Luke noticed that the Old Man, Gordon and the obviously intrepid Dr. Van Dyke did not look happy with the direction of the conversation.
“We are all agreed that you need help, Luke,” Van Dyke reminded the group.
“She’s right,” Gordon said heavily. “Luke, you haven’t been yourself since you got out of the Marines. You know that.”
“You’re in a downward spiral, son,” John said gravely. “We’re trying to stop it before it goes too far. Dr. Van Dyke has a plan.”
“Plans are good,” Luke said. “I have a few of my own.”
A knock interrupted him. He turned back around and opened the doors. Bruce stood there with a tray.
“Coffee and a cup, sir.”
“Thanks.” Luke took the tray from him.
Bruce looked at the small crowd behind Luke. “Should I bring some more cups?”
“No,” Luke said, edging one door closed with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t think anyone else here is interested in coffee this morning. They’re too busy intervening.”
He nudged the other door shut and carried the pot and the cup to the table.
John’s face tightened angrily. “I’ve had enough. You’ve got problems. Admit it.”
Luke poured coffee into the cup. “Everyone has problems.”
“Not like yours,” Dr. Van Dyke said in a calm, authoritative manner. “Given your history, it is entirely possible that you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder with symptoms of anxiety, depression, erectile dysfunction and hypervigilance.”
Luke paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. “Hyper-vigilance?”
“That jumpy, easily startled feeling,” Van Dyke explained.
“Right.” He nodded. “I drink coffee for that.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jason exchange a look with Hackett, who shook his head in silent warning. Gordon’s expression tightened. The Old Man seemed to slump a little in his chair.
The others were giving up already, Luke concluded. But Dr. Van Dyke was evidently made of sterner stuff. Oblivious to the changing mood in the room, she plowed onward.
“The best way to approach your issues in a constructive fashion is for you to start therapy immediately,” she declared. “Initially we will meet three times a week starting today. In addition, I will prescribe medications to ease your anxiety and depression. There are also meds for your erectile dysfunction problem.”
“Good to know.” Luke swallowed some coffee.
Irene looked at Vicki. “Mrs. Danner, I understand that, as Luke’s mother, you’re naturally very worried about him.”
“I am not his mother.”
“Stepmother, I mean,” Irene said quickly.
Vicki’s elegantly manicured fingers tightened on the delicate handle of the coffee cup. “Let’s get something clear, Irene. I do not know what Luke has told you about our relationship, but I can assure you that he does not consider me to be his mother or stepmother. I am his father’s wife.”
“Well, yes, certainly, but—”
Vicki sighed. “From day one Luke made it plain that he did not need or want a mother. I will never forget my first impression of him when John introduced us. I swear, that boy was ten years old going on forty.”
Katy frowned a little. “Luke is very fond of you, Vicki; you know that.”
“He wasn’t at the beginning,” Vicki said grimly. “At first I made the mistake of trying to take the place of the mother he had lost. But by that point Luke and his father, together with Gordon, had been an all-male team for several years. Luke liked the situation just the way it was.” The cup trembled ever so slightly in her fingers. “I’ve often wondered if I’m the one who drove him out of the family.”
Irene took another muffin out of the basket. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps if I hadn’t come into his life, if I hadn’t taken so much of his father’s attention and then provided him with two younger half brothers, maybe Luke wouldn’t have felt compelled to go into academia and then into the Marines.” She paused. “And if he hadn’t done that, maybe he wouldn’t be in the situation he’s in today.”
“Whoa, wait, stop right there.” Irene waved her napkin wildly in front of Vicki’s distraught face. “Get a grip, lady. This is Luke we’re talking about. He marches to the beat of his own drummer. This is one man who for sure makes his own choices. You are not responsible for him joining the Marines or buying the lodge or anything else he chooses to do.”
“John is so very anxious about him,” Vicki whispered.
“Luke is okay,” Irene said.
Vicki looked at her, seeking reassurance. “Are you sure? Do you think he’ll come back to the business?”
Irene considered briefly. “If Elena Creek Vineyards was in serious trouble and if he thought he might be able to help save it, Luke would come back. He knows how much the business means to everyone in the family. Given his sense of loyalty and responsibility, it’s safe to say that he would make a rescue attempt if necessary. But otherwise, no. He has his own plans.”
“Operating the Sunrise on the Lake Lodge?” Vicki said. “That’s ridiculous. Luke is no innkeeper. He belongs at the winery.”
Katy looked thoughtful. “You know, Irene has a point. Six months ago, like everyone else, I was focused on trying to help Luke adjust to life here in Santa Elena because I knew that’s what Uncle John, Dad and you thought would be best for him. But when I think back, I can see that maybe we were wrong to try to push him into the business and into marriage. Maybe all we were really doing was applying more pressure at a point in his life when that was the last thing he needed.”
This time Irene flapped the napkin in Katy’s face, instead of Vicki’s. “Don’t go there, either. There’s no call to blame yourselves for urging Luke to join the business, get married and act normal. For a while, that was what he thought he wanted. Trust me, if Luke hadn’t been on board with the plan, it wouldn’t have gotten as far as it did. Or haven’t you noticed that he isn’t very easy to manipulate?”
