Eckerman stood with one hand tucked into a pocket, waiting, his head cocked in question. Jack took a quick breath, then released it slowly. There are lots of ways a guy can be forcefully transported, or hurt, by a capable man, particularly from behind. Besides, he was curious. When he nodded, Eckerman turned and led the way across

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the lobby. Damn, Jack said to himself. There were two men behind him. He didn’t like to make that kind of mistake. After passing through a labyrinth of inner corridors, Eckerman stopped and opened a door. One of the men behind Jack slipped inside. A big man, towheaded, with pleasant features, a match for Blaine or Grimes up in Vegas. The thought was a needless reminder senators also have incredible power. And that many enjoy using it. On Eckerman’s nod, Jack stepped inside. The room was a mix of sitting and office furniture, a room ready to accommodate a variety of needs. He had thought he was prepared, but the man seated behind the desk startled him. Silvery hair. Midnight-blue suit. Bold red tie. But it was the eyes that grabbed him; they were Terri’s. Somewhat larger. Bolder. More penetrating. The wide gracious smile welcomed him. Compared to Terri’s it was studied, contrived. As Jack approached the desk, the Senator rose to greet him. A man who likes all the props, Jack decided, glancing about at informal areas that could have been chosen. One heavyweight stood at each door. He could see Eckerman out of the corner of his eye. “Senator,” Jack said in greeting, taking the offered hand. “I’m glad you could take the time to see me. Won’t you sit down?” “Happy to oblige,” Jack said with a politeness he did not feel. “I was sure you would be,” the Senator said, letting a rich full chuckle fill the room. “Mr. Eckerman tells me interesting things about you.” “Like?” “That you cherish your privacy, for one thing. He wasn’t able to discover much about you.” “What was it you wanted to know?” “Several things, actually. Your financial situation, for one.” “Don’t give it a thought. I do fine.” “I’m sure you do. But it’s difficult to believe you have no use for a little extra.” Eckerman stepped forward and laid two fat envelopes on the desk in front of Jack. “It’s a simple thing I ask of you,” the Senator said, as Eckerman stepped back. Jack stared at the envelopes, searching for a smart crack that wouldn’t reveal his anger. He shook his head. “You must be doing well,” the Senator said with another chuckle. “That’s thirty thousand dollars.”

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“You and Eckerman have me mixed up with someone else.” “And that would be?” “The name’s Collier, not Hetch.” “I see,” the Senator said. “You’re a man of principle.” “I’ve a couple. Yes.” “May I be frank?” the Senator asked, every feature of his face in sync with the eyes. All shouted of sincerity. “Sure.” “I’m aware Terri has a problem. Only in the broadest terms, of course. But I assure you I can and will deal with it.” He leaned back, letting a faint smile shape his lips. “But not just now. You see, I must run for reelection next November. Exposure would not defeat me. However, it would not help.” “Senator, if Terri was a ten-dollar whore, they’d be her sins, not yours.” “I’m afraid you don’t have the larger picture,” the Senator said, settling his features into a pensive look. “You see, in my efforts to assist California’s failing Savings and Loans, I have taken a number of bold steps. They were not all successful, unfortunately. It’s no secret some question both my methods and motives. More recently,” he said with a sigh, “I find I’ve been too close to the situation with the Bank of Credit and Commerce International.” Jack had the urge to ask for a translation, but let it pass. Likely the man had been standing too close to money changing hands. Jack had noticed Senators tend to become wealthy; the salaries don’t account for it. “You’re making assumptions,” Jack commented. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” “About voters. Terri. And me.” “What assumption have I made about you that is incorrect?” “You seem certain I’m going to screw things up. I don’t, usually.” “It’s the nature of blackmail that concerns me, not what you may or may not do. Even with the finest handling, disclosure can occur. I’m sure you’ll admit that.” He leaned closer. “I’m not suggesting the problem be ignored, only that we wait a time before taking any risk. Meanwhile, I’m prepared to help with whatever financing Terri requires. Now I need your help here. Can’t you let it drop for a time? Or is there a principle involved here as well?” “One, maybe.” “And that would be?”

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Jack wanted to jump to the top of the desk. To scream. To stomp his feet in wild primitive fashion. Anything to get this man to see a bit more of the meaning of fatherhood. What he said was, “You need to get this straight with your daughter, not me.” The Senator shook his head as if deeply saddened. “You don’t leave me much choice.” There had been more than enough of expensively suited thugs this day. “I think you’re onto something,” Jack said, letting his smile broaden. “Pain, in sufficient dosage, has a solid track record. Of course there’s risk in that.” “For whom?” Jack chuckled, then said, “Guys like you amuse me some.” “I had hoped for a rather different effect.” “How can a guy figure that wealth, power, influence, or whatever, brings enhanced mortality? If I cut your throat, mister, you’ll bleed.” “Are you threatening me?” The blue eyes were cold. The face was drawn up sternly. “I never do,” Jack said. “It gives a guy time to set. I was speaking figuratively.” “I may have made an incorrect assumption,” the Senator said with a unpleasant smile, the eyes even colder now. Jack waited. Words weren’t doing much good. “You may be a fool; that didn’t occur to me. What does your well-being, even your life mean to me compared to that of my daughter?” “Can’t say,” Jack said. “But up against your being reelected, I’m nothing. An inconvenient insect. To be swatted by one of your flunkies.” Jack leaned forward and gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. “Now let’s get to another of your assumptions. Do you believe I’ve lived this long in my business without being able to handle heavy shit? What in hell can you show me the mean streets of this town have not? Rapists? Murderers? Freaked out acidheads? We’ve more than our share of these and worse. This is the land of Charlie Manson, for Christ’s sake.” He paused, then said, “Butt out, mister. Leave me be.” Jack stood, not surprised to find his legs shaky. He held out his trembly hands. “Look at this,” he said, then laughed. “Imagine. Getting upset over a little thing like this.” He placed his knuckles

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on the desk. He dug up a smile he decided would do, then asked, “Ever play poker?” “Why do you ask?” “You have that nervous kind of sweat. Just a trace above the brows. Like you’re wondering if your straight will beat mine.” “This is futile.” “What’s this really all about? This setup? The thirty thou? The threats? How can a sex tape made by your daughter eight years back compare to the S&L debacle? Or the BCCI scandal?” “You’re naive. Voters are most easily reached emotionally. Sexual misconduct makes headlines.” “No. There’s more.” “I have no idea what you’re driving at.” “You’ve seen that tape.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “You’re paying too.” “Utter nonsense.” Jack straightened, a grimness in his smile. “Some advice?” The Senator’s look seemed more a glare now. “Don’t try serious poker; you’ll lose.” Jack spun away and started toward the door. He stopped abruptly. Without turning he said, “I’ll go along with whatever Terri says. That’s the best you’ll get from me, mister.” When Jack continued on, the towheaded man blocking the door tensed. “Excuse me, please,” Jack said politely. He knew the pot had a goodly boil. That it was close to spilling over. That nothing good could come of it. But he’d damned well had enough shit. Stern. Ravone. Now this. How was he going to get this particular fool to listen to him? The lamp. Possible. Heavy glass base. Turn back as if to say something to the Senator. Accelerate. Grab the lamp and swing. The poor son of a bitch wouldn’t have a chance. Even if he got an arm up, it would be broken. He would be exposed. A knee to the groin would wrap it quickly. There would be no guns near so many people. That roguish chunk of his soul fairly shouted it. Do it! Now! As Jack tensed, he noticed the look in the man’s eyes change. Then he moved away from the door. “Thank you,” Jack said, stepping into the hall, hoping he had managed to get the door closed before anyone noticed he was shaking like a leaf in a gusting wind.

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Chapter 11 Police stations share certain characteristics. Here the sterile, plain, functional furniture was perhaps more modern than in most. Not yet so badly marred, so deeply scarred. But the wooden benches and unforgiving plastic chairs were hard on the backside. Most who wait here were not troubled by this. Fears raged. Often there was anger. Or hate. Always there was uncertainty. Confusion. It all tended to deny the thought of creature comfort. As Jack strode down the hall, he sensed something of hopes that had died here. Of pleas unheard. Of anguished cries ignored. And interwoven with it all, he caught the stench of sweaty fear. It was the world of Sgt. Kyle Sykes. Jack wanted to run for the exit. He paused in the entrance to the squad room. It was quiet, near empty, at this early evening hour. Kyle sat at his desk, oddly erect for a man laboring with paperwork. Unlike most in the room, he was wearing his coat. But the spit-and-polish impression was flawed; the knot in the tie dangled midway between the shirt collar and his navel, about where it usually was at six in the evening. As always, the desk was neatly organized. The three stacks of papers, forms, and what not, were his version of in-out trays. The in-stack didn’t vary much in height; it was generally five to six inches tall. Facing that pile each morning would be, in itself, sufficient cause for Jack to have quit years back. When Kyle sensed Jack’s approach, he took the cigarette from his mouth and looked up. Behind the gold-rimmed specs, the pale blue eyes glistened brightly. The broad smile redrew the map of his face. That incredible charm Jack had seen him use so effectively quickly died away when he saw who it was. “Don’t tell me,” Kyle said. “Your place burned down and you’re looking for a home.” He shoved the cigarette back between pale lips. With a small triumphant gesture, he scooped up the form he had been working with and dropped it on his out-stack. “I could put you on to a nice cheery cell for a night or two at least.” “I’ll pass,” Jack said. “But you should have taken that bet. Atlanta made it look easy last night.”

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“Yeah. And they only need one more to take the series.” “Three to two they don’t make it,” Jack offered. “Is that why you’re here? To hassle me?” “Just got in from Vegas. Thought you might like to hear a couple things.” “Shit,” Kyle murmured, leaning back, his face a mask of indifference. But it was sham. Sgt. Sykes is always interested in bad guys, particularly those with fancy offices and high-priced lawyers. As Jack spoke, Kyle stared up at the ceiling. But when he had finished, the man would be able to repeat what had been said, more succinctly and with greater clarity than Jack had been able to manage. He wrapped with a question. “Any thoughts?” “You think this Stern dude’s still making tapes?” Kyle asked, frowning. “I doubt it.” “Why?” “He’s one of the best I’ve ever seen at dealing seconds. Cheating at poker likely keeps him happy.” “It sounds as if Ravone is still looking for answers about his kid.” “That’s so.” “Say again about that hit on Saldino,” he demanded, staring down at the desk, frowning in concentration. Jack did, trying to add detail as possible. He ended with, “Does anything ring a bell?” “I don’t hear anything,” he said absently. “Like Israeli commandos. And they spoke French.” When he had thought it through, all he said was, “Sort of different, that.” He looked up, the eyes still preoccupied with his thoughts. “Now you want the fi le on Janet Fisher, don’t you?” “And the time of death on Bruno Ravone, if you can get it.” “You’re going to owe me,” he said, the eyes bright. “Likely I already do.” He snorted, then rose and strode from the room. Twenty minutes later, he returned with a file folder. He reached for a cigarette as he sat down and began reading. “Made a call to Vegas while waiting on this.” The eyes continued to scan pages. “For the record, they call it four p.m. but the kid’s body had been lying in a wash, up north of town, soaking up heat from the banks. They say give or take an hour.”

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He closed the file, slipped off the specs and laid them on the desk. He leaned back, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Looks like shabby work,” he said with a faint sigh. “How’s that?” He shrugged. “I guess the boys decided it wasn’t worth time. This Fisher broad was living at the Brawley House, a home for hookers headed nowhere. Somebody thumped her over the head, doused her with paint thinner, then lit a match. There wasn’t any smoke in the lungs so she was dead before the fire started.” “Any suspects?” “Nobody jumped up and pointed anywhere, so they let it slide.” “How good was the ID?” “That fire made things more difficult, but they got good partials of the prints. It wasn’t any help; they couldn’t get a make. But the desk clerk saw her go up an hour earlier and another civie saw her go into the room. Some stud she’d been shacking with, identified her things. The physical description tallied. In a deal like that, a lot of boys would call it good.” “You could look into it,” Jack said. “Maybe check those prints with the Sheriff up in Bishop. She was raised there.” He snorted, then shoved the in-stack across the desk. “I need more hassle?” “What you need is less paperwork,” Jack said, standing. “Christ-a-mighty,” he muttered. “Something we agree on.” “There’s likely more.” “My ass.” “Want to take Atlanta?” “Shove it.” “Will you send those prints up to Bishop?” “Why?” “Because I asked.” “Shit.”


The Odyssey was perched in the foothills of the San Gabriels on the northern edge of the Valley. From most tables, diners could see the galaxy of city lights, the ribbons of head and taillights that define the San Diego Freeway. On the patio below, the stars huddled

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overhead. Gas lanterns and pit fires contributed pleasant textures and compositions. Jack sipped his wine, watching Terri dig the last morsel of meat from the lobster. She had shoved up the sleeves of the lime green blouse before beginning. He could see why now; her fingers were well greased with butter. She wiped her hands clean, picked up the salad fork and speared the thick slice of avocado she had been saving for last. He wondered how long he would be content to sit here and watch. Slender fingers, wrists and arms. Seemingly alive with their own sense of things to be done. “Delicious,” she said, reaching for her wine. “Absolutely delicious. How was your steak?” “I’m afraid I paid more attention to you.” “I’m something of a pig when I get into lobster.” The mischievous sparkle in her eyes was enhanced by light from the lanterns. “Somehow it tastes better when you’ve got it all over your fingers.” “It’s a healthy lust.” “It is,” she said, holding his glance. “Now tell me. Why the treat?” “No treat. I’ll add it to your bill.” “Uh huh.” She cradled her glass with both hands, studying him over the top of it. The eyes were bright with thoughts he couldn’t read. He wondered if she understood why he had passed on her condo. That at least tonight, he hadn’t wanted to be with her in any place claimed by either. Those blue, blue eyes suggested she had guessed some of it. Several strands of hair had fallen out of position; he had the urge to reach across the table and tuck them back into place. In defense against the cooling night, she reached back and shrugged into the jacket she had draped over the back of the chair. The blouse shimmered in the firelight. Delightful. When she had it settled to her liking, the rolled collar and lapels shadowed the throat and chest. For sure, he thought, that is delightful. “It’s going to rain,” he said. “Really? A weatherperson of renown, no doubt.” He laughed. “In this town, most anyone can do better than the forecasters.” “KTSV has an enviable record, I’m told.” “Right once in five, maybe.”

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“Something like that.” She paused, looking at him, as if framing thoughts with care. He was sure they had nothing to do with weather. She seemed about to speak when the waiter arrived and began clearing the table. Jack sensed something had been lost. Something that wouldn’t be missed until later, when it would be impossible to recover. Something precious, maybe. When the waiter turned away, Terri slid her glass toward him and he split the remaining wine between them. “I assume this pleasant interlude was a precursor to bad news,” she said, seeking lightness and managing well, except with the eyes. They had turned somber, almost sad. “Just news, is all,” Jack said easily, hoping his smile was encouraging. “A guy named Stern owns Wonderland now. He spoke openly, for the most part. It had a ring of truth to it. The problem is, he claims no one made a tape of you.” “Surely you don’t believe him.” “I believe he believes it.” He tugged gently at his ear. “He handled the contract work for Saldino. He told me no one ordered a tape of you. Do you see any way someone might have?” “No,” she said with a faint shudder. “How could they?” She paused, gripping her glass. She looked up, a challenge in her eyes. “I didn’t plan to behave so stupidly, for God’s sake.” “I was only wondering,” Jack said easily. “Hoffler or Angie might have caught a hint.” She shook her head decisively. “I left them at the crap table.” “That’s so,” he said, tugging at his ear again. “The rub is only Stern and Saldino handled taping. Even if Saldino made it, for kinky reasons of his own, all his tapes were destroyed in a raid about a month after that weekend.” “Jack, there has to be another possibility.” “There’s one. Stern likes to have a young woman close. He had one back then. Janet Fisher. She was at the equipment when Stern checked on you. He saw you were packing, told her to shut it down and left.” “She must have made it,” Terri said, the tones hushed. “It’s not that easy. She was murdered a month later. If she made that tape, someone else has it now. Her killer, maybe.” “So close,” she said, clinching one hand, then pounding lightly at the table. “Yet so far away.”

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“That’s so. If the killer’s name doesn’t surface in the first couple days of the investigation, he’s probably clear. But I ought to look into it.” “You don’t know the killer has the tape.” “I don’t even know Janet made it. I’ve only a hunch, is all.” She stared out at the city lights as if searching for answers to questions not yet asked. “Jack,” she said, “To hire a professional, then tell him what to do or how to do it is utterly foolish.” She turned back to him. “I know that. But . . .” Her glance broke with his. She went to studying fingers toying with the tablecloth. “Try not to worry about the money, Terri.” “You said that when we met. But I’m so close to being broke, it frightens me.” “We’ll work it out.” He waited for her to look up. “Besides, I’m not planning any grand or elaborate investigation. I’m just going to dig around a little.” “In what way?” “Do you know the town of Bishop?” “Not really. It’s up on Highway 395, just north of Mt. Whitney, isn’t it?” “Yes. Right up against the Sierra Nevadas. Ranching and farming, mostly, judging from what I’ve seen driving through. Janet Fisher was raised there. I’m going to run up and look around. In a town like that, most everyone knows everyone else’s business. I might pick up something that points toward a killer.” “It doesn’t sound promising, does it?” she asked, subdued by uncertainties she wasn’t able to stifle at the moment. “That’s so,” Jack said. It was all getting to her as he had known it would. He wanted to tuck his arm about her, to stroll beside her, until the stars had their way with her. “I wish there was a manual,” he said. “Turn to page whatever for a checklist of things that need doing. In anything like this, far too much time is wasted. But there doesn’t seem to be another way.” “I wasn’t complaining. It’s only that it all seems so . . . hopeless.” “I’ve been here before. Give it time.” Jack wasn’t sure she had heard him. Her thoughts had turned inward. She was staring out at the city and beyond. “Did you have to use my name in Las Vegas?” she asked, as if speaking from a long way off.

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“Yes, but I think interest was centered on Bruno Ravone, not you.” “God how I hope you’re right.” The shudder that rippled down from her shoulders was unrelated to the growing chill. In time she looked up and said, “I haven’t been able to reach my father.” “That figures. He was waiting for me at LAX when I got off the flight from Vegas.” “Here? In Los Angeles?” Confusion reigned. “He hasn’t called and he always does.” She shook her head as if in doubt. “What did he want with you?” “He wants me to drop it, is all.” “Exactly what happened. Tell me.” Jack sighed. “Nothing special, Terri. I . . .” “Please,” she said, interrupting. One little word. How in hell could she get so much into it? “He tried to buy me off. When that . . .” “How much did he offer?” “Thirty thou.” Her hands were clasped tightly. There was a grim set to her lips. “Did he threaten you?” she demanded. “First he tried reason. I told him to get it straight with you. That I’d do whatever you asked.” “But he did threaten you.” “He’s smooth. I’ve got it all on tape, but I couldn’t prove they were threats.” “This is . . . is . . . just . . .” “Kind of sad, maybe.” “You and your happy little faces,” she said, punching at the beginning of each word. “He knows you’re being blackmailed.” Her mouth gaped open. There was a sudden rush of fear into the wide eyes. “The fact is, I think he’s seen the tape.” She jammed her fist into her mouth. Bright white teeth bore down on the knuckles. “I can’t say for sure, but I’d bet he’s also paying.” “My God. What are you saying?” “Only that you best get with him. It sounds to me as if he’s willing to handle it. He only wants to wait until after the election. He doesn’t want to risk exposure now. And he did say he’d help with bucks.”

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He watched her struggle to restore a sense of order to rushing thoughts. Determinedly she brought her fist down to the table, then one by one, forced open the fingers. For a time, she stared at the hand. “This is ugly,” she said in hushed tones, still talking to the table. “You should at least consider his offer, Terri.” He waited for her to look up. “Say the word and I’ll bow out.” “No,” she said quickly. “Father is committed to the system that sustains him. This can’t be ended with conventional means. And it must end,” she finished determinedly. “You’re accustomed to handling the unorthodox, the off beat. And you’re not overly troubled by rules. You can deal with this, if anyone can.” “Somehow that didn’t come off as a compliment,” he commented, wondering how well she knew her dad. To Jack he had seemed a man who thought rules were for suckers. “He can’t force you to quit, can he?” Jack allowed himself a slight, tight smile. “It’s been tried, Terri. Just worry about your dad. Get it straight with him. Then, if you still want me to handle things, it would help if you could get him off my back. It’s not a must,” he added with a touch of grim, “but it would help.” She shivered as if the night were closing in, determined to separate her from the whole of the world. “I will. Believe me.” It sounded as if she could manage. Still, the Senator wasn’t the type to give up easily. Jack watched as she gazed out at the city lights. He could only guess at her thoughts. Uncertainties about most of it, probably. Worries about the use of her name in Vegas. Some hard issues to settle with her dad. When she looked back at him, he asked, “Do you ski?” It caught her by surprise. “Not well,” she said, puzzled. “But I love it.” “Utah’s got a good snow pack. Have you ever been to Deer Valley?” “No. I haven’t.” “When you get this settled with your dad, however it goes down, maybe we could get away for a time.” She took three slow deep breaths. “I would like that,” she said shyly. “I’d like to go right now,” she added in a rush. “You get to say when. Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

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When she had unlocked the car door, she turned back to him. “Would you like a nightcap?” she asked, her eyes clear, calm now. Her cheeks flushed with the night air. “My place isn’t much out of the way if you’re going home.” It was what he had been hoping for. An invitation given on neutral ground. He smiled. Maybe she knew he was laughing at himself, for she said, “You want an early start.” “That’d be best.” “Uh huh.” “If it’s not too late when I get back, I can stop by and let you know how I made out.” Her eyes were bright, vibrant. They held her thoughts closely. “I would like that,” she said quietly. She slipped behind the wheel of the car before he could decide if there was any special message beyond the words themselves. She drove off without looking back. For a long while, Jack gazed at the curve in the road around which her taillights had disappeared.

Chapter 12 Climbing into the Sierra Nevadas from the west, one catches only an occasional glimpse of distant peaks. But to the east of Highway 395, the mountains burst from the ground, thrusting upward in great granite leaps. Jack paused for a moment to watch the swirling, stormy clouds blocking his view of the highest reaches. He let himself flow into the thunderous clash of the driven winds and rocky ridges. When he continued on, he felt sure skiers would soon be happy. This early storm should lay down a good base tonight, at least in Tahoe, if not on south to Mammoth. Even now, his jacket was losing out to the cold. As he stepped onto the porch of the diner, he rubbed his hands briskly, then his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. Inside, he headed for the table nearest the coaling fire in the great rock fireplace. The waitress approached with a smile and attentive gray eyes. Broad shoulders. Full breasts. Shapely hips and thighs. In the center of the round face was a delightful pug nose she probably hated. The name tag read Chris.

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“Can I help you, sir?” she said with a pleasant lilt to the words, the pen poised over the order pad. “Just coffee, please. And however much of your time that will buy,” Jack replied, pointing to the fifty he had laid on the table. “Can you still buy a woman for that?” Chris asked, the gray eyes sparkling. Jack laughed. “Maybe you’ll tell me.” “I haven’t slapped a guy in over a week.” “I’ve questions about Janet Fisher, is all.” “Oh,” she said, almost as if disappointed. Then her face erupted into a broad smile. “Let me clear a few tables and I will reveal all.” She whirled away, light on her feet for this late in the day. Jack was content to watch. Minutes later a cup of coffee flashed before his eyes and was settled to the table. There were only faint ripples in the surface. She pulled out a chair and sat down with that natural easy grace of one who is aware of her body, both its strengths and limitations. “Okay,” she said, propping her chin on one palm. “I’m all yours.” The grin was impish. “Who have I given my all to?” “Jack Collier,” he said with a chuckle, laying his license on the table. “A PI? I’ve had guys tell me they were with the D.E.A.” “They wanted your body, but were married.” “I know,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “Now I guess I’m about to find out what it means when a guy claims to be a private snoop.” She folded the wallet and handed it to him, then asked, “Why me?” She picked up the fifty, then dropped it back to the table. “What do you think I know worth that?” “I’ve talked to several people who knew Janet. Your name came up.” “Why are you interested in her?” “It’s a recovery deal. It looks as if she had the item with her when she was murdered.” “My God. I didn’t hear anything about that.” “She didn’t pick a nice place to die. It was a dump near downtown L.A., a home for hookers on the skids. The papers may not even have mentioned it.” “That surprises me. That she was killed, I mean.” “In what way?”

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“She was a little wild.” Chris grinned, brushing hair back out of her eyes. “Let’s make that very wild. But, still . . .” She paused, her lips pursed in thought. “Her dad said worse of her, that she was born evil.” “Maybe, but not dumb. She had a knack. She loved to start trouble, then watch. But she always seemed to know when to split.” “I don’t quite get the point.” “I don’t see somebody deciding to kill her without her knowing in time to get away.” “Got an example?” “Oh, lord. There are hundreds of stories. Let’s see.” Long nails traced random patterns on the tablecloth. “The one I’m sure is true was when she had been stringing Henry Milder along. Came the time she decided was right, he passed out. Which made her mad, I guess. “She got the gas can from the trunk of his car and emptied it onto his crotch. When he came too, she danced around him, lighting matches, demanding all sorts of things. Of course the poor guy agreed to everything. The next morning, he sharpened his knife and went looking for her. But Janet had already hitched a ride out of town.” “Could he, or someone else, have followed her?” Chris grinned. “There are several good old boys who might have, but I don’t think anybody but Violet knew where she was.” “That would be Violet Moyer?” “Yes. They were a pair, for sure. They’d trade guys when the moon was right. Or gang up on one poor boy. Anyway, Violet left town about a week after Janet did. I got a postcard from her. She said she had found Janet in L.A. and that they were having a ball. But she didn’t say where they were. And I never mentioned to anybody that I’d heard from her.” “Could Violet have killed Janet?” “Oh, I doubt it. Violet was a follower. Every time she tried something on her own, she got into trouble. She wasn’t terribly bright.” “How about Janet?” “I would say she was clever, not bright. She could have ducked a lot more trouble, if she’d been able to see how it was bound to end. I mean, tease a married man until he stays out all night with you?

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If the little woman doesn’t take a shotgun to him, she’s bound to come after you.” “Was she attractive? I’ve had different answers to that.” “Sort of skinny, I thought. A plain face. But the boys were always after her, so it might be better to say she was sexy.” “It sounds as if you knew her pretty well.” “There are those who say I was wild then myself.” She laughed gaily. “There are some who still say that. But I never did like meanness. Where’s the fun in that?” “Janet thought differently?” “She had a real wide streak of it. She would keep a boy trotting after her for days. Then, when he was fit to burst, let him at her, then laugh at his lack of staying power. Or she would walk into Abe’s stock room, get him to panting, then leave before he could get his glasses on to see who it was.” “I wonder how she got away with so much. It’s not that big a town. Yet the Sheriff told me the only time she was arrested, the charges were dropped.” “Did he give you any details?” “Only that she was charged with stealing four hundred bucks.” “He knows more than he told you.” “Like?” “Sam Tyler didn’t have much choice. You see she took it from his wallet when he fell asleep after a night of gin, grass and romping. He was almost forty. She wasn’t yet seventeen. Strictly jail bait. Sam dropped the charges and left town. Most of the boys she ran with were older. I think she used the same leverage on them all.” “But you don’t have a name or two of guys that hated her enough to kill her. Right?” “As I said, names are easy. But I don’t know how they would have found her.” “I follow you.” Jack looked out at the darkening day, then at his empty coffee cup. “Another?” Chris asked. “Guess not.” He glanced again out the window, then back at Chris. The gray eyes were softer now. Not quite inviting. Curious, maybe. He smiled and said, “I best get moving before that weather hits.” “I’m off at four. I’ll pop for dinner in a nice place out of that fifty.” “Are people right about you?”

