Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

He conceded with a sigh. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have hit him, but we’d given him plenty of chances to confess his sins before the cigarettes and booze launch him to the Pearly Gates.”

“The cigarettes, the booze, or the pistol.”

“He did seem to have a love affair going with that thing. Couldn’t keep his hands off it.” He thought about it for a moment longer, then said grudgingly, “You’d better call Haymaker. Tell him to call Moody and—Why not?” he asked when she shook her head.

“We can use Ray Strickland’s attack on Gall as a bargaining chip. Out of the goodness of our hearts—”

She ignored his snort.

“—we’ll tell him what happened last night and warn him to beware of Strickland. In exchange, he’ll tell us whatever it is he’s holding back.”

“And you think he’ll go for that.” Clearly, he was doubtful.

“It’s worth a try. We need to know what he knows, Dent.”

“Okay, okay. Call the son of a bitch. Lay out your terms.”

“I can’t call him. I don’t know his number. Haymaker used his phone to call him, and took it back as soon as I’d finished talking to Moody.”

“Get his number from Haymaker.”

“Talking to Moody on the phone won’t be as persuasive as being face-to-face with him. We have to go back to his place.”

“No. We don’t.”

“We do. You know we do.”

“Bellamy, if he blows his brains out today or tomorrow, or if he waits too long to do it and Strickland gets to him first, I really don’t care.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it.”

“Even if you don’t care about Moody’s fate, you can’t get vindication for yourself until you know everything, and you won’t know everything unless we convince Moody to give it up.”

He held her stare for several moments, and she knew she’d won when he muttered a litany of curses. “All right, we go back,” he said. “But one thing, and I mean it.”

“What?”

“I’m eating the peach cobbler before we go.”

The overcast day made Dale Moody’s property look even more forlorn. Cypress tree branches weighted down by the humidity drooped low enough to brush the roof of the sedan as it passed beneath them. The murky lake waters were still and sullen looking.

The cabin itself was empty.

As the car rolled to a stop, Dent had such a bad feeling about it that he made Bellamy wait while he went up the steps, onto the rickety porch, and through the screened door, halfway expecting to find only the remains of the former detective.

But there was no sign of Moody, dead or alive.

“He’s not here,” he called to Bellamy, who joined him inside the sad dwelling that stank of stale tobacco smoke, mildew, and mice.

“I’m a bit relieved that we didn’t find him slumped in that chair with his pistol in his hand,” she said.

“Me, too,” he admitted.

She glanced behind her through the screened door. “The lake?”

“If he drowned himself, he drove his car into the water. It’s not here.”

“I hadn’t noticed, but you’re right.”

On the metal TV tray, which seemed to be the focal point of the room and of Moody’s life, were the overflowing ashtray and an empty whiskey bottle. “Conspicuously missing is the .357,” Dent remarked.

Bellamy went into the kitchen and checked the oven. “Also conspicuously missing is the case file. What do you make of that?”

“That he took his evidence with him and isn’t coming back.”

The idea came to Rupe as he was trying to eat a bowl of Cream of Wheat, which was about as solid a food as he could manage.

The second morning after taking the beating from Dale Moody, his gums were still puffy and red and hurt like hell from the extensive dental work. His nose was so grotesquely swollen it spread practically from ear to ear and made slits of his eyes. His own kids would have run screaming at the sight of him.

He’d cooked the Cream of Wheat himself, having called the maid the night of the attack and told her to take a few days off. He didn’t want anybody to see him like this, not even the person who cleaned his commode.

Making up an excuse that stretched plausibility, he’d had his assistant cancel everything on his calendar, including a day’s worth of filming TV commercials and a luncheon for leading businessmen at the governor’s mansion. He’d encouraged his wife to stay another week or two at the beach.

Rupe Collier had gone underground.

But as he gingerly masticated the warm cereal, he rethought his position. He could be a victim who crawled into his lair and hid until he was once again presentable, which, according to the cheeky ER doctor, could be as long as two months.

Or he could milk this for all it was worth.

Which, after a day of self-imposed solitude, was an option Rupe found much more appealing.

He looked like a monster, but that was why the drastic change in his appearance would be so effective. Customers and TV viewers who were used to seeing him immaculately dressed and groomed would be outraged over what he’d suffered. Victims of violent crime won sympathy, right? They deserved and often got a soapbox, and when they spoke, people listened. Rather than hide his disfigurement, he would grandstand it. He would make his brutalized face a cause celebre .

Excited by the prospects, he fed the remainder of his breakfast to the garbage disposal and went in search of a business card he had planned to throw away, if not shred. Fortunately, he’d done neither. He found it in the satin-lined pocket of his suit jacket. He called the cell-phone number, and it was answered on the second ring.

“Talk to me.”

“Mr. Van Durbin? Rupe Collier.”

The columnist’s disgruntled tone changed, becoming instantly chipper. “I’m still not in the market to buy a car.”

“I could make you a good deal on one, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”

“Is that so?”

“Our chat called to mind some ambiguities regarding the Susan Lyston case. Elements of it, that I’d rather not have been reminded of, have resurfaced, and I can’t stop thinking about them. Especially in light of… .” Rupe let that dangle like the carrot it was intended to be.

“In light of what?”

“You’ll know when you see me. Are you free?”

Twenty minutes later the EyeSpy columnist rang his doorbell, and when he saw Rupe, he exclaimed, “Christ on a crutch!”

It was the astonished reaction Rupe had hoped for. If he got that kind of response from a jaded writer for a sleazy tabloid, think how an average decent person—and potential customer of Collier Motors—would react.

He ushered Van Durbin and his photographer inside, promising the latter that he could take pictures of him after he’d had his talk with Van Durbin. He left the scruffy young man in the den with a cold can of Coke and ESPN on the flat screen, then led Van Durbin into his home study, which was furnished even more lavishly in Texas chic than his office at the dealership.

The writer picked up a silver frame that held a place of honor on the corner of Rupe’s desk. “Your wife?”

“A former Miss Texas.”

Van Durbin gave an appreciative whistle and returned the frame to its spot as he sat down in a chair facing the desk. He removed his pencil and notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and quipped, “So, how does the other guy look?”

Rupe formed a reasonable facsimile of a smile, wondering if it looked as distorted as it felt, and figuring that if it did, all the better. “I didn’t land a single punch.”

“You sold the guy a lemon?”