Katy smiled wryly. “None of the males in this family are easily manipulated.”
Vicki made a face. “Stubborn and hardheaded, every last one of them.”
Irene put the napkin back in her lap. “Luke knows what he’s doing.” At that moment she caught sight of him making his way across the restaurant toward her. “Oops, gotta go. There’s my ride.”
“What?” Katy turned and saw Luke. “Uh-oh. I’ve got a feeling the intervention didn’t go well.”
Vicki watched Luke with an anxious expression. “Dr. Van Dyke told John that the intervention would last at least an hour and that she hoped to take Luke immediately into a private therapy session afterward.”
“Someone should have warned Dr. Van Dyke that Luke usually has his own agenda,” Irene said.
Luke reached the table and halted. “Morning, ladies. Nice day for an intervention, isn’t it?” He looked at Irene. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve had my fun. Time to leave.”
“I was pretty sure you were going to say that.” Irene jumped to her feet and seized a fresh napkin. “Hang on a sec.”
She spread the napkin on the table, picked up the bread basket and dumped the remaining muffins into the center of the linen square. Working quickly she folded the goodies into the napkin and knotted the ends.
The waiter appeared with a takeout container. “Your omelet, ma’am. There’s a plastic knife and fork and some napkins, too.”
“Right on time, thanks.” Irene took the container from him, grabbed her coat off the back of the chair, slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and smiled at Luke. “I’m ready.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Jason, Hackett, Gordon and John hurried across the restaurant. A woman wearing a tweed suit and shoes that had obviously been designed for comfort, not style, followed in their wake. Dr. Van Dyke, Irene thought.
“Luke, wait,” John ordered.
“Sorry, Dad.” Lu
ke steered Irene toward the door. “We’ve got some things to do in the city.”
The woman in the tweed suit loomed directly in front of Irene, accusation radiating from her in waves.
“You are enabling his behavior,” the woman said quietly.
“Not exactly,” Irene said. “Luke pretty much does his own thing.”
“I know you want what is best for him. We all do. That’s why I’m here.”
Irene glanced quickly around at the circle of concerned faces, trying to think of something she could say that would reassure all these people who obviously cared so much about Luke. Inspiration struck.
“If it helps,” she said, “I can assure you that there’s no need to worry about Luke’s erectile dysfunction problems.”
“Irene,” Luke muttered, “If you don’t mind—”
“He’s definitely normal in that department,” Irene continued quickly, eager to make her point. “Actually, he’s a lot bigger than normal.”
A great hush had fallen across the entire restaurant. It dawned on her that everyone was staring at her as though mesmerized.
Jason grinned. “Boy, howdy.”
Bigger, she thought, had been an unfortunate choice of words.
“I mean better than normal,” she said quickly.
She could tell immediately that the hasty rephrasing wasn’t quite right, either.
“I feel a little faint,” she said to Luke.
“That’s funny, I feel like I just fell into a pharmaceutical commercial,” he said. “I believe this is one of those situations that call for a strategic retreat.”
“Yes, please.”
He hauled her forcefully toward the door, pausing long enough to collect the umbrella from a wide-eyed Brenda.
A few seconds later Irene found herself outside in the misty rain.
There was a short, freighted silence.
Irene cleared her throat. “I assume you didn’t get breakfast or a job offer.”
“No.”
“Bummer.”
“The way I look at it, this day has nowhere to go but up,” Luke said.
“Now there’s an optimistic, glass-half-full kind of statement.”
He ignored that. “What’s in the box?”
“Spinach and feta cheese omelet. When I heard about the intervention I had a feeling we might be leaving early. Don’t let the rain hit the muffins.”
Luke’s teeth flashed in a quick grin. “You know, I could have done without the public discussion of my erectile dysfunction issues, but I’ve got to admit that I do admire a woman who can manage to produce breakfast in a high-stress situation like that.”
Thirty-two
The morning fog still clung to the city when Luke wedged the SUV into an empty space at the end of a quiet residential neighborhood. He switched off the engine, folded his arms on the steering wheel and studied the terrain.
The street where Hoyt Egan lived was lined on both sides with modern apartment complexes, the type that were designed to appeal to successful singles and the upwardly mobile. Each building had been given an attractive, Italianate façade. But when he looked past the superficial architectural elements, it was easy to see the basic square boxes behind the artfully sculpted windows and doorways.
“You’re sure this is the right address?” Irene asked, opening her door.
“Pulled it off the Internet this morning.”
“You’re certain that he’s home?”
“His office staff was very helpful when I asked about his schedule today.”
“What did you do? Promise to make a big contribution to Webb’s campaign?”
“There may have been that implication,” he admitted.
He climbed out and waited for Irene to join him on the sidewalk. Together they walked toward the entrance to Egan’s apartment building. The ornate sign over the elaborately worked wrought-iron gates identified the complex as the Palladium.
Irene stopped, her hands in the pockets of her coat, and looked at the security intercom. “What makes you think he’ll see us?”
“Don’t worry, Egan will buzz us inside so fast it will make your head spin.”