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“You might find out for yourself.” “Thanks. Really,” he said, meeting her open gaze. “I’m not likely to get a better offer. But there are flash flood warnings out. I need to beat them back to the city. I have a client. Remember?” “Is she pretty?” Chris asked playfully. Jack laughed. “No lovelier than you.” “Maybe another time?” “Deal,” he said, then rose and left. Once outside, he buttoned the jacket then hugged it to his suddenly trembling body. The wind slapped at his pant legs, helping the chill penetrate. True. Chris had only offered dinner, nothing more. Still, he couldn’t remember having met so many interesting women in so short a time. Like the rain, maybe. The drops often come in bunches. He climbed behind the wheel, fired the engine and pulled out. A chunk of cloud splattered huge drops across the dusty windshield. He waited until he had passed the city limits, then punched it, wondering if he could beat the rain back to L.A.


He had been on the edge of the storm the whole way. When he was forced to slow for city traffic, the rain overtook him. In drifting sheets. Torrents. The efforts of the windshield wipers were pathetic. Kirby Puckett had beat Atlanta the previous night with a home run in the tenth. Jack, fighting traffic now, listened while Minnesota wrapped up the series with solid pitching and fielding. “Baseball,” he said with a chuckle. Now he could concentrate on the Raiders, who weren’t doing much better at their game than his Angels had done at theirs. As the traffic thickened even further, the exhilaration in pushing the car through empty desert faded quickly. Still, he pressed as he could, thinking of Terri and wondering how she had made out with her dad. When he turned off the Ventura Freeway, he was slowed further by the glare of his headlights bouncing back at him off the rain. At the gate he rushed to punch in the gate code, then dashed back to the comfort of the car. When he glanced left, ready to turn, he saw the black Buick parked in front of her condo. Without conscious thought, he killed his lights, drifted right, then parked.

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For several moments, he stared in the rearview mirror. It could be a big honcho from KTSV. But there was something of the feel of a dark alley to the scene. What was it that had set him off ? That was shouting at him even now? He retrieved the Smith from beneath the seat, checked it, dropped the extra clips into his pocket, and eased out of the car. He strode down the sidewalk. Rain flowed from his hair down his neck. Sheets of it swirled into his face. He blinked rapidly to keep the eyes clear, but there was nothing unusual to see. Nothing out of sync. Except for the shiny black Buick. With each step, the car seemed more ominous. He could feel it. And he could not say why. He turned up the neighboring walk, then moved across the front of Terri’s place, the Smith ready. He wondered how foolish he was going to feel if it turned out to be her dad. Then he saw it. A faint streak of light slipped into the night between the jam and the door. It had been closed in haste, but not quite latched. He was as sure of that as he was of the dryness in his mouth, the dull ache in his gut and the sudden bone-deep chill that had no connection with wind-whipped wet clothes. He eased the safety off and cocked the hammer, then inched his way toward the door. With the pounding of the rain, there was little chance of being heard. Still, he moved cautiously. Ready. At the door, he put his ear to the narrow gap. He listened only long enough to be certain there were at least two men and that Terri was terrified. There’s no good way to do it. He shoved the door hard, then lunged through the entry and around into the living room, gun leveled. The door slammed into the wall behind him. He felt the rush of rain drenched air. Saw it ruffle Terri’s fine hair. The man with an arm about her neck, wrenching upward on the arm locked behind her. The hand of Grimes up under his coat. Terri’s white silk blouse, ripped to the waist in front. “Best let her go,” Jack said softly, the coffee-brown eyes muddied, cold. “Mr. Ravone will have your balls,” Grimes snapped, the empty eyes watchful, the hand under the coat, unmoving. Jack took two slow measured steps; eight feet separated him from the man gripping Terri’s arm and neck. Her face was twisted with pain and terror. Her glance darted between his eyes and the

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unwavering pistol. He reached over to grip the Smith with both hands, then sighted carefully, low. Terri began to struggle, as if seeking to escape the sight of Jack’s eyes and the muzzle of the pistol. “This asshole,” Jack stated in harsh measured tones, “is going to lose his right here. Right now.” He began pulling slack out of the trigger, working at keeping the breathing slow. Steady. Ruthlessly he thrust all thoughts aside but those of the task before him. On a nod from Grimes, the man released Terri and stepped back. Grimes eased his hand out from under his coat. Jack lowered the pistol, then pressed it against his leg to hide the trembles of reaction. He was aware of rivulets of water coursing down his back, sneaking under his waistband, then flowing down his legs, out over his shoes onto the carpet. “There’s no need for any macho shit,” he said, breathing deeply. He locked on to Terri’s eyes as if to drive his point home with force of will. “She’ll answer your questions. Just ask. Polite like.” He moved to the couch with the weight of three pairs of eyes on him. He grabbed the quilt off the back and spread it in one corner. He hoped the wet wouldn’t damage the couch, but just now he had to sit. He wondered if he had managed to do so before the shakes in his legs showed. He lay the pistol on the end table, still cocked, then draped his hand over the grip, putting enough pressure on the fingers to assure no tremble showed. The silence grew. Grimes was still thinking of the gun under his arm. His glance continued to flit between Jack’s eyes and the hand lying across the Smith, as if trying to decide if Jack would use it, and if he could be beat. “Sit down and get on with it,” Jack said, working to slow the breathing. “There are things Terri and I must get to.” Grimes glanced at his partner and both sat down on the love seat. As if on stilts, Terri made her way to the front door, closed it, then moved to the chair where she huddled in one corner. Her eyes overflowed with terror. Her glance darted between Jack and Grimes. Jack’s interruption hadn’t eased her mind. She fumbled about with the torn blouse as if confused, then tucked it into the top of her bra. Grimes did the talking. Politely. Absurdly so. As if hoping for a reaction from Jack. Terri seemed even more frightened of this new pattern, than of being manhandled. Referring to a small black

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notebook, Grimes worked methodically through it, line by line. With a distinct tremor in her voice, Terri answered frankly. She tried to make especially clear what the tape would do to her career; Grimes wasn’t much interested. “Ms. Delaney, why didn’t you mention this business with Archie, when I first talked with you?” Grimes asked. “I was too ashamed,” Terri replied haltingly, her eyes downcast. “Besides, I didn’t think it could be important to anyone but me.” More softly she said, “It certainly meant nothing to him.” “To Archie, you mean?” “There was only one man, Mr. Grimes.” “What was his last name?” “It didn’t come up,” she replied, staring at the floor. Grimes made a note, then asked Terri to describe events leading up to the trip. He listened attentively, watching her closely, referring to the notebook, flipping a page now and then. Next he asked for details of the trip itself. As the story took her closer to Wonderland, self-disgust increased with each word. She seemed to cringe back into the chair as she described her reaction to the Emerald Suite. “All those mirrors. It was awful,” she cried softly. “The walls. The ceiling. Everywhere. It was as if there were nine of me in that ghastly room.” Jack had heard it before; he let his thoughts drift. Given her obvious abhorrence to that room, he wondered again why she had invited Archie back to it. Maybe, he mused, it was a darker quirk of the self-destructive urge. Once committed to being bad, one may be very, very bad. As on a dreary night, alone too late in a bar, that extra drink can become a baker’s dozen. He suddenly realized he had missed some of what Terri had said. Then wondered why it bothered him. She was describing Archie and he had also heard that before. “. . . he was a hunk, from his thick curly black hair, down to his snakeskin boots.” The litany of details was remarkably complete. Archie had made one hell of an impression. “After a few martinis, he seemed the most charming man I had ever met.” Self-disgust dripped off each word. “He was about six feet. I’m not good at guessing weight, but I would say perhaps one hundred and eighty. He wasn’t a large man, but later . . .” She paused, as if choking on the word. “Later he proved to have an excellent build, almost as if he worked out with weights.”

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As she continued, Jack realized what she was saying was nearly word for word, what she’d told him, almost as if she had memorized it. Likely she had, remembering through the years, during the short hours of the morning when sleep eluded her. “You claim, Ms. Delaney,” Grimes said, “that you’re being blackmailed. I want . . .” “Do you think I’m lying?” “I want to see the tape.” “I burned it. For God’s sake, why would I keep it?” “Assuming you’re being blackmailed,” Grimes said with a deliberate sneer in the words, “could this Archie be behind it?” “I don’t think so.” Grimes pounced. “Why not?” he snapped. “I didn’t say I know he isn’t. I said I don’t think so. I don’t know how to explain why I believe that.” “A woman’s intuition? I’m afraid . . .” “Grimes.” Jack had spoken sharply. If Terri hadn’t had enough, he had. “I have a thought.” “For that you’d need a brain,” Grimes snapped. “Some guys on the prowl don’t use their real name, like if they’re married.” Grimes didn’t like it one bit, but he went to chewing on it. Turning to Terri, Jack asked, “If I get hold of an artist, can you work up a sketch?” Her nod was more a plea for Grimes and his partner to leave, than an indication of agreement. Jack turned back to face Grimes’ scoffing glare and said, “Think it over. Kick it around with Ravone. If you want a sketch, or anything else, Terri will be around. But for now, go away.” Jack watched the glare fade, the emptiness grow in the eyes. He drummed his fingers on the butt of the Smith. Finally the man rose, then took a step closer to Jack. Towering over him, he said coldly, “I hope Mr. Ravone decides he wants answers from you.” “Anything I get is going straight to him. You won’t need to make any special effort. Now, can you find your own way out?” Grimes hesitated, as if he needed a final moment to capture the entirety of Jack’s face. When he turned toward the door, his partner followed. Jack stepped quickly to the window, watching the two men dash through the pounding rain toward the Buick.

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“What is it?” Terri asked, her fears more obvious with her two visitors gone. “I hate surprises. I want to know those guys are gone.” As the car pulled away, Jack snapped off the lights and slipped out the door. He ignored the rain flooding over him as if it were being poured from immense buckets. He quickly crossed the narrow drive, the pistol ready, largely hidden by his grip across the trigger guard and breach. He peered around the corner of the end unit in time to see the gate start to roll open and Grimes’ dash back to the car. So much for security, he thought, trying to guess what it had cost to get the gate code and who they got it from. When the Buick had disappeared, he set the safety and tucked the gun into his waistband. He turned back toward Terri’s door, then paused, breathing deeply. He lifted his face to the sky, then tried to capture the feel of every drop, their collection into rivulets, their path down his neck to where they joined with others soaking through his clothes.

Chapter 13 The door flew open as Jack stepped onto the porch. He was able to set himself as Terri leapt at him, locking her arms around his neck. Silent tears mingled with the rain. His skin tingled at the warmth of her, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His arms did not so much embrace her, as draw her nearer, away from fear. The gusting rain laid a misty spray over her hair, intensifying the scent of it. He reached up and did what he had wanted to do earlier; he combed loose strands back into place over her ear. He stroked her back, waiting. The tears slowed. The trembles subsided. Her breath warm against his neck, she said, ever so softly, “In a way you frightened me more than those . . . animals did.” “I know.” “Would you have shot that man?” “Yes.” “Mr. Grimes may have seen that.” “He’s smarter than some.” She shivered suddenly. It racked her entire body.

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When it had subsided, he said, “I’m in no hurry to let go of you, but frostbite is a distinct possibility.” “What am I thinking?” she cried, breaking away from him. She grabbed his hand and led him back inside. “What can I get you?” “A couple towels, maybe,” he said, then locked the door. Terri snapped on a lamp in the living room then rushed into the hall. He shed his shoes and socks and left them in the tiled entry. When she returned, he took the offered towels and asked, “Have you a place I can let this jacket drip?” “Use a chair in the kitchen,” she said, then dashed into the living room to build a fire. Under other circumstances, he would have preferred to watch. The front of her blouse was soaked where she had leaned against him. It clung to her, heightening the thrust of her breasts. Determinedly, he turned toward the kitchen. She had turned up the central heat. He moved to stand under the ceiling vent where he struggled out of the jacket. When he draped it over the chair, water began to puddle on the dark brown tiles. He scrubbed some more with the towels, then dropped one to the floor, positioning it under the jacket with a bare foot. Behind him, Terri said, “I have a robe that’s much too large for me. It might do.” “I’ll be fine, if the couch can stand it,” he said, turning to face her. “It’s indestructible, supposedly. Can I get you anything else?” “Rum would help.” He noticed again the pinkness of skin through the ripped blouse and smiled. “You look a bit soggy yourself.” “Can you fi x your own drink?” she asked, opening the cupboard full of glasses, then setting the bottle of Bacardi on the counter. “All by myself? You bet.” She smiled shyly, then fled. He heard her rush up the stairs and across the floor into what was likely her bedroom. He tried to picture what she was doing as he poured, added ice, then a dash of water. He wiped down the gun and the extra clips, then walked into the living room. He laid them on the end table, then stared down at them. He shook his head to clear unwanted thoughts, then moved to put his back to the fire, sipping at the drink, listening for sounds from upstairs, and to the rain slanting into the window behind him.

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Terri wore the wraparound skirt she had worn the last time he had been here. The scarlet red tank-top left a three-inch band of bare midriff. She sat in the chair, with one foot tucked under her. The hair lay loosely about her head; the doing of the rain, he decided. Her color was better, but now and then the whole of her trembled slightly, as if her being was locked within some psyche deep freeze. She took a sip of her wine, then said, “You were wrong about father having seen the tape. What he knows, he learned from three anonymous letters.” “How much of it has he got?” Jack asked, hoping his skepticism didn’t show. “He didn’t give specifics. It was mostly nonsense about what a bad girl I was.” “I take it you haven’t been banished.” “No,” she said with a wane smile. “I guess I should have known better. He insisted on helping with the money. I’m not sure he understood why I refused.” “It sounds as if you want me to hang in.” Her glance drifted to the Smith laying on the end table. It lingered there. When she looked up, there was a sureness, a calmness in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “I do.” “Will he stay out of it?” “He assured me he would.” Jack turned away to stare at the rain battered window. “He’s always kept his word,” she added. She was assuming he would this time. When he felt confident his thoughts weren’t written in his face, he looked back at her and caught a faint look of puzzlement. “That’s good to know,” he said evenly. “He will,” she said finally, then asked, “Did you learn anything in Bishop?” “Details about Janet Fisher, is all. Not a nice type, by all accounts. But I got nothing that points anywhere. Something could come up later that connects. We’ll have to wait on that.” “ ‘Wait’,” she cried softly. “I hate that word.” Her features had taken on a grim cast Jack couldn’t read. “May I get you another drink?” she asked, nodding toward his empty glass.

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“Sounds good,” he said, handing it to her, then watching until she disappeared from view. When she returned, her stride was more determined. She handed him the fresh drink and an envelope, a stiffness to her movements. “At least the waiting for this is over,” she pronounced woodenly. Jack took the drink, set it down, then reached for the envelope, holding Terri’s glance. At the moment her determination was losing out to fears. The address was unchanged. It didn’t take long to read the typewritten note. The amount was up another thousand. Twelve, sweetie. Inflation, you know. Jack was surprised at how much he hated this bastard he didn’t even know. “Well,” he said, “I’m as ready as I can be.” When he looked up, she was turning away, rubbing at traces of tears. She sat back down. “I have the money upstairs,” she said in hushed, subdued tones. “Come on, Terri. At least this is real. We know what needs doing here.” “Happy faces,” she said with a wistful little smile. “It’s a chance. And we’re due a little luck.” “God how I wish I had your confidence.” “We’ll get there, Terri. But right now we’ve a problem.” “What?” she asked sharply. “I can’t cover you and follow the money, too.” “Why do I need protection?” “Grimes, maybe.” Her face paled. “I thought he believed what I said.” “He may be a type who doesn’t believe anything he hasn’t beaten out of you. I don’t want to take any chances we don’t have to.” She shuddered. “What do we do, then?” “I’ve a buddy, Lencho Cabral. I’ve never heard him say, ‘I can’t.’ He’s a scary guy to some, the sort who would scrap with that nine hundred pound gorilla for whatever. His people are nearly as good. I want a couple of them with you. The type who shoot sooner and leave the questions to later. Will you go for that?” “So much violence,” she said softly. “Everywhere, it seems. I would like to believe it isn’t necessary.” “Hopefully it’s not. But I would feel better, even if you didn’t.” “Jack, I just don’t know.” “Some years back,” he said, speaking to the carpet, “I made a serious mistake.

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“I don’t think I want to hear this.” “She was also lovely,” Jack said, glancing at her, then away. “I did as she asked: left her uncovered. Remembering her makes it easier to picture what you’d look like on a slab. Without that brightness in your eyes. The lovely smile erased. The face still.” He let the silence grow, refusing to look at her. Finally she said with a firmness he liked, “You’d better call your friend.” “Good. You get the bucks while I do that.” He waited to see she would, then grabbed the phone and dialed. He angled it away from his ear in anticipation of the reverberating bass that would not be much diminished by the phone link. “What’s happening, man?” Lencho demanded, pouncing on the first of each word, hard. “I’m hanging in,” Jack responded. “How’s it go with you?” “In such a perfect world, what can go wrong I can’t fi x?” He laughed, a rushing torrent of sounds. “With such talent, maybe you could fi x a little something at my end.” “Sure, man. Tell me what you need.” “A couple of good men you can afford to lose.” “Lose?” “Yes. Conceivably you could go down, too.” “Me?” The volume had dropped off, but the intensity was up. “It’s not likely,” Jack commented. “Believe it, man.” The words burst from the phone. “What are you up against?” “Franco Ravone in Vegas sent a couple guys down to talk to a friend of mine. I had to run them off with a gun. If they didn’t like what they got, they’ll be back.” “I’ve heard of that dude,” Lencho said in a rumbling murmur. Terri came back into the room, dropped a bulging manila envelope onto the coffee table, then put her back to the fire. “And your friend is?” Lencho demanded. “Terri Delaney.” “The newslady with those fantastic blue eyes?” “She’s the one.” “You are a fortunate man. That is much woman, no?” “That’s so. And I want her covered as if she were one of your sisters.” “I am extremely fond of my sisters,” he said, drifting off. Finally,

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he said thoughtfully, “Al is good.” He paused. Then, as if nodding his huge head, he said, “Hector is a hard dude to beat.” Two pleasant smiling men who think things through quickly, then act swiftly, efficiently, decisively. “They’ll do fine,” Jack said. “Is there anybody else to watch for?” “Her father is Senator Mike Delaney,” Jack said, watching Terri. “He’s been butting in. He’s not expected back in the game, but I don’t want his people bothering any.” “This could become interesting, no?” “That’s so.” “Anybody else?” “I’ve nothing more yet.” “The details?” Jack was aware of Terri’s steady gaze as he told of what he was trying to do. He gave her address, phone number, the gate code, and then described her situation at KTSV. He plodded through detailed descriptions of Grimes, his partner, Eckerman, his driver and the three heavies he had encountered at the airport. He wrapped with, “Those are the one’s I’ve seen. It’s those I haven’t that bother most.” “That is the way of these things,” Lencho said. “This woman, does she know of these precautions?” “She’s here beside me.” “Does she see the problem?” “In its larger parts. She’ll do what’s needed.” “Good. I know where Al is. I’m not sure about Hector. Is there a rush?” “No. Have them pull up outside when they can.” “It might take a couple of hours.” “I won’t leave until they get here,” Jack said, then disconnected. “I don’t want you to leave at all,” Terri said softly. “To hear you sum up those who may come against us. Hear you assume killing may be required to stop them. That you can call a man who does not hesitate to accept a role in that. A role that may include his own death. Jack, I’m terrified.” “I know,” he said quietly, a sadness in his voice, a sense of lonely deserts in the rich brown of his eyes. “But I’ve been here before. The sun will break through the clouds. We will work through this. Okay?”

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When she nodded, he stood and walked into the kitchen. Light from the lamp in living room filtered in. That, and what was provided by the tiny night light in the wall plug by the entry, was sufficient to build a fresh drink. When the lamp in the living room went out, only the nightlight’s glow spread across the dark brown tiles. Flicker from the fire touched one row of cabinets. Jack felt the pulse rate leap. He turned to watch the entry. There was nothing seductive in the way she walked toward him. Or in the way she took the glass from his hand and set it on the counter. All was simply done. But in that simplicity lay a sensuality that seemed to glow in the dimness. She stood quietly. Close. The fragrance of honeysuckle was more pronounced. And the scent of the soap she had used. He could feel her breath upon his own. “I want no strangers tonight,” she said with a husky, dusky calm. “Let them deal with tomorrow.” She reached up with long slender fingers, caressed his cheeks, then drew his lips down to hers. It was a simple encounter. Far too brief. A languid sweetness to it. Her eyes seemed larger, brighter. Even in the faint light, they overflowed with her intent. Holding his gaze, she undid the buttons of his shirt. She toyed with her skirt and it fluttered to the floor. She laid her cheek against his bare chest, tucked her arms about his neck, then pulled herself against him. He was content to run his fingers through her hair. To slip one hand up under the back of the tank top. To hold her closely. To wait for her to guide the way.


Of the world about them, only the rain intruded, slanting in against the bedroom window. She lit the slender white candle on the nightstand. In its golden glow, she tossed the bedding to one side. She took his hand and drew him down beside her into a time of seeking and discovery. Of secrets shared. Of delightful textures. Sweet sensations. Soft sighs. He let himself flow into the whole of it. The feel of her hands upon him. Of his on her. Other touchings of lips and skin. Pungent earthy scents. To her unspoken pleas, he responded even as she responded to his.

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The sense of two embracing, only to slip apart, to then embrace once more, became a single essence with but one purpose. In time, clinging hands clutched more firmly. Enveloped in musky scents, they let themselves drift into that ancient rhythm. Long strong slender legs gripped powerful hips. The rhythm persisted even as the tempo quickened. Taut skin became slippery under grasping hands. All else was lost to the moment, which surged ever more insistently into the next. Later, he clung to her hand, enjoying the smile on her lips. The rise and fall of her chest. He watched it slow. Watched the lids grow heavy. Then close, as sleep crept upon her. What could be more lovely than this woman, curled in sleep, free of fears for now? He wanted to write a poem to mark the happening. Or a song. That he hadn’t the skill to do either saddened him. Later, he was awakened from a doze by soft moans. She stirred restlessly, writhing, perhaps from the hurt of a dream. Faint trembles rippled over her. He took her hand in his and waited until she worked through it into a quieter time. He left her there and made his way downstairs. At the curb out front was a gray sedan with two men sitting in the front seat. Grimly he put on his damp clothes, tucked the pistol into his waistband, then slipped out the front door into the slackening rain.


Back inside, he had settled into the chair at the open window in the bedroom Terri had set up as a den. The moon was struggling to break through the clouds. He heard her as she came up behind him. Long slender fingers slid over his shoulders. Then down under his shirt front. Her nails scratched at his chest. “What are you thinking?” she asked, nibbling at an ear. “Wondering, is all.” “About?” “What you’re afraid I may learn. And wondering if I will. Or need to.” Slowly she straightened. She stood quietly, her hands upon his shoulders. Still. He reached up and covered one with his. When it became clear she would not speak, he said, “Terri, people tend to figure me wrong. Sometimes it helps. If I seem a nice enough

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guy, polite like, something less than a mental giant, I can often get more than if I came on strong.” “I haven’t made that mistake,” she said quietly. “In a way, you have.” He reached up and took her other hand in his. “Let me tell you how it was. You got into Vegas about two in the morning. You were beat and you crashed. You wouldn’t have come to until eight or nine. You had breakfast with Hoffler and hung around while he and Angie played craps. Then you met Archie and got tanked in time to make a fl ick between noon, when Stern saw you packing, and one, when you checked out. “It doesn’t wash,” he said, stroking her hands. “For one thing, booze won’t do more than loosen inhibitions, maybe exaggerate normal behavior. And you, Terri, are so totally deliciously wholesome, it takes my breath away. So there’s more to that tape than kinky sex. If it has any bearing on what we’re trying to do, you ought to tell me all of it.” “I’ve been something of a fool, haven’t I?” He felt faint ripples in her hands. “Just scared silly, mostly.” “I said no to a wonderful man two years ago because that tape exists.” “Just how bad is it?” There was an extended silence. He squeezed her hands. “My career is only part of what’s at risk.” She had spoken so softly he was slow to grasp her meaning. “Like your life, maybe?” “Yes.” He sighed, not from surprise, but because things had taken such a perilous turn in a game with so many cards still out. If the stakes were higher, the game would be played with greater determination. He’d have to be ready for unexpected calls, for raises tough to match. “What say we get drunk?” he asked, standing and turning toward her. “Maybe it won’t matter so much.” The bright yellow silk gown was open at the front. It draped nearly to the floor. Her breasts thrust against it, creating a slash of shadowed whiteness. Her wistful smile tugged at him. “I’m a sloppy drunk,” she said. “But I would like one.” He enfolded her within his arms, tugging her up against him. It wasn’t an embrace, really. If was more an effort to free her from the clutches of fear.

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Chapter 14 Following people through the hustling, bustling sprawl of Los Angeles is hard on tires, not shoes. To make it easier and decrease the risk of being noticed, Jack had turned to Joe Niles who was, in his opinion, an unappreciated genius. One of the man’s creations was the small receiver mounted up under the dash in the Trans Am that judged distance from a signal by its strength. That the blackmailer would expect a bug, that Alfred & Stiles would have used top technology, had led Jack back to the diminutive sprightly man the day after meeting Terri. Nile’s solution was better than Jack had hoped. A gift box, covered with silver foil. Niles had bought several, a size that would fit into a post office box in only one way. After removing the foil, the bottom of one box had been attached to the bottom of another. He had placed the nickel sized transmitter and tiny mercury switch in the gap, then filled the remaining space with cardboard and modeling clay. Then he had meticulously restored the silver foil. To Jack it looked untouched, shiny and new. He had checked on delivery schedules, then mailed the package from Van Nuys. Despite what he had said to Terri, trying to follow the money was a long shot. He knew he had better make it pay. To trace the blackmailer through Janet Fisher’s killer might well be impossible, even if Terri could come up with the funds for a top team of determined people, willing to work it for months. He found his modest optimism was holding as he pulled into the parking lot at the Northridge Branch. The pulse rate was up. The senses were on full alert. The package was right. The car would do. And he was as ready as a man can be. He glanced at his watch. Only noon. But it could be a long night. He fumbled among the things in the back seat and found a jacket. He balled it up, tucked it up against the window, settled in, and thought of Terri. The look. The feel. The scents of her. The pleasant tingle when her nails had scratched lightly at his chest. He could almost feel it now.

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Soft, irregular beeps woke him near four. Each was a bit stronger, as the mail delivery truck brought the package closer. He had been here before, but despite best effort, tension rose. The truck pulled in and backed up to the loading dock. Motion kept the mercury in the tiny switch moving, thus the beeps were intermittent. The driver climbed down and lifted the rear door. When he dollied several sacks of mail inside, the signal strength was reduced by the steel and concrete walls of the building. Jack wasn’t much concerned about being noticed. Rush hour traffic overflowed both Reseda and Plummer, and the parking lot was jammed. Still, he stayed well away from the building, as he maneuvered the car into another spot from which he could see the door to the postal box lobby. He could almost trace the movement of the package. As he cut the engine, the beeps came through in a steady regular pattern. The bags had been stashed, and the box was not horizontal. Some thirty minutes later, the signal became erratic, as if someone had gotten around to sorting. For a time, there was no signal, as if the box had been stacked some place. Then a different pattern suggested it was in route to Box 409. When the signal quit, he was sure of it. He slipped out of the car and started toward the building. He was wearing Reeboks, Levis and a tan windbreaker. There was little chance of being singled out from any other in the rush of people trying to get things mailed before closing time. And the lobby was filled with others collecting their mail. He strode inside, stopped just beyond Box 409 and began fiddling with the combination lock on another box. The package was in place. No one appeared to notice his shrug of feigned frustration at being unable to open the box he toyed with, or his leaving. Back in the car, he smiled. The fun part. Waiting. He knew how. But he had never got to liking it much. Despite repeated reminders to himself that the pickup might be days away, anticipation built. He studied each person entering, trying to spot them as they left. It was but a game to cover boredom. No one would be of interest until the package moved. When the post office proper closed, vehicular traffic dropped off quickly. But the flow in and out of the postal box lobby remained

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steady. By eight, that flow had slowed to two or three people each hour. And Jack had to face a bit of reality. The blackmailer would want to be part of a crowd. He wouldn’t be by tonight. But he might. And that meant getting whatever rest was possible on the narrow back seat of the car. The Trans Am was too conspicuous in the now near empty lot. He pulled out and parked on the street. He climbed into the back and set himself to the task of dozing off, not thrilled by the still brisk traffic whistling by. He faced a long, noisy night. As a prelude to it, four tires screamed, skidding to a stop at the light on the corner. Not even thoughts of long strong legs or how they had felt wrapped about him were going to help much. Still, he let them flow, reaching deeply for the smallest detail, the simplest act, the faintest response.


