Eleventh Hour
Page 61
Mr. Latterley blinked. “You must have misunderstood him,” he said. “Or the old man was just weaving in and out and that was what came out of his mouth. No, not Weldon. That’s ridiculous.”
He was shaking his head, an interesting head, Nick thought, staring. Shiny, bald, and pointed. She’d never seen a bald head quite so pointed before.
“No,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “Impossible. You didn’t see any sign of anyone, did you, Agent Carver?”
“I can’t be certain. We would like to speak to all the staff who work near Captain DeLoach’s room.”
Dane spent the next hour doing just that. To a person, they shook their heads and looked bewildered by his questions.
Nick sat beside Captain DeLoach’s bed, holding his hand, speaking quietly to him, hoping for a sensible response, but he didn’t speak. She said to Dane when he came in, “He did open his eyes a couple of times, but he looked right through me, didn’t respond at all. I’ve been speaking to him, about lots of silly things, but he hasn’t answered me.”
Just before they left, the doctor came out to say, “I examined Captain DeLoach’s head wound. He seems to be all right. To be perfectly honest, I can’t tell if it happened because he hit his head when he fell or if someone indeed struck him. But on the face of it, it seems strange to even consider that some miscreant from the outside would come into the old man’s room and smack him around.”
Dane said as he walked beside Nick toward their car, “Captain DeLoach said that he told his son he wouldn’t keep quiet anymore and his son hit him. I wonder what he meant by that?”
“I’m beginning to think we should try the Oracle at Delphi.”
He laughed. “Not a bad idea.”
“I just realized, I’m really hungry. Do you think we could stop at a Mexican place on the way back to LA?”
“Sure can.”
Dane walked into Nick’s connecting room at the nicely updated Holiday Inn, not far from Premier Studios on Pico.
She was on the phone. She hadn’t heard him, she was so intent on the call.
He stopped cold. Who was she speaking to?
“Listen,” he heard her say, “I’m calling from the Los Angeles Times. My editor asked me to check out for sure whether he was traveling west. Does his schedule include either San Francisco or Los Angeles?”
She sensed him, there was no other word for it, and whipped around. She met his eyes, and quietly eased the phone back into the cradle.
“I can get the number from the hotel clerk, but it would be easier if you just broke down and told me what’s going on.”
Nick felt a corrosive fear leap to life. She wanted to cover up with a dozen blankets or run as fast as she could.
“Go away.”
He sat down beside her on the queen-size bed, picked up her hands, and held them between his. She had nice hands, short nails, no rings. The skin was smooth again. Her hair was half-dry and she was wearing a bit of lip gloss. Nice mouth, too. No, he wouldn’t go there. He said, looking at her straight in the face, “Listen to me, there’s a lot going on here, and on top of it all, here you are scared out of your mind about—whatever. Why won’t you let me help you? My brain can handle more than one thing at a time. I can multitask as well as a woman. Come on, trust me, Nick.”
She suddenly looked very tired, and flattened, yes, defeated. She looked desperately alone.
Very slowly, he pulled her against him. He felt the panic rise in her, but he didn’t do anything at all but hold her, give her what comfort he could. He said against her damp hair, which smelled just like his, since they both had used the hotel shampoo, which had a girlie-girl smell, floral and soft, “You’ve seen firsthand that there’s lots of bad stuff and bad people in the world. But you know what? Some of it we can actually do something about. We’re going to catch the man who killed all those people, my brother included.” He stopped. If and when she was ready to tell him about herself, then she would. Maybe it was all a matter of trust. So be it. No more pushing. He said only, “I’m here for you, Nick.”
“Yes, and so is the murderer, and he’s already tried to have me killed. I want to leave, Dane. You don’t need me anymore.”
“It’s too late, Nick.” He raised his finger and lightly touched it to the Band-Aid that covered the bullet graze. “That’s the whole point. Milton failed so the guy who hired him will try again, count on it. You need me, if for nothing else, as a bodyguard.”
He was shaking his head, an interesting head, Nick thought, staring. Shiny, bald, and pointed. She’d never seen a bald head quite so pointed before.
“No,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “Impossible. You didn’t see any sign of anyone, did you, Agent Carver?”
“I can’t be certain. We would like to speak to all the staff who work near Captain DeLoach’s room.”
Dane spent the next hour doing just that. To a person, they shook their heads and looked bewildered by his questions.
Nick sat beside Captain DeLoach’s bed, holding his hand, speaking quietly to him, hoping for a sensible response, but he didn’t speak. She said to Dane when he came in, “He did open his eyes a couple of times, but he looked right through me, didn’t respond at all. I’ve been speaking to him, about lots of silly things, but he hasn’t answered me.”
Just before they left, the doctor came out to say, “I examined Captain DeLoach’s head wound. He seems to be all right. To be perfectly honest, I can’t tell if it happened because he hit his head when he fell or if someone indeed struck him. But on the face of it, it seems strange to even consider that some miscreant from the outside would come into the old man’s room and smack him around.”
Dane said as he walked beside Nick toward their car, “Captain DeLoach said that he told his son he wouldn’t keep quiet anymore and his son hit him. I wonder what he meant by that?”
“I’m beginning to think we should try the Oracle at Delphi.”
He laughed. “Not a bad idea.”
“I just realized, I’m really hungry. Do you think we could stop at a Mexican place on the way back to LA?”
“Sure can.”
Dane walked into Nick’s connecting room at the nicely updated Holiday Inn, not far from Premier Studios on Pico.
She was on the phone. She hadn’t heard him, she was so intent on the call.
He stopped cold. Who was she speaking to?
“Listen,” he heard her say, “I’m calling from the Los Angeles Times. My editor asked me to check out for sure whether he was traveling west. Does his schedule include either San Francisco or Los Angeles?”
She sensed him, there was no other word for it, and whipped around. She met his eyes, and quietly eased the phone back into the cradle.
“I can get the number from the hotel clerk, but it would be easier if you just broke down and told me what’s going on.”
Nick felt a corrosive fear leap to life. She wanted to cover up with a dozen blankets or run as fast as she could.
“Go away.”
He sat down beside her on the queen-size bed, picked up her hands, and held them between his. She had nice hands, short nails, no rings. The skin was smooth again. Her hair was half-dry and she was wearing a bit of lip gloss. Nice mouth, too. No, he wouldn’t go there. He said, looking at her straight in the face, “Listen to me, there’s a lot going on here, and on top of it all, here you are scared out of your mind about—whatever. Why won’t you let me help you? My brain can handle more than one thing at a time. I can multitask as well as a woman. Come on, trust me, Nick.”
She suddenly looked very tired, and flattened, yes, defeated. She looked desperately alone.
Very slowly, he pulled her against him. He felt the panic rise in her, but he didn’t do anything at all but hold her, give her what comfort he could. He said against her damp hair, which smelled just like his, since they both had used the hotel shampoo, which had a girlie-girl smell, floral and soft, “You’ve seen firsthand that there’s lots of bad stuff and bad people in the world. But you know what? Some of it we can actually do something about. We’re going to catch the man who killed all those people, my brother included.” He stopped. If and when she was ready to tell him about herself, then she would. Maybe it was all a matter of trust. So be it. No more pushing. He said only, “I’m here for you, Nick.”
“Yes, and so is the murderer, and he’s already tried to have me killed. I want to leave, Dane. You don’t need me anymore.”
“It’s too late, Nick.” He raised his finger and lightly touched it to the Band-Aid that covered the bullet graze. “That’s the whole point. Milton failