Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

“You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”

“No.”

“I’m not talking MasterCard. A bookie, maybe? Loan—”

“No.”

“Any enemies? Been in any arguments lately? Got on anybody’s fighting side? Know of any grudges against you?”

“No.”

He looked Dent up and down as though unconvinced of that, but, discouraged by Dent’s scowl, he didn’t press it. He began directing questions to Gall while Dent joined the insurance adjuster, who’d arrived shortly after the deputy.

Stiff, starched, and buttoned up, the kind of corporate team player Dent despised, the adjuster asked a lot of questions, most of which Dent thought were unnecessary or stupid. He made a lot of notes, took a lot of pictures, and filled out a lot of forms, which he snapped into his briefcase with annoying efficiency but not one word of commiseration.

“They’ll cheat me,” Dent said to Gall as the guy drove away. “You watch.”

“Well, I’ll hike up the cost of parts and repairs, so it’ll even out.”

Dent smiled grimly, grateful that he had at least one ally who understood how deeply this affected him, and not only financially. He didn’t have a wife or kids, not even a pet. The airplane was his baby, the love of his life.

“Go over her with a fine-toothed comb. I’ll check back later for the prognosis.”

He headed for his car but Gall stopped him. “Hold your horses. Come into the office for a minute.”

“What for?”

“You haven’t had your coffee yet.”

“How can you tell?”

Gall just snorted and ambled toward the cubicle, motioning with his arm for Dent to follow. He was eager to get away but knew that Gall felt bad about the flimsy padlock. He could spare him a few minutes.

He filled a chipped and stained mug with the industrial-strength brew, carried it into the office, and took a seat in the chair facing the desk, being mindful of its unreliable back leg.

“I know what you told the deputy,” Gall said. “Now tell me if you have any idea who did this.” He was avoiding eye contact and tugging on his long earlobe, a sure sign that he was leaving something left unsaid.

“What’s on your mind?”

Gall unwrapped a fresh cigar and anchored it in the corner of his mouth. “Before I left my house this morning, I saw her on TV. Early, early show. They said it was a prerecorded interview.”

Dent didn’t say anything.

“The book she wrote… Low Pressure ?”

“Yeah.”

The older man sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

Dent sipped his coffee.

Gall shifted his cigar around, then said, “I didn’t know anything about it, or I never would’ve scheduled that charter. You know that, don’t you?”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Gall. I would have found out about the book sooner or later. In fact she said she didn’t know how I’d missed hearing about it.”

“Nice of you to let me off the hook,” the older man said, “but I could kick myself into next month for not hanging up on her when she called me wanting to book a flight with you.” After a pause, he asked, “You read the damn thing?”

“Most of it. Skimmed the rest.”

“Does it tell the whole story?”

“Pretty close. The ending is ambiguous.” Dent paused a beat. “Just like the true story.”

“It wasn’t ambiguous to my way of thinking,” Gall grumbled.

“You know what I mean.”

Gall nodded, his expression grim. “No wonder you looked ready to kill her when you tore out of here last night. Did you catch her?”

“I did, but it didn’t go quite as planned.” Dent described what he’d found at Bellamy’s house. “The bastard had used a pair of her underwear to paint the words on the wall.”

“Jesus.” Gall pushed the fingers of both hands through his sparse hair. “You think that was an intentional reference?”

Dent frowned his answer and caught the look Gall darted toward his damaged airplane. “Right. Her house. My plane. Same night. It would be a real stretch to think that’s a coincidence.” He set his empty coffee cup on the desk and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to her about this.”

“Dent—”

“I know what you’re going to say. Save your breath.”

“I told you eighteen years ago to stay away from that Lyston girl. You didn’t listen.”

“This is a different Lyston girl.”

“Who’s apparently just as poisonous as her big sister.”

“That’s what I’m going to talk to her about.”

Bellamy’s heart leaped when her cell phone rang. She’d kept it within reach all night as well as this morning, dreading a call from Olivia but at the same time eager to get an update. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Who is this?”

He didn’t deign to respond.

“What do you want, Dent?”

“My airplane came under attack last night.”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“Daddy’s office.”

“I’ll be there in under half an hour. I’m coming in, and I’m coming up, and don’t even think about denying me entrance.” He disconnected.

Lyston Electronics was housed in a glassy seven-story building that was one of a group of contemporary buildings comprising a business park off the MoPac. Their communications products were high-tech and highly coveted, so everyone who worked there wore an identification badge, and security was tight.

Bellamy called the guard in the lobby and made arrangements for Dent to be admitted. “Please direct him to my father’s office.”

Twenty minutes later he was ushered in by her father’s receptionist, whom Bellamy dismissed with a nod of thanks. She remained seated behind the desk while Dent gave the large room a leisurely survey, his gaze stopping on the mounted elk head and on a glass cabinet in which her father’s collection of priceless jade carvings was displayed. He took particular notice of the family portrait that dominated one paneled wall. He walked over to it and studied it at length.

The photograph had been taken during the last Christmas season that the family was intact. Posed in front of an enormous twinkling Christmas tree was Howard, looking every inch the proud patriarch. Olivia, gorgeous in burgundy velvet and canary diamonds, had her arm linked with his. Steven, a recalcitrant fourteen-year-old, had his hands jammed into the pockets of his gray flannel slacks. Susan was sitting on the Oriental rug in front of the others, her full skirt spread around her. She was smiling broadly, confident of her beauty and allure. Bellamy was beside her, unsmiling because of her braces, virtually hiding behind the black Scottish terrier she was holding in her lap.

Dent turned to face her. “What happened to the dog? Scooter?”

“He lived to be thirteen.”

“Your brother? What’s he doing now?”

“Technically Steven is my stepbrother. I was ten, he was twelve, Susan was fourteen when Daddy and Olivia married. Anyway, Steven left Austin after he graduated from high school. Went to college back east and stayed there.”

All he said in response to that was an indifferent huh .

“What did you mean by ‘my airplane came under attack’?”

He walked toward the desk, then sat—sprawled, really—in one of the chairs facing it, seemingly unaware of or not caring how out of place he looked wearing jeans and a western shirt with the tail out when the dress code for the executive offices called for a jacket and tie.

But then he’d always had a very casual regard for rules.

He linked his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach. “What part didn’t you understand?”

“Cut the crap, Dent. Tell me what happened to your airplane.”

“Somebody broke into the hangar last night and beat it all to hell.” He described the damage. “That’s what we can tell just by looking. Gall hasn’t checked out the systems yet.”