Satisfied, she nodded. “Let me give you one piece of unsolicited advice. Let nothing stand in your way. Nothing. Least of all me.” She held out her hands, waiting for him to stand and come to her to take them. “I have some things to see to tomorrow. Details. In the meantime, I’m trusting you to take care of her.”
“I intend to, whether she likes it or not.”
“Go back to her, then. I’ll be fine.” Eve lifted her face for his kiss, held on a moment longer. “I’ll always be grateful I’ve had you.”
“We’ve had each other. Don’t worry about Julia.”
“I won’t. Now. Good night, Paul.”
He kissed her again. “Good night, gorgeous.”
When he had gone, she went directly to the phone and dialed. “Greenburg, this is Eve Benedict.” She tossed back her head and picked up a cigarette. “Yes, goddammit, I know what time it is. You can charge me double whatever outrageous rates you lawyers charge. I need you here within the hour.”
She hung up on his protest, then grinned. She felt almost like her old self.
Less than twenty-four hours after Julia’s plane accident, Paul arranged to meet with the pilot. Jack Brakerman had worked for Eve more than five years, hooking the job through Paul himself. While doing research for a book that had involved smuggling, mayhem, and murder in the air, Paul had been impressed by Jack’s knowledge and skill.
By the time it was finished, Paul had had enough material for two books, and Jack Brakerman had been able to quit flying cargo to take private passengers. His first client had been Eve.
Paul met him at a diner near the airport, where the food was greasy, the coffee hot, and the service prompt. The table was a circular slice of particle board coated with a sheet of linoleum that tried, unsuccessfully, to look like marble. Someone had paid for country on the juke, and Hank Williams, Jr., was moaning about the woman who done him wrong.
“Hell of a place, isn’t it?” Jack pulled one of the miserly paper napkins out of its metal dispenser to wipe up the circles of wet left by the previous patrons’ glasses. “Don’t look like much, but they got the best goddamn blueberry pie in the state. Want a slice?”
“Sure.”
Jack signaled the waitress and gave their order with a single gesture. He held up two fingers. Within minutes they were served thick wedges of pie along with mugs of steaming black coffee.
“You’re right,” Paul told him after the first bite. “It’s great.”
“I’ve been coming here for years, just for the pie. So tell me,” Jack began over a hefty forkful. “You writing another book?”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
Jack nodded, took a wary sip of coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong enough to sear his stomach lining. “You want to talk about yesterday. I already filed the report. Looks like they’re going to put it down to mechanical failure.”
“That’s the official story, Jack. What’s your opinion?”
“Somebody fucked with the fuel line. Real slick, real professional. It looks like a mechanical failure. Hell, if it was somebody else’s plane and I checked it out myself, I’d say the same. The line was stressed, sprung a leak. Dumped most of the fuel over the Sierra Madres.”
Paul didn’t want to think of the mountains and what the jagged, unforgiving peaks could have done to a sputtering plane. “But it isn’t someone else’s plane.”
“That’s right.” Mouth full, he waved his fork for emphasis. “And I know my gear, Winthrop. Between the mechanic and me, we keep that bird in a-one condition. No way that line was fatigued, no fucking way it happened to spring a leak. Somebody messed with it, somebody who knew what to do and how to do it.” He scooped up the last of the pie, swallowing it with a combination of pleasure and regret. “That’s what my gut tells me.”
“I’m willing to go with your gut, Jack. Now the question is what to do about it.” Paul considered a moment. The juke had switched to K. D. Lang, and her mellow, masculine voice added a dash of class to the dreary diner. “Tell me exactly what you did yesterday after you landed in Sausalito.”
“That’s easy. I bumped around the lounge awhile, talked shop with some guys, had lunch with a couple other pilots. Julia said she’d be back by three, so I wound up the paperwork, cleared my flight plan. She was right on time.”
“Yes,” Paul said half to himself. “She’s habitually prompt. Can you ask around, see if anyone noticed someone near the plane?”
“Already did. People don’t notice much when they’re not looking.” Frowning, he scraped his fork over his plate, making patterns in the smear of purple juice. “You know the thing that hits me, whoever did this knew planes. He could have fixed it so we went down a lot quicker, say when we were over the bay with no place to go. The way it was done had the fuel leaking out, slow and steady. You following me?”
“Keep going.”
“If he’d wanted us dead, there were a lot of other ways to fix it and still make it look like an accident. So, I gotta figure he didn’t want us dead. Things could’ve gone wrong and we’d have been that way anyhow, so maybe he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. But if we’d have bottomed out on fuel ten, fifteen minutes earlier, things would’ve been a lot dicier. He fixed it so I had enough juice to get close so a pilot good as me could bring her in.”
“Sabotaging the plane was a scare tactic?”
“I don’t know, Hoss, but if it was, it was a fucking bull’s-eye.” His round, pleasant face creased in a grimace. “I made so many bargains with God during the last five minutes that I’m in hock into the next life. And if it scared the sin out of me, I can tell you it left Julia pure as the driven snow.” He eyed Paul’s pie as he signaled for more coffee.
“Help yourself,” Paul said, pushing the plate across the table.
