Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,61

if you’re shy about publicity on this thing. If I need to call you, and I probably will, I’ll let the phone ring once, then hang up. The second time, I’ll ring four times before hanging up. The third time, answer—that’ll be me.”

“I—all right,” she said, but the voice was shaky, which surprised me after seeing her in action in the office.

“Look, are you getting cold feet? Do you want to pull out of this?” I didn’t want to ask, but I thought I’d better find out right then what kind of client we’d gotten saddled with.

“No!” Her tone became suddenly crisp. “You’re absolutely right, I shouldn’t worry about Ian. After all, he’s the reason I’m doing this. I can’t quit now. He has to be stopped.”

“Well said,” I told her warmly, and gave a breath of relief. After saying I’d keep in touch, I buzzed the plant rooms.

“Yes?” Wolfe is a master at making his irritation show in a single word, especially when he gets disturbed during his playtime.

“Our client called. Seems her ex found out she hired you. He’s mad, she’s upset. I soothed her, as only I can do, but you can bet he’ll be calling anytime now, probably demanding an audience. Instructions?”

The sigh was for my benefit, to show that he was, to use one of his terms, beleaguered. “Very well,” he said. “If he calls, I’ll see him tonight at nine, or tomorrow morning at eleven.”

“One more item to cheer you,” I said. “The house is being watched, by reporters. That’s how MacLaren knew that Audrey had been here.”

The receiver slammed. He can take only so much bad news in a single conversation. I timed it. Twenty minutes later, MacLaren called.

“I want to see Wolfe—as soon as possible,” came the burr.

“I’ll see if that can be arranged,” I responded in a calm, businesslike tone. I wasn’t about to be shoved around by the likes of him. “He’s busy at the moment, but I’ll certainly try to arrange an appointment. May I tell him what it’s about?”

“You know damn well!” he gruffed. “Audrey.”

“I’m not sure I understand, but I’ll try to get through to Mr. Wolfe. Wait a moment, please,” I said, pressing the hold button. I watched the seconds blink on my digital watch until a full minute had passed, then I punched him back on. “How about nine tonight?” I asked. When he allowed grumpily as to how that was acceptable, I added, “Remember, Mr. Wolfe and I are insistent on one point: Boy George stays in the car. If he’s even standing at the door with you, you don’t get in.”

That made twice in a row I got hung up on, but at least this time I’d asked for it, and had a little fun in the process.

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I gave him the verbatim on the calls from both Audrey and her ex-husband, including the hold-button razzmatazz, which brought a satisfying twitch to the corner of his mouth. But then he started scowling into his beef, which he always does when he knows he has to see someone after dinner.

“Cheer up,” I said. “Maybe he’ll try to outbid her for your services.” The glower that this brought, aimed at me, would have withered limbs, so I shrugged and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where I treated myself to two fingers of bourbon and added a splash of water.

As long as Wolfe was stuck with an after-dinner visitor, and one he wasn’t fond of, he made sure he was well-fortified. He helped himself to four servings of Fritz’s braised pork fillets. For the record, I had three myself, and we evenly divvied up the baked apples in wine, leaving only crumbs and not many of those. As we sat in the office with coffee, I tried to restart our dinner-table conversation, which had been about the validity of I.Q. tests, but he was back in his funk again, and I didn’t feel like trying to jolly him out of it. I was relieved when the bell squawked at six minutes to nine; now maybe we’d get some action.

Through the glass, I could see that MacLaren stood alone on the stoop; presumably George was sulking in the Lincoln, which was where he belonged.

“Come in,” I said politely, but without a smile or, I hoped, any trace of warmth.

He said something that sounded vaguely like thank you and handed me his topcoat, then stomped into the office.