Baby, Don't Go Page 8

  Odds were, even if he could shake Daisy long enough to share with the police his suspicions that Douglass was behind this, he wouldn’t be given much credence. Even if he showed them the prints, all those actually proved was that J. Fitzgerald was an adulterous lech.

  It was enough to turn a grown man into a snarling maniac.

  He slammed through the Porsche’s gears, and the car bottomed out when he took a hill too fast. Spearing a glance at Daisy, he expected to be told to slow down, but she didn’t say a word. He slowed down anyhow. The police station was only a few blocks away.

  The photos should provide enough incentive for the cops to at least question J. Fitzgerald. That would be a start. After today, Nick wanted nothing more than to see the hypocritical old prick fry—but realistically, he knew that, warming as the thought might be, it was unlikely to happen.

  But wouldn’t it be a cushy little irony if it did? If by some miracle the cops actually found the evidence to arrest Douglass, Nick’s photos would be even more valuable to the tabloids than they were now, and the bids would go up accordingly. Not only would that keep his sister out of jail, but he would also be off the hook for going public.

  The odds were heavily against him, but it had an infinitesimal chance of working. Only, however, if he made sure Daisy was nowhere around when he talked to the cops.

  He pulled into the lot adjacent to the station house. Killing the engine and pulling on the hand brake, he looked over at her. “You wanna wait for me here?”

  Daisy snorted and climbed out of the car.

  Okay, you didn’t actually expect her to go for it. While it was hard to imagine an idiot ballsy enough to try something right outside a police station, he knew she’d never let him walk unprotected from the lot. He climbed out of the car.

  The Richmond station was an attractive old brick building with cathedral windows. Stubby wings protruded on either end of the building, and angled white brick defined the arch around the wing windows and the entrance door. Nick smiled crookedly at the long-suffering look Daisy gave him when he beat her to the door and held it open for her; then he followed her inside.

  As he was mulling over how to shake her long enough to make his report, an incredulous female voice called out, “Parker?” And he thought there must be a God in heaven after all.

  A dark-haired woman in street clothes walked rapidly down the hall toward them, smiling warmly. “I don’t believe my eyes,” she said. “Is that really you?”

  “Gellahty?” Daisy laughed, and it struck Nick that she hardly ever did that anymore. He remembered her laughing a lot when she was a kid. “What are you doing here?” She strode forward to meet the woman.

  “A position opened up and I transferred from Oakland a couple of months ago,” Gellahty replied.

  “You made detective?” Daisy laughed again as she gave the woman a spontaneous hug. “Congratulations, Sheila!”

  “You know who else is here? McGee. Hang on a sec.” The detective whirled and strode midway back down the hall. She stuck her head in a doorway. “Hey, Maggie. Come see what the cat dragged in.”

  A tall black woman came out and looked askance down the corridor. Then her dark face split into a brilliant white smile. “Daisy Parker, as I live and breathe!”

  “Ach, and how is my little Irish colleen?” Daisy’s laughter was deep-throated and contagious. The women met halfway and exchanged enthusiastic hugs.

  Nick smiled as he walked over to the officer manning the front desk and asked to see a detective. There was something about seeing Daisy so open and happy that got to him. It certainly wasn’t a side he brought out in her; the only smiles she ever bestowed on him were edged in cynicism.

  The desk officer advised him to take a seat while he hunted down the appropriate officer. Nick leaned against the nearest wall instead and braced the sole of one foot against it. Raising his camera, he snapped off several frames of the women while they exchanged friendly insults and station house gossip.

  “How about you, Daisy?” the dark-haired women asked. “What have you been up to since you left the PD?”

  “I opened a security firm. It’s barely more than a fledgling at this point, but I’m hoping to get it off the ground.” She glanced over her shoulder at Nick, then turned back to her friends. “Which brings me to why I’m here.”

  Shit! His smile fell apart and he dropped his foot from the wall and pushed upright. “Uh, Daisy? Could I talk to—”

  A plainclothes detective walked out at that moment and said, “Mr. Coltrane?” just as Daisy turned back to her cohorts and said, “Someone just tried to run my client down with a car. He took nude photos of a married woman a while back, and the husband hired some muscle to get his hands on them. They already dislocated his shoulder and we’re here to file a report of the latest incident.” She turned back to Nick. “Shall I bring them up to speed, or do you prefer to do it yourself?”

  All three women regarded him with expectant expressions, and even the male detective gave him his full attention, although he appeared a bit confused.

  Well, fuck. If that didn’t just blow everything to hell and gone. Nick barely resisted the tempation to bang his head against the wall behind him.

  What was he supposed to do now? If he told the truth in the wake of Daisy’s little setup, he’d discredit her in the eyes of her ex-coworkers. She’d look like a fool and be humiliated. Yet he could hardly file a false report featuring some fictitious husband/wife team. He refused to dig this pit any deeper for himself than he already had.

  It left him only one choice, really. In order to spare Blondie’s pride, he’d have to decline to cooperate. The decision had nothing to do with the fact that his life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel if she found out he’d been lying to her. The sacrifice was strictly for her.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want to file a report.”

  “What?” Daisy whispered. She couldn’t have felt more incredulous if Nick had suggested something obscene about her mother. Feeling as if her professional expertise were under fire, she looked over at Sheila and Maggie. They’d adopted cop faces—that noncommittal bland look police everywhere wore when they were assessing a situation. She snuck a glance at the detective who had just shown up. He shrugged and patted his chest pocket, where a pack of cigarettes formed a distinctive bulge. With a look of longing at the entrance door, he leaned against the wall. Daisy looked back at Judas Coltrane. “Why?”

  He drew himself up and demanded, “Is this the way the police conducts its business—in the middle of a hallway?”

  He was right, and she wanted to smack him. In her excitement over seeing old friends, she had bypassed the usual protocol.

  He didn’t appear interested in a response, however. Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he said with the cool prep school diction he could sometimes affect, “What Ms. Parker failed to mention is that we didn’t get a license plate number, which means we haven’t any proof.”

  Everyone turned to look at her. Oh, God, it just keeps getting better and better. I should’ve let the damn car run him down.

  Gathering the remnants of her authority around her, she opened her mouth to calmly explain why she’d urged him to file a report without proof.

  Nick redeemed himself, if only a smidgen, by adding, “She did say filing a report would show a pattern in the event we get a provable claim, and I agreed because it made sense to me.”

  It was probably immature to let it matter so much, but Daisy nevertheless felt much better when the detectives nodded approvingly.

  But Nick obviously didn’t know when to shut up. “I had time to consider the big picture, though, while I waited for the detective here,” he said, nodding at the man against the wall. “And I concluded that the risk outweighs the benefit.”

  “What risk?” Daisy demanded. “You simply have to give a statement.”

  “And will that statement then be shuffled to the bottom of the stack or perhaps buried completely
?”

  “Certainly not,” Detective Gellahty said with a look of reproval. “A detective will be assigned to talk to the husband.”

  “Exactly. And that’s where I start to have a problem. My, uh, friend is separated from her husband. He’s not happy about it, and having the police question him is not a risk I’m prepared to take at this time. It could very well set him off.” He gave them all a look. “Let’s face it, trying to have me killed today was not exactly the act of a rational man. What if having the police involved just pushes him over the edge entirely and he decides to turn his ire on his estranged wife? It would be my fault.”

  Daisy itched to say that it was his fault anyway for getting involved with a married woman in the first place. But the male detective nodded, and McGee said, “It’s a viable dilemma.” Not wanting to appear any more unprofessional than she already had in front of her former coworkers, Daisy turned to them and said, “Since we don’t know who’s responsible, we can leave that part blank. But I still recommend filing a report of the attempt.”

  “She’s right.” The detective pushed away from the wall. “The reasons she gave you still hold true, Mr. Coltrane, so why don’t you both come with me and we’ll get today’s incident on record.” He opened a door and stood back for them to precede him.

  Nick looked at Daisy and shrugged. Keeping her expression carefully neutral, she extended her palm toward the opening. “Mr. Coltrane,” she said stiffly. “After you.”

  8

  “YOU did what? Hang on a minute.” J. Fitzgerald cupped his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and said to his driver, “Close the window, please.” The divider rolled silently up to the ceiling and he removed his palm from the phone. “Who’s bright idea was that?”

  “You said to do whatever it takes, sir,” Autry said. “So when Jacobsen saw an opportunity to remove Coltrane, he took it.”

  “I never said to kill the man!” Not that it might not be necessary somewhere down the road, but right now there was no percentage in having Coltrane dead. “I said to do whatever it takes to retrieve the film. Killing Coltrane serves no purpose if the damn photos surface anyhow.”

  “Oh. You’re right, of course. Sorry, Mr. Douglass.”

  He ground his teeth against the rage that burned beneath his breastbone. But it wasn’t for nothing that he was this close to an ambassadorship. His voice was smooth and empathetic when he said, “It wasn’t your fault. But I’m counting on you to get the word out to the others. I don’t want any more screwups.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Autry. I know that I can count on you.” J. Fitzgerald disconnected the cell phone and slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his tux. Fucking morons. What did a man have to do to get decent help these days?

  The limo crested California Street and glided silently past Grace Cathedral. A few moments later it purred to a stop in front of the Fairmont Hotel. J. Fitzgerald blew out a deep breath and shelved his frustration. He straightened his bow tie and smoothed a hand over his hair. By the time the door was opened for him and he stepped out to meet his public, his trademark benevolent smile was firmly in place.

  Nick took the phone into his bedroom and shut the door. He dialed the first number on his list and listened to it ring three times before it was picked up.

  “Yeah! National Inquisitor.”

  “Hank Berentinni, please.” Nick heard the ebb and flow of conversation, the ringing of telephones, and the discordant squawk of fax machines in the background.

  “Hang on a sec.” The receiver was banged down on a hard surface. “Berentinni! Somebody wants ya, man.”

  He listened to the soft clack of hunt-and-peck tapping on computer keys until another line was picked up.

  “Yeah. This is Berentinni.”

  “This is Nicholas Coltrane.”

