Blackmail

BLACKMAIL

Bob McElwain

Copyright 2004 Bob McElwain

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

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CHAPTER 1

Jack shook what he hoped was a teaspoonful of Folger’s instant into the cup, poured hot water from the electric coffeepot, 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 fixed 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.

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.

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.

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 defined, 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 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.

I’ll hold you to that.

Do it.

She straightened in the chair. Her eyes were fixed 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; 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.

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.

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.

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