“Why?”
“Pure fear. Works every time.”
Her expression transformed into a sunny smile. “Fear of you. Sure, that makes sense.”
He was amused. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your faith in me, but I can’t take the credit. In this case, we’re talking fear of bad publicity. Egan is in charge of handling a senator who is on the road to the White House. His job depends on how well he does damage control.”
“I get it. We represent potential damage.”
“We do, indeed.” He punched the intercom button.
An impatient masculine voice, rendered tinny and scratchy by the intercom speaker, answered after only one ring.
“You got apartment three-oh-one,” Hoyt said. “Is this a delivery?”
“You could call it that,” Luke said. “Luke Danner. I’m with Irene Stenson. Remember us?”
There was an instant of frozen stillness on the other end of the connection.
“What do you want?” Hoyt demanded, voice sharpening.
“To talk to you,” Luke said. “If you haven’t got time—”
A screechy, buzzing sound interrupted him. Irene turned the handle and pushed open the gate that Hoyt had just unlocked.
“Come on up,” Hoyt snapped.
The intercom immediately went dead.
Luke followed Irene through the gate into a small, tiled courtyard decorated with a fountain and a number of plants growing in earthenware pots. They crossed the courtyard and went through two heavy glass doors into a small lobby. There was a door marked MANAGER on one side. It was closed.
Irene started toward the elevator. Luke caught her by the arm.
“Let’s use the stairs,” he said.
“All right.” She slanted him a curious look. “Any particular reason?”
“It’s easier to get a feel for the layout of the place that way.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Old habit,” he said. “When you’re dealing with people you’re fairly sure don’t have any reason to like you very much, you can never have enough intelligence.”
“Ah, yes,” she said with a wise air. “Intel.”
“I prefer the term ‘intelligence.’ Sure, it’s a big word for a Marine but now that I’ve mastered it, I like to use it.”
The carpet that covered the third-floor hall hushed the sound of their footsteps, but Hoyt was obviously watching through the peephole because the door of 301 opened abruptly just as Luke raised his hand to knock.
“What’s this all about?” Hoyt demanded, letting them into the small, mirrored foyer. “I’m in the middle of preparing for a series of meetings.”
He wore an expensive-looking dress shirt and trousers. His shoes were freshly polished. He had not yet put on a tie, but Luke decided he was telling the truth about the meetings.
“We’ll keep it short,” Luke promised.
“This way.” Hoyt angled his head toward the front room of the apartment.
It was obvious at a glance that Hoyt had made no effort to coordinate his interior decor with the Italian influence of the Palladium. In fact, as far as Luke could tell, there was no particular design motif to the space at all, unless Workaholic Political Aide qualified as a decorating style.
Luke counted four lines on the landline phone. Hoyt had another phone clipped to his belt. There was a fax machine in one corner and a copier in another. Most of the walls were covered with newspaper and magazine clippings featuring shots of Webb with various VIPs.
Irene came to a halt in the center of the cluttered living room and shoved her hands into the pockets of her trench coat.
“We want to know what you and Pamela argued about on the day before we found her body,” she said.
Hoyt looked at her as though she had just turned into an alien life form before hi
s very eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“We know you went to see her in Dunsley.” Luke made his way to the nearest wall and studied a photo of Ryland Webb emerging from a museum. Alexa Douglass and a young girl of about nine accompanied Webb. He glanced back over his shoulder. “We know you quarreled.”
Hoyt went rigid. Luke could almost see him running scenarios in his head, deciding how to deal with this unexpected problem.
“You can’t prove that,” Hoyt said.
“Dunsley is a very small town.” Irene smiled thinly. “Did you really think you could visit a member of the town’s most high-profile family in the middle of the day and not be seen by someone?”
“No one there knows me or my car,” he said automatically. It seemed to dawn on him that might not sound like the remark of an innocent man. “I wasn’t trying to sneak around, dammit. All right, it’s none of your business, but I did drive up there to talk to her that day. You can’t make anything out of that. I sure as hell wasn’t anywhere near Dunsley when she OD’d. She was fine when I left her.”
“What did you and Pamela argue about?” Irene asked.
Hoyt’s jaw flexed. “Why should I tell you?”
Luke looked at him. “Thing is, if you don’t tell us why you quarreled with her, we’re going to come to our own conclusions and some of those conclusions may wind up in Irene’s newspaper. You really want that to happen?”
“You trying to scare me, Danner?”
Luke spread his hands. “Well, sure. Seems like the best way to get answers. Got a better idea?”
Irene scowled. “That’s enough, both of you. Hoyt, please, it’s important. I need to know what you and Pamela argued about.”
“Why? So you can try to pin her death on me? Forget it.”
She watched him thoughtfully. “You had an affair with her, didn’t you?”
Hoyt hesitated. Once again Luke could see him doing mental calculations.
“We were an item for a while,” he said slowly. “No more than a few weeks. It was no secret. What about it?”
“Pamela called it off, didn’t she?” Irene said, her voice softening. “When she was a teen, it was always Pamela who ended things. I doubt that she changed much in that regard.”