Resurgence (35 page)

“I guess it’ll have to be,” Amanda says, petulance creeping into her tone as the conversation winds down to an inconclusive finish.

Laurel gets up to shut the office door, ignores how chilled her bare feet and legs have become. She powers on the computer when she returns to the desk. The shifting shapes of the screensaver hold her attention until the ping of the fax machine breaks in.

Was it only this afternoon—yesterday afternoon—that Colin eased off thinking the worst about the Nate-Amanda relationship and even complimented Nate for his ability to separate business and pleasure? What would Colin think now, given Amanda’s brazen admission of collusion with the enemy? And what would he think of the demand for heightened security precautions now that it’s safe to say the demand originated with Nate?

What would he think if he were willing to believe cocaine was found in her attic? Would he shrug it off as Nate did at first—blame it on a couple of experimenting college kids? Or would he think she kept a stash? And how hard would he laugh at the outrageous concept of a Native American called Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway hell-bent on a mission to avenge Aurora’s ruination?

She could laugh at that notion herself if she didn’t recall those baseless fears that tried to possess her at the Concert for Rayce. But that doesn’t keep her from recalling the stand she took the night Mrs. Floss burst in—the beans-on-toast night when Colin tried to cast himself as her guardian and protector and she pompously proclaimed that she’d never give in to fear, never live her life from beneath the bed, never buy into the aberrations of a crazy old lady, or she’d soon be crazy herself. Her exact words or very close.

The computer monitor no longer holds any fascination and the fax machine has fallen idle. Just as well because neither are a priority at the moment. Before she does anything else, she’ll get in touch with her brothers and sister, extract from them promises to attend whatever services are arranged for their onetime benefactor. Then she’ll call the Glen Abbey police department and take care of whatever it is they require. After that, she’ll leave word for David that she needs to see him at his earliest convenience and will be traveling to London tomorrow—no, later on today—with Colin when he visits his Harley Street physicians.

Some six sleepless hours later, at nine a.m., Laurel prepares to enter David Sebastian’s Curzon Street offices in London. This comes only after assigning Anthony’s supervision to Sam Earle, leaving Simon with Susa Thorne for the day, and convincing Colin the disposition of Mrs. Floss’s dead body is her sole reason for consulting with David.

“I don’t like leaving you here alone,” Colin says when he drops her off.

“I don’t like you going to your doctor appointments without a Praetorian Guard, so I guess that makes us even,” she says and belies her astringent tone by kissing him as though they were going to be apart for a week.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” David says when she’s shown into his private quarters.

“Pleasure doesn’t enter into it,” Laurel says, inwardly recoiling from his ill-concealed interest in her appearance—regretting the hasty choice of a clingy Missoni dress and a loose and flowing hairstyle.

“I can always hope, can’t I?” David waves her to an elegant Regency chair positioned at right angles to the imposing desk he commands in his always correct dark pinstriped suit, white-collared blue shirt, and regimental tie.

He’s probably hoping she requested this emergency meeting to announce an end to her little walk on the wild side; he’s probably hoping she’s relented and will return to the practice of law—entertainment law, to be specific. She keeps these uncharitable thoughts to herself while taking the faxed version of Amanda’s revelations from her battered carryall.

“Here.” She hands it across the intimidating expanse of desktop. “This will go quicker if you read that first.”

He complies after lifting an eyebrow at the sender’s ID.

While he reads, she surveys the surroundings, estimates how much of the understated splendor was paid for by those rock stars he holds in such low esteem and courts with concealed condescension. These glum thoughts occupy her until David finishes with the fax and removes his reading glasses.

“Before I say anything else, allow me to express my condolences about Mrs. Floss. I’ve never forgotten how that good neighbor kept you going during the darkest days and propped you up after the shock of your grandmother’s death. Tragic, just tragic . . . especially the circumstances of her—”

“Save the eulogy for later,” she says. “The overriding concern now is what to do about the rest of this . . . this hypothesis from hell.”

“Start by considering the source,” David is quick to say.

“Amanda or Nate?”

“Nate. That’s a given, Amanda’s only an accessory. What I see here is a highly structured effort to make himself indispensable to Colin, inveigle his way back into a position of power. Devious for enlisting Amanda, despicable for engendering fear, his construct is nevertheless brilliant for distilling known fact and pure fiction into a near-believable premise.”

David pauses to review a page. “And he’s managed to alarm you, so the plan’s working.” He pauses to reread another section of the fax. “But what I don’t see anywhere is the catalyst that set this in motion.”

“Catalyst? I’m not sure I know what you mean by that.”

“The occurrence—real, or imagined by some old lady—that put wheels under the argument. What set him off and when.”

“Nate or Hoople Jakeway?”

“Nate—Am I going too fast for you? You seem to be having trouble keeping up.”

“I’ve had very little sleep.”

“I should have realized. All right then, here’s what we’ll do—a point-by-point takedown, starting with the introduction of Hoople Jakeway as a threat.”

David goes on to discredit everything that doesn’t have basis in hard fact. He pooh-poohs the notion of an unrequited suitor with a bone to pick as the convenient invention of a hack with a sensationalized story to write. He dismisses Amanda’s charts as immaterial, representative of potential over actual, with a dash of wishful thinking.

He rejects everything attributed to Mrs. Floss for the obvious reason of her dementia and untimely demise. He devalues the links between the three homicides as insignificant in light of what the deceased all had in common. He scorns the suggestion of a possible link to Rayce’s death as wildly implausible, and finds absurd the idea any of this conjecture should seriously impact Colin.

He does exactly what she wants him to do—slays the monster under the bed—and says exactly what she wants him to say until he gets down to those points that cannot be rebutted.

He cannot deny the findings of the private investigator who matched names with numbers and provided a photograph bearing passable resemblance to the Floss sketch. He can’t explain that away, and he can’t automatically disregard the supposition Jakeway entered her home more than once, leaving behind cocaine residue and who knows what else. Then there’s the matter of Jakeway’s registered visit to St. Joseph’s hospital the day of the Sid Kaplan murder; that can’t be mere coincidence.

“But
why
?” David argues when she supports those claims. “And can you really be sure your brothers or perhaps your sister didn’t do a little sampling, as Nate originally surmised? For that matter, how do you know there
is
any coke to be found in your attic and if there is, that
Nate
didn’t plant it there to strengthen his case?”

“That’s ridiculous! That’s
beyond
outrageous! Nate wouldn’t resort to that even . . . even if he
did
want Colin back, which he emphatically does not!”

David ignores her mounting stridency, as has always been his practice. “And why is
your
house the target area?” he says. “If someone’s determined to eliminate Colin, why not on the streets of New York a la John Lennon. God knows Colin provided enough opportunity while he was in Manhattan, and—”

“That’s enough! Next you’ll be suggesting
I’m
in the crosshairs.”

“Laurel . . . dear. I’m doing my level best to dispel your fears. That is what you want isn’t it? That is what you came here for, isn’t it?”

She hiccoughs. “Yes.”

“Then stop fighting me. And for pity’s sake stop trying not to cry. You’re way overdue. No one, least of all me, is going to think you’re weak if you shed a few tears.”

She may as well cry. She’s revealed her vulnerabilities, how suggestible she is where Colin is concerned, how helpless she is to do anything about it. Gone now is the upper hand she wielded that rainy morning in the arcade when David tried to apologize for disparaging his show business clientele. And absent now is the inner strength that saw her through so many other threats to her happiness.

She hiccoughs again; he pours her a glass of water from a carafe on a nearby credenza. “Hear me out, please,” he says.

She suffers a couple more ragged hiccoughs and listens without comment while he reasons that there can be more than one explanation for the specific claims she wants to cling to. In assessing the overall premise, he uses words like preposterous, farcical, and ludicrous, reminds her as she reminded herself during the night that all public figures live with fear and learn not to let it govern them.