An erratic pattern of beeps jolted him up from ragged sleep. Anxiously he glanced at his watch. Eleven-ten. He rubbed sandy remnants from his eyes, staring at the lobby door. Nothing. Yet the package was moving. A long hard ten minutes later, it was not. No one had come outside. What in hell was happening? Had someone emptied the box, then tossed it in the trash? If so, what was keeping them? Given twelve thousand dollars he had ripped, Jack would be moving. No one would still be inside. But he had to know, whatever the risks. The car would be less obvious than striding across the empty lot. He clambered over into the front seat, fired the engine and drove off, reminding himself to go slow. He was but another tired man hoping his mail would bring good news. He parked and headed toward the lobby, aware of tautness across his shoulders and the Smith tucked into his waistband. He went only far enough to be certain not a soul was inside, except postal workers in the back. Baffled, he stared at the scene. No one had come out. And the lobby was empty. What in hell? Postal workers. The thought took hold as he turned back toward the car. What a neat setup that could be. Who would expect a pickup from inside? He drove back around to the street, but pulled farther forward, staring at the employee entrance.

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Abruptly the package was moving again. A door swung open and a man rolled a trash can on wheels down the dock toward the dumpster. The signal was stronger; the package was in that can. Dumb. The box, and Niles’ creation, were in that can; the bills were in someone’s pocket. When the can was emptied, the beeper went silent. Nine cars were parked close to the ramp. Robin and the Maestro could come up with what he needed. He drove around the corner and into the lot, reading license plate numbers into the recorder. He parked on the edge of the pack. He wasn’t much encouraged; he was a long way and a lot of time from the blackmailer. Anyone collecting the kind of dollars Terri was paying, wouldn’t be working the night shift in any post office. What he had was a courier who would deliver the money to someone else. And that someone might in turn pass it on. A chain, any link of which could be cut with ease. A bullet in the back of the head is effective. There had been no grand insights when his thoughts were interrupted by headlights slashing through the dimly lit lot. He scrunched lower in the seat. It was a quarter to one. A man climbed out and walked toward the building. Two more men passed inside within the next ten minutes. A change of shift? On the outside chance of a switch inside, he made note of their plate numbers. At a minute past one by his watch, six people fi led out the employee entrance and Jack was in trouble. The odds were high one was carrying Terri’s money. But which one? Anxiously he made a fast visual search of each. Two women remained on the loading ramp, wrapped in intense discussion. Both wore sweaters and carried small purses. Scratch, he decided. I’m looking for someone in a hurry. Another woman strode briskly toward a late model Ford. The dress didn’t bulge anywhere it shouldn’t. The lightweight jacket flapped freely. She carried only a wallet. The three men seemed a better bet. Pants have pockets. All were near their cars now. Time was up. It wasn’t much, but the skinny wimpy guy in the oversized coat seemed the best bet. It was near seventy degrees outside, so why the bulky coat? As the other two men paused to chat, he climbed behind the wheel of a battered Toyota pickup and had it moving in seconds. Jack knew he was only guessing, but he took out after the

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Toyota, wondering if he was onto something or had only grasped a straw. Sure. He had plate numbers. But it would take time and a lot of work to get a fi x on the right one. Even that might take more bucks than Terri could handle. A break was what he needed. “Come on, Wimp,” he muttered to the windshield. “Show me some luck.” But once on the street, the man drove conservatively, north on Reseda. There wasn’t a thing to suggest he was in a hurry now. If anything, he was being cautious, slowing on yellow lights he could have cleared. He took a right on Devonshire. Jack lost interest with each block passed. He was well back when the Toyota suddenly whipped left from the far right lane onto Balboa, cutting off two cars, forcing an oncoming car to brake hard. His heart picked up the pace. Things were looking up. Jack was certain he hadn’t been spotted. His wimp was buying insurance. He would be looking for someone making the left behind him. Jack slipped on through the intersection, whipped a skidding U-turn, then jammed the pedal to the floor. Tires screamed. He slowed at the corner, nursing the car through the turn, then hit it hard again. Two blocks later, he had the Toyota in sight. His palms were slippery on the wheel. For him, the world had been reduced to the truck and the shadowy figure behind the wheel. Apparently the driver was satisfied he wasn’t being followed, for he drove with his previous conservatism. Jack dropped back in thinning traffic, certain he wouldn’t turn off until he got to Interstate 5 or Foothill Boulevard. It was no trick, but he nearly missed the man’s left onto Sesnon. Jack killed the headlights, as he made the same turn. Eucalyptus trees bordered the street to the north, empty fields beyond them. Expensive homes lined the opposite side. About a quarter mile later, the Toyota slowed. Jack pulled to the right and stopped in deep shadows, the heartbeat up, adrenalin flowing. When the truck made a U-turn and parked, Jack knew his luck had been all good. He was about to be introduced to another link in the chain, if not to the blackmailer himself. Five-eleven, Jack decided, as the man climbed out of the truck. Subtracting for the too-large coat, he was left with a hundred and twenty pounds. As the man started down the sidewalk toward him, he concentrated on the face.

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Lean. Drawn. A dour look to thin lips. Narrow chin. In need of a shave. The gait was stilted, stiff. He seemed to lurch into each step to keep from falling from his last. And he was getting closer. Jack was about to lie down across the passenger seat when the man turned up the brick walk toward the two-story colonial. He had parked three doors up from the house. He didn’t walk in; he knocked. Perfect. No porch light came on. But in the glow through the door from inside, Jack caught a brief glimpse of a slim female figure, just before and after the man slipped inside. Confusion reigned. Was there anything more here than a man visiting a woman? He had never been in this particular tract of homes, but he was on the northern edge of Reseda. Not Beverly Hills, but one of the better neighborhoods in the city. He would have to check to be sure, but eight hundred thousand seemed about right for this property. The conclusion left him stumped. It was too much house for a postal clerk’s salary. Besides, the man had knocked. It also represented more than could be covered by what Terri had paid. If his reasoning was correct, a great big if, he had at best found another link in the chain. He put the trans in neutral and let the car drift silently back down the slight grade. When far enough back, he fired the engine and drove well beyond the house. He made a U-turn, killed the engine, coasted down past the pickup, then stopped. The name on the curbside mail box was V. P. Fairfield. Jack climbed out, planted one of Niles’ bugs behind the Toyota’s radiator, then rummaged through the glove compartment. As specified by California law, it contained the truck’s registration. Miles B. Cantel. Back in his car, Jack switched on the receiver and listened to the slow steady beeps as he coasted a hundred yards beyond the house. He could get back to Ms. Fairfield. Cantel was the first priority. Not everyone keeps their address current with the Department of Motor Vehicles.


It was over two hours before Cantel climbed back into his truck. Jack’s optimism had vanished. It doesn’t take that long to drop off a wad of bills, even if both wanted a slow count. Besides, a seem-

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ingly chance encounter in a public place would have been a far safer way to pass the money. No. The woman wasn’t the blackmailer. Or another link in the chain. It was the boy-girl bit. Jack had been misled by the man’s efforts to lose anyone following. Likely he was only afraid of a jealous wife. As Jack pulled out and followed, he reminded himself the surging sense of hope was but a reaction to moving once more. He felt certain he had latched on to the wrong person. All that remained was to verify it was the boy-girl bit. He sighed at the thought of tackling his set of plate numbers. Following is easier with the bug. He stayed well back and used the car’s muscle to circle and catch up when he missed a turn. Cantel led him more or less diagonally across the Valley, into the outskirts of Van Nuys. Then down a street of older eight unit apartment buildings that had not been choice property for a lot of years. The address of the unit he parked in front of matched that on the truck’s registration. When Jack noticed his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, he knew what was bothering him. This dumpy unit was a good fit for the man, but it interfered with the girlfriend notion. The house on Sesnon, taken together with the brief glimpse of the willowy female form, was one kind of world. Cantel lived in another. He and Ms. Fairfield were pieces of different puzzles. They didn’t fit together any way he looked at them. He had to know. And he might as well settle it right here. But not now. He wouldn’t get far, pounding on a door at four in the morning. Reluctantly he climbed into the back seat and dozed off, still wondering how a woman in that much house could be interested in his skinny, wimpy postal clerk.


It was near ten when Cantel showed. As he walked toward the diner on the corner, the stilted, stiff-legged gait seemed more disjointed than Jack remembered. Promising. There wouldn’t be many customers at this hour. With a little luck, he could get it straight right now. He waited a bit, then climbed out and followed. Cantel was seated on a stool at the far end of the counter. Only one table was occupied, a man trying to enjoy coffee with a Danish, and apparently not making it. Cantel looked up at Jack as

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the door opened, then ducked his head back down to his omelette and fries. Jack paused, puzzled. There had been a distinct furtiveness in the eyes. Did it mean anything? Not the classic sex symbol, that was certain. Cantel tensed when Jack took the stool beside him; there were ten others available. “Coffee,” Jack said cheerfully to the balding man behind the counter. Why not? he asked himself. What’s to lose? When the steaming mug was settled in front of him, he waited only long enough for his host to wander back into the kitchen. Watching Cantel peripherally, Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “The name’s Jack Collier, friend. I’ve a question.” The man was suddenly still. “Ever use the name Erlin Thomas?” “My name is Miles Cantel,” he replied shakily. “If it’s any of your business,” he added, his voice trailing off, the narrow chin quivering. Jack’s heart pounded into his ribs. He fought back trembles of excitement. He had found his luck. The release of pent up hopes flowed over him in waves. He was sitting beside the first link in the delivery chain and the stuff y air in the diner seemed sweet. When certain his feelings were tucked away, he said, still not looking directly at the man, “I only asked if you’d ever used Thomas. They told me it’s really Cantel, friend.” “What do you mean, they told you? Who’s they?” Confident now his eagerness was in control, he turned to the man. “Did you think I’d be working a deal like this alone?” “What are you talking about?” Cantel pleaded anxiously. “Seems clear to me. Our guy inside says you picked up some bucks last night from Box 409. Erlin Thomas rented that box.” Cantel had forgotten food. His mouth hung open, diminishing the quiver in the chin. “I’ve never even heard the name,” he mumbled hesitantly. “And I know nothing about any money.” He was staring down at the counter, unwilling to meet Jack’s gaze. “Okay. If that’s how you want it.” Jack took another sip of coffee as if he didn’t have a care. “Hey,” he said, nodding at Cantel’s plate. “That stuff ’s getting cold.” The man stared down as if at a plate of snails, crawling. “What’s Ms. Fairfield to you?” Jack asked. “A girlfriend type?” Now the hands were shaking. He stood, pulled out his wallet and began counting bills. “I never heard of her, either.” He dropped three dollars on the counter.

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“That won’t wash, friend. One of our guys followed you to her place last night. Said you were inside for better than two hours.” Jack rotated on the stool to face him. “You look like hell, you know that? Guess you didn’t have a real good time.” “I’ve got to go.” “I won’t keep you, but we’d sure like to know what happened to those bucks.” “If I had money, would I be eating in a dump like this?” “The coffee’s good,” Jack said, turning back to it, as Cantel started for the door. “Since I didn’t get what we need, you’ll be running into others on the team right soon. Want some advice?” The man stopped but didn’t turn. It seemed as if even his ears were trembling. “There’s a couple who get their kicks dealing out pain. If I were you, I’d tell it straight, right up front.” Almost stumbling, Cantel continued toward the door. “Have a good one,” Jack said cheerily. When the door closed, Jack turned to gaze after the man. He stared through the dusty pane of glass until he felt a peculiar ache in his hand. When he looked down, his thumb gripping the cup had turned a sickly shade of white with mottled bluish splotches. It took time to talk the hand into loosening its grip. Cantel was no blackmailer. But he knew things Jack would have to discover. And the man would need at least encouragement. For that, the deepest, darkest corner of the night would be required. Jack shivered. Ripples grew in the now cold coffee. The color matched that of his eyes, but lacked the icy chill.

Chapter 15 After a day and a night in the car, the rank odors and itchy, sticky flesh were annoying. Jack took the time to get back to his place for a shower, a restless nap and clean clothes. As he backed out of the garage and drove off, he paid no heed to the delightful breeze wafting in through the window. Without a doubt, Cantel was his man. But who in hell was V. P. Fairfield? Each time he went over it, logic pointed to Cantel having passed the money to someone who stopped by his place while Jack dozed in the back of the car. But damn it? Who drops

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in on a girlfriend with twelve thousand dollars stuffed into his pockets? At the Hall of Records, Jack found the two-story colonial Cantel had visited had originally been recorded in the name of Sheldon R. and Violet P. Fairfield. The place was paid for, a rarity these days. A year back, title had been transferred to her name only. A generous divorce settlement could account for the house. Whatever the case, she wasn’t anyone’s courier. That left him with girlfriend. In which case, Cantel had only taken an unnecessary risk. He would be certain after a visit.


It was near three when he parked, climbed out of the car, and made his way up the wide brick walk. Through the window in the garage, he glimpsed a dark blue jag sedan. A drape was pulled aside for a brief look from inside. He did not have to wait long to learn what decision had been made. The door opened on his first knock. The impact could be summed up in a word: sex. The whole of her thrust this essence at him. From the casual fluff of raven black hair to the delicate feet embraced by narrow flat sandals. The simple face was a display case for full sensuous lips. The deep dark lipstick had been carefully applied. The shade matched that of the neatly finished nails on both hands and feet. Mascara and eye shadow dragged attention to large brown eyes. She was willowy slim in all but roundness of cheeks and fullness of breasts. “The name’s Jack Collier,” he said. Her faint smile broadened. The tip of her tongue slipped out and toyed with her upper lip for a moment. The eyes grew brighter as her gaze drifted slowly down to his feet, then back up to his eyes. They announced she liked what they had revealed and asked if he felt the same way about her. He did. The flimsy filmy jump-suit outfit left little to the imagination. It drew immediate attention to the valley between lovely breasts, unencumbered by a bra, and the dime sized nipples thrusting against the thin fabric. “If you could spare a minute,” Jack said, “I’ve a couple questions.” She nodded, the merest movement of her head, then turned away from the door in a way that was a tempting invitation to follow. Slim

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hips moved in silky tandem, swaying gently in a most provocative manner. Jack stepped inside and closed the door, certain the boygirl bit would hold. Except for one small thing. What in hell did this woman see in Cantel? He followed her into an immense den, plushly carpeted, with even finer furnishings. The massive corner bar was stocked with costly potent goods. The fireplace of Palos Verde stone matched the one he had glimpsed in the living room. She perched on a stool and reached for the wine she had been sipping when Jack had stopped out front. Nice, he thought, the way she’s framed herself against the enormous pool beyond the wall of glass. The bright eyes overflowed with invitation. When she leaned toward him, the filmy material dropped away from her breasts leaving them partially exposed in shadow. “Help yourself to a drink,” she said. Her eyes added: and to anything else you like. “Thanks,” Jack said, stepping behind the bar and reaching for rum. The pungent scent of grass lingered. In the ashtray on the bar, lay what remained of two tokes. With his drink, he propped himself on the edge of a stool facing her across one empty. He would have guessed twenty-five, given only the sleek slender body. The skin of her face, neck and breasts shouted of youth in its firm smooth tautness. But if he had been forced to decide given only the eyes, he would have added ten years. They reflected an unusual degree of awareness of who she was and what she wanted. It was the faint lines about those eyes that settled his guess at thirty. “What was it you wanted?” she asked, as if hoping it was much more than mere information. The voice was quite ordinary, when compared with the extraordinary body. “It’s an insurance matter,” Jack said, laying his license on the bar. She glanced at it briefly. “Involving me?” Brightly polished teeth chewed on the tip of her tongue. “Your ex-husband, Ms. Fairfield. I haven’t been able to locate him.” “Sheldon is still at the Beverly Hilton, so far as I know.” “Thanks. That saves a lot of looking.” “How does a private investigator get involved in an insurance matter?” she asked, her glance drifting slowly down across his chest. “It’s a recovery deal,” Jack said. “There’s a neat fee if I make it.”

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Her glance drifted on down, examining the whole of him once more. His fi rst thought was she was trying to decide if he needed the money. Then he realized she was mentally removing the jacket, the shirt, the pants, especially the pants, seeking to picture the body beneath. He shifted uncomfortably on the stool. He had done much the same with women. He wondered if he would again. He took a swallow and said, “It’s your ex I need to talk to, but it’s a question of names. Maybe you know one or two.” “I doubt it,” she said, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We didn’t spend much time talking.” “Mind if I try a couple?” “No. I don’t mind.” It was clear she would rather get on to other things. “How about George Henderson?” he asked. The eyes didn’t change, but then Jack had never heard of the man, either. “No,” she said, taking another sip. He tried several other meaningless names, slipping in both Angie Bergoin and Charlie Hoffler. Nothing. “Maybe Franco Ravone or a guy called Stern,” he said finally. “No. I’ve never heard of either man,” she said, almost as if she wished she had. She was either telling it straight or she was the best liar Jack had ever met. “It was a long shot at best,” he said, swallowing the last of his drink and standing. “At least I know where to find your ex. I want to thank you for that.” “Have another drink,” she said, turning away slightly, then arching her back, adding uplift to the tantalizing breasts. “Sometimes I get lonesome, all alone in this great big house.” The dark round eyes were bright. “Is there any need to hurry off ?” “I’ve got to hunt up your ex. Remember?” Her breathing had quickened. Her breasts surged against the front of the jump suit, the nipples even more pronounced. “That could wait.” “I’d like to stay. But there’s another guy I’ve got to get to right quick. Miles Cantel. Ever hear of him?” “Yes.” She dropped her glance to her drink before Jack could catch a glimpse of the eyes. “He’s a friend.” “That’s kind of interesting.”

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She stared down for several moments, then looked up, locking her glance on his eyes. Her tongue moistened her lips suggestively. “We could be friends,” she said, arching her shoulders again and stretching one slender leg to the floor. “That would be more interesting, don’t you think?” “Yes. It would,” Jack said. “But we’ll have to make it another time. Sorry.” For a moment it seemed as if she would press it. The whole of her was poised, directed at him. The mouth was parted hungrily. The eyes blazed. Then, as if an internal breaker had tripped, the lips closed. The eyes dulled. She seemed to shrink back upon the stool, then down into it. “Yes,” she said. “Another time.” There was a startling emptiness about her, as if his denial had marked her indelibly, irrevocably, in a way he would never comprehend. He turned away quickly and headed for the door. He felt a surge of relief when he closed it behind him. He strode swiftly to the car, climbed behind the wheel and drove off. Jack was fascinated by most women. Intrigued by both their similarities and differences. And to him, what appeared to be an intricate complexity of contradictions. But Ms. Fairfield and her kind turned him off. She had dedicated her life to sensual experience with an awesome totality of purpose. He sensed that while with her, he would be the most wondrous lover she had ever known. That when he had left, she would smile invitingly at the next man she met, as if knowing he would be even better. Jack hadn’t been able to figure how Cantel would fit in, but he could see it now. A sigh slipped past his lips, as he turned onto Balboa. This woman might be another link in the chain. And Cantel might have left the money with her. But the possibility was remote. There was no option now. He would have to find a quiet place, empty of people. A place in which only the stars would note the ways in which he asked his questions of Miles Cantel. Whatever else he might discover, he had to have the name of the person the man had delivered to. He dropped it there. No move was possible until the man got off work tonight.

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Chapter 16 Jack hadn’t slept well; the dreams had been confusing, disjointed, disturbing. He was on edge, scratchy all over. His teeth itched. Even the faint night sounds drifting inside seemed to grate. He showered without pleasure, picked a pair of wool gabardine trousers, then tossed them to the bed. No need messing up good clothes. He tugged on a clean pair of jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt. Bothered or not, he was hungry. But the thought of cooking appalled him. As he climbed into the car, he decided on El Orso. Lencho’s company might not cheer him, but the food was of the best he had found in the Valley. Merely thinking about the Mexican specialties always made his mouth water. But it wasn’t happening now. “A steak then,” he mumbled to the windshield as he started the engine and backed out. He was about to turn onto the freeway when he sensed a chill at the back of his neck. When he grabbed at it, he wasn’t surprised to find the skin warm to his touch. “Damn,” he mumbled. He turned left, toward Ventura Boulevard. There was no sign of being followed. A dozen simple moves revealed no one within sight of the Trans Am more than once. He knew no bug had been planted, thanks to another of Joe Niles’ creations. Tucked up under the dash, it scans for a bug each time the ignition key is inserted. There had been no soft screech, hence no bug. He was just edgy. Uptight. Troubled by what lay ahead. The nerve endings were overly sensitized. He knew he was as close to expert in this as a man can be. He had lived for months on end with people following, watching for a mistake, a fatal slip. He had often felt a kinship with the old buck that survives by knowing when the hunter is closing, without sight, sound, or scent of him. He was being a little old lady, frightened by soft breezes and night sounds. Still, Cantel would have made a call by now. Things might be moving more swiftly than expected. Pulling ahead of him. Beyond his control. Impatiently he muscled the car onto the freeway, then pushed it, heading north.

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He slipped off at Rinaldi, still pressing, even as he turned onto San Fernando Road. He slowed swiftly to ease the car into the parking lot beside El Orso. He left the car quickly, then waited in dark shadows at the far side of the building. Thirty minutes later, he disgustedly pushed himself away from the wall and walked around to the front. Inside, the massive horseshoe bar beckoned. Most regulars will hear nothing of food until having the specialty, a margarita. For those few invited through the massive doors in back, circles of green felt await. Poker is taken seriously by those who gather in this room. But all is secondary to the kitchen in which a master chef directs preparation of authentic delights, served as if to kings and queens. Scattered about the walls and alcoves are original oils of Mexican heroes, or bandits, depending upon one’s view. The fierce scowling features add a sense of history, to be taken home along with well-filled stomachs. Jack enjoyed the setting almost as much as the food. And memories of past games, the anticipation of those to come, always excited him. Then there is Lencho. A man who takes life to its limit, loving and embracing all of it, ignoring rules not his own. The steak was tasteless. Had he time to sit into a game, he was certain his cards would have betrayed him. He had taken a back table for two. The remains of his dinner had been removed and still there had been no sign of Lencho. The pleasant sounds of contented diners slackened unexpectedly, then quickened. He looked up to see Lencho round the corner, his arrogant lumbering stride the essence of his heritage, the Dons who had ruled early California. The white linen coat with satin lapels. The fire-red silk shirt, open nearly to his navel. The heavy silver cross, small against the breadth of chest. Diamonds of silver striping the black buckskin boots. With his size, few notice the .44 magnum in the shoulder rig. Glistening longish black hair is combed back and down. It’s as neatly groomed as the full beard and moustache that add fierceness to commanding features. His smile of welcome turns the whole of his face into something neat to see. “What’s happening, man?” he demanded with great gusto. Before Jack could reply, he had dropped into the other chair, whacking one knee solidly on the underside of the table. “Christ,” he growled. “Why can’t I find furniture of suitable size for a man?”

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“They build this stuff for people, not mutant giants,” Jack replied. “Envy? It does not suit you, Jack. If your growth was stunted, it was not mine, but God’s will.” Jack shrugged. At six-two, he had never felt cheated of growth. A waiter approached and, with a grand flourish, settled a margarita in front of Lencho. The man nodded curtly, as if having received his due. He jabbed with the beard at Jack’s coffee, then demanded, “Working?” Jack nodded. “Somebody will get hurt, no?” “It’s likely.” “Christ, Jack. As long as it’s not you, what’s the problem? Don’t take it so serious.” “Is it always that simple for you?” “Sure. I’m a man, am I not?” “Some would put it differently.” “Not to my face.” “That’s so.” Jack glanced again at his watch. “I wanted to thank you for sending Al and Hector.” “Al would kill his mother if she bothered your friend. Hector, too, I think.” “Would they maybe check intention first?” He laughed hugely. “Given time,” he said, chuckling. “That’s good to know.” Jack looked at his watch, then stared at it for a time. Twelve. Cantel was off at one. He took a deep breath, held it, released it slowly, then stood. “Be cool, man,” Lencho rumbled, immense dark brown eyes filled with concern. Jack nodded, then turned away. When he stepped outside into the crisp night air, that odd chill at the back of his neck returned forcefully. He paused. There had been a good crowd inside; the parking lot was nearly full. He stared into each shadowed area he could see. But the greatest threat he found lay in the mongrel dog that paused to lift his hind leg at the left rear tire of the Trans Am. “A little old lady,” he muttered. But when he started toward the car, the senses seemed heightened. He singled out the calls of night birds, the dog’s nails nicking the asphalt as he moved to Jack’s left. At the car, he paused again to glance about the lot. The pops and pings from the engine cooling

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in the car nearby were distinct, the only significant sounds to be heard in this part of the night. As he reached for the door, there was a rush of feet to his right. He whirled, grabbing for the Smith, aware of feet behind him as well. The man he faced was big. He grew impossibly larger as he closed. Jack backed swiftly away from the car, desperately seeking to bring the second man into peripheral view. He had the Smith free when a heavy fist slammed into the back of his neck. Vaguely he was aware of the gun spilling from slack fingers, of two very busy, very competent men. He was but a child in their hands. Pain exploded in his ribs. Then in a thigh, close to his groin. Then again in his face. Each burst expanded until colliding with another, building into one shuddering, searing ball of agony. He was suddenly gripped from behind and yanked from the ground. The face came closer, so close Jack could not assemble the parts of it. Over his ragged breathing, he faintly heard, “What we need, my man, is the name of your client.” Realization flowed over him, then a rush of stark terror. To give Terri’s name would mean death for them both. He would not be able to deny them for long. It wasn’t hard to fake the faint, to collapse against the burly arms squeezing the air from his lungs, to hang limply. But the arms did not loosen their grip. Desperately, in total despair, he stomped downward, seeking an instep. A fist rammed up into his solar plexus. The high keening wail pierced the sphere of raging agony. As if from a long way off. Jack wondered if it had been his. Then wondered if he would ever scream again. Then wondered nothing at all.

Chapter 17 Gradually, he became aware of a brightness about him. He tried to open his eyes. The lids refused his command. He gathered in the sounds and scents. Hospital, he decided finally. But why? What happened? More important, who in the hell am I? Suddenly he was trembling. It was a simple question. One he ought to be able to answer easily. A fear he had never known

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brought a lunge up to a sitting position. The pain that so jolted his gut had only an instant’s hearing, for his head seemed to have continued on as if its goal were space, whirling madly, expanding rapidly. Vaguely he sensed an inward spiraling, a falling back, out of control. A strong hand grasped his shoulder. Dizziness faded. Sweat dripped down his ribs and back. The whole of him felt clammy, racked with ultimate hurt. When he opened his eyes, Lencho was leaning over him. And he knew who he was. And it didn’t help. He let the tremors have their way. “Lie back,” Lencho rumbled gruffly, laying Jack’s head back on the pillow. He cranked the bed up half way. Jack rolled his head away from the brightness of the early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. “You’re in Holy Cross Hospital,” the big man said softly, watching Jack intently. “Two of my customers saw the end of it. When the woman screamed, one dropped a gun butt to the back of your head and they split. Nobody has come by.” He reached up with a giant paw and patted the .44 magnum through the white linen of the coat. “I was hoping somebody would.” Jack tried to say his thanks but the dry aching jaws failed to respond. He gagged on his tongue. He worked through it until saliva began to flow, until the tongue felt less like a dead rat stuffed down his throat. “How . . .” He licked his lips; even that hurt. “How bad is it?” he managed, the words sounding like dying gasps through the ringing in his ears. “Two ribs cracked a little. A few stitches. Several at the back of your head. There is nothing serious but the concussion.” Jack tested arms and legs and in time came to believe the big man. Especially the part about the head. The slightest movement brought dizzying blinding agony. “Have you ever been whipped?” Jack asked in a near whisper. “Not just beaten. I mean destroyed.” Lencho nodded, solemnly making the sign of the cross. “It is hard on a man’s soul.” “They managed it so damned easily.” His voice sounded scratchy through the ringing in his ears. “Have you a reason?” “They wanted Terri’s name.” “This blackmailer has heard of you, no?”

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Jack gazed up at the ceiling, reasonably sure he remembered it all. “When they hit, I thought Terri’s dad had sent them. But if he had, they wouldn’t have needed her name. So you must be right. But would a blackmailer have this kind of talent handy?” He shrugged. “Anything is possible, but it does seem curious.” “If he’s got that kind of army, he’s operating on a grand scale.” “I like that. Ms. Delaney may be only one of many victims.” Jack started to nod, then wished he had not. He reached up and clasped his head between his hands as if to prevent its bursting. “The woman who screamed,” he said, then paused, wondering why the words seemed to be echoing back from some far place. “What about her?” “She saved my life.” “How is that?” Jack eased his hands back down and stared at the ceiling. “They only left me alive because they want Terri’s name. I would have given it, buddy. Then I would have died. Likely Terri, too.” Lencho bristled; the beard trembled. “You forget the boys, perhaps?” “No,” Jack said. A fierce brief shudder racked him. “They’d make a hard affair of it, but they’d likely lose.” “You are very frightened. Or these dudes are very, very good.” “I’m scared shitless because they are so good.” He gazed for several moments at sunlight spilling in through the windows. Idly he wondered why the shadows in the morning seemed so different from those in the evening. Crisper, some way. “I was out there, Lencho. Too far, maybe. It bugs me I didn’t even know it.” He sighed, noticing the hurt, then said. “They’ll come again and I may not be so lucky. You best get to your people.” Lencho nodded slowly. “A couple more dudes?” “How much is enough?” “I’ll see what the boys say.” “I must have been followed from my place. They weren’t discrete, buddy. They were flat undetectable. Tell them that.” “I will,” he said thoughtfully, then asked, “Have you got anything?” “One solid lead,” Jack said, thinking of Cantel, no longer much concerned about what might be required to discover what the man knew. “I’ll take it somewhere.” The big man didn’t seem to notice the grimness in the words. “I’ll need a gun,” Jack added.

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“Yours is in that drawer,” Lencho said, pointing. “Along with the clips and your personal things.” “Thanks. Do you know of any reason why I can’t be up and about?” “No. But it will hurt like hell. They gave you nothing for pain. They’re worried about the concussion.” “I’m pissed and scared silly. It’ll help.” “You will probably faint,” he said with a grin. “Let’s find out.” “Let it be in God’s hands, then.” The grin had widened to a dazzling smile. The eyes twinkled merrily. Jack didn’t faint, but he came close a time or two. The walls of the room would get to wiggling and the ceiling would start to fall. Then he would grab with both hands at the burly arm of the giant who guided his tour. He concentrated on keeping pace with the black buckskin boots, trying to read a message in the light bounced randomly off diamonds of silver. A nurse entered and demanded he get back into bed, and that Lencho get lost. It hurt when Jack smiled. “Got things to do,” he said. She left in disgust. The doctor who came in later asked Jack to sit down, then probed and prodded, returning frequently to examine the eyes. “You belong in bed,” he said finally. “Doctor,” Jack said. “There are two competent men who want information I have. If they get it, they’ll kill me. Unless you can whistle up a SWAT team, your people will be safer with me gone. And so will I. It’s tough to do much damage to a man you can’t find.” The doctor held Jack’s look for several moments. He glanced up at Lencho’s fierce scowling features, then took a pad from his pocket and began to write. “Watch the eyes,” he said, then proceeded to give detailed instructions. He waved the slip of paper. “I’ll have this filled,” he said. “It will ease the pain.” “Thank you, doctor. I appreciate the help.” “Just watch those eyes. That concussion can kill you.” “I will,” Jack said, but he was speaking to the man’s back.


An hour later, Jack had struggled into his bloodstained clothes and was feeling a bit more human. The pain pill was working its

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magic. The unexpected dizzies bothered most. If they hit at the wrong time, it could bring on a small case of dying. He had examined the bruises. The one on his thigh brought a limping gait that eased the hurt. Most of his stomach was red with blotches of blue. The ribs screamed when stressed, but it was a hurt he could work through. His left cheek was badly bruised. The gash on his right had been stitched, then covered with a bandage. A little time should see the worst of it behind him. He was able to make his way around the room unaided now, although Lencho remained poised to grab him should he falter. Jack had tucked the Smith into his waistband and kept at it. When the door suddenly opened, both men grabbed for their weapons. Sgt. Kyle Sykes stepped into the room. He stopped abruptly at sight of them, one hand gripping the door. He gazed at Lencho with that winsome smile that suggests he’d undergone a personality change. “Things are sort of fouled up at the station,” he said in a conciliatory manner. “It must be the new girl at the desk, Mr. Cabral. I only got your message a half hour ago.” Lencho had straightened, lifting his chin to that angle that shouts of arrogance. “The important thing is you got it, Sgt. Sykes,” he said, matching Kyle’s smile. Neither man had offered his hand to the other. “I want you to know I appreciate the call,” Kyle said earnestly. “I knew you would be concerned.” Lencho glanced at Jack, a bright flare of mischief in his eyes. “Be cool, man,” he said. “I’ll check with the boys.” Jack nodded, watching the two men. With broad shoulders squared to the doorway, Kyle waited until the last moment, then stepped clear. Lencho paused, towering over him. “Later, man,” he said, smiling broadly, the eyes smoldering with thoughts but half hidden. Kyle nodded, then watched after the departing figure. He let the door swing closed. All traces of charm fled. “Fucking wetback,” he muttered, glaring at Jack. “You’re too close to the wrong sort there. He’s nothing but a goddamned killer.” Jack smiled. “You’ve said that before.” “Guess you don’t hear so good.” “I’d hear it if you called him a wetback to his face. His ancestors were here before either yours or mine.” “You think I can’t take him?”

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“You better have that .357 out and cocked before you try. Even then, you’ll need luck.” Kyle snorted, then moved closer and went to examining Jack’s face. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he said, his fists jammed against his waist. “Are you going to live?” “For a time, at least.” “Then we’ve got to talk about Miles Cantel.” “What do you want to know?” “Who took him off. Your name came up.” Jack collapsed into the chair. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured, then winced when his clenched fist pounded into his thigh. So much for that solid lead. His only lead. “My name came up, you say?” he asked, stalling, trying to bring order to stumbling, tumbling thoughts. “Your hearing’s worse than I thought,” Kyle murmured, settling into the chair beside Jack, then staring at the closed door. The bright blue tie was loosely knotted an inch below the unbuttoned shirt collar. Near nine o’clock, Jack decided. An unlit Lucky dangled from the corner of his mouth. The Bic lighter was in hand. “How did my name come up?” Jack asked. “A bald headed civie runs a slop house near Cantel’s place. He claims you were talking at him.” “When did he go away?” “About two this morning.” “I’ve a fair alibi.” Kyle lifted the lighter and lit it. Then, as if remembering the rules, let the hand fall back into his lap. “Give me what you have,” he murmured, still staring at the door. “He worked at the Northridge branch of the post office. Night before last, he picked up twelve thou from inside. Box 409, in the name of Erlin Thomas, a phony. He may have passed it to a fellow worker, but I doubt it. “He could have left it with a Ms. Fairfield. But he was with her for better than two hours. After talking with her later, I’m sure it was only the boy-girl bit. Most likely someone made the pickup after he got back to his place. I wasn’t looking for it; I thought I had the wrong guy.” “How did you get onto Cantel?” “Mostly luck. The box with the bucks was wired. Someone inside grabbed it about eleven. He and five others left at one. He seemed the best bet so I followed him. Put him to bed about four.”

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“That doesn’t make him your bagman.” “I picked that up, talking to him in the diner. He was scared silly. Couldn’t cover at all.” Kyle turned his head. The pale blue eyes bore into Jack’s. There was a deep cold about them, a timelessness. “Who’s being blackmailed?” he asked softly. “I don’t recall the name.” “I’m working a stiff.” The eyes glowed fiercely, as if a second set of lids had opened, revealing something ancient, deadly. “No sometime playtime PI is going to slow me down. Have you got that?” “You don’t dump on a buddy, Kyle. Not ever.” “Shit.” Jack watched the fierce glow fade, watched until the eyes turned back to gaze at the closed door, then asked, “How was Cantel killed?” “Sort of weird, that,” Kyle replied, taking the unlit cigarette from between his lips, then staring at it. “He was laying bareass naked on his back in bed. The M.E. says he’d just whacked himself off when somebody tucked a .25 into his ear and ended it.” “Someone just walked right in? He never noticed?” “The bottom half of the screen in the window over the bed is rusted out. Somebody reached inside, pulled off a round, then split.” “Some women like a .25.” “Some pros, too. We can’t find anybody who heard this round.” “After his time with Ms. Fairfield, I don’t see how he could get it up, without a woman’s help.” “There are footprints outside the window. Male.” “How recent?” “We’re working at that. He’s a big one. Has to be, to reach that far inside.” “Sure,” Jack said. Kyle snorted. “If you’ve made up your mind, why ask questions?” He flicked the lighter, stared at the flame for a moment, then let it die. “It could have been a broad, though,” he murmured absently. “If so, the lab will pick it up.” Stillness seemed to have heightened the hurt. Tightening muscles weren’t helping. Jack swallowed another pill and started again around the room. Kyle’s eyes remained fi xed on the floor. “You’re tore up pretty good, aren’t you?” “That’s so.”

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“What happened?” “ ‘I got beat’ about says it.” Jack resisted the impulse to clasp complaining ribs. “How many?” “Two. It was at least one too many.” “Get a look at a face?” “One. But only for a sec, then the world went away. I can’t even guess at size, beyond big. He had an accent. European, maybe. I’m not sure.” “European? Sort of interesting, that.” Kyle jammed the cigarette back into his mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “What did he say?” “He wanted the name of my buddy.” “Do you think there’s any connection to my stiff ?” “Maybe. Likely Cantel passed my name on. He may have been killed to cut the delivery chain.” Kyle took a deep drag, his eyes thoughtful. “Want to look at some pictures?” he asked, so softly Jack almost missed it. “I’d like that,” Jack said quietly. Solicitous is not a word that applies to Sgt. Sykes. But he waited patiently while Jack signed forms and paid up. The paying part was tough; it came to near three hundred dollars a stitch. On the way down the hall, Kyle slowed his long stride to match Jack’s limping, shuffling gait. When he saw Jack had noticed, he murmured, “Got a sore foot.” Outside, he told Jack to sit down, then brought the car around. He climbed out and opened the passenger door, then steadied Jack with a firm grip on the elbow as he eased inside. Jack would have sworn he knew this man far better than most. Right up to now, he had been certain of it.

Chapter 18 Kyle pulled a chair over beside his desk. “Give me a minute,” he said, then strode off across the squad room. Puzzled, Jack watched until his broad, squared shoulders disappeared around a corner. There wasn’t enough space on the small desk for mug books, without chucking most everything. He

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eased himself down into the chair, thankful he had made it before crumpling to the floor. He wondered if he was up to hours of checking mug shots. He took a slow deep breath, noting the hurt. He would have to get it done. Having a chat with those who had jumped him looked to be the only way to get back into the game. Kyle strode back in ten minutes later with a thick fi le folder. He laid out a dozen photos on the edge of the desk, then stepped back. “Take a look,” he said, an unusual tightness about the eyes and mouth. Jack glanced at each, then up at Kyle, puzzled. “Work at it,” he murmured. Jack studied each photo with care. His eyes kept drifting back to the one second from the left and he couldn’t say why. He picked it up, leaned back, and worked at triggering memory cells. It was the eyes that had caught his attention, he decided. Narrow. Bright. Uncaring. Slowly, a piece at a time, he assembled blurred memories. When he mentally added a well-trimmed moustache and a cocky, unpleasant smile it clicked. He turned the photo over. Henri Bernardi. “What can you tell me about him?” Kyle was as close to excited as he gets. “He’s one of Morrett’s soldiers,” he said, moving hastily to sit down, then flipping through pages in the file folder. He found the sheet he wanted and scanned it twice. When he dropped it to the desk, Jack could read the heading. Subject: Leland Morrett. “Sonofabitch,” Kyle grunted contently. Abruptly he reached over and picked up four photos. He pointed to one of those remaining and said, “That’s Morrett. The rest are his key soldiers.” With no idea who Morrett was, Jack bent to the task of studying each face. “How did you figure this?” he asked. “Stern told you that hit on Wonderland went down like a raid by Israeli commandos, that they spoke French. Most of those punks can get by in several languages. They’ve all been mercs, one time or another. Bernardi is Israeli, ex-Mossad, from France originally.” It upped Jack’s self-confidence a bit; at least he hadn’t been whipped by fifty-buck semi-heavies. “So who’s Morrett?” “Mafia. The latest style. Tailored suits and all. A spread in Beverly Hills and into the country-club set. A fancy office down on Ventura Boulevard. A box at Santa Anita. He married money, the second

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time. He’s into charity, the art world, even politics. A real pillar of society. God, what I wouldn’t give to put him away.” “What’s he into?” “The laundry business. He takes your dirty bills and hands them back smelling sweeter than Ivory soap. It’s an international operation. That’s what his army is for. There’s no place in the world he can’t send at least one punk who fits in. “First, he moves the money to the Bahamas. Then he sets up somebody overseas to buy into something here in the states. When that’s wrapped, the buyer turns a quick profit by selling to an account set up in his own bank by then. It’s all strictly legal, once the money is out of the country. A bright bastard. Real bright.” His eyes glowed with his thoughts. He stretched his arms out to the side, then grabbed at air in front of him so hard the thick tendons in his wrists and hands were drawn taut. “His ass. Right here. Wouldn’t it be sweet?” “How could you pull that off ?” “It could start with finding a .25 on one of his soldiers.” “It’s not likely.” Kyle hunched further out over the desk, staring at the photos. “How about filing charges?” “No way.” His look was sharp, piercing, almost hungry. “Why not?” “I’m not looking for a rematch.” “No guts, right?” “Some sense, though.” “Don’t shit me.” “I don’t follow.” “You don’t want that punk locked up where you can’t get at him.” “You’ve lost it, Kyle.” “Here,” he said, pushing the folder across the desk. “It’s a duplicate.” Jack wanted to grab it and run. When he was sure his eyes showed nothing of his thoughts, he looked up. “Releasing police files? That’s against one of those rules you’re fond of.” Kyle shrugged. There was a fierce glow in the back of his eyes. Something hawkish, predatory. “With Cantel gone, you need help.” He straightened in his chair. The smile narrowed the pale lips. Light bouncing off the glasses was distracting. “You want a stalking horse.”

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Kyle’s smile broadened. “He’ll probably kill you,” he said softly. “Your confidence is overwhelming.” “Then I’ll nail his balls to the top of this desk.” He had spoken as if of his plans for a pleasant evening. It sent a different, far colder tremor rippling down Jack’s spine. The smile faded. The eyes became empty of all but attentive brightness. He picked up a sheet of paper and said, “I want to talk to Ms. Fairfield. You get sidetracked sometimes, by that itch between your legs. I might catch something you missed.” “The clap, maybe.” “Not this here boy. What’s the first name?” “Violet.” Jack gave him the address as well, troubled again by the wispy notion that had haunted him since the night he had followed Cantel. “You know,” he said, “Janet Fisher ran with a girl named Violet Moyer.” “So?” Kyle demanded. “It bothers some, the coincidence.” “What coincidence?” “Two Bills in the same scene. Two Pams, even. It happens. But Violet? It’s not a common name.” “You’ve got nothing.” “Did you ever send those prints up to Bishop?” “This isn’t a PI convenience center.” “Did you?” “Nothing has come back yet.” “Kyle,” Jack said thoughtfully. “I think you ought to locate Violet Moyer.” He leaned out across the desk. “I think you ought to get out of here before I remember a rule I’ve overlooked.” “I need a cab.” “What you do is drop a quarter into that goddamned phone in the lobby.” He reached for the one on his desk.


The needle on the energy gauge was pinned on empty when Jack eased painfully out of the cab at the door to El Orso. Pushing it, he limped inside. With the door closed behind him, he felt better. The walls are reinforced concrete. There are no windows. Under bold Mexican trim, the doors are plated with steel.

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Jack limped to the bar and settled onto a stool. “How’s it go, Ramon?” he asked the smiling red-vested bartender. “Real good, Mr. Collier. The usual?” he asked, politely ignoring Jack’s marred features. “Yes. And I need Lencho.” Ramon nodded, quickly built Jack’s drink, set it in front of him, then hurried out from behind the bar. Jack scanned the file again as he waited. In Las Vegas, he had asked himself what it would take to beat Stern. Or Franco Ravone. Now he was asking more pointed questions, with a more direct, immediate intent. Only the distant look in the coffee-brown eyes and the faint half smile gave any clue to his thoughts. Lencho settled himself on the stool, half facing Jack, thus creating an easy space for the massive shoulders. “You making it?” he asked in a rumbling of concern. Ramon set a margarita in front of the man as Jack said, “Better than I’d hoped.” “God’s will,” Lencho said solemnly. “And this?” he asked, jabbing three fingers into the folders on the bar. “Copies of police files on Leland Morrett.” Jack laid the photos out on the bar. “Money laundering, no?” “That’s so.” Jack summarized what Kyle had told him, adding details gleaned from reading. Lencho shook the massive head slowly, dark eyes filled with his thoughts. “The take from blackmail would be small change to this dude. He wouldn’t risk his action for so little.” “You’re right. But when they’re not cutting a deal for Morrett, his men keep busy running some expensive women out of the West Valley. They’re also into loan-sharking, an occasional wholesale coke deal, and the like.” Jack told him of the blackmail setup in Las Vegas and explained why he thought Morrett was responsible for ending it. “If Saldino’s tape collection was stolen, and not destroyed, it could be the basis of an operation now. It’s iff y. And Morrett himself is unlikely. But one of his soldiers could be running the game.” “Bernardi maybe?” “It’s only a possibility. Here,” Jack said, sliding a file folder toward him. “That copy’s for you.” “Tell me what you need.”

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Jack pointed at the photo of Henri Bernardi. “Help me figure a way to get next to this guy without being killed.” “Sure, man.” “It won’t be that easy.” Lencho shrugged. “Only the impossible is difficult. But you will need your strength.” “A couple days ought to do it.” “My rooms upstairs are yours, if you wish.” “You, without a woman handy?” He chuckled. “Maria has a lovely home.” “Expect it’s close by.” “Very close.” Jack glanced about the bar and restaurant, now beginning to fill with the lunch crowd. “Thanks. But Bernardi knows I might be here. Every time I left I’d risk being followed. And he’s damned good at that.” “The same is true of your home.” “They don’t have Terri’s name. With Al and Hector close, her place looks good to me. At least for a night or two.” “Frank and Tony will also be there.” “Sounds good,” Jack said. “Has anyone been near my car?” “No.” Jack nodded and eased off the stool. He wished he had not moved so quickly. “Want company?” Lencho asked, also standing. “I’d like that.” Lencho lifted his head and jerked the bearded chin toward the entrance. A tall man at the back of the restaurant rose and strode toward the double doors. Jack limped gratefully along beside Lencho, wanting to cling to the burly arm.


Jack had so much fun getting over the fence into Terri’s patio, he was of half a mind to try it again. Gasping for air, fighting back against the near blinding hurt, he decided latent masochistic needs would have to wait. With the butt of the Smith, he knocked out a triangle of glass in the door, opened it, then stepped inside. He made straight for the rum and poured generously. In the living room, he paused, remembering the last time he had been

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here, wondering why it seemed so long ago. He eased down into the softness of the couch, reached for the phone and dialed. He exchanged pleasantries with Robin until she asked, “Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.” “Banged up some, is all. That’s why I called.” “Yes?” she asked attentively. “I’ve eight names for the Maestro.” He spelled out each one. When he finished, she said, “Leland Morrett? They play rough in that league, Jack.” “That’s so. And I want you to keep it in mind. No footwork at all. Don’t let that genius machine of yours leave any trace of his nosing around. But short of that, dig up everything you can.” “You’ll be in touch?” “Yes. Now go slow.” “I will, if you’ll do the same.” “I’m working at it,” Jack said, then hung up. He lay his head down, lifted his legs to the couch, and let the world slip away.

Chapter 19 Jack bolted up from sleep, shuddering at the rush of hurt. He had scooped up the Smith before he realized the front door was being unlocked, not forced. He reached up, clasping the throbbing head between his hands, still clinging to the gun. He propped the elbows, steadying his head. The door opened. He allowed the eyes to close when he caught the honeysuckle scent of her. He heard her stop abruptly in the entry. He looked up and managed a slight smile as she rushed inside and tumbled her purse and the day’s newspapers to the coffee table. He let himself drift into the incredible blueness of her eyes as she knelt before him. “How’s it go?” he asked, the words scratching at his tongue. “Fine. Until now.” She reached up and pried his hands away from his face. Her breathing quickened. Long slender fingers traced each bruise as if mapping territory to be avoided. “What happened?” she asked. “Lots, and most of it’s not cheery news. How about a drink?”

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“Right away,” she murmured, but her fingers lingered upon his face. When she rose, she stood for a moment, gazing down at him. “I’m awfully damned sorry, Jack.” “Forget that.” He managed to broaden the smile. “It’s not serious. Okay?” She nodded slowly, the bright eyes brimming with concern. She shed her jacket, slipped off her pumps and started toward the kitchen, long hips and thighs snugged within the short gray knitted skirt. “Watch the glass at the back door,” he called after her. “The glass?” She turned with a puzzled look. “Sorry, but I broke in.” He waved her on. “I’ll tell you about that, too.” She brought his drink, then gazed down at him for several moments, her lips drawn up tersely. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. When she turned back toward the kitchen, he sipped at the drink, puzzled. Something of fatalism about it, maybe. Or finality. He couldn’t be sure. He heard her cleaning up the broken glass as he ran a check of the physiology. Better. Even the ribs. He poked at them a bit. They were coming along. It was the head that worried him. Not the harsh throbbing ache, but the dizziness. Wondering what the rum and pain pill might concoct between them, he swallowed one. When she came back in she had removed the panty hose and undone the upper buttons of the high-necked blue blouse. She sat down in the chair with one foot tucked under and reached up to rub at the day’s tensions in her shoulders. She took a sip of wine, watching Jack over the rim of the glass. “Tell me,” she said with a calm expectancy that somehow matched that look in her eyes. “Tell me all of it,” she said. He did, beginning with his picking up the rigged box from Joe Niles. She concentrated with an intensity he found distracting. But when she interrupted to ask a question, there was no urgency to it, only calm anticipation of the answer and what would come next. He finished with, “I broke in here because I need a cave for a couple days. And you haven’t been tied in yet.” She was watching her fingers toy with the empty glass. “I’m terrified,” she said softly. “I have this awful sick queasy feeling in my stomach.”

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“You’re handling it well,” he said gently. “Not inside.” She sighed, then shook her head. “I’m going to fi x another. Would you like one?” He nodded, noting it was easier. She was gone before he could read anything further into that haunting resolute look. When she returned, she sat down beside him. “Is it safe to touch you anywhere?” He chuckled. “The bad ribs are on the other side.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and cautiously tucked one arm around him. “You once asked,” she said quietly, “why I hadn’t considered a different career. Well, the truth is, I have. Often, in fact. But it will take more than that for me to feel safe.” “Will?” Jack asked. “Sounds as if you’ve made a decision.” “No career is worth dying for. Or worth your dying, either. We would both be safe if I were to disappear.” She straightened, gripping the glass in her lap with both hands, staring at the floor. “Can you help me do that?” “Why?” “My life is in danger right now.” “No. Not just yet, at least.” “Why are those two extra men out there?” “I can’t see anyone getting past them.” “What would it take? To disappear, I mean. I’ve tried to imagine what it would be like, but I don’t have a clear idea.” Jack stood, then began pacing. He tried to suppress the limp; it didn’t work well. When he saw her troubled look, he wished he had remained seated. “First,” he said, “you’d need paper. I know a guy who’s an artist. He can build you a history that will stand up to the most rigorous investigation. Then I’ve a buddy in New York who’d put you to work and write whatever recs you need. “You’d want to change your appearance. Your habits. Everything you can. Next, you’d pick a town. Not too big. Not too small. Then settle in and work at keeping the profile low. You’ve got what it takes to pull it off. The problem is, you’d wither away to nothing. It would destroy you, Terri.” “Can you tell me you can’t be forced to give my name?” “No.” He sat back down beside her, then said softly, “After a bit more pounding, I’d have given it last night. But don’t forget Lencho’s men.”

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“I had hoped it would simply be a matter of recovering the tape. Now a man is dead, you were nearly killed, and it’s not over.” “Maybe you’re right to be concerned about Cantel. I’m not the one to say. As for me, I just made a mistake.” “What mistake?” she asked sharply. He let himself flow into that remarkable blueness. “I’m always aware things can turn ugly,” he began slowly. “Old granny comes from behind with a meat cleaver. The slender gentle preacher whips out a .45 and pulls off a round. It happens. “I’m generally able to respond with relative effectiveness. But this . . .” He paused. The eyes seemed to have become salted with crystals of ice. He took a slow deep breath, then continued. “My mistake was I didn’t see it coming. I thought we were dealing with a slimy hidein-the-dark type. I know better now.” “Jack, I have a world of confidence in you, but you’re only one man. How can you expect to win against all these people?” “Change tactics, is all. Take it to them. Poke a pistol into a guy’s mouth, cock it, give him time to picture his brains scattered about the landscape, of the end of his having and taking, and chances are he’ll tell what he knows. I only need a little time to put the worst of the aches behind me. Then I’ll start with Bernardi. He’s good. Likely one of the best at what he does. But he’s only a man, Terri, not a god.” “You frighten me, the way you say that.” “I surely didn’t mean to.” Slowly she shook her head. “It’s too risky, Jack. For me as well as for you. I want to see it ended. Now.” “Hang in for a time. Wait and see how it goes.” “Wait?” she cried softly. “I’m sick of it. Now you’re asking me to wait for a killer to find me. I can’t go in tomorrow, talk of the fishing industry destroying the dolphins, and make anyone believe it matters. Not when I’m terrified of dying.” He leaned over and captured both her hands in his. “Terri,” he said fervently, “we’re into the final laps. We’ve the fuel. The tires are good. And the engine is purring. Here’s where we shove it to the floor. Run flat out. Take it right to the edge. God help me, but I think that’s what this thing called living is all about.” “Oh how I wish I could feel that way.” “You’ve hung in all by yourself, all this time. I want you to hang in with me. We’re talking days, not years. I can feel it.”

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“Would you give me those names in New York? Just . . .” She paused, biting back words. “Just in case?” she finished lamely. “Get me some writing tools.” He included specific instructions. As he wrote, he sensed a second meaning in the words, some bizarre convoluted forecast. Something of loss, maybe. Of his losing her. Of her losing everything. When he finished, he read it over. It was nothing more than a listing of facts, procedures and recommendations. He stared at it for a moment, handed it to her, then picked up the Smith. “Ever use one of these?” “A friend once said I was very good. But I hate them.” “I’ve another in the car. I want you to keep this one close.” He extended it, butt first. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, she took it. “I’m not sure I could use it,” she said softly, the tremor in her hand decreased by the weight of the pistol. “Homo sapiens seem to thrive on butchering one another. So let me show you how to stop a guy who comes at you.”


Jack was standing at the window, watching evening shadows lengthen when Terri joined him. She had changed into worn jeans and an old cashmere sweater before putting together the food they had just finished. She leaned against his good shoulder and asked, “Are you feeling any better?” “Some, I think. But when the sun starts toward the horizon, there is something of endings in it. The hurts seem worse. I’m holding my own, though.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I didn’t know you were interested in horses,” she said. He turned to look at the mess he had made of her coffee table, digging out the sports sections for news of tomorrow’s races. “Mostly I’m into poker, but there’s an interesting card at Santa Anita tomorrow.” “And Leland Morrett has a box there.” “Just wondering, Terri.” “You’ll walk right up, introduce yourself, and ask would he please leave us alone.” He chuckled. “You bet. That’s just what I’m going to do.”

