the framed Picasso hanging over the fireplace. I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I lift the art down, revealing my safe.
“I’m sixty next month,” Spittle says. “Retirement is looming. What you gonna do when I’m not around to blackmail anymore?”
I spin the dial and open the safe, pulling out an envelope from beneath a semi-automatic. “But you’re around now. And these pictures are still as fresh as they were five years ago.” I slide one out and smile down at Spittle snorting a line of cocaine off a woman’s pussy.
“You planted those hookers.”
“They weren’t hookers, Spittle. They were honeytraps. Totally different ballgame. Not that the public would know. And I had nothing to do with the coke. You know I don’t dabble in that kind of shit.” I stuff the images back in the safe and shut it, motioning to the Picasso for Ringo to re-hang. “Do your FBI magic with the phone. Tell me what you find.” I hang up and bring my mobile to my mouth, chewing the side thoughtfully.
What’s Rose’s story?
Chapter 12
ROSE
* * *
It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone. Esther is impenetrable. I’m tentatively nibbling at the corners of a croissant as I watch her move silently and efficiently around the kitchen, an awkwardness hanging in the air. Three times I’ve tried to strike up a conversation, and three times I’ve been shot down with a simple yes or no. So I try something other than a closed question. I clear my throat and set down my croissant. “How is Danny’s father doing? I’ve heard he’s been ill.”
Her movements stall, and she looks over her shoulder at me like I could be a two-headed beast on the loose. It makes me sit up straight on my stool. “Mr. Black’s father passed away last week.” She doesn’t sound in the least bit sorry about that, turning away and carrying on about her business of scrubbing the burners. “It would be wise of you to avoid prying.”
His father died last week? I would hazard a guess that Danny’s dark mood could be a result of that, but I dismiss that notion quickly. Danny Black is dark, period. “Prying with you or Danny?” I ask, starting to pick at the pastry on my plate.
Esther sighs and turns to face me. “Both. It’s a sore subject, as you can imagine.”
“Maybe I could offer an ear,” I reply quietly, trying to keep the conversation going before it’s cut dead. “Try to ease his pain.” What am I saying? And how do I plan on easing his pain?
“Mr. Black isn’t interested in your compassion, child. He’s interested in what you . . .” She fades off, quickly turning away. She’s said too much. “Mr. Black doesn’t feel pain, so you have nothing to fear there.”
“Emotional pain or physical?” I ask, pushing my luck.
Once again, she turns to face me, giving me a look that could turn me to dust . . . if I could feel anything at all. “Both.” She holds me in place with her glare for a while before returning to her chores like she might not just have silently threatened me. “I think it’s time for you to retire to your room.”
“Right.” Like a naughty little girl for asking too many questions. I slip down from the stool and snag the remainder of my croissant from the plate, leaving the kitchen. “It was nice talking to you, Esther,” I say sweetly, with a little bit too much sarcasm. “Have a lovely evening.”
I hear voices from Danny’s office, but think better than to listen again, heading up through the otherwise quiet house to my room, finishing my croissant on my way. I shut the door behind me and strip out of the jeans I’ve worn for two days, tossing them on the chair in the corner. Unbuttoning the shirt as I pad to the bathroom, I shrug it off and drop it into the laundry basket, collecting the plush white robe off the back of the bathroom door and slipping it on. The marble counter is bare except for the toothbrush and paste that I found there this morning when I woke. There are certain things I need if I’m going to be kept here against my will. Cosmetics, for one. I head back to the room and collect the silver purse Danny gave me in Vegas, taking it to the sink. I pull out the compact face power and set