“Thanks. It’s easy to spot a nervous flier even when they’re busy telling themselves they can handle it. She doesn’t like being up there, not a bit, but she toughs it out without all the usual crutches—smoking, drinking, sleeping pills. When I had to tell her the situation, she was scared, scared right down to her shoes. Went so white I figured I was going to have a fainter on my hands, but she held on. No screaming, no crying, she just talked to me. She did everything I told her to do. You gotta admire that.” “I do.”
“Somebody wanted to scare the lady, and scare her bad. I can’t prove it, but I know it.”
“I’m going to prove it,” Paul told him. “You can take that to the bank.”
Lyle shifted from foot to foot as he stood in Delrickio’s living room. He didn’t feel like sitting, not with the ice-faced goon watching his every move. Though he had to admire the dude’s threads. Yes, indeed. He’d bet his next paycheck that coal-black crisply tailored suit was pure silk. And this guy was just an underling. It made him wonder how much the big guy himself pulled in every year.
Wanting to show his nonchalance, Lyle pulled out a cigarette. He’d taken out his genuine gold-plated Zippo when his watchdog spoke.
“Mr. Delrickio don’t allow no smoking in this room.”
“Yeah?” Lyle tried hard for a sneer as he clicked the lighter closed. “No sweat, man. I can live with them, I can live without them.”
He was whistling under his breath when the phone on a dainty inlaid table rang. The guard answered it, grunted.
“Upstairs,” he told Lyle after he’d replaced the receiver.
Lyle figured his brisk, unsmiling nod was Bogie-like. They’d already deflated his ego by patting him down the minute he’d pulled through the gates. He’d wished he’d been packing a gun. Wished he’d had one to pack. It would have made him seem tougher.
With what he figured he’d be paid for his information, he could buy himself an arsenal.
The guard knocked lightly on the door at the top of the stairs, then jerked his head in invitation, and Lyle walked through.
Delrickio gestured for Lyle to sit. “Good evening,” he said mildly. “I believe
we had agreed that I would contact you, when and if I chose.”
The gentle, friendly voice had sweat springing to Lyle’s palms. “Yes, sir, we did, but—”
“Then I must assume you felt compelled to go against my wishes.”
A lump had formed in Lyle’s throat the size and texture of a tennis ball. He swallowed gamely over it. “Yes, sir. That is, I came by some information I knew you’d want right away.”
“And you couldn’t find a telephone in working order?”
“I—that is, I thought you’d want to hear it face-to-face.”
“I see.” Delrickio let the silence drag out until Lyle had moistened his dry lips twice. “I find I must remind you that you were paid to observe, to pass along information, but not, as I recall, to think. However, I’ll reserve judgment on whether you’ve thought well until after I hear what you’ve come into my home to tell me.”
“Julia Summers was in a plane yesterday that nearly crashed.”
At this outburst, Delrickio merely lifted his brows. Christ in heaven, how had he ever been deluded into believing this idiot could provide him with anything remotely useful? “You bring me information I already have. I’m never pleased to have my time wasted.”
“They think the plane was fuck—tampered with,” he corrected himself quickly. “I heard her and Winthrop talking. She was a mess when I picked her up at the airport. See, what I did was, I waited until they sent the kid along, and went in the house. I listened outside.” Because Delrickio was tapping his fingers against the desktop, Lyle hurried on. They think someone was trying to kill her. There was this note, and—”
He broke off when Delrickio raised a hand. “What note?”
“Something she found on the plane. From the way she talked, it wasn’t the first one she’d gotten. He tried to talk her into leaving, but she wouldn’t go.”
“What did the note say?”
“I don’t know.” Lyle paled a bit and cleared his throat. “I didn’t really see it. I only heard them talking about it.” He wondered if he should bring up the notes he’d found in Eve’s bedroom, and decided to bide his time.
“This is all very interesting, but hardly worth taking up my time on a beautiful morning.”
“There’s more.” Lyle paused. Throughout the night, he’d gone over and over how he would play this card. “It’s big, Mr. Delrickio, bigger than what you’ve been paying me for.”
“Since I’ve been paying you for very little of interest, that makes no impression on me.”
“I guarantee you, you’ll want this. I figure it’s worth a bonus. A fat one. Maybe even a permanent job. I got no intention of spending the rest of my life driving a car and living over a garage.”
“Is that so?” Delrickio’s distaste showed only briefly. “Tell me what you have, then I’ll tell you what it’s worth.”
Lyle licked his lips again. He knew he was taking a chance, but the payoff could be incredible. Visions of cold money and hot women danced in his head. “Mr. Delrickio, I know you’re a man of your word. If you promise me you’ll pay me what the information is worth, I’ll stand by that.”
Stand or die, Delrickio thought with a weary sigh. “You have it.”
Enjoying the drama of the moment, Lyle let silence hang. “Eve Benedict is Julia Summers’s natural mother.”
Delrickio’s eyes narrowed, darkened. Angry color crept from his neck to cover his face. Each word he spoke was like an ice pick striking bone. “Do you think you can come into my house and tell me this lie, then walk out alive?”
“Mr. Delrickio—” Lyle’s saliva dried to dust when he saw the small, lethal .22 in Delrickio’s hand. “Don’t. Christ, don’t.” He scrambled like a crab toward the back of the chair.
“Tell me that again.”
“I swear it.” Tears of terror leaked from his eyes. “They were on the terrace, and I was hiding in the garden, so I could find out anything you might want to know. Just like we agreed. And—and Eve, she started telling this story about Gloria DuBarry having an affair with that Torrent guy.”
“Gloria DuBarry had an affair with Michael Torrent? Your fantasies grow.” His finger caressed the trigger of the gun.
Terror made the .22 look like a cannon. “Eve said it. Jesus, why would I make it up?”
“You have one minute to tell me exactly what she said.” Calmly, Delrickio glanced at the stately grandfather clock in the corner. “Begin.”
Fumbling, stammering, Lyle blurted out everything he could remember, his wild eyes never leaving the barrel of the .22. As the story poured out, Delrickio’s look became less intense and more speculative.
“So, Miss DuBarry aborted Torrent’s baby.” It was an interesting, potentially useful face. Marcus Grant had a very successful business, and would probably object to having his wife’s indiscretion come to light. Delrickio filed it away.
“How do you turn this information into Miss Summers being Eve’s daughter.”
“Eve told her, she told her about a year or so later she got knocked up by Victor Flannigan.” Lyle’s voice rose an octave effortlessly, like an opera singer practicing scales. “She was going to have an abortion, too, but changed her mind and had the kid. She gave it up for adoption. She told the Summers woman. Jesus, I swear she told her she was her mother. She even said she had papers, lawyer’s stuff, to prove it.” He was too terrified to move, even to wipe his running nose. “Summers went nuts, started screaming and throwing things. The other two—Travers and Soloman—came running out. That’s when I went back to the garage, to watch. I could still hear her yelling, and Eve crying. Afterward Summers ran back to the guest house. I knew you’d want to know. I ain’t lying, I swear it.”
No, Delrickio thought, he wasn’t clever enough to have made it all up, the clinic in France, the private hospital in Switzerland. He replaced the gun, ignoring the fact that Lyle covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
Eve had a child, he thought. A child she would undoubtedly want to protect.
Smiling to himself, he leaned back in his chair. Lyle was a revolting swine. But swine had their uses.
Julia had never seen so much chintz in one place. Obviously Gloria had told the decorator to make her office cozy and old-fashioned. She’d gotten it. In spades. Frilly pink curtains with layers and more layers of flounce. Chairs so deep and cushy a small child could sink into them and never be seen again. Hooked rugs scattered over hardwood. Copper and brass pots overflowing with cute balls of yarn or dried flowers. Tiny tables crowded with miniature statuary. A dusting nightmare.
Everything was packed in and angled together so that the visitor was forced to pick through a country-motif obstacle course, shifting this way and that to avoid bumping a hip or stubbing a toe.
Then there were the cats. Three of them slept in a slant of sunlight, tangled around and over each other into one obscene ball of glossy white fur.
Gloria was seated at a small, curvy desk more suited to milady’s boudoir than a working office. She wore a pale pink dress with full sleeves and a Quaker collar. In it she looked the picture of purity, good health, and goodwill. But nerves recognized nerves. Julia saw the stress in the bitten-down nails. Her own were a ragged mess after the hour she’d spent this morning agonizing over keeping this appointment or canceling.
“Miss Summers.” With a warm, welcoming smile, Gloria rose. “Since you’re right on time, you must not have had any trouble finding us.”
“No trouble at all.” Julia turned sideways to scoot between a table and a footstool. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me.”
“Eve is one of my oldest and closest friends. How could I refuse?”
Julia accepted Gloria’s invitation to sit. Obviously, the incident at Eve’s party wasn’t going to be mentioned. But they both knew it gave Julia the advantage.
“I received the message that you wouldn’t be able to have brunch, but perhaps you’d like some coffee, tea?”
“No, nothing, thank you.” She’d inge
sted enough coffee that morning to wire her for a week.
“So you want to talk about Eve,” Gloria began in the voice of a cheerful nun. “I’ve known Eve for, goodness, it must be thirty years or so now. I confess, when we first met she terrified and fascinated me. Let’s see, it was just before we began to work on—”
“Miss DuBarry.” In a low voice directly opposed to Gloria’s bubbly bright one, Julia interrupted. “There are a lot of things I’d like to talk to you about, a lot of questions I need to ask, but I feel we’re both going to be uncomfortable until we get one point in the open.”
“Really?”
The only thing Julia had been sure of that morning was that she would not play games. “Eve told me everything.”
“Everything?” The smile stayed in place, but beneath the desk Gloria’s fingers twisted together. “About?”
“Michael Torrent.”
Gloria blinked twice before her expression settled into pleasant lines. If the director had ordered mild surprise and polite confusion, the actress would have nailed the first take. “Michael? Well, naturally, as he was her first husband, she would have discussed him with you.”
Julia realized Gloria was a much more skilled actress than she’d ever been given credit for. “I know about the affair,” she