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“I believe you might. The riskier the situation, the more you seem to enjoy it.” “There’s truth in that,” he said, tucking an arm about her, gazing out at the deepening shadows. “I often think I ought to get out of this business. How many like Bernardi can a guy tangle with and not need a body bag? But I’ve been thinking that for years.” “Then someone else comes along, plays on your sympathy strings, and you’re buried in it again,” Terri said. “There may be some of that. But there’s a whole bunch more. Back in my college days, I drove stock cars at Ascott. God, how I loved it. When my son was born, I gave it up, because I couldn’t stand the way it frightened my wife. But I’ve regretted it ever since. I still drive too fast. And ski harder. “I’m into climbing. If it’ll take three guys, I make it with two. And I love diving. But I press the tanks, then have to push it getting back to the surface. It may kill me one day. “But meanwhile the food tastes better. The air smells sweeter. And I flat love the whole of it. I can’t stop myself from grabbing for more. I don’t seem to even want to try.” “I don’t think you should,” she said softly, then kissed the side of his neck.


Jack was lying with his head and shoulders cushioned by pillows and the arm of the couch. With a fresh drink, he had washed down another pain pill with two aspirin, and was content, within limits. “You look relatively comfortable,” Terri said, looking down at him. “It still hurts pretty good, but it doesn’t seem to matter as much.” She knelt beside him. “Can I peek?” she asked. “A sadistic streak?” “Uh huh,” she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt. Exploring gently, she mapped out more areas of hurt. “That bruise on the ribs looks nasty,” she murmured, then leaned over and kissed it, letting her lips linger. “It only hurts when I move.”

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“Lie still, then.” As she continued her exploration, caressing with fingers and lips, he felt himself growing and wondered at that. When she lay her hand upon him, the warmth of her brought an instant surge. “You’ve got something started I don’t know how to finish.” “Just lie still,” she said softly.

Chapter 20 Jack wasn’t going to walk up to Leland Morrett in the way Terri had said he might. But as he left his car to be parked at Santa Anita, he was smiling. She hadn’t been far wrong. The pain in his thigh had faded. He noticed the limp was diminished as he paid his way through the turnstile. From assorted items collected in the back seat of the car, he had selected a worn gray Stetson. It wasn’t a disguise, but it was a bold change in his appearance. It fit with the worn Levi jeans and jacket. He bought a copy of the Daily Racing Form, then moved on into the clubhouse. He had thought of approaching Morrett at his office. But there the man would be in one of his castles, close to a throne. Jack might not even be able to get beyond the secretaries. What he wanted was to confront the man unexpectedly. And within those moments of surprise, to drive a bargain, one that would end it as Terri wished. There were some fine horses running today. If Morrett was into thoroughbreds, he wouldn’t want to miss this card. The adrenalin flowed. The senses were out there, ranging. He worked at taking deep breaths. For whole seconds at a time, he didn’t notice the hurt. He hadn’t discussed the idea with Terri because the key to it all was her dad. And Jack had a different view of the man than she did. If Senator Delaney had been willing to pay him thirty thousand to back away, he reasoned the man would provide much more to end it. At first the idea of offering his money without his knowing was amusing. But the more Jack had thought about it, the more the notion had intrigued him. If Jack could strike a deal, he felt certain the man would pay, even if he had to steal the money first. For Jack remained convinced he was also being blackmailed.

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It was not quite eleven. Many of those already inside had probably made the morning workouts. Among those lunching in the box seats, several looked to be owners, already anxious about how their entries would fare. Jack made his way down beyond Morrett’s box, turned, put his back to the rail, and reviewed his plan once more. When he was certain it was the best available, he turned back to gaze at Mt. Baldy, resting on the shoulders of the San Gabriel mountains. Some claim the setting for Santa Anita is one of the loveliest in the world. On this clear crisp day, it was easy to believe. Those about him didn’t seem to be giving it much thought. He chose a stool at the bar and opened the Form as if interested. A race track is its own kind of world. Noisy. Colorful. Dirty; regulars never wear good clothes. He watched the crowd build. Each intent on their own purpose, no one paid any attention to him, or to his marred features. Since it was early, he wasn’t hustled into more drinks or off the stool. Jack remained pumped up. He was counting on that, counting on the high to defeat the hurt, to compensate for strengths lacking. He sipped some, pretending to study the Form. The pulse rate increased despite his efforts at control. The first race came and went, with little crowd excitement. They were maidens and the first horse across the finish line had dumped his rider at the start. It made for more chuckles than anxious cheering or urging. The three large tractors had finished their raking pass around the track when Jack saw Leland Morrett. Then sought to curb the spiking pulse. To suppress the faint tremble in his hands. To slow the breathing. As the man moved through the crowd, Jack thought he might have picked him out, even without having seen a photo. He could have made a living modeling men’s clothes. He had the classic body, a sultry look about the face and eyes, and black wavy hair women would itch to comb with their fingers. He wore a pale blue shirt, tailored slacks and highly polished shoes. He could have been a man of independent means or the director of a major corporation. He had the poise and style for either. But what set him apart from others were his soldiers. One out front. The other trailing. They looked far more competent than their

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photos had suggested. Jack hadn’t planned for them and he knew he should have. Now it all depended upon what these men did. Keeping his face away, shadowed by the hat, Jack eased off the stool. And nearly tumbled to the floor. He grabbed at the bar to steady himself. He sensed he was swaying dizzily, then realized he only felt as if he was. He had to move; he wanted to be in front of Morrett when the man started down the aisle to his box. He fought it, trying to count the passing seconds. The bulky man in the red coat and black top hat was sounding the call to the post for the second race. When the long slender horn of brass came into clear focus, Jack glanced briefly behind him. The soldiers were moving away from Morrett as if to take up positions from which to monitor the ebb and flow of the crowd. There was time, if he could move right now. The first few limping steps were tentative. But he made it to the top of the aisle before Morrett closed behind him. He tripped on the first step, grabbed hard at the rail, then moved on down. He paused below the entrance to Morrett’s box, as the man moved into it. Shove it to the floor, he had said to Terri. Take it to the edge. Embracing those fears that add to caution, he turned and stepped into the box as Morrett sat down. The man had started to open his Form before he noticed he had company. When he looked up, Jack knew immediately he didn’t want to play cards with this man; there was no hint of surprise, only mild curiosity. “Mr. Collier, isn’t it?” he asked, the words polished in a Harvard-Yale manner. “That’s so,” Jack replied, clinging to a smile. “Mind if I join you?” Jack caught a faint shimmering flaw in the practiced charm, a glint in the gray eyes that hinted at baser things. Peripherally, he was aware of the two soldiers closing anxiously. Then Morrett smiled. Warmly. Openly. “Please do,” he said, lifting his hand. His men turned abruptly back the way they had come. Jack found it easier to breath. “Thanks,” he managed as he dropped into the nearest chair without thought to style. “Audacity,” Morrett said. “I admire that in a man.” Sharp piercing eyes examined him. “Provided, of course, it’s appropriate.” “I think it is just now,” Jack said evenly. “You see I need your help.” “Somehow I find that amusing.” He did not appear to be amused. “Proceed,” he said. “But please be brief. I have a horse in the third race.”

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“Right,” Jack said, recognizing priorities had been set. A horse that might or might not win was more important than a human life. Jack’s or that of any other. “As you likely know, I’ve a buddy with a problem.” “What is his name?” he asked. “Does it matter?” “I could make things easier for you,” he said, his smile broadening. “I’m hoping you can do just that,” Jack said, trying to decide if one way of being murdered was easier to deal with than any other. “Let me explain,” he continued. “My buddy has been meeting the terms of an open-ended contract for five years. I’d like your help in arranging a termination of the agreement.” “In what way?” Morrett asked sharply. The eyes seemed to caution Jack, reminding him that even in a box seat, there were ears close by. “I’d like to arrange a one-time buyout. If you could help establish an amount and arrange things, we would pay an appropriate fee.” “What brings you to believe I have any connection with this agreement?” “You had the opportunity to acquire the basis for it, and others like it.” “I don’t understand.” “That incident in Vegas you initiated eight years back. The material basis could have been obtained at that time.” The eyes flared, then softened upon the demand of will. The smile grew with forced warmth. “The profits from such contracts would be insignificant to me.” “That’s so. I was thinking of one of your people. Henri Bernardi, maybe.” “Fascinating,” he said, his gaze drifting to the bruises and stitches in Jack’s face. “You seem to be in considerable pain, yet you speak in terms of money.” “Getting even has its place, but there’s little profit in it.” “I’m curious. How much are you prepared to offer?” Jack had given it thought without coming to an answer. Mentally he shrugged. It would be Senator Delaney’s money. “No specifics have been mentioned, but we can go as high as half a million. Maybe more.”

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“Interesting. It’s not a trivial sum.” He spread his hands in feigned regret. “Unfortunately I’m not in a position to help. The material basis you speak of was lost, many years ago.” Stern had claimed the tapes had been destroyed. Was it so? “You seem to doubt my word,” Morrett commented. “I’ve no reason to. But it bothers some.” “In what way?” “This is another kind of business you’re not into.” Jack paused to rub his knuckles across the stitches in his cheek. “Again, the amounts involved would be insignificant to you. So I can’t quite see the why of it.” “Like yourself, I have friends.” “I see,” Jack said, wishing he did. “How about passing my offer along?” Morrett’s eyes were shrouded. He seemed to be paying a price to hold the relaxed features, the pleasant smile. “I’m afraid my friend would not be interested.” Jack reached up and tugged at an ear. “I’ve never met anyone who’d turn down half a million bucks,” he said finally, watching Morrett closely. “I meant that dollars are not the currency of interest.” Nice, Jack thought. A nice recovery. Or was it? Had the man slipped in a minor way? Or was he reading something not there? “It occurs to me,” Jack said, leaning closer, “that we may have something in common.” “I fail to see what it might be.” “Maybe we both need a name. The same name.” Morrett laughed. The eyes were still, unreadable. “You have an active imagination.” “Maybe.” Jack worked at holding his smile. “Still, if you were locked into an agreement as my buddy is, it would explain a lot.” The eyes went cold. The face lost its social lightness. Over the booming PA, the announcer said, “And they’re off,” then began calling racing positions. Morrett wasn’t listening. Jack shifted position in the chair, sensing that hot clinging wind sucking at him from beyond the edge. “Perhaps I’m listening to a fool,” Morrett said, the words distinct, despite the rising excitement of the crowd. “Let me be clear. Any attempt to arrange such an agreement with me would bring, speaking figuratively, fatal consequences.”

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“If you had a name,” Jack said, pressing, “as you did in Vegas.” Morrett scowled. Jack smiled, then leaned back and said, “Suppose I came up with it. Would that change anything?” Morrett inspected him with care, as if he was something accidentally brought back to earth by the space shuttle. Something repulsive. To be destroyed immediately. Whatever the cost. “You take chances, Mr. Collier,” he said. “Now and then.” “I think you better leave.” “Right,” Jack said, struggling to his feet. “By the way, I’ve another buddy interested in you. Sgt. Kyle Sykes. L.A.P.D.” “You are a fool. Many policemen have been interested in me, as you put it. Nothing ever comes of it.” The rising crescendo of screaming supporters erased the thunder of hoofs pounding toward the finish line. “Sgt. Sykes is different, Mr. Morrett.” “Really? He drops his pants to sit on a toilet, as does any man.” He opened the Form. “Now you must excuse me.” He tilted his head down as if reading. Hints of furious thought were revealed only in the faint tremble in the edges of the pages. Jack turned and limped up the aisle, watching Morrett’s two soldiers for any hint of a command given from behind him. The crowd had quieted; most were sitting down. The few winners remained excited, smothering the mumblings of losers. Jack knew he could become a loser of a different sort, very quickly. Then he was past the last soldier. He turned a corner, relieved to put his back beyond sight of cold merciless eyes. He waited. When sure no one was following, he moved toward the exit, pressing, ignoring hurt. Constantly checking behind him. He handed his stub to the parking attendant, then turned back to watch the turnstile. The aches had returned with a vengeance. He fought back another touch of the dizzies, then sighed. The man had thumbed his nose at half a million dollars. He would have to talk with him again. Privately, this time. As he had planned to do, fi rst with Cantel, then with Bernardi. He had to get beyond the trappings of cryptic dialog and pleasant meaningless smiles. But it would be more difficult, having openly confronted the man. He wondered what would be required. And wondered if he could manage it, even with help from Lencho and the Maestro.

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“You what?” Terri cried, the drink in her hand forgotten. Jack smiled. “I said I had a talk with Morrett.” Then he told her of his day at the track. If she guessed where he had planned to get the money, she didn’t show it. When he finished, she said, “You risked a great deal for nothing.” “Not really. Kyle was only guessing Morrett was behind the hit on Saldino. Now I know. And he convinced me neither he nor any of his men is the blackmailer. So I won’t waste time with a run at Bernardi. What’s more, I’m certain Saldino’s tapes were destroyed.” “Even so, it wasn’t worth it.” “I’m not so sure. Knowing one or two things, instead of guessing, cuts down on possible scenarios. But even if that means little, I was able to show Morrett I know a good deal about him. When he thinks it over, he’ll realize I got it from Kyle. For all his scoffing, he doesn’t want a bright, tenacious cop on his butt. It will all tend to distract him.” “I’m sure he’ll spend a sleepless night, worrying about you.” “Not hardly. But he will do some thinking. For one thing, I found him at the track easily enough. He’ll have to consider where else I might show and take appropriate precautions. Whatever time he spends with thoughts like that, works to our advantage.” “Jack, you frighten me, the way you go at things.” She set her drink on the coffee table, then sat down beside him on the couch. She tucked an arm about his back, then said, “Please tell me you have no such exciting nonsense planned for tomorrow.” “Hey,” he said with a chuckle, “I’ve planned a heavy day.” He stroked her thigh. “I’m going to loll around and see if I can fit the pieces together differently. Maybe fire up the tube and catch a couple of soaps. Robin will have that report on Morrett come evening. I’ll stop by and pick it up, then get together with Lencho to see what we can come up with.” “Then you plan to see Morrett again,” she said in hushed tones, pushing away from him to study his face. “I’ve a couple questions.” “Your eyes, Jack. They’re so cold.” She enfolded him within her arms, pulling herself closer ever so gently. “I’m frightened.” He didn’t think words would change that. Besides, her fears were

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justified. He wasn’t as confident as he had led her to believe. He put an arm around her and stroked her back, wondering at all the lush softness, the lean strength, the whole of her. And wondering if he had been wrong. Wondering if she should already be on her way to another place, far from where they sat. When she went to nibbling on the lobe of his ear, her breath warm upon him, one breast pressed against his arm, he laid those wonderings aside, and turned to others, more appropriate to the moment.

Chapter 21 Jack hadn’t lied to Terri; he’d had no plan. But by noon he was in need of one. The walls were closing in and the ceiling was dropping. He was completely, utterly bored. Throughout the long dull morning, there had been no spark of insight. Only a restless concern about how he would get to Morrett again and obtain the answers he needed. A favor for a friend, the man had implied. He would take him at his word and ask for the name. Politely, at first. But there was nothing to be done yet. He needed clothes; going home was out. He hated shopping, but it was something to do. He left the condo and drove down to Rodeo Drive where choice shops flaunt the most outrageous prices in the city. But there were two he favored, off the beaten path, where the service was excellent, the selection broad and the prices at least within sight of reason. An hour later, he had all he needed and it was not yet two. He cringed at the thought of returning to Terri’s place. Except for the sky above, the only view out the windows was of the neighboring condos. He had seen enough of them. The Beverly Hilton was close. Learning more about Ms. Fairfield was a task best left to Robin and the Maestro. Still, it would occupy time. He might do better returning his attention to Angie Bergoin and Charlie Hoffler. But if the confrontation with Morrett led to a deadend, he would have to give more thought to Ms. Fairfield. She was the only person he knew who had seen Cantel after the man had left the post office. Besides, he was curious as to the source of her money. He smiled, content he had found sufficient reason to further waste the day.

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At the Beverly Hilton, people were disturbed by Jack’s approach. They didn’t seem to notice the new buckskin coat, only his marred face. They either refused to look at it or studied it in macabre fascination. It was if he was confronting all with evidence of violence they preferred to believe only occurred on television. He was two hundred dollars lighter by the time he found the right man behind the right bar. He chose a stool at the darker end, unimpressed by costly efforts to create an intimacy that to him seemed phony. About three, an elegant looking man of forty walked in, seated the woman with him at a table, then sat down across from her. The bartender’s nod in Jack’s direction confirmed his hunch. He was watching Sheldon Fairfield. Beyond noting the woman was probably older than she looked and that her clothes had cost a bunch, his attention was directed at Fairfield. Slender, but well proportioned. Close to six-one. Well groomed. A salt-and-pepper shading in the dark brown hair. The tan suit had been tailored. Jack sensed he was watching a man who took of women, who drew an inner sustenance from them. Then sustained the ready smile, the quick response, the attentive eyes with what he did not want for his own purposes. The thought bothered him. Ms. Fairfield had also seemed self-involved, not much into giving. It was nearly an hour later when the woman stood. Fairfield did also, elegant grace in every move. He watched until she disappeared from view. When he sat back down, he was still watching the archway through which she had passed. The face in repose had a speculative look, as if measuring what remained to be drained from this woman. At Jack’s approach, he looked up. Superficially there was no change. The smile was good. The face open, expansive. But the eyes were guarded. “Mind if I join you, Mr. Fairfield? The name’s Jack Collier.” He didn’t like it, but manners demanded at least a few moments of time. His nod toward the chair urged Jack to be brief. “Someone must have been quite angry with you,” he said, examining Jack’s face. The voice was honey smooth, the diction flawless. “No doubt he’s in much worse condition.”

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“No. I lost, if it matters.” “Honesty? My word.” He chuckled. “Tell me. What was it you needed?” “It’s about your ex-wife,” Jack said, laying his license on the table. “A question about insurance.” “Really,” he commented, the eyes showing a hint of humor over the top of his glass. He wasn’t buying. Maybe it was just as well. “She’d been married before she married you, hadn’t she?” “Yes,” he said, lowering his glass. “Do you remember the guy’s name?” “Perhaps you should ask her.” “She didn’t take a liking to me.” “That’s peculiar. You were undoubtedly wearing pants when you met her.” “Do I detect a sour note?” “You’re obnoxious.” “Not usually,” Jack said, puzzled at the man’s rancor. “Tell me, was it her money that bought that house on Sesnon? Or did you put in some of your own?” “At the time, I was without funds.” Jack wanted to ask how he was doing now, but he couldn’t see much point in prodding the man. He wasn’t sufficiently bored to want trouble. “I wonder why she put the place in your name, too.” “I never asked. Besides, there was a premarital agreement.” “How long did it last? A year?” “Less.” When he looked up from the table, the eyes had hardened; the smile seemed forced. “Now if you will excuse me,” he said, standing. “I could use that name.” “You are a bore,” he said, shaking his head in mock despair. “It was Farley Prentiss, if you must know.” “Any idea where I could find him?” “Ex-husbands seldom keep in touch.”


Robin, with the Maestro’s help, would probably need only minutes to find an address for Farley Prentiss. Jack thought about Terri’s condo, then reached for the first of the row of phone directories.

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There were three F. Prentisses listed. One proved to be a woman. The first name of the second was Frank. There had been no answer at the third number. He had to pass through Sepulveda on his way to Robin’s; he would take the time to check. He climbed into the car and drove off. This Prentiss lived in a low-side-of-modest apartment unit. The three tenants Jack talked with were not impressed with the man. But the first name was Farley. The last woman, her pouty mouth twisted in disapproval, suggested he might be found at the Two Fingers. Jack located the bar, three blocks down the street. Handy, he thought, if a man likes to drink in quantity. Getting safely home on rubbery legs is a better bet than driving. Inside, the light was so dim it was difficult to judge the depth and scope of the grime. He stepped up to the bar and asked the man behind it if he knew a Farley Prentiss. “That’s me,” the man on the stool beside him said, looking up with bleary watery eyes. “What the hell you want?” he demanded, examining the buckskin coat, appraising its worth. “The name’s Jack Collier. I’ve a couple questions.” He eyed Jack’s face a moment, then finished his drink. “My guess is you lost.” “That’s so. Can I buy you a drink?” “Hey, Solly,” he cried out. “I got a pigeon. Make it a double, huh?” “What about you, pal?” Solly asked, already pouring for Jack’s new friend. “Bacardi light over ice, please,” Jack replied, studying Prentiss, trying to subtract some years and more than a few drinks for each of those years. It didn’t work well. But Cantel hadn’t seemed to be a good fit for Violet, either. This man had been ground down; it was difficult to get an accurate fi x on age. Fifty. Maybe fifty-five. The veins in the thin hands were pronounced. His face had the unhealthy reddish glow of the devoted lush. “Ever been married?” Jack asked. “Hasn’t everybody?” Prentiss responded, knocking back a healthy portion of his fresh drink. “Anyone named Violet?” “Oh, yeah,” he muttered bitterly. “She was a fucking bitch, that one was.” His cackling laugh grated like fingernails on a chalkboard.

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“More truth to that than you might think. Christ, she liked nothing better than taking on three at a time. Guys. Gals. Or a mix. Set it up with a few lines of coke, mellow things out with a little grass, and she’d take them all off. She was something, let me tell you.” He took another swallow that emptied the glass. “Hey, Solly,” he called out. “This talking is a thirsty business.” “What was it like being married to her?” “A blast, man. A total high.” He straightened on the stool, a pathetic effort. “I was good, then. Had real staying power.” Then he slumped back down, his shoulders hunched out over the bar. “Fucking bitch,” he mumbled. “Sucked me dry, then dumped me, she did. I never knew why.” “How long were you married?” Jack asked. “Six fucking months.” That cackling laugh scratched at Jack’s ears again. “That’s about all we did, man. If somebody wasn’t doing her, she was doing them.” “When did you get married?” “Six years back, I think.” He lifted the half-empty glass and stared at it. “Been drinking,” he said. “Hard to keep track of time.” “Did she grab any of your bucks?” He laughed, that same irritating cackling sound to it. “Never had a buck anybody could grab. She had the bread. All she wanted from me was my tool and jewels.” He finished the drink and waved again at Solly. “She got them, too,” he added wistfully. “I haven’t been worth a damn since.” “Had she been married before?” “Yeah. A couple of years earlier.” “Remember the guy’s name?” “Why would I ask?” “Just thought it might have come up, is all.” “If it did, it’s gone now.” He stared at his glass. “She used the name Violet H. Prentiss, though. I remember that, at least.” For an instant the shoulders straightened, then he slumped back onto his arms. “I’d pay a hundred for that name,” Jack said. “Shit. I could give you Huntington. By the time you found out I was blowing smoke up your ass, I’d of had myself a right good time.” Jack couldn’t see any place to take it. He stood and dropped a twenty on the bar, staring down at Prentiss. The man had been right about one thing; he would have had to be capable to keep up with Violet. Christ. What six years and booze can do. He debated

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briefly with himself, then laid down two more twenties. More tonight wouldn’t help. But he didn’t see how it could matter much. Jack let things flow on the way back to the car. He didn’t have much for his day’s effort. Idly he wondered why a woman with Violet’s interests would marry at all. If she needed men like Prentiss, they were around. She didn’t have to marry to embrace a man, to wrap him within the cocoon of her demands, then drain from him the very blood of life. When he started the car, he snapped on the lights. Darkness had settled over the city. At bottom, it wasn’t Violet’s sex life that interested him, only the money. It hadn’t come from Fairfield or Prentiss. The H that Farley Prentiss had recalled had probably come from her previous husband’s name. Even so, he had to discard the man as the source of her bucks. Moneyed types play the marriage game with care. It was unlikely she had married a man, say ten years back, and taken him for what she had now. So how had she put it together? He couldn’t see that it mattered. Maybe he had been hoping to find hints of a new direction. Anything to avoid the necessity of going directly against Morrett. If that had been the hidden agenda, he had failed. This was not the time for idle speculation, hunches, or suppositions. He needed facts. He would pick up whatever Robin had put together on Morrett, get with Lencho and move. The head was clearer now. The aches were considerably diminished. And time might be running out without his knowing. He noticed a clamminess to his hands upon the wheel.


The underground garage at Blakely Heights, where Robin’s office was located, was nearly empty of cars when Jack pulled in and parked. The whole of it was evenly lighted, but management wasn’t wasting money on wattage. It was unlikely Morrett even knew he did business with Robin. Still, he was careful leaving the car. He kept a good fi x on the precise location of the Smith as he walked toward the stairs, echoes of his passing bouncing about the concrete walls, floor and ceiling. In the entrance to the lobby, he paused just beyond the door to the men’s room. There was no one in sight. He strode toward the

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descending elevator. “Say, my man.” Jack whirled, grabbing for the Smith, knowing he was too late. Henri Bernardi stood in the restroom door, the Beretta aimed at Jack’s gut. The second man, a Walther leveled, moved toward him, staying clear of Bernardi’s line of fire. Jack’s furious thoughts were a raging inferno of notions that were pointless, meaningless, or both. “We need your weapon, please,” Bernardi said, with that hard cocky smile. By the time the second man stopped behind Jack, the tightness in his gut had returned fire to the bruised ribs. The mouth was dry. The pounding in his head seemed deafening. He sucked at air as if the oxygen count had been abruptly halved. The overloaded sensors informed him of the strong odor of disinfectant reaching out from the open door of the restroom. Of the descending elevator stopping at the second floor. That Henri Bernardi’s black wingtips were shiny new. And none of it mattered, because the mouth of the Beretta seemed to be growing larger. The man behind him reached around and lifted the Smith. “Now, my man,” Bernardi said confidently, “let us proceed back the way you came.” Jack made no move. Down the stairs in the dimly lit garage, death awaited. But not until the pain became unendurable. Not until he gave Terri’s name. He felt the barrel of the Walther against his waist, pressing. Terri’s name. That’s it! Would they kill without it? The soft ding indicating the descending elevator had reached the lobby burst into his consciousness as if it were the deafening peal of a great bell of bronze. Bernardi broadened the smile. He shook his head at Jack as if cautioning a small child, then tucked the Beretta back under his coat. The Walther had been withdrawn from his waist. How many? Jack demanded of his ears as the elevator doors opened. Three at least. He was sure of that. Two men. One woman. Moving toward the main entrance. He whirled, driving a forearm up into the throat of the man behind him, then ran. In three strides, he was beyond the woman. To the accompaniment of hoarse cries and the woman’s scream, he dashed through the entry, flew down the steps, then sprinted for the side of the building.

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He worked at pumping the arms, lengthening the stride, ignoring complaining lungs and throbbing aches. A few feet short of the corner, two shots rang out. Bullets notched concrete at his feet. He dove for the alley entrance, decreasing his size as a target. He landed heavily and the body promptly took up new complaints, voicing older ones resoundingly. He let himself roll, then lunged up, ignoring all thought but that of putting distance between himself and those behind. At the back of the building, the alley intersected another. To the left, it was much too far to the street. He risked slowing for a hasty glance behind, and saw he’d been able to make the right without being seen. Loading docks and an occasional parked truck slipped behind him. The alley was a dead end. He stopped, swaying unsteadily, gasping for air. He might be able to scale the twelve foot wall. Or break into one of the darkened buildings. Or climb to a rooftop. But if he were slowed much, or failed, it would be fatal. Off the alley to his left, two eighteen wheelers had been parked, backed into a loading dock, stacked with strapped skids and heavy equipment. He had a few seconds, but none to waste. His pursuers would check doorways he had passed, poke behind trucks, stacked crates and the like. And that’s what they would do here, check all that lay to their front. Behind him, at the point where the alley had been widened to allow the big rigs to maneuver, was the back of Arnett’s Tool & Die. Next to the wall, Jiff y bags were stacked head high. Battered galvanized cans were stuffed with scrap. He needed a weapon almost as badly as cover. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. And that blinding dizzying hurt hit hard, nearly driving him to his knees. Locking his hands to his head, he staggered toward the cans. How long he stood, waiting for the sky to stop its fall, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t hear footsteps yet. Hastily he poked about in the cans. When he lifted the two-foot length of twisted steel flat stock, he liked the weight of it. At his feet was a two-gallon pail filled with what smelled like a mix of solvents and oils. Possible. Jack hefted a Jiff y bag. It reeked of machine oil but weighed little. Some kind of paper toweling, probably. Hurriedly he positioned the pail of solvents, pulled two bags out while holding another up, then backed into the small cave he had created. Kneeling, he pressed

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backward, pulling the two bags after him. The pile shifted suddenly and he stopped; it wouldn’t do to have it tumble. He heard footsteps now, rushing, then pausing, as the man checked both sides of the alley. Was he alone? Surely one would have checked the alley to the street. He had counted on that. Gently shoving and tugging at the bags, he made a small tunnel through which he could see almost to the opposite side of the alley. He was no longer gasping, but he concentrated on taking each breath deeply, forcing himself to release it without rush. He strained his ears, his eyes locked on the narrow slice of alley. He still had heard only one set of feet, but the second man might be close. How close? he asked himself, then stifled that line of thought. He heard a rush from his left, then a foot prodded the Jiff y bags surrounding him. Through his tunnel, Jack saw a black wingtip planted, not three feet away. He held his breath. Sweat poured down his back and ribs. The foot kept twisting away, as if Bernardi was keen on getting on to the more promising area of the loading dock and the two big rigs backed into it. Abruptly the foot turned away. It was joined by the other and both moved out into the alley. With every ounce of strength, Jack lunged up, grabbed the handle of the pail, then lurched away from the wall, Jiff y bags tumbling about him. Bernardi whirled, then froze, his eyes wide in total disbelief. Jack put everything he had into slinging the pail of solvents. Smiling now, Bernardi dropped into a crouch, bringing the Beretta around as Jack let go. The pail sailed through the air. Bernardi shoved a forearm up to ward off the contents already splashing over him, and fired. Too hastily, perhaps, for Jack heard the round snap at air close to his ear. The pail tumbled on over Bernardi’s head. He rubbed furiously at his eyes, backing quickly, firing blindly. But Jack had shifted to the right; four rounds slammed harmlessly into the wall behind him. Jack lunged, feet first. He was rewarded with a gut rending grunt, then Bernardi fell backward, tumbling on over in a somersault. When he straightened, Jack was close enough to swing the bar of steel up at the chin. But the man jerked his head away. The blow drew blood and dizzied the man, but did little damage. Jack slammed a knee toward the groin. It connected with a heavily muscled thigh, as he grabbed the wrist above the gun with his free hand.

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Bernardi used his power to close. Jack’s hand gripping the steel bar was pinned beyond the man’s head and shoulder. He could not budge the arm holding the pistol. He had to make it happen; there was no reasonable move until he forced Bernardi to drop the weapon. When he let go of the flat stock, he was able to wrench the arm free, then drive it between them to grab the hand holding the gun. He put everything he had into forcing the arm down to where he could put his knee into it. Blows rained upon his back and sides. He stayed close, protecting areas previously battered. The dizzies hit and he clung to the arm for support. It moved toward him. He sensed his strength deserting him as water from a sieve. He reversed tactics, yanking the wrist closer. The gun was between them. Bernardi abruptly gave up pounding and jerked his free hand back to drive it between them. Jack went with his move, tumbling the man to the ground, falling on top of him, effectively defeating the free arm. Bernardi grabbed Jack’s hair, dragging his head back with a fierce strength he was able to resist, but would not be able to defeat. He could hear rushing footsteps now. It added impetus, bringing a violent surge of failing strength. The muzzle of the gun was under the man’s chin. Jack freed one hand, then jammed the forefinger between Bernardi’s and the trigger guard. Blinded by the searing flame, deafened by the blast, Jack felt the warmth of the man’s blood on his face and hands. He rolled, tore the pistol free, then threw himself around to face the running footsteps, ignoring spasms from the body he leaned against. The rushing man’s features were only vague shadows when he fired. The round knocked sparks from the asphalt but a foot from Jack’s hip. Beretta, Jack reminded himself. Nearly the same weapon as his Smith. Heavier. Somewhat larger in the butt. Another round notched the paving beside him. Jack steadied the pistol on the now still body and sighted at the running man, closing quickly, fifty yards away. He watched flame erupt once more from the muzzle of the Walther, and felt Bernardi’s body shudder as the round ripped into it. Jack waited. There was no merit in firing too soon. With an untried weapon, he wanted the best possible target. But when the next round ripped through the shoulder of his coat, he fired. The man lurched into a pattern of zigs and zags, but came on. Aiming ahead, along the path of the broad chest, Jack fired again. And missed.

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Sweat flowed off his face. The pistol was slippery within his grip. Another slug pounded into the body but inches below his gun hand. Jack fired. He knew it had gone high. He was bringing the barrel down for another shot when he realized the man’s forward surge had become a lunge, almost as if he was diving for cover. But there was none, in the center of the alley. Jack staggered up and closed quickly, holding the Beretta pointed at the man’s head. His caution had been wasted. His last round had been high, but no higher than the neck. A goodly chunk had been notched in one side of it at the back of the jaw. Jack reached deeply within himself, searching anxiously, almost frantically. There ought to be some sense of victory. Of triumph. There had to be something of the sort. But all he felt was a sad, sorry sick sense of relief that it was not his blood still oozing from the wound, flowing down to spread ever so slowly over the dusty asphalt paving.

Chapter 22 He had erased his prints with the ruined coat, retrieved his gun, then fled. Had he stayed, he would have been cleared. After the hours of questioning, the paperwork, the waiting around. But he had sensed even if he could spare that time, Terri might not be able to. And for what might yet need to be done, he wanted no light directed toward him, official or otherwise. In a darkened filling station, he used water from the drinking fountain to wash blood from his hair and face. The coat, shirt, pants and shoes went into different dumpsters, scattered about the city, replaced by clothes from the back seat of the car. He rented a room in a dingy motel that asked only for his money. In the shower, he scrubbed off a layer of skin with a stiff brush and harsh soap. Again he slipped on clean clothes and dumped those he had been wearing. He knew a lab might still find a trace of his presence in that alley. But he would risk it; someone would first have to connect him to the scene. At a Denny’s, he ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee. The waitress didn’t linger. Jack decided it may have been the stern

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set to his features, the lips compressed into a straight line. He was unaware of the muddy, distant cast in his eyes, the icy chill about them. When he finished the greasy, tasteless sandwich, only one thing seemed clear. Getting safely at Morrett could take days to arrange. It seemed unlikely he would be given that time. He needed an alternative. When his thoughts rolled back to his meetings with Angie Bergoin and Charlie Hoffler, he smiled at his early hopes one would prove to be the blackmailer. The smile lingered. “Hoffler begins with an H, now doesn’t it”, he murmured to his coffee. He had asked Angie once, the name of the woman Hoffler had married. She hadn’t answered. It wasn’t much, but he was close to her place. He would ask again, then get with Terri. He didn’t like it, this thickening cloud of pending doom, spreading, beginning to block what light remained in Terri’s world.


It was near midnight when Jack made another turn and saw Angie’s place up ahead. Only a few homes showed a lighted window. Most were sleeping, holding their hopes for tomorrow. His own along that line were being held tightly. He parked and hurried up the flagstone walk. There was no sign of light. He knocked firmly, wondering why he didn’t sense at least some measure of regret at waking those inside. He knocked again. When the door flew open, Jack faced an angry man, somewhat shorter than he, but heavier, more powerful, and several years younger. He was wearing only pajama bottoms. “What the hell is this shit?” “I need to talk to your wife, Mr. Bergoin,” Jack said, working at politeness. “Fuck off,” he snarled, taking a menacing step forward. He appeared to believe Jack knew his wife a little too well. Jack was setting himself, when Angie stepped into the doorway. Her hair was tousled, the eyes clouded with anger. She was fumbling to belt the robe about her nakedness. “Get away from me,” she hissed. “And stay away, you bastard.” Her face was made ugly with her snarl.

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“Step outside. We’ll chat some, then I’ll do that. Otherwise, I’ll hunt up a cop I know who’ll get a warrant. Then you can chat with both of us.” As Jack had spoken, the anger in her eyes had slowly been replaced by uncertainty. Then she reached out, placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder and said, “Please, George. Wait inside.” When she stepped around him, his jaw dropped in astonishment. The whole of him trembled with rage. As Jack fell in step beside her toward the sidewalk, the door slammed behind them. “What is it now?” she demanded, whirling to face him. “I need a name, is all.” “In the middle of the night?” “You wouldn’t feel differently at high noon, assuming I could have made an appointment. Now tell me, what was the name of the woman Charlie Hoffler married?” “I have no idea.” The hem of her robe was trembling. She was clasping her hands, tightly. Jack stuffed his own hands into his pockets to keep them from thinking about her neck. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been beaten pretty good, if you hadn’t noticed. And a couple hours back, two guys made a real good try at killing me. I don’t much like the notion, but I’m going to walk all over you if it needs doing.” “You have no right to talk to me that way.” “The dead have few rights. I’m not much concerned about yours. Besides, all I’m asking for is a name.” “I told you I don’t know.” “It won’t wash. You had your sights set on Hoffler. You may not have met that woman, but you damned well would have picked up the name. Now give, Ms. Bergoin, or we are going round and round.” “It was Violet,” she said softly. Clang. Clang. But it was not a trolley. What are the odds of dealing four straight aces from an honest deck? “And the last name?” “I never found out.” She was staring down at the walk, the knuckles of her hands whitening in her grip. “Could it have been Moyer?” “It could have been Collier,” she snapped. “Why don’t you ask Charlie, for God’s sake?” “Might do that,” he said. “What’s frightening you?”

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“At the moment, you are.” “Ravone sent his people to talk to you again, didn’t he?” “Yes,” she hissed. “And they hurt me, all because of your poking and prying.” “What did you tell them you haven’t told me?” “Nothing.” She was trembling now. “Nothing at all.” “But there is more, isn’t there?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Bruno Ravone, maybe. You said he hit on you. He wasn’t accustomed to taking no for an answer. How did you get rid of him so easily?” “I simply told him to leave me alone.” “No. There’s more.” Jack was unaware of having pulled his hands from his pockets until he realized he was hurting her, gripping her shoulders tightly. “You pointed that stud at Terri Delaney, didn’t you?” “No,” she whispered, shaking her head in a misery unrelated to physical pain. “God knows how I hate that coldhearted bitch, but I’d never do such a thing. I couldn’t.” She hadn’t noticed her robe had come undone, revealing a good deal of lovely nakedness. “But that’s what you did,” Jack said, letting go of her, wondering what kind of specimen he faced. He tucked his hands back into his pockets, just as a precaution. “Want some advice?” “Not from you,” she snapped, noting her open robe and quickly covering up. “Don’t call Ravone this time.” “Up yours, you arrogant bastard.” “Don’t get me mixed up with some dumb hero type. When Ravone asks, I’ll tell him what I know. If he doesn’t have you killed, you’ll survive the beating, if the internal damage isn’t too serious. Broken bones heal fast at your age. And a good plastic surgeon can help with the scars.” “You wouldn’t,” she said in a near whisper. But in the eyes he saw that she knew he would. “Bastards do what needs doing,” he said with a tight thin smile, “just like most people. I’m kind of keen on this living bit, even if you decide you’ve lost interest.” He left her there, trembling, staring down at the sidewalk.

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On the street in front of Terri’s condo, Jack killed his lights and slowed to a stop behind the gray sedan. He waited until certain his car had been recognized, then climbed out. Al Morales eased out of the sedan and tucked the twelve gauge auto back inside. “So how’s it go,” Jack asked as the man came up, offering his hand. The bright smile broadened. “For a few minutes back there, we weren’t bored at all, Mr. Collier.” “How’s that?” “Two dudes in a caddy, man. They wanted to get it on, until they noticed Frank and Tony coming up behind.” “Recognize either of them?” “One. Lucas Tomasso. One of Morrett’s dudes.” Jack glanced left, then right, at the quiet empty street. “They’ll likely be back,” he said, a tired empty sound to the words. Al nodded. “After all this time, man, I’m ready.” Jack ran it down once more. There wasn’t any other option now. “Come morning, Al, I’m going to wave you off. I can’t say just when. But I want you out of it.” “You’re the main man, Mr. Collier. But I’d have to hear that from Lencho.” “When I get inside, I’ll give him a call.” “That’s cool.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “I might be out of line,” he said slowly, “but wherever you’re going, you could use cover. Me and Hector, man. We got nothing better to do.” “Thanks, Al. There’s no one I’d rather have beside me.” He sighed tiredly. “But I’ve a hunch when this ends, it will be best if there’s only one tale to be told.” “I can dig that, man,” Al said solemnly, then turned back to the sedan. Jack climbed into the Trans Am and pulled ahead to the wrought iron gate. Tonight he didn’t hurry punching in the code or getting back to the car. Inside, he parked and climbed out of the car, aware of complaints issued by too many precious parts of his anatomy. At the door, he paused, looking down at the key Terri had given him, as if it could unlock his tangled thoughts.

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He let himself inside, closed the door quietly, then headed for the rum. He carried his drink out to the patio. Ignoring the night’s chill, he settled into a chair and tilted his head back to gaze up at the stars. Orion, with his starry sword, was directly overhead, but faintly dimmed by the lights of the city and the thin crescent moon about to drop below his line of sight over the redwood fence. He hadn’t heard a sound, but when he looked at the doorway, Terri stood within it, dimly outlined by the night-light inside. He took a sip of his drink, watching as she stepped hesitantly into the quiet night. She shivered at the chill, sending shimmers through the ankle length silk gown. She wore nothing under it. “Hi,” he said, seeking a smile that would encourage her. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked. “I’ve nothing that won’t wait until morning.” “Yes, you do,” she said as she sat down, leaning toward him on her elbows. “I do?” “I’m tired of waiting. Remember?” “Yes. I do.” He let himself flow again into those remarkable eyes, black in the light of the stars. “Can I get you a drink?” “What is it, Jack?” He sighed. “Expect it’s time you gave me a better picture of what we’re up against.” “I thought I’d made it clear.” “That tape?” The eyes seemed to glisten with even greater brightness. Her lips were parted as if in alarm. “It hasn’t much to do with sex.” She took a deep breath, then held it. “What you did, Terri, is kill Bruno Ravone.” The air rushed out of her. The breasts surged against the gown as she fought for air. Her gaze remained fi xed on his eyes. “I was expecting an angry scene,” she said in hushed tones. “Bitterness or recriminations, perhaps. Certainly something nasty.” “People lie, Terri,” he said quietly. “It’s a fact of life, not a crime.” “I should have known you would understand. You have secrets, also.” “A few,” he said, suppressing a tremor, shoving aside images of bright red blood spreading upon dusty asphalt.

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“I should have told you in the beginning.” “I can’t see how it would have helped. But I need it now.” She stood, her tousled hair glinting in the lingering moonlight. “I believe I will fi x a drink,” she said. “We’ll take this inside. It’s too cold out here for that outfit.” “I hadn’t noticed until you mentioned it.”


Terri was curled up in the chair with one bare foot tucked under her. The gown gaped open revealing the upper slopes of her breasts. She was unaware of all but a desperate need to get it said, to lay it out between them. “You were right about Angie,” she said, continuing. “He told me she would join us and make it a threesome. I did everything I could to get him to leave. When he began telling me how it would be, I grabbed the gun from my purse and tried to call the desk. Laughing, he kept coming. He stripped the phone away and hung it up, then cupped my breast in his hand as if there were no gun. “When he reached for it, his finger forced mine back and it went off. It was such a small hole. So little blood. I couldn’t believe he was dead. I can hardly believe it even now.” She covered her eyes with her hand. Jack stood and began pacing. “Stern had left by the time Bruno got inside,” he said. “But Janet Fisher let the tape run. “Ravone didn’t give much thought to you, because you left at one and the time of death was officially pegged at four. But the walls of that wash were reflecting withering heat. Body temperature was slow to drop. And that’s about the best they’ve got to go on. They figured wrong, is all.” He turned to face her. “Since you didn’t call a cop, it figures you knew something about Ravone even then.” “Yes,” she said with a shudder. “I handled the news bulletins coming into the station. He may still kill me, but I’ve had eight wonderful years.” “You’re not dead yet. Take a fi x on that.” “That’s not easy to do just now.” He sipped at his drink, then asked, “Suppose I find that tape. What do you plan to do with it?” “Show it to Mr. Ravone. I’m hoping he will understand and let matters rest.”

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“That would be fatal, Terri. Guys like Ravone don’t believe in accidents. Besides, as close as you two were standing, it’s not likely any camera picked up his finger forcing the trigger.” “If you’re right, I’ve no idea what to do.” “I’m working on that,” he said, wishing he had made measurable progress. “Jack, I’ve lived in terror of what Angie might do. She called Mr. Ravone after your first visit. Do you think there’s any chance she might call again?” “No. She treasures that body of hers more than anything in this world. I’d bet a bundle what frightens her more than dying, is the thought of all that loveliness turned ugly with scars.” “God, I hope you’re right.” “I’m sure of that call.” He sighed heavily, then sat back down. Watching her over the top of his glass, he said quietly, “I think Morrett has your name.” A hand flew to her mouth. Around it, she cried, “What are you saying?” The eyes were impossibly large. “I talked with Al on the way in. Two of Morrett’s men were by a little earlier.” “But how could he have gotten it?” “It’s only a guess, but it seems likely he’s been given the names of all the victims. When his men came by to check on you, we waved a giant red flag in his face. Lencho’s people wouldn’t be out there, if you were only another victim.” “But, Jack, that’s not proof.” “He only needs to take you into the foothills, up a canyon where your screams can’t be heard. In a short while, you’d tell him everything you know.” “Then he’d kill me,” she said in hushed tones, the whole of her racked with faint but insistent tremors. When the worst of it had passed for her, Jack said, “Lencho’s people will leave in the morning.” “But we need them more than ever.” Jack shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not just now.” “My God. What are you thinking?” “We’re going to sit here and decide what’s got to be done. Then we’re going to do it. The two of us.” “No witnesses,” Terri murmured softly, her eyes filled with the implications of her words.

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“Something like that,” Jack said. “Besides, Morrett knows those guys are out there. He’ll plan to come through them. We can prevent a little dying by getting lost.” “Are you saying it’s time for me to use those names you gave me?” “No. Not just yet. But you’ve got to get out of sight and be ready. I don’t know what your dad would be willing to do, but Lencho can hide you in the barrio indefinitely. Either way, I’d be able to finish this without worrying about you.” “I don’t want to leave you to fight my battles for me.” “It’s what you’re paying me to do.” “I haven’t paid you a dime yet.” “Do I look worried?” “Yes. But not about money. And there’s a melancholy look in your eyes I haven’t seen before.” “I may have a who.” He sipped at his drink, looking beyond the walls of the condo at nothing at all. “It’s possible Violet Fairfield was Violet Moyer once, that she killed Janet Fisher and took whatever tapes she made in Vegas. If I’m right, I can prove it easily.” “My God. That’s fantastic.” “Suppose I do get that tape. All Ravone needs is your name. You would talk to his people as willingly as to Morrett’s.” “But Jack, you said you thought she had more than just my tape. If you took them all, how could she know I’m involved?” “She might decide to do as much damage as she could to all her victims. A phone call to Ravone would end it for you.” “But it’s worth the risk, don’t you think?” “Only if I can get in and out of her place without her knowing it was me. Morrett knows your name. She could get it from him, easily enough.” “Why do you seem so hesitant? Surely it’s worth a try.” “Expect you’re right,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Because I only see one other option.” Her breath caught. Blood drained from her face. “You wouldn’t,” she said, a tremor in her voice. Jack leaned toward her. “Could you?” he asked, a cold muddy cast to the coffee-brown eyes. “Are you prepared to stick a gun in her ear and pull the trigger?” he demanded. “No.” He leaned back, exhaling slowly. The coldness in his eyes faded to a duller tone. “I don’t see another way,” he said.

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She rose, than sat down beside him and began stroking the hair at his temples. “If I must, I will use those names you gave me,” she said, with calm determination. For a time he sat quietly, savoring the scents and feel of her. But then he wanted more. He reached and pulled her against him, more roughly than he had planned. He was surprised at the urgency of her response. It escalated more swiftly than either was prepared for. The coupling was more a mutual taking, a violence to it Jack questioned momentarily, then embraced. It was as if they were locked in a deadly struggle and the desperate search for life within it. And beyond.

Chapter 23 It was near eight when Sgt. Sykes strode into the squad room and over to his desk where Jack waited. The tie, while loosely knotted, was snugged up to the buttoned collar. “I still have a cell available,” he said, settling into the chair, then lighting his cigarette. “Or did you drop by to make things easier?” “What do you need?” “A confession would be sweet.” “Of what?” Kyle sighed. For a moment the harsh planes of his face seemed to soften, erasing the habitual sternness. “You look like hell, you know that?” “I’m still hurting pretty good.” “It looks as if you’ve been sleeping poorly, too.” “That’s part of it.” “Could there be another reason you missed sleep last night? Beyond the aches and pains?” “Kyle, what in hell are you driving at?” “Henri Bernardi was wasted last night, along with another punk we haven’t made yet. What do you know about it?” “Haven’t heard a thing.” “For motive, we could build on the fact he’s the one who beat hell out of you.” “I must be the only guy he’s stomped.” “Do you own a forest brown buckskin coat?”

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“A couple, I think,” Jack said, remembering the dumpster into which he had tossed what he’d been wearing last night. “Listen, Kyle,” he said, leaning closer. “Were they shot in the back, maybe?” “No. They both did some shooting.” “So what’s the problem?” Jack laid the Smith on the desk. “Check it if you like.” Kyle did. “Nice and clean,” he remarked. “But not recently.” Jack tucked the gun away. “You know I’ve got others. Why not check them all?” “Wouldn’t do any good. If you’d used one of your own pieces, you would have tossed it.” “Maybe they shot each other.” “Yeah. That must be it. After taking three rounds, Bernardi shot his partner, then stuck his gun up under his chin and took himself off.” He hunched out over the desk, the pale blue eyes pinning Jack back against the chair. “Morrett will send somebody else.” “Then you’ve still got a chance.” “Damn,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair. “I want Morrett so bad my gut aches.” “How are you doing with Cantel?” Jack asked. “I checked on his soldiers. None of them favor a .25. I don’t see any place to take that line.” “Find out anything about the man himself?” “He used to be big time in banking, up in the Bay area. He approved a nine million dollar loan to a company that disappeared. There was evidence of direct involvement, but not enough to make a court type case. Since he was fired, he’s been working for the Post Office.” “That loan sounds like Saldino’s kind of action.” “Yeah.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter now.” “I’m guessing he was transferred to the Northridge branch, some eighteen months back.” “Twenty. How did you come up with that?” “Addresses to which money was delivered.” “And you still can’t remember the name of your buddy.” “Damn. Had it right on the tip of my tongue, too.” “Get out of here.” “Did you get anything on Janet Fisher’s prints?” Jack asked, standing. “So what if I did?”

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“What did you find?” “They couldn’t get a make.” “That’s interesting. The Sheriff told me she’d been booked.” “You want the number? Me, I don’t argue on another man’s turf.” “Me, neither. Catch you later,” Jack said, turning. “Not unless you stay lucky. You were loaded with the stuff, last night.” “Sure,” Jack said over his shoulder. But he knew the man was right. And he was certain Kyle knew he had taken out Bernardi and his partner. And chose not to press it. When he got the chance, a bit more thinking about this man was called for.


When Jack stepped free of the grim faced guard at KTSV, it was right on nine o’clock. Terri started down the stairs. She fell into step beside him, as if by chance, and pressed a key into his hand. “The executive elevator is to the right at the end of this hall,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “You’ll have to get through the private entrance to his office.” She turned away, down another hallway, before he had a chance to tell her he didn’t have any picks. With a mental shrug, he continued on. At the rear of the building, the key worked. On the third floor, the elevator opened to a small anteroom. He was alone. Jack had never understood why, but doors are generally installed to close to the outside against a molding inside the jam. But all that holds one closed is the latch, secured by an inch or so of wood, often pine. He drove his heel into the door, just above the lock. It swung open with surprisingly little sound. He slipped inside, shoved the door against the splintered jam, then settled into the spacious chair behind the desk. Thirty minutes later, the office door opened and Hoffler entered, another man trailing. “What we’ve got to do, Mather, is to . . .” When he saw Jack, he stopped so suddenly Mather bumped into him. “Get rid of your friend,” Jack said, nodding toward the slender older man now standing to the left of Hoffler. “You’re the one who’s leaving,” Hoffler said, stalking toward the desk.

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Jack leaned forward and handed him the phone. His smile lacked warmth. “Invite whoever. They’ll enjoy hearing what happened during that extra night you spent at Wonderland.” “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He reached for the phone with chubby fingers, his angry scowl accented by gathering perspiration. The breathing was ragged, quickened. Mather was watching closely, fi lled with uncertainty. “How did Janet Fisher con you into marriage?” Jack asked softly, still smiling. Hoffler’s face paled. The phone in his hand was forgotten. “My wife’s name was Violet Moyer,” he said faintly. “I’m pressed for time, mister,” Jack said, letting a touch of ice show in the words. “Answer the question or we’re going to dance. Right here. Right now.” Mather discretely slipped out the door, closing it silently behind him. As if feeling faint, Hoffler collapsed into the chair. He looked ten years older, as if the flow of blood to his head had been suddenly halved. “How did you find out?” he asked, in a hollow voice. “It’s what I do,” Jack said. More gently, he continued. “Maybe you should give me your version.” “I met her in the bar after that network meeting.” “Janet Fisher?” He nodded without looking up. “She seemed such a fun type, I never thought of saying no. By the time we got into the sack, I was so hot I didn’t think I could last more than a minute or two, but she kept me on the brink for nearly half an hour.” He spoke as if of a man he had once known, years back. A man he despised. “Within ten minutes, she had me ready for more. Then came the coke. She slowed it all down with grass.” He was silent for a moment, as if choosing his words. “Please, you’ve got to understand. I’d have done anything she asked. Can you see that?” Still staring at his shoes, he didn’t see Jack nod encouragingly. “They were so young. First the girl. Then the boy joined in. She managed it all. At the time, it was the greatest high of my life.” Perspiration glistened on his forehead. His breathing was more a gasping for air. “One night, about three months later, I found her waiting for me in front of my garage.”

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He gripped hard at the arms of the chair. “I wanted to kill her, to smash her, to see the eyes dull. I thought my heart would quit when she said she had a tape. That the boy was fourteen. The girl, thirteen. “She took charge, then, as she had in Las Vegas. I lost all control. I couldn’t stop myself.” And he became lost again, in memories all the more clearly locked in by his efforts to forget. How many nights has he gotten through only with the help of a bottle? How many crummy rooms has he awakened in, not even knowing the name of the woman snoring beside him? Hoffler continued, still staring at his shoes. “She thought Franco Ravone meant to kill her. She wanted a new identity. Violet Moyer’s.” “Did you know she murdered Violet?” “She said she had, that she’d tried to make it look as if she herself was dead. And it scared the shit out of me. I knew I ought to run. But I couldn’t. She was too much for me. “Between the coke, the grass, and sex. Always there was that. And faking my way through a day’s work when I could make it in, I put it together for her. “She’d been a bleached blond with long hair. She went back to her natural color with a rinse and a short cut, the way Violet had worn hers. She wrote for a copy of Violet’s birth certificate. With that, I had her apply for a social security number. When that came through, she got a driver’s license, then a passport. “When she said she wanted to get married, I was too far gone to resist. Three months later, she filed for divorce. She took the condo and a hundred thousand I had to borrow. “I haven’t seen her since, but I get a card every Christmas. The message is always the same: Remember the good times.” He looked up, then, for the first time. “Don’t you think that’s funny?” “Hilarious,” Jack said grimly. He had seen pain, enough to know it comes in assorted colors. Hoffler’s looked like something one might find in a broken sewer line. It enveloped him, except for the empty pleading look in his eyes. “It sounds,” Jack said, “as if she still has a copy of that tape.” “It doesn’t seem to matter any more.” Jack rose and walked around the desk. He had an absurd urge to pat the man on the head and tell him everything would be just

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fine. “I’m looking for a tape,” he said. “If I run across one with your name on it, I’ll get rid of it.” “Do you think you can?” “If the luck holds.” Jack headed for the door, anxious to be clear of the glimmer of desperate hope in the man’s eyes. “You best get that back door fi xed,” he said. “Thank you,” Hoffler murmured. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

Chapter 24 Jack told Terri of what Hoffler had been forced to do. He didn’t mention the way of it; Terri didn’t ask. “Likely she married both Prentiss and Fairfield,” he said, “only in hopes of burying her identity more deeply.” As he turned onto Sesnon, he noticed his hands were gripping the wheel too tightly. “She’s not bright,” he continued. “It took her better than two years to find a way to begin her game. She found it in Cantel. She probably held a tape over his head, but it wouldn’t have meant bucks to her; a postal clerk doesn’t make much. But with that, and sexual rewards, she sucked in the courier she needed. “She may never have checked on her victims; she may have been afraid to get that close. Whatever, she upped the ante every six months because she didn’t care whether one or another couldn’t cut it.” He pulled up and parked the rental Chevy under the eucalyptus trees, four doors short of the house. He killed the engine, then examined all to be seen. “She could spot you, even though she hasn’t seen this car before.” “We’ve been over that,” Terri said determinedly. “After all this time, to be so close. I won’t leave now.” “You saved me time, getting in to see Hoffler. But there’s nothing you can do here.” “Jack, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I’m through with waiting. I’ve simply got to know.” “If I’d been a little smarter, you’d be out of here already.” “What else could you have done?” “Called Lencho, maybe.” “What do you mean?”

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“Have Al and Hector grab you and tuck you away for a time.” “Jack. You wouldn’t.” “Whatever, I didn’t. Right now, though, I kind of wish I had.” “The jet you chartered is ready. You told me Robin has two of her most capable men aboard. And the Van Nuys Airport is only twenty minutes from here. You’ve done everything you can.” “That’s so,” he said with a sigh. “Everything except getting you on that plane.”


An hour later, the dark blue Jag was backed out of the garage, and Janet Fisher drove off. Jack sensed faint tremors in his hands. He had tried to explain to Terri she was forcing his hand. In refusing to leave, she remained at enormous risk. And she had seemed to understand. Yet she was still here beside him. Gone was the time he needed to find a pattern to Janet Fisher’s life. All he knew now was she had left the house. When she would return, he couldn’t even guess. He tugged on the disposable garden gloves. “I sure in hell wish you were on that plane, up about thirty thousand feet.” “Just be careful, Jack,” she said. “The deal stands. Right?” “Yes. I’ll run at the first sign of trouble.” Jack searched the blueness of her eyes, hoping to find a measure of assurance. “I will, Jack,” she said evenly. He took a slow deep breath, nodded, tucked the small pry bar under the jacket, and climbed out of the car. He walked up the block and turned at the brick walk. He didn’t expect to draw much attention. There had been a lot of guys step up to this door. Taking a mental fi x on the Smith, he pried the front door open, then stepped inside. Splintered wood prevented it from closing, even when he put his foot to it. It wasn’t pretty. He ripped open the drawers in the library table in the entry and dumped them. He swept the set of books off the shelf, then kicked each open, checking. A videotape has size. In the brief interludes of silence, he listened for sounds of the Jag returning. He tried to tell himself he could be looking for a key, that the tapes might be stored elsewhere. But he couldn’t buy it. This woman

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would want her power near. She might even get turned on watching a tape. They were here; he meant to find them, if he had to strip the wallboard. He worked his way around the living room, tossing cushions to the floor, overturning furniture, and ripping at suspicious looking fabric. The Pioneer receiver and supporting components were linked to two massive speakers. He dumped them to the floor to check the cabinet space behind them. A half a hundred CDs tumbled out of their trays. He left the giant screen TV and two VCRs alone; he could see behind them. The massive fireplace had been used recently. Ashes overflowed onto the hearth and wood was stacked in the brass bin. Nothing would be hidden up the chimney. He hurried to the tall wooden cabinet that was locked. Beautiful walnut and intricate ebony inlay splintered under the force of leverage. Videocassettes. Near two hundred of them. “Molly’s Lollipop.” “Cher’s Hard Night.” He moved on. The tapes he wanted would not be stored in colorfully printed jackets. Upstairs, the light switch in her bedroom was on a rheostat. He turned it up full and the room fi lled with brightness bounced off the mirrored ceiling and walls. The light fi xtures were mounted head high, each a set of two or more figures wrapped in sexual embrace, shadowed by light directed upward. He found her stash of grass in the nightstand by the huge waterbed. Beside it was nearly two ounces of coke. She hadn’t changed her basic tools. The bar in one corner was as well stocked as the one in the den. The massive TV had its own VCR. In the narrow closet next to the bed he found her goodies. Handcuffs. Silken cord. Vibrators. Several whips, one with tiny bards on the tips of the five feathered endings. There were several items he could not imagine a use for. All neatly arrayed. There was a Polaroid camera, if photos would heighten the affair. And two video cameras on tripods. These weren’t hidden, as they had been at Wonderland. These were for those who might want to view a rerun as the prelude to further games. With a sense of time passing too swiftly, he dumped the dresser drawers, but found only a vast variety of filmy, wispy bedwear. The clothes in the closet weren’t fancy or particularly expensive. But he would have bet every piece accented her remarkable body in some way. It was unlikely, but the tapes could be under the unmovable

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waterbed. At several points, he jammed the pry bar into it and ripped, then left the room. He would check later. The next bedroom was plainly furnished, probably a recovery room for guests done in. He was quickly finished with it. The third bedroom contained only sitting furniture and a roll-top desk. In the closet, the upper shelf had been enclosed at one end. The locked door of pine splintered easily. A leather shoulder carry-on bag filled the interior. He yanked it out and unzipped it. Her get-away stash, he decided. Not much. Two sets of underwear, a handful of toiletries, a dress and sweater. She wouldn’t need to carry more; the stacks of hundred dollar bills would buy whatever she needed, anywhere she happened to be. The traveler’s checks were worth five hundred dollars each. Interesting, but he was still no nearer to finding the tapes. The passing of time bore down upon him. He turned to the desk. He found nothing of importance in what he dumped from the drawers. But a scrap of paper inserted into the worn Royal portable and three keystrokes answered one question. The oddly slanted s showed the blackmail demands had been pecked out on this machine. The Rolodex file held a tab for Terri. And one for her dad. One for Hoffler and Cantel, also. And the one he had been expecting: Leland Morrett. With the file and shoulder bag, he rushed down the stairs and into the living room, then dumped them on the fireplace hearth. He didn’t pay much attention to things in the kitchen. He swept everything to the floor so as to have a clear look at it all, and at the insides of the cabinets. It must have been the racket he was making, for he didn’t know he wasn’t alone, until a familiar sultry voice said, “You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you?” He whirled. The small .25 auto was pointed at his nose, not more than six feet from it. “When Miles starts to come,” Janet Fisher said, “he always closes his eyes.” Her own blazed with memories. “That’s when I shot him.” Her bare breasts surged against the material of the simple blouse. “He bucked so hard, he nearly tossed me to the floor. Then he shuddered, real hard, deep inside me. God. It was the greatest high ever.” Jack was intent on the barrel of the little auto, urging it to waver even slightly. “We could maybe try that,” he said quietly.

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She laughed without lightness. Then the eyes softened, brightened. The mouth parted hungrily. She tasted the lips greedily with her tongue. The whole of her was poised, directed at him. He had thought it sexual lust when he had first seen it. Now he saw it for what it was. An eager, anxious desire to hurt, to maim, then to watch in macabre fascination the ending, even of life itself. The eyes glowed with anticipation. “I did all I could to arrange for that when you came to my door. I would have showed you a delicious time.” Her laugh was a tight unpleasant scoffing sound. “I’m afraid it’s too late now. It might be too dangerous, even for me.” When Terri edged into view, Jack felt as if he had lost his stomach. For God’s sakes, he wanted to scream. Get out of here! She had only the fireplace poker in her hand. Where in hell was the gun? “So you’re just going to kill me, right?” Jack asked, hoping to hide sound, to keep her attention centered on him. “Very slowly,” she said, her lips parted, breathing quickly now. “Your balls first. Then a knee, I think.” She moistened her lips with her tongue as the barrel of the pistol moved slowly down to his chest. “When you’re writhing in agony on the floor, you’ll beg me to end it. But I won’t. Not until I have the name of your client.” Her blazing eyes remained locked on his, as the gun crept downward. “I hope you’re a strong man,” she said with a distinct tremor in the words. “It would be dreadful if it ended too soon.” Jack didn’t hear a sound. It may have been his eyes. Or her knack for sensing trouble. Whatever the reason, she suddenly whirled. But Terri was already swinging the poker. It slammed into her arm, doing little damage. But the deadly little auto fired too soon. Jack lunged and swung the pry bar up into the jaw before Janet could fire again. Blood spurted from her mouth, the eyes rolled up and she collapsed to the floor. How in hell could so much evil be wrapped in such a lovely package, he asked himself, grabbing for breath, trying to slow the pounding heart, the shakes that threatened to collapse his legs. “You killed her,” Terri said in subdued tones, the poker in her hand forgotten. “Broke the jaw and some teeth, is all,” he murmured, a melancholy look in his eyes. “I thought we had a deal.” “A breeze must have blown the front door open. I saw her sneak inside. With the gun.” “Where’s the one I gave you?”

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“I didn’t even think of it,” she said, her voice shaky, still staring down at the crumpled heap that was female, if not really human. Jack shook his head in total frustration. Terri might have lived with a killing that had saved his life. But now? He slammed the pry bar into the counter. Hard. Tile shattered. Startled, Terri watched chunks of ceramic rain upon the floor. Finally, she looked up, her face pale. “What is it?” she asked hesitantly. “You blew it, Terri. She’s seen you.” “I’ve lived for eight years with a very foolish move. Was I supposed to let her kill you? Then live with that as well?” He knew it was unkind, unfair. But he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Just how long do you figure to live now?” Those blue, blue eyes remained locked on his. Accusative eyes now. Fear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, Terri,” he said, shaking his head. “That is the most stupid thing I’ve ever said.” Just before she looked away, he thought he caught the beginnings of tears in her eyes. When he realized she was staring down at the .25 auto lying on the floor, his palms began to sweat again. And that odd coldness grew in the small of his back. As if in a trance, she stared down at the gun, motionless. Slowly she knelt, reaching toward it. “You can’t,” Jack said softly. She froze. “Why not?” she demanded in a whisper. “If she lives, I will die.” “You’ll die in little bits and pieces over time, if you use that gun.” “Would you stop me?” “No.” She collapsed against the wall, sobbing between gasps for air. He knelt down, then cuddled her in his arms, stroking her back. When the worst was over, he kissed her on the neck, then murmured, “I’ve maybe a move if I can find those damned tapes.” He scooped up the little auto, stood and dragged Janet into the living room. He righted a couch, tossed the gun under it, then dumped the unconscious woman onto it. Minutes later, the arms and legs were bound with silken rope from the bedroom, the bloody mouth sealed with adhesive tape. Terri came in as Jack was checking the knots. She had pulled herself together as well as could be expected. Only loathing filled

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the eyes examining the bound figure. “What are those tapes?” she asked, looking at the cabinet he had forced. “Porn.” he said, remembering it had been locked and that it was a quality lock. “But maybe there’s more,” he said. He strode across the room and began yanking cassettes out of the jackets. He was looking for a combination that didn’t match. He had about decided he was wasting more time, when he pulled, “A Three-Way Woman.” He had found the first of her cache. The cassette inside the flashy jacket had been a blank when purchased. Printed on the label pasted to the cassette itself was a single name: Garardi. He picked up the pace, but examined each cassette with care. He didn’t want to miss a one. He found a Johnson. A Rileson. Then Delaney. He tossed it across the room to Terri. When the cabinet had been emptied, he had the tapes he had expected to find, including Morrett’s, and twenty names new to him. He carried them to the fireplace and began going through the Rolodex, tearing out the tab corresponding to each name. He stuffed them into his pocket, then headed for the kitchen in search of the matches he had dumped to the floor. When he returned, Terri was still staring down at her tape as if fearing it would ignite spontaneously. Gently he took it from her and strode to the fireplace. “Aren’t you going to watch it?” she asked haltingly. “Should I?” “I guess I wasn’t sure you believed me.” “I doubt I’ll be asked, but if I am, I want to be able to say I never saw it.” He got the kindling burning, then began adding larger bits of wood. “You best wait in the car,” he said. “There’s no point letting someone find you here.” He tossed more wood into the flames. When it caught, he dumped several cassettes on top. “You’re not going to . . .” Her voice trailed off. “No. I’m not.” He was telling at least the literal truth. He didn’t feel up to collecting his thoughts into words for her. “But I’ll feel better with you out of here.” Hesitantly, she turned toward the door. When she disappeared, Jack bent to examine the linkage between the two VCRs. The bottom unit copied to the top one. He inserted Morrett’s tape in the bottom and a blank in the top, then restacked the components he had toppled. The fire was burning hot and fast, now. He tossed in the rest of the cassettes, added more wood, then started the system.

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It was a short tape, even though it included the scene from three cameras. A man and woman on a circular bed were hard at it. They seemed slow to recognize they had been interrupted by a man behind the field of the cameras, his image reflected brokenly in the mirrored walls. When they did notice, both sets of eyes bulged with panic and dread. Even though Jack hadn’t turned the volume up, he could almost hear the woman’s screams. Leland Morrett strolled into the scene, ten years younger. He closed until he stood beside the bed, a .38 revolver thrust before him. He leaned closer and shot the man in the roof of his gaping mouth, then pointed the gun at the woman who stared in abject terror at the muzzle. One camera caught him smiling as he pulled the trigger, driving a bullet into her forehead. He wrapped the dead man’s hand around the butt of the gun and pulled the slack finger back against the trigger, driving a round into the woman’s temple. He turned, still smiling, and walked out of camera range. The gun lay clutched in the dead man’s hand, pointed toward his mouth. Jack punched rewind on both tapes, then rushed upstairs for the Polaroid. It took several tries to get the lighting right. He tossed the misses into the fire. The two showing the ugly hole in the woman’s forehead, Morrett’s smiling face, and his finger against that of the dead man, went into his jacket pocket. A glance at the fire assured him there would be no way even the best lab could make anything of what remained of the tapes. Still, he raked all to the center of the grate, then tossed in the rest of the wood. When he turned, Janet Fisher had come to. With a broken jaw and shattered teeth, she had to be suffering agonizing waves of pain. But all he could see was her cold deadly fury. She was looking forward to making a call. Even if he could risk bringing Kyle into the scene, a jail cell would not keep her from a phone. It was as if he reached for the Smith, aimed at a point just above the nose, between those hate-filled eyes, then fired. As if he felt the gun buck in his hand. Saw the hatred fade. He would only be tidying up a bit. There was a part of him that shouted. Do it. Now! It was the rest of him that stayed his hand.

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He turned away with that tight, sick feeling down deep in the gut. What he was planning might be far more monstrous than simple elimination.


Back in the car, he collapsed behind the wheel. He started the engine and drove off quickly, glad for the excuse to watch the road, instead of Terri’s tear-stained face. She turned to gaze out the side window, then said in hushed tones, “I’m sorry, Jack. I just ruined everything you’ve tried to do for me.” “Oh, hell, Terri. It’s the luck of the draw. Besides, I blew it too, when I let her catch me inside.” “But you wouldn’t have been caught if I hadn’t pressed you so.” “Those what-ifs and maybes can do you in.” She turned back and stared out the windshield. “What can we do now?” she asked listlessly. “I’m putting you on that jet just as quick as I can. I want you with your dad soonest.” He turned onto Balboa and accelerated, pushing the speed limit. “Have you any money?” he asked. “I have my credit cards.” When he handed her his billfold, she took it, her forehead creased with a frown. “Grab the hundreds,” he said. “Lay one down for a drink and you’ll have more attention than if you used a Visa card for the night’s tab. “Stay close to people. Grab for bright or nasty conversation. Fight with them, if need be. And keep track of the names you can get. “Keep Robin’s people with you until your dad comes up with better. However long it takes, stay covered every minute until you reach me by phone. You can start trying tomorrow.” “For what am I setting up this alibi?” “Call it ugly and leave it there.” “I don’t suppose this is the time to say that isn’t enough for me.” “Terri, my neck’s out just a bit, too.” She shuddered. “I hadn’t forgotten,” she said. “What if I can’t reach you?” “Then I didn’t make it.” “God, Jack. That’s a horrid thought.”

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“Deal with it. Take it to your dad. To live, you’ll have to cut and run, unless he can tell you he’s certain it’s absolutely safe.” At the Van Nuys Airport, he identified himself to the guard, then drove out onto the tarmac toward the waiting Lear. As he approached, the engine fired. Robin’s people hurried down the steps and toward the car. Terri leaned across the seat and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m damned sorry,” she murmured. “We’re going to make it, Terri. Hold that thought. Okay?” Her nod and forced smile lacked any sign of conviction. Once out of the car, she was hustled into the plane. He watched the pilot taxi, then hit the throttles as he turned onto the runway. The little bird lifted suddenly, then climbed rapidly. Jack watched until he could see nothing but the blue of the sky.

Chapter 25 Since Jack had no idea of the day’s card at Santa Anita, it was with a sense of desperation he turned into the racetrack parking lot. He was glad to be back in the Trans Am. He wished there was more to be glad about. He opted for valet parking again, but not because of aches and pains. There might be need for a fast exit, if he was lucky enough to find Morrett inside. He did. Philip Gaspard was standing about where Jack had expected one soldier to be. The other was sitting in the box, speaking to the great man. About to move, Jack was struck by waves of uncertainty. What’s right? What’s wrong? He took a slow, deep breath, then turned somber eyes to look at Morrett again. Terri had the right to live. So did he. If a deal was what it took, he would deal. In the restroom, he had folded the Daily Racing Form around the Smith. Carrying it in his left hand, he let the arm swing. He closed on Gaspard. Maybe this man wasn’t as good as Bernardi had been. Or maybe he simply wasn’t expecting trouble here. Whatever the reason, Jack was able to grip the Smith under the cover of the Form and tuck it into the man’s ribs before he was noticed. Calmly, almost as if bored, Gaspard turned his head. At sight of Jack the eyes flared with rage. The furious scowl and snarling

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lips threatened to permanently mar flesh. The gates flew open for the fifth race and the crowd noise rose quickly. It was as if the two were alone on a tiny Pacific atoll, with barely room for both to stand. Gaspard was setting himself as if to attack. “Need a sec with the man, is all,” Jack said, smiling as if feeling friendly. “There’s no need for any dying.” Gaspard was totally still, apparently unconcerned about the threat inherent in the gun. “You best move before I decide differently.” Abruptly Gaspard turned and stalked off toward Morrett’s box. He was big. Jack hid behind that size as best he could. But as they closed, the second soldier stood, his hand reaching under his coat. Morrett’s stony stare wasn’t encouraging. The man wanted a gun in his own fist. Jack slipped down into a chair before anyone made up their minds to much of anything. The Smith in his lap under the Form, was pointed at Morrett’s slim gut. No one seemed to notice. Sitting, though, eased things a bit. Probably he appeared to be less a threat. He hoped they wouldn’t pursue that line of thought too far. The crowd was already cheering home their choices. Jack doubted any of those about them even noticed the stillness of this standoff. Finally he said, raising his voice to be sure Morrett heard, “Might be best to hear me out, before you cut these guys loose.” The race ended. The cheering winners muffled the mumblings of losers. Morrett nodded. His two soldiers moved out of the box, but not far. They came to a stop, fifteen feet up the aisle, arms crossed, each with a hand close to a gun. “I would appreciate your being brief,” Morrett said curtly. “I guess I ought to say something about Bernardi.” “I thought he was better than that.” “I was lucky, is all.” Morrett shrugged, watching those gathering in the winner’s circle. “I have other men.” “Gaspard looks as if he wants to taste little parts of me in a hot dog bun, raw.” “He’s upset. A good friend of his died yesterday.” “Got it,” Jack said. “He works for you, though. What would it take to call him off ?” “A man’s word is his bond.” “Bullshit, mister. You’re operating under the same kind of contract my buddy is.”

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“I’ve explained how I would deal with that.” “If you had a name.” Jack reached into his jacket pocket. The two soldiers tensed. Morrett seemed more curious than concerned. Jack tossed the Polaroid shot into his lap. The man scooped it up as if it were a coaling cigar. Hastily he folded it, then tucked it into his shirt pocket. When he looked up, he was making no effort to conceal the look of death in his eyes. “Would a name take me off the hook?” Jack asked. “That is a possibility,” Morrett said, in a slow measured cadence. “I was hoping for a stronger commitment.” “Perhaps later. Now finish what you’ve started.” Jack leaned forward and offered the slip of paper with the five digit number written on it. Morrett let his glance drift around the crowd, almost as if searching for a camera. When he took it, there was a faint tremble in his hand. Jack leaned back, running it down one more time. Right? Wrong? Does it matter? But he knew it did. He took a deep breath and said, “It’s an address on Sesnon in Reseda. She’s using the name Violet P. Fairfield. It used to be Janet Fisher. Eight years back, she was with Stern in Vegas. Obviously she found a way to copy some tapes.” “You’re setting me up.” “I’m trying to get you off my back, is all. I was hoping the right kind of favor would get it done.” “Where is this bitch now?” “I left her tied up on one of her couches.” “It is a setup.” “But you’ll have to check it out, won’t you?” “If you’re lying, you had better take your own life before I find you again.” “I’ll be at El Orso, if there’s anything more you need.” Morrett surged to his feet. He strode hurriedly toward the exit. Gaspard led. The other soldier followed. Jack trailed, wanting to be sure no one was left behind to lighten his day with unexpected excitement. In a crowd, a knife works. Once into the parking lot, Gaspard ran. Minutes later, Morrett and the other man climbed into a silver-gray Lincoln limo and Gaspard moved off quickly. Jack wasted no time getting through the turnstile. The Trans Am was delivered in moments. He had it moving, seconds later. He needed company. And he needed it now.

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Jack parked on the street, directly in front of El Orso; being conspicuous was the name of this game. At the bar, he chose a stool from which he could watch the double doors of the entry. When he ordered, the bartender said, “Right away, Mr. Collier.” Jack looked up, puzzled he had not noticed the pleasant amiable features. When the drink was set in front of him, Jack said, “Thanks, Ramon.” “Will there be anything else, Mr. Collier?” “Is Lencho around?” “Yes, sir,” Ramon said, then slipped out from behind the bar and hurried into the crowded dining room. Jack hoped the big man wouldn’t be slow in joining him. He had a vast yearning for the presence of friendly faces. “What’s happening, man,” Lencho rumbled in concern, as he settled on the stool beside Jack, reaching for the margarita Ramon had placed before him. “For one thing, I need company.” “All my people know you,” he said, regarding Jack with bright brown eyes. Jack nodded, sipping at his drink. “I need a favor, if you can manage it.” “If?” The chin lifted to that haughty prideful angle. “What is this thing I cannot do?” Jack decided he was too beat to waste energy hunting for a snappy retort. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and laid six sets of traveler’s checks on the bar. On the paper napkin, he began to print. “There’s more than six hundred thousand here,” Lencho commented, his curiosity aroused. “They won’t be spendable for long.” “Do I know of her?” he asked. “This Violet P. Fairfield?” “She’s our blackmailer.” He dug into his jacket pocket, then laid the Rolodex tabs on the bar. “The names of her victims,” he said, then extended the napkin. Lencho read out load. “The videotape with your name on it has been destroyed.” He looked up at Jack and said, “I don’t understand.”

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“I’m not sure I do, either,” Jack said, “But it goes something like this.” He gulped thirstily from the glass, thinking of Terri, soaring through the skies in fear of her life. Of Charlie Hoffler, destroyed. And Cantel, dead. “Those people,” he said, pointing to the pile of tabs, “have paid one hell of a price for whatever they may have done. “Even when the demands cease, they won’t know it’s over. They need that. Some may be too far gone to recover. But hope’s a funny thing. Catch a glimpse of the stuff, and good things can happen. “I found some cash, maybe enough to cover Terri’s bill. So what I’d like you to do is get what you can for those traveler’s checks, take what you need, then split the rest among these people. If they don’t quite believe the note, the bucks ought to convince them.” “You know these people?” “Only their names.” “Robin Hood, no?” “Not really. I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself just now. Maybe I’m only trying to ease that. Whatever, it’s what I want.” “She will be dead soon?” “For sure.” “Fifty cents on the dollar is about the best I can do, man.” “It’s more than they’ve got now. If we don’t move, that bank will be just that much richer.” “Will you be around?” Lencho asked, lifting a burly arm and snapping his fingers. “Right here,” Jack said, staring down at his glass. Lencho nodded, then eased off the stool. He put his arm around the shoulder of the man who had joined him and began speaking as they moved away. There was not much need for restraint at the moment. Jack lifted his empty glass in the direction of Ramon and it slipped from his hands to be refi lled.


It was near nine when Sgt. Kyle Sykes stepped inside. He spotted Jack in seconds and strode toward him. The bright red tie was no longer knotted. It draped down on both sides of his neck, disappearing under the lapels of the brown tweed coat. He sat down on the stool next to Jack, then stared vacantly at the busy bartenders and the well stocked shelves.

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“So how’s it go,” Jack said, struggling to keep the voice loose and easy. “Wonderful. I’m sitting in a bar owned by a wetback killer and I can’t decide whether I’m off-duty or not.” Jack had lifted his glass but inches from the bar, when Ramon asked, “Yes, Mr. Collier?” “Wild Turkey for my guest, please.” Ramon nodded and hurried off. Kyle looked up with veiled eyes, that ancient glow in the back of them. “You’re no better than he is.” “You may be right,” Jack said easily. When the drink was settled in front of Kyle, he stared at it. Then he wrapped his fingers about the glass, but did not lift it. “How’d you find me?” Jack asked, hoping to keep the conversational ball rolling in a safe direction. “When I found you weren’t home, I asked myself a good cop question. Where else would that sneaky sonofabitch be? And here I am.” “All right,” Jack said, sipping at his drink. “I’m a sneaky son of a bitch. And you’re the brilliant cop who found me. What was it you needed?” “I stopped by this morning to talk to Ms. Fairfield. The damned fool woman tried to seduce me.” “I’m shocked.” He shook his head as if still not believing it, then said, “She claims she never heard of Cantel. Or you.” “That’s kind of interesting.” “Yeah.” He grabbed his glass and took a lengthy swallow. “That’s why I went back after dinner.” He whipped his head up and around, the pale piercing eyes boring in. Light bounced off the glasses. “She wasn’t there and the place has been trashed. What do you know about it?” “What makes you think I know anything?” “You’re the only dude I know who makes such a damned mess of things.” “Would you call that evidence?” He sighed and went back to staring at his drink. “What the hell am I into?” he muttered. “Blackmail. That woman’s behind it.” “Can you prove it?” “No.”

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“Then you’ve got nothing.” Kyle took another swallow then turned to fi x his eyes on Jack again. They weren’t pleading, exactly, but something close to it. “That Bernardi shooting?” he said. “We could come at Morrett with some sort of conspiracy charge.” “I’d be conspiring to get myself killed.” “What’s the difference? He’s trying now, isn’t he?” “I can’t say just now.” “Shit.” Kyle lunged up off the stool and strode toward the door, his discouragement apparent in the tired set to his shoulders.


The last of the restaurant crowd left shortly before one. Jack ignored the ebb and flow of those about him. He noticed all were giving him a wide berth. It must be something about his eyes, he decided, for he had been working at maintaining a semblance of a smile. That’s it, he decided. It’s harder to hide what’s behind the eyes, particularly when a guy is so damned beat. The bar crowd continued to thin. It was near two-thirty when Ramon, smiling broadly, showed the last trio the way to the exit. “Want a game?” Lencho said from behind. “Let’s go for it,” Jack said, standing, then following the big man through the large doors. His play was so bad Lencho’s habitual poker scowl melted into a frown of concern. Jack hung in until he realized he was pushing a straight against an obvious flush and a possible full house. “I’m out of here,” he said, standing, swaying slightly, a combination of rum, aches, and too little rest. He turned toward the door, glancing at his watch. It was only four-twenty. He had thought it was close to six. “My how time flies,” he muttered. “You okay, man?” Lencho rumbled worriedly from behind him. “Hanging in, buddy.” He grabbed a cup and a pot of coffee off the bar, wandered out into the darkened restaurant and sat down. Lencho settled into the chair opposite him and slid a cup across the table. Jack filled it, and his own. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said nothing.

