Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

The columnist hesitated, then pointed toward a hedge that separated the Lyston property from their neighbor’s. “If he takes a single picture, this conversation is over,” Bellamy said. “Tell him.”

Van Durbin assessed her for a moment, then turned toward the hedge and drew a line across the base of his neck, a gesture that caused Bellamy to shiver. She hadn’t had time or opportunity to think about Strickland’s near fatal attack on her, knowing that when she did, she would likely have an emotional breakdown. She was postponing that until she could be alone.

She told Van Durbin to get out his notebook.

He took it from his pocket along with a pencil with a gnawed eraser.

She said, “I have a proposition for you, and these are the terms. You’re going to write them down, word for word, using no shorthand or symbols, and sign it. Agreed?”

“No, not agreed. What kind of terms, and in exchange for what?”

She simply stared back at him. After a moment, he grumbled, “What’re the terms?”

“You’ll never reveal me as your source for anything I’m about to tell you.”

“That’s a given.”

“Write it down.” She waited until he did so before continuing. “You’re to write nothing, and I mean not one allusion to, not one syllable, about my stepmother’s death.”

He gaped at her. “Is this a joke?”

“Shall I call the National Inquirer ?”

He stuck the eraser in his mouth and chewed on it while he deliberated, then wrote down a line in his notebook.

Bellamy said, “You’re also never to reference my brother, Steven. His name is not to be mentioned in any article you write about this.”

“This, what ? So far you’ve given me squat.”

Dent said, “If I were you, I’d shut up and do as the lady says.”

Van Durbin tilted his head toward him. “I guess he’s off limits, too?”

“Not at all,” Bellamy replied smoothly. “He’s to be hailed the hero he is for saving my life. He’s to be completely exonerated where my sister’s death is concerned. But you’ll write nothing about our personal lives. His or mine. Singly or together. Ever. And no more photographs of us.”

Van Durbin looked ready to balk. “This had better be good.”

“It is.” She took the notebook from him, read what he’d written, then passed it back to him. “Sign it.” Once she had the signed sheet in her possession, she motioned toward the stub in his hand. “You’re going to need a bigger pencil.”

“You can imagine my shock when I learned yesterday that a man in my employ, one to whom I had extended a helping hand, had taken another man’s life in such a gruesome manner.”

Rupe had decided to conduct his press conference in the showroom of his flagship dealership. His sales team provided a captive audience. Customers who’d come in to shop cars this morning were being treated to a show.

He had set up a small podium with a built-in microphone system. He didn’t want anyone to miss a single heartfelt word. All the local television stations were represented. Because of the popularity of Low Pressure , the story about Ray Strickland and Dale Moody—the electrifying final chapter of an eighteen-year saga—would no doubt make national news. The King of Cars could very well be appearing on network TV tonight.

He didn’t even lament his disfigured face. It added drama. He was feeling so good it was hard to maintain the solemn demeanor that the situation called for.

Things couldn’t have worked out better. Strickland had taken care of Moody, and the police had taken care of Strickland. He was under lock and key, ranting and raving like a lunatic. The things he’d been quoted in the newspaper as saying—such as asking for Susan Lyston’s panties back—made him sound like a total whack job.

He also continued to issue threats of vengeance against Bellamy Price, Denton Carter, and just about everybody else on the planet. Nobody would listen to a madman’s allegations against a former assistant district attorney, upholder of law and justice.

Thinking quickly, Rupe had preempted any questions that might arise about the telephone calls to and from him on Ray Strickland’s cell phone, which would have been noticed. He’d admitted to having helped support Ray, which now appeared to have been an act of Christian charity rather than a means of maintaining control over a potential threat.

And that crap about a copy of the case file? Moody hadn’t died with it on him, and it hadn’t been found in his car. Rupe figured Bellamy Price had been bluffing about its existence.

Rupe couldn’t ask for things to be any tidier. Moody, gone. Strickland, as good as. Bellamy Price and her book made to look incredible by Olivia Lyston’s staggering deathbed confession.

To capitalize on the hot news story, he’d called his own press conference to clear up any questions regarding his relationship with Ray Strickland, to express his regret over the grisly death of Dale Moody, a police officer for whom he had the fondest memories and utmost regard, and to convey his sympathies once again to the Lyston family, to whom the fates had been so grossly unkind.

He laid it on thick and the reporters were eating it up.

He was just about to close when Van Durbin and his photographer walked into the showroom.

National coverage! he thought.

The columnist gave him a jaunty little wave. While Rupe was answering the last question posed to him, the two elbowed their way forward until they were standing directly in front of Rupe. When Rupe stopped speaking, Van Durbin raised his hand.

“Ah, I see our friend from EyeSpy has joined us. Mr. Van Durbin, you have a question for me?” He flashed a smile toward the cameraman, who was rapidly taking shots of him.

“No question. I already have all the answers. In a signed confession Dale Moody left with Bellamy Price.”

Rupe’s bowels loosened. But he blustered and flashed another smile. “Moody was a delusional drunkard. So whatever he said—”

“What he said was that you and he sent Allen Strickland to prison for killing Susan Lyston, knowing full well that he hadn’t committed the crime. You’re accountable for his death, as well as for Moody’s. Your bad, Rupe.”

“You print that and I swear—”

But Van Durbin was looking at a point behind him.

He spun around and found himself face-to-face with two grim-faced men. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

“I’m Detective Abbott. I spoke to you yesterday on the phone when you reported that Dale Moody had been killed. This is my partner, Detective Nagle. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Collier.” Then, after a beat, “You have the right to remain silent.”

Nagle stepped behind Rupe and fastened a pair of plastic restraints on his wrists.

Van Durbin’s photographer got some great shots.

One week later

“I need a pilot.”

“Yeah? Happens I’m a pilot.”

“I hear you’re good.”

“You heard right. Where do you need to go?”

“Anywhere.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“Can we talk about it in person?”

“I guess. I mean, sure.”

“I’m still at the Four Seasons. Do you mind meeting with me here?”

“Fine. When?”

“How soon can you get here?”

An hour later, Dent knocked on the door of her suite. She looked at him through the peephole and, even distorted by the fish-eye lens, he looked wonderful. He was dressed as she’d seen him that morning when she’d first chartered his plane. Jeans and boots, a white shirt, black necktie loosely knotted beneath his open collar.