  “Hang on.” Berentinni’s voice, muffled most likely by a hand over the mouthpiece, called, “Jackson! Hang up your phone.” There was a click and the background noise lowered several decibels. Berentinni’s voice was clear when he said jovially, “I’m all yours, buddy. What can I do for ya?”

  “That’s up to you. You can either play the whatever-does-he-want game, or you can tell me you’ve given serious consideration to my one-time-only proposition and you’re ready to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “I tell ya what, Nick—can I call you Nick?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell ya what, Mr. Coltrane. I talked to my editor, and he’s leery about buying pics sight unseen.”

  “Uh-huh. And you told him that Nick Coltrane said he’s got photos that’re gonna send your readership right through the roof.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I said. But you won’t even disclose who you took the photos of—”

  Of course he hadn’t. The tabloids would send their own stringers out in a New York minute if they had the first idea what they were looking for. They’d rather line their own pockets than a middleman’s. The fact that they would never in a million years trip to what he’d stumbled across with Douglass didn’t enter into the calculations. Profit was the name of the game.

  But this was one game he knew how to play. “Well, hey,” he said. “If you’re not interested, you’re not interested. Sorry to have wasted your time.” He laid back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Wait a second!” Berentinni yelped. “I didn’t say we weren’t interested. I just said we’re leery about buying a pig in a poke.”

  You just wanna see how low you can drive the price, you mean. “How long has your rag been trying to buy my photographs, Berentinni?”

  “I don’t know. A long time.”

  “Right. A very long time. So don’t fuck with me. You know damn well my sudden willingness to sell means I need the dough.”

  “Yeah. You’d think you’d be grateful we’re willing to make you an offer.”

  Nick got a quick flash of how Daisy must have felt when he’d said something similar to her. “Well, let me clue you in on a little secret, Hank,” he said easily. “I’ve always had this Things-Happen-If-They’re-Meant-to-Be philosophy. So if I don’t get the offer I’m looking for, then obviously it wasn’t meant to be.” His voice hardened. “What’s it gonna be for you? Is the Inquisitor in, or is it out?”

  “We’re in. But it’s gonna take a couple of days for the money men to come to a decision.”

  “You’ve got until six p.m Friday. Mail or have your bid couriered to this address.” He rattled off the post office box number he used for work. “My decision will be determined strictly by the highest bid, so you might want to keep that in mind. I guess I’ll either hear from you Friday or I won’t. See ya.”

  “Wait! Give me a number where you can be reached in case any questions come up.”

  “Forget it. And I’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling everyone else: you call my home number or leave a message on my machine, and you’re automatically disqualified. No second chances.” He hit the disconnect button, then dialed the next number on his list.

  Forty-five minutes later he hung up on the final call. Tossing the phone on the bed, he plunged his fingers through his hair and scraped it back from his face. He pressed his temples between the heels of his hands in an attempt to ease the headache thumping there.

  He should feel great. Hell, he should be breaking out the champagne. It looked as if he were going to get the money he needed to help his sister. All he had to do now was stay alive until Friday night.

  It wasn’t fear of Douglass’ goons that had his gut tied up in knots, however. Selling to the tabloids was a slap in the face of every damn thing he believed in. If Mo’s situation wasn’t so serious—if she didn’t need way more money than she and Reid could raise on their own on short notice—there was no way in hell the yellow journalists would get within fifty miles of his photos. But her situation was dead serious, and if he had to whore his talent in order to get her out of it, then that was what he’d do.

&nb
sp; He ground the heels of his hands in harder. Christ, what a day. In the space of a few hours, he’d damn near been run down by a car, kissed Daisy, lied to her and the police, and pledged to prostitute his art to every pimp in town who had a bankroll large enough to make it worth his while.

  Yes, sir. A regular red-letter day.

  When the going got tough, Nick believed in punching it out. So he stripped down to his boxers, tied on some gloves, and feinted and jabbed at the punching bag hanging in the corner of his bedroom until sweat flowed from every pore. Then he tossed back some aspirin, splashed cold water on his face, and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He headed for the kitchen to throw together something to eat.

  Only to find that he still felt too misused for the exercise to have its usual soothing effect. He kept looking up from the pile of vegetables he’d assembled on the chopping block to where Daisy sat fiddling with her weaponry in an overstuffed chair across the room. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since they’d left the police station, and while he’d appreciated the silence at first, now it began to grate.

  It didn’t help that she’d changed into a tank top; the way she looked in it just contributed to an already bad case of unrelieved tension. He didn’t give a damn that it had warmed up steadily throughout the afternoon or that his second-floor apartment was stuffy. If she were the professional she said she was, she would have kept on her long-sleeved T-shirt. He’d bet his last dime she’d stripped down simply to aggravate him—probably her nonverbal way of saying, Take a good look at what you can’t have, buddy.

  One thing was for damn sure: he shouldn’t have kissed her this afternoon. Maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in such a lather now over what she wore.

  Or it was entirely possible that the circumstances were just getting to him. The tourist probably had the right idea: following his close shave, Nick undoubtedly would have kissed the first person he’d seen just to reassure himself that he was still in one piece. It was a blatant case of survivor syndrome. Anyone at all would have done.