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It was nearly an hour later, when Jack spoke again to the hulking giant who had kept him company. “Any idea when the morning paper hits the corner?” Lencho glanced at his watch. “About now, I think.” “I’ll go check,” Jack said, struggling tiredly to his feet. “Want company?” “I’d like that.” At the front door, Lencho unlocked it, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. His furious eyes measured everything of note. For several moments, Jack stood beside him, his hand on the butt of the Smith, watching the morning traffic, the bleary-eyed drivers unhappy at being up so early. Nothing else moved, except for the two screaming gulls overhead, perhaps unhappy at finding themselves so far from the Pacific. When Jack started toward the corner, Lencho positioned himself between Jack and the street, his huge thumb tucked over the massive silver belt buckle, close to the pistol under his jacket. Jack could almost feel the fierceness of his gaze, as he fed coins into the paper rack and slipped out the morning edition of the Los Angeles Times. Back inside, Jack settled on a stool and stared down at the paper. He was only vaguely aware of motion behind the bar, until Lencho set a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, then doused it liberally with rum. “For the chill,” he said solemnly. Jack sipped, still staring at the paper. There was nothing on the front page. Finally he turned a page. Then another. And another. It would be headlines, he decided, the next time they rolled the presses. Here they had settled for a half column on the front page of the Valley section. The badly mutilated . . . God, what a horrible word . . . body of a young woman, tentatively identified as Ms. Violet P. Fairfield of Reseda, was discovered early this morning in the rugged foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, nearly a mile off Lopez Canyon Road. According to Sgt. Kyle Sykes of the Los Angeles Police Department, she apparently died where the body was discovered, at approximately nine o’clock, yesterday evening. . . .

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Jack couldn’t see much point to reading further. “Here,” he said, shoving the paper closer to Lencho and pointing. “I think Terri is clear.” He read not much further than Jack had. “Does this change anything with Morrett?” “I’m not sure,” Jack said, remembering the look in Gaspard’s eyes. “I was hoping he’d look me up here. Since he hasn’t, I guess I don’t know where I stand.” “What now?” “I’ll get on home. Morrett will be in touch. I need that.” “Want a couple of dudes to come along?” “No. I’ll stay low and wait it out.” “You will call if things change?” Jack nodded, slipped off the stool and shuffled toward the door, then on out into the hazy morning sunshine. Vaguely he was aware two men had followed him, that they now stood with their backs to the restaurant. He climbed behind the wheel of the Trans Am and drove off, refusing to think of anything beyond how best to remain on his side of the double yellow line.

Chapter 26 Jack knew he could have used backup, but it was as he had said to Al Morales. Some things are best done alone. He parked on the street below his, then struggled up the concrete ditch that collects water from the hillside and dumps it into the storm drain at the curb below. It was heavy going; much of the brush was overgrown. But it was safe; he was hidden from the neighbors and his place. At his back fence, through the branches of the silver maple, he could see the two patio floods. They were not burning and they ought to be. They operated on the same circuit as the lights on the front porch. Someone had been inside. The odds were good he would live longer if he assumed it had been Morrett. And that the man was still inside. He climbed the chain link fence and eased down into his own yard. After each step, he paused, watching the deck above, listening. When he slipped under the deck itself, he moved swiftly to the base of the maple that towers above the house.

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He slipped out of his shoes and leapt for the lowest branch. When his weight dropped to his hands he wanted to scream; the chest seemed determined to explode. But it was only the ribs, complaining fiercely. Slowly, he muscled himself up until a forearm lay flat upon the limb. It’s an easier maneuver on a rock face, where the feet have purchase. But he grit his teeth, then levered himself on up until he was sitting on the branch. He waited, then, for throbbing aches to subside, for the breathing to slow, listening. He worked his way out on the branch until he was able to plant a foot on the deck railing. Clinging to the branch, he eased the other foot down. When certain of his balance, he eased on down to the deck itself. Breathing hard, he pulled the Smith and shoved the safety off, then cocked it. Avoiding the squeaky planks, he moved into the shadowed corner near the house. He reached inside his shirt, withdrew a videocassette and tucked it under the pad in the lounge chair. He pulled out his keys as he moved to the door to the back porch. He put his ear to it. When certain no one was moving about in the kitchen, he unlocked it. It opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Then he was inside. The television set was on, a rerun of M.A.S.H. At the sound of footsteps headed for the kitchen, he ducked down behind the clothes dryer. The door to the refrigerator opened, then closed, and the footsteps headed back toward the living room. Jack moved quickly to take advantage of the covering sounds, placing his stocking feet close to the cabinets where there was less chance of complaint from the flooring. He paused at the entry to the dining room, listening. Hoping the volume of the TV would cover unwanted sound, he continued on. With the dining room wall between himself and the living room, he paused again. Someone shifted position in a chair that had been dragged into the entry. At least one was watching the street with his monitor. The channel was changed and the sudden scream of a siren startled Jack. A voice a few feet beyond the wall said, “No.” It was Morrett. The system was switched back to M.A.S.H. Jack lunged around the corner and tucked the barrel of the Smith into Morrett’s neck. He was seated in the recliner. The man didn’t move, or even blink, as far as Jack could tell.

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But the other two did. Gaspard surged out of the chair in the entry, the barrel of his Colt .45 auto lined up with Jack’s chest. The second soldier had jumped to his feet, a Beretta locked in his fist. “Cute,” Leland Morrett growled, as if unconcerned about the gun in his neck. “Where’s the fucking tape, asshole?” “Get rid of these guys,” Jack said softly, prodding with the barrel of the Smith. Gaspard had stopped, eight feet from Jack, his face twisted with rage, the heavy Colt ready, the barrel trembling faintly from the intensity of his grip. The second soldier had dropped into a halfcrouch. Both weapons were pointed at Jack’s chest. Both men were eager to fire. Both barrels looked to be six inches in diameter. In the stillness, there was an eerie unreality to the canned laughter from the speakers. Sweat drenched Jack’s back. The heart was pounding at his ribs as if to break them. “Do it,” he said, prodding Morrett more determinedly with the Smith. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so close to death. The stench of it filled the room. No one moved. It was as if all had forgotten how to breathe. It was then Jack felt it. His own anger had been doing its thing, building, readying itself to take control. Suddenly it did, without his bidding. He wanted it done. Over. “Fuck it,” he muttered. He jammed the pistol hard into Morrett’s ear, only vaguely aware of having drawn blood. “That’s enough of this shit!” His lips were twisted into a snarl. He dropped to one knee and snugged the wall, partially covered by Morrett’s body. “Let’s get down. Now!” Jack didn’t see any sign from Morrett, but the man must have issued his order some way. The eyes, perhaps. The tension went out of the man with the Beretta; he let his gun hand fall to his side. Gaspard took a step closer, the Colt ready. He was trembling with rage and the strain of holding the deadly pistol steady. He didn’t give one damn about Morrett. He wanted to see Jack’s blood splattered all over the carpet. He wanted to see it now. “Gaspard,” Morrett growled. “Do as I asked.” Jack didn’t know what made it happen, Morrett’s command or the other man reaching out and gently pressing down on the barrel of the Colt. But suddenly Gaspard whirled and lurched out of the room, the pistol dangling at his side. The other man followed, closing the front door behind them.

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Jack backed quickly away from Morrett; he didn’t want him to have any clue to the reaction threatening to crumple him to the floor. Slow, deep breaths helped. And time. Without much interest, he noted the room had been searched in the same casual manner he favored. It was a mess. And it didn’t matter. When only the trace of a tremor remained, and the dull ache in the kidneys, he moved around to face his uninvited guest. When he shut off the system, the sudden quiet was ominous. “Where’s the fucking tape, asshole?” Morrett growled, as if nothing had occurred since he had first asked the question. “Handy,” Jack said. “What did she say about me?” “She kept screaming she was going to fix both you and that broad.” “What broad?” Jack asked, the pulse rate up, the hands, clammy. Morrett shrugged. “Gaspard shut her up. I had other things in mind. So what?” Mentally, Jack cheered. He’d almost passed on sharing that address with Morrett for fear he might learn of Terri’s connection to Bruno Ravone’s death. There was but one fear remaining. “Did she have copies?” “No.” “Are you sure?” Jack demanded, his mouth dry. “Don’t be such a fool. It offends me. That was one of my first questions. Gaspard was too rough. She didn’t live long enough to answer others I wanted to ask. Now what the fuck else do you want?” Jack was surprised at the intensity of relief flooding over him. Terri, at least, was clear. “Have we lost a bit of the poise and polish?” he asked, trying to order his thoughts. “Fuck you, asshole. What else?” “You said perhaps later. Can we end this?” He leaned back, smiling in a way he must have learned from the devil himself. “First, the tape.” He didn’t have a gun, unless he was sitting on one. But Jack kept the Smith cocked and ready as he fumbled behind him for a chair, pulled it closer, then collapsed into it. He withdrew the videocassette from inside his shirt and tossed it to the table next to the recliner. Morrett glared at it, his features twisted with an abhorrence that told of years of bitter frustration at not being able to find it. Now he had only to reach for it. Finally he did, then looked up at Jack. “That bitch told me you took two tapes.”

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“To get paid, I had to deliver.” “That broad was with you.” “She left before I found the tapes,” Jack said evenly. Morrett’s glare intensified. “That second tape could have been a copy of this,” he said, waving the one clutched in his hand. “What would I gain bucking you? I’m not looking for anything but to get loose.” Morrett laid down that tight fiendish smile again. “I need men like Gaspard. I pay them handsomely. I do not control their lives. I could not stop him if I wished to.” “Suppose I can. What then?” The man seemed to relax, yet somehow grow larger, taller, as Jack watched. There was something of freedom about it. As if he had shed an enormous burden. “You didn’t have the guts to finish what you started,” he said, the eyes glowing, the chin lifted triumphantly. “You set me up to clean up your mess. I don’t owe you one damned thing, asshole.” He gazed down at the cassette for several moments, then said, still staring at it, “Besides, you’ve seen this. I’ve killed men for knowing less.” “So we’re back to this,” Jack said, staring down at the weapon in his hand. “As you may have noticed, Gaspard favors the Colt.” That icy not-so-distant part of Jack begged him to empty the clip into the man’s gut. Down low. His hand was trembling as if demanding to be turned loose. “Shoot,” Morrett said pleasantly. “I would, were I in your position.” Jack looked up to find the dark gray eyes bright with menace. Morrett chuckled, then stood abruptly. “It’s as I guessed. No guts.” He turned away, arrogance in the set to his broad shoulders, a scoffing scorn in his stride. He stopped in the entry, his back still to Jack. “One hardly says good hunting to the fox. What is appropriate in a situation like this?” He chuckled unpleasantly, then stepped to the door and slipped outside. The trembling in Jack’s hand was slow to subside. Seated at the kitchen table, Jack couldn’t remember standing. Or tucking the gun away. Or fi xing the drink in his hand. He stared at it, toying with the idea of making another, then another, until the image of the bound figure on the couch faded, until the word “mutilated” could be laid aside, until he could forget Morrett’s smile and the rage in Gaspard’s eyes.

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He picked up the phone and gazed at it. Having the place fumigated might help. He felt soiled, violated. When he realized killing roaches would change nothing, he took a sip, then dialed. “Mr. Ravone, please,” he said. “The name’s Jack Collier.” Moments later the polished voice said, “Yes, Mr. Collier.” “I wanted you to know I found my blackmailer. She had copies of tapes Saldino made. I destroyed them. She was living under the name of Violet P. Fairfield. Her original name was Janet Fisher.” “I was told Ms. Fisher was murdered, shortly after arriving in Los Angeles.” “She faked that by killing a woman named Violet Moyer, then taking her identity.” “This can be verified, I assume.” “The cop who’s looking into her death is Sgt. Kyle Sykes. He’d have details.” “Into her death, you said.” “She was murdered last night.” “I see,” he said, as if crossing her name off a list. “Tell me, please, was the tape of Ms. Delaney as dangerous to her as she felt it was?” “It would have kept her from anything public.” There was an extended silence; it made Jack’s teeth itch. Finally Ravone said, “You discovered nothing new about my son.” “Sorry,” Jack said, fighting hard for an even easy flow of words. “Not a thing, Mr. Ravone.” The silence was shorter this time, but it seemed even longer. “I do appreciate your call, Mr. Collier. It simplifies matters immensely. I am in your debt.” The line went dead. Uncounted minutes passed as Jack stared at the phone, thinking of a man who would never know how his son had died. Jack rewound the answering tape, then placed the unit in record mode. He stated the number that had been reached, then added, “You can take down the For-Sale sign.”

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Chapter 27 Jack had tuned the system back to KLON. Now John Coltrane, in one of his bleaker moods, drifted loneliness and despair around the corner into the kitchen. As Jack listened, he poured another drink, wondering if he should. There was a faint clack from the latch in the back porch door. The breath of air slipping across the back of his neck was nearly imperceptible, but he knew instantly what it meant. The front door had opened. Adrenaline flowed, stifling aches, jolting each exhausted fiber of his being into full alert. Determinedly he pulled the Smith, moving silently in stocking feet to the far wall in the dining room. The luminous brown eyes had an icy look, a muddy cast. With but one eye exposed, he stared at the entry, listening, the pistol leveled. The fist gripping the .357 magnum held it sighted belt high, as the barrel traversed an angle that included the living room. As it swept toward the wall Jack hugged, more of the arm within the brown tweed coat was revealed. Jack pulled steadily on the trigger, watching the barrel of the magnum swing toward him. When he caught the flicker of light bounced off the edge of gold-rimmed specs, he jammed his thumb under the hammer, and it fell. “You’re one dumb son of a bitch, Kyle,” he cried softly. The whole of him was so racked with shakes he could hardly set the safety. The gun wouldn’t slip back behind his waistband, as if it had mysteriously doubled in size. “Who’s dumb?” Kyle snapped, tucking his gun away. “What do you call leaving your door open that way?” Then he turned back to close and lock it. As he stalked past Jack into the kitchen, he mumbled, “Hell, I thought I’d find some punk standing over your corpse.” Kyle was right. And Jack knew it. But he found himself saying, “Your technique needs work. What you damned near found was a bullet between those crazy eyes of yours.” “I’m going to have to work on that mouth of yours one day.”

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Kyle was mad, and frightened. Jack was aware he himself was still trembling at the closeness of it. He couldn’t seem to ease off the high. “Take your best shot. Or move your ass on out of here.” “This could be that day.” “Go for it, mister.” “Suppose I just arrest you for the murder of Janet Fisher, a.k.a. Violet P. Fairfield?” “What’s with you? When she went away, you were sitting beside me at the bar in El Orso.” “Make that conspiracy to commit murder, then.” “Who did I conspire with?” “I can come up with something.” “In hell, maybe.” Jack scooped up his drink from the counter and lurched toward the table. His head cracked solidly against the chandelier, then he dropped into the chair. He propped the elbows and used two hands to support the glass. He gulped at it. Several drops splattered over the polished surface of the table. He stared at them, wondering if a message lay hidden in the pattern. When he looked up, Kyle towered over him, his fists mashed into his sides. “If you want something, you damned well get it yourself,” Jack growled, taking a swallow without spilling a drop this time. That second set of lids opened. From deep within the eyes, almost as if from behind them, rushed a fierce piercing glow. “What I want,” he said softly, “is answers.” “I’ve nothing to say to a self-righteous, bullheaded son of a bitch.” “You take chances.” “That’s news?” “We can talk at the station.” “Jason Stone owes me.” “You don’t need that shyster if you’re not guilty of anything.” “We’re all guilty of something. It’s a goddamned fact of life, buddy.” “I’m not your buddy.” “We could change that.” “Why would we want to do a dumb thing like that?” “Forget that badge, pour yourself a good one, and let’s try to answer that.” For no apparent reason, the glow in the eyes faded away, leaving only a pale, near colorless emptiness. The arms drooped at his sides. Jack had seen that look before. He had always thought

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it came from years of hard hours of work, too often destroyed by smooth lawyers. It occurred to him now it might also stem from constantly dealing with people who might or might not be guilty, who might or might not shoot him in the back. It wasn’t a sad look, really. But he sensed a touch of lonesome in it. “I’ll build you a drink, if you like,” Jack said. “Shove it,” Kyle murmured. He moved to the counter and reached up into the back corner of the cabinet where Jack kept the Wild Turkey. He poured liberally, passed on ice, then sat down in the chair opposite Jack. “How can you drink that piss?” he said, taking a sip of his own drink, then rolling it about his tongue. “If that stuff ’s so great, why don’t you swallow it?” Kyle did, then took another sip and rolled it about his tongue. “What say we get drunk?” Jack asked. “Can’t.” Kyle took the specs off and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s only ten. Don’t you remember what my desk looks like?” “The in-stack’s too tall.” “You aren’t helping any.” He fished out his pack of Luckies and fired one up. “I could make it worse, maybe.” “How?” “I need to talk to a buddy, Kyle. Not a hardass gungho cop.” He leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling, curious, but cop skeptical. “How long do we have to be buddies?” “Dumb.” “Yeah. Sort of, anyway.” “There’s just one thing we’ve got to agree on.” Kyle snorted. “It’ll never happen.” “You’ve got to be certain you’ve got it locked before you do one damned thing. Make every move as if your bare ass was parked in a bucket full of pit vipers. Make a mistake and you’ll be finished, buddy.” “Just what the hell have you got?” Jack stood, walked to the back door, and retrieved the cassette from under the cushion of the lounge chair. When he returned to the table, he laid it in front of Kyle. “Pick it up,” he said, sitting back down. Kyle did, sensing it was important, but without a clue to why. He held it ever so gently with blunt broad fingers. He didn’t seem

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to notice his eyes blinking hard at the smoke from the cigarette, forgotten, dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked up, asking his question again with his eyes. “You said you wanted his ass,” Jack said. “Whose ass?” he asked softly, the eyes suddenly wider, brighter. “Leland Morrett’s.” “You’re shitting me.” “You said his second wife had bucks.” He nodded, puzzled. “What happened to his first one?” “That was a while back,” he said, working at remembering. “She was wasted. A boyfriend type, I think. Seems like he shot her, then himself.” Jack tossed the second Polaroid photo onto the table. “I’m betting that woman was Morrett’s first wife.” He slipped the specs back on, then stared at the photo until the cigarette burned down to his lip. “I will be goddammed to hell,” he murmured, grinding out the butt. His eyes glowed. He hunched out over the table, clutching the tape as though it were bountiful treasure beyond all dreams. “You’ve got to tell me all of it.” “I’ll tell you, Kyle. But no one else.” He leaned back in the chair, the pale blue eyes examining Jack’s. Then his glance dropped to the tape still clutched in his hand. He let out a long slow breath, then shrugged. “I’ve made tougher deals,” he commented. “I’ll find a way to forget who I heard it from. Will that do?” Jack nodded, then began. He edited only to bury all reference to Terri. Kyle listened so intently, the eyes seemed to bulge. The grip on the tape in his hand continued to tighten as if he meant to mash it, as if it were in fact Morrett. When Jack removed the recorder from the inside pocket of his coat and laid it out on the table, Kyle muttered, “That’s illegal.” “Handy, though,” Jack murmured. When Jack replaced the tape with another and punched the play button, Kyle bent closer to listen to Jack’s first meeting with Morrett at the track. He listened intently to what Jack felt needed to be added, then bent even closer to catch the second conversation over the crowd noise. Kyle reached out and pressed the stop button. “The sonofabitch wasted her,” he murmured. “And you set him up for it.” The pale

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blue eyes were locked balefully on Jack’s. Speculative eyes. Cop eyes. “What would you call giving me the fi le on Morrett?” The glare faded. “That was different,” he murmured. “Like how?” After a few moments, Kyle sighed, then leaned over and pressed the play button. When the tape ended, Jack started the one made in the living room, with his gun on Morrett. Kyle’s intensity was nearly tangible. When it ended, he said. “Gaspard. With the smoking gun and like that. Christ. You’ve got it all.” “You seem keen on taking these guys down for Janet Fisher. What do you figure to do with the videotape?” “Get Morrett into Nevada and he’ll go away for murder one. But wading through the technicalities to get him there is a slippery piece of business. So I was thinking to let the feds deal somehow. There’s this one boy with the IRS. Willie Stout. Reminds me of you. Plays sort of rough, he does. I’d want to hunt him up first thing.” “And then?” He shrugged. “We might show Morrett the tape, then talk him into rolling over on the deals he’s put together. Or Willie will come up with better.” He lunged to his feet and began pacing, the bright eyes reflecting furious thoughts. When that wild penetrating glow was thrown at Jack one too many times, he said, “Kyle, I don’t like the feel of this.” “Look.” He jammed his fists into his hips and leaned toward Jack. “Extradition takes doing. Whatever federal help I can get, will take more. I don’t want to wait for that.” “You’re making me nervous.” “I want to nail both Morrett and Gaspard for Janet Fisher.” “Just what in hell are you thinking?” “I don’t think I can without your help.” “God damn it. We have a deal.” Kyle leaned out over the table on his knuckles. “I need two things up front. First, a statement that includes a good description of that Lincoln.” “It’s been cleaned by now.” “I hope Morrett watches the same dumb cop shows you must have seen. To use one of your lines, I’d give odds the lab boys will show that Janet Fisher was transported in that car.”

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“Damn it, Kyle. How can I connect him without hanging myself on a conspiracy charge?” “And then I need a statement. All you’ve got on both Morrett and Gaspard,” he said, almost absently, as if he hadn’t heard a word Jack had said. “Kyle. You’ve lost it.” “Of course, you’ll have to testify.” “Sure.” “I might build a case without you.” He sat down, picked up the tape almost lovingly, then hunched out over the table. “But it would take time. Extradition or a federal move would take even more. Can you spare it?” “It’s a risk I’ll have to take.” “I could stop Gaspard.” “Morrett has an army.” “Set yourself up as a material witness and I can protect you.” “Conspiracy, you said. And you were only guessing.” “I’ve been thinking on that,” he said, frowning in concentration. “All you did was pass on a name in hopes of saving your ass.” “There was more to it than that, and you damned well know it.” “The D.A. deals. He’d agree to immunity.” “Suppose the judge demands my buddy’s name.” “I’ll make confidentiality part of the deal.” Jack would have sworn Kyle was wasting time. But he found he wasn’t as bothered by the idea as he felt he ought to be. Taking it to Morrett could be the best defense. “I’d want Jason Stone between me and your people at every step.” “It’ll slow things down, but that’s no problem.” His eyes glowed with anticipation. Jack sighed, sipped at his drink, then asked, “Aren’t you the guy who called me a sneaky son of a bitch?” “It’ll take more than a sneak to cover your ass. And I’m the boy to get it done.” In his grin, Jack saw the cop equivalent to canary feathers. “Do we deal?” he demanded. “Why not?” Jack smiled, something of his own hungers in it. “Hell. It might even be interesting.” “It’ll be downright exciting,” Kyle murmured contentedly. He surged to his feet, his eyes glowing fiercely. “I might just keep Gaspard jumping fast enough, he won’t have time for you. And as mad as he is, he might make a mistake.”

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“I wouldn’t count on it.” “I have ways.” “That’s why cops scare hell out of me.” “Me? Scare you?” “There’ve been times.” “You do break rules, you know.” “That’s so,” Jack said, thinking of those Kyle had so recently broken. “Damn,” Kyle muttered. “Something we agree on.” His eyes still bright with echoes of his thoughts, he started toward the door. He stopped abruptly and turned back. The eyes had changed. Jack couldn’t read them at all. “If Morrett had gone for the deal, would you have talked to me?” “No.” Jack could read the eyes now, a sympathetic sadness he had never seen before. “All you wanted was to be left alone. And he passed. Besides being a punk, he’s a goddamned fool.” Kyle took a short step closer and leaned toward Jack. “Seems like I ought to say thanks or something. You took a chance.” “I don’t figure you’d dump on a buddy, Kyle.” “You hang a lot on that buddy stuff, don’t you?” “That’s so.” He thought about it for a time. As Jack watched, he sensed the man had managed to glimpse at least something of the notion, that it had led him down a different path. “I think we’ve got a problem,” he said quietly. “For all my talk, I can’t hit these punks hard enough, soon enough.” “I see that.” “I can’t bring in our boys until that statement is official.” Kyle shook his head, disgusted with the trap he found himself in. “Listen,” he said, stepping closer, his forehead creased in a frown. “You have to get hold of Lencho.” Jack’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “A wetback killer?” “Tell him we only need a few days. A week at the most.” He turned and strode to the door.


At the clap of the brass ring in the bull’s nose on the striker, Jack pulled the Smith, cocked it and hurried to the door. A glance through the peephole showed it was Al Morales. Hector was watching the

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street. Jack opened the door wide. “Glad to see you guys,” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Collier,” Al said with a grin. “So what’s the plan?” “First, I need rest. Then we’ll see.” “That’s cool.” He turned to study the street. “We’ll find a spot.” “Whatever you think best, but let me show you something.” Jack opened the closet door and snapped on the monitor. “One of you here. The other keeping an eye on the back. You’d be more comfortable inside.” “Out of sight, Mr. Collier.” He strode into the living room. “Nice,” he said, with a wave that included the room and the view. “Did the maid quit?” he asked, grinning. “Morrett’s men. Just work around it,” Jack said. “There’s food in the kitchen and beer in the fridge. Make like guests, okay?” “We can deal with that, Mr. Collier.” Jack scooped up his glass and the bottle of rum, then headed for his room. Neither of his visitors noticed the lonesome lost look in his eyes, the exhaustion etching his features, or the way his shoulders sagged. The door to Billy’s room was open. He stepped inside and surveyed the scene. One of the dresser drawers had been tossed so hard, the face had split. Jack shook his head. “I’ll get this cleaned up right quick, Billy,” he murmured. He waited for the boy’s reply, but heard nothing. In his room, he righted the chair, dropped into it, and stared vacantly out the window at the mountains to the north. He poured straight rum and swallowed a goodly portion. “Soon, Terri,” he murmured, wishing she was here, holding him closely even now.


Jack stood at the rail, sipping coffee, gazing out across the Valley at the mountains. His face was gaunt, even though he had slept the clock around. Aspirin had dulled what remained of the hangover. More important, the glooms had largely run their course. He had managed to stuff at least the nastiest images down deep into the muck along with their older kin. It was too cool for the canary-yellow shorts and the tan shirt was buttoned. But the sun warmed his back in its special way, a feeling more to be treasured with winter about to descend.

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Given a couple of weeks, he would cart Terri off to the slopes in Utah. His breathing quickened, remembering. The scents of her. The feel of her. And those remarkable blue, blue eyes. She had called and left a number. He was eager to dial it. But not just yet. He turned to face Lencho who overflowed the chaise lounge. Papers were scattered about the deck and table next to him, a mix of the file Kyle had provided and what the Maestro had uncovered. “You still look like hell,” Lencho rumbled with a broad smile. “I feel better than I look,” Jack said quietly. He walked over and gazed down at the photos of Morrett’s soldiers. With a man covering the monitor while he slept, he would be safe here. But it wasn’t in his nature to wait on those coming at him. He smiled at the tingles of anticipation. He set the coffee down and reached for the photo of Henri Bernardi. He stared at it for a moment, then methodically tore it into tiny bits he let fall from his fingers to the deck. When he looked up at Lencho, he said evenly, “I don’t want to wait around for them to show.” “Wasting six dudes?” He shook the massive head. “That could be heavy shit.” “You crazy son of a bitch,” Jack said, smiling broadly. “You think I can’t?” Jack laughed. “I know you can. But I just want to keep them busy until Kyle gets set up.” “What are you thinking?” “Given all this,” Jack said, with a wave that encompassed the notes, “we know a good deal about them.” Lencho shrugged. “I can almost tell you where and when each one takes a crap.” Jack smiled, something of barren rocky canyons to it. “How about a little simple terrorism?” he asked quietly. “Like?” Lencho asked skeptically. “We could start with a mugging. Hit all six the same night. Break an arm or leg. Take everything they’ve got, right down to their shorts.” “I like that,” Lencho roared, smiling broadly. He nodded his head vigorously, the deep brown eyes smoldering. Suddenly he frowned, then asked, “But why leave the shorts, man?”

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