Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,66
pursued the afternoon of the incident at the Coast Guard station.
Under a “Geraldo”-type mustache, Flack’s mouth was a pulpy red, and he had a long blue-black bruise on his right cheek. He hadn’t shaved for three or four days, and his body gave off the rank odor of nerves and cunning. Lever’s assessment was correct; the man would be a tough nut to crack; he’d been around.
Rosco continued to stare; he kept his arms folded across his chest.
After several minutes Flack decided to speak; his missing teeth produced a pained and irritable lisp. “What is this? The old ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine? You guys watch a lot of TV in this burg, do you?” He stressed “TV” as if any yokels not residing in L.A. existed solely through stories fed them by the entertainment industry.
“I’m no cop,” Rosco said. “I work for the man whose house you broke into.”
“I didn’t break into anyone’s house, dude.”
Rosco smiled evenly. “The police cuffed you in his kitchen, from what I hear.”
“Pepper and some two-bit Brit thug dragged me there . . . ‘Blimey, matey, look what we have ’ere . . . a bloomin’ ’orse thief—’ ”
“That’s your story, Flack; I’ve got two policemen upstairs who maintain they found you in Pepper’s kitchen . . . But, hey, the facts will come out in court, right? No point in our wasting time determining whose human rights might have been violated.”
Flack looked up; he seemed to take Rosco’s measure. “What’s this about? I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s your decision—Mr. Flack. But let me present my employer’s view on this matter. If he drops charges, you’re out of here in an hour. If he presses them . . . you’re going to jail. Probably only for a year, but you will do time, and it’ll be hard time. This is Massachusetts, not California. I’m sure you’re smart enough to realize that Mr. Pepper is a powerful man in this ‘burg’ . . .”
Flack’s head drooped again; he stared at the stained floor. After a beat he muttered, “Where’s The Hollywood Globe attorney? I don’t have to speak without legal counsel present.”
“Good for you, Flack. So, you know your way around a station house, and Miranda v. Arizona? It doesn’t surprise me. However, I don’t operate under police guidelines. I’m just a messenger—here at Mr. Pepper’s behest. The questions I’m asking are his. And he’d like them answered in a timely manner. In an hour or two he may not feel so lenient. Your bail’s been set for a quarter of a million dollars—kinda high for a crime of this type, wouldn’t you say?”
Flack ran his fingers through his limp and greasy hair, then wiped his palms on his trousers. “What does he want to know?”
“First off: your obsession with Jamaica Nevisson.”
Flack’s wiry chest produced a snort of contempt. “Those pictures have paid my rent as long as I can remember, dude. Let me tell you something, PR’s a two-way street. Jamaica Nevisson needed me as much as I needed her. I wouldn’t expect some bozo hick to understand the PR biz, but it was Jamaica’s people—her agent, manager, press wrangler, et cetera—who put me onto her in the beginning. Her career would have gone nowhere without coverage in The Globe—or lack thereof.” The statement was followed by a smug laugh.
“Since you raise the issue of privacy, do you mind describing how you got those nudies of her on Catalina Island?”
Flack chortled again, shaking his head in amazement as if he were dealing with a five-year-old. “Her ‘mysterious male companion’ set up the photo op. See, he’s a newbie trying to jump-start his career. Just like everybody else on the Coast . . . So he supplies all the details of the trip, and I follow them out to the island . . . Buff young guy posing on muscle beach . . . Now he’s hot, and Jamaica’s not. C’est la guerre, dude, as the Frenchies say.”
“And you followed them out to Catalina on a boat?”
“No, dude, I swam . . . I’ve always had this thing for sharks.” Flack stared at the ceiling; sarcasm curled his thickened lips. “Welcome to Hicksville, Reggie,” he muttered, then reclined on the bunk as if finished with the interview.
Rosco ignored the performance. “I assume this frenzy over Jamaica’s disappearance has also benefited your career, Mr. Flack . . . Do you mind telling me when you arrived in Newcastle?”
The photographer lifted his head and squinted