“Colin is a prime example,” David says. “He’s not willing to give up what freedom he does have to the lunatic fringe. And for purposes of this argument you may include Nate Isaacs in that fringe.”

“You’re wrong about that!
Completely
wrong!”

“I thought you agreed to listen.”

“Very well!” she says.

“I’m going to arrange for an independent party to determine what that substance is in your New Jersey attic. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes. I’ve already instructed Amanda to tell Nate his investigation cannot proceed if it hinges on an alleged cocaine find on my property. That was a snap decision designed to spare my brothers, if necessary. And me. And to buy a little time.”

“Smart move. One Nate may thank you for down the road.”

“Why would that be?”

“For slowing down his rush to judgment, and in all probability, preventing his making an international fool of himself by going to the authorities with this nonsense.”

“But you would have loved his making a fool of himself, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t because it would have meant acres of sensationalized press for Colin, who I hope knows nothing of this and won’t. If you’ve not already told him, I strongly advise you not to. Better that this contagion of paranoia stop with me. No purpose would be served by telling Colin. We both know that if told to run east, he’ll run west.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“There’s not much you can do unless a specific threat is made, and I consider that highly unlikely.”

“Didn’t the Pinkertons say something to that effect the night Lincoln went to the theatre?”

“Oh
please
. You cannot be suggesting this Jakeway person should be treated as an
established
threat. Is he on record anywhere with stated intent to take out Aurora-related paparazzi, drug dealers, and rock stars? I think not, and until he is, the authorities won’t touch him, and perhaps not even then. The stockpile of suspicious appearing weirdos increases every day, Laurel. They can’t
all
be followed up.”

“So I should simply bide my time until this headcase steps forward to proclaim his intentions, then take it from there.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well I’m afraid not! I want you to stipulate that Colin
never
be without a bodyguard when in public, and I expect you to enforce it.”

“How in hell am I going to bring that off when no one else has been able to—including you?”

“By telling him the
promoters
demand it. No way would he sit still for these medical exams he’s having today if the promoters hadn’t required it. Amend the contract. Write a new one. Fake one if necessary. Do whatever you have to do to make this happen.”

“It might work at that.”

“Fucking
make
it work, David. Give me some peace of mind and compel your client to toe the line.”

“I suppose it’s worth a try.”

“Don’t suppose, do it!

“Interesting . . . It’s a wonder Bemus didn’t think of this when Colin refused his request for beefed-up security the other day,” David muses.

“Maybe he would have if the request hadn’t originated with Nate.”

“Ah . . . yes, I should have seen that . . . as channeled through Amanda.”

“Well now that you do, get on it. Provide the document that will persuade Colin to give in.”

David quickly words a page of revision that might not stand up in court, but could convince Colin to comply with the demand for a regular bodyguard presence.

“And a copy for Amanda, just in case,” she says as David steps out of the office to have the document typed. She hopes that won’t be the case; the fewer people involved in this conspiracy, the fewer who will have to pay if Colin ever finds out about it.

“All right, then,” David says when he returns, “what do you want to tackle next? You indicated you had more to say about Amanda, and there’s the issue of having Mrs. Floss declared without next of kin.”

“Yes. Amanda. Before you label her the traitor Colin would if he got wind of this, please consider her motive. Her concern for Colin’s safety is uppermost and that concern cuts across normal dividing lines. As it should.”

“You don’t need to defend her. I’m not going to do anything that would jeopardize her standing because I can’t get along without her. Don’t forget, I have only the illusion of managing Colin’s career, and if I want to preserve that illusion a little longer, I’ll stick with the status quo.”

“I see.”

Was that renewed ambition he let her glimpse for a moment?

“As for the unfortunate Mrs. Floss, I’ll have someone from the New York office light a fire under social services,” David says.

“That will help because the unsworn statement I faxed to the police this morning was little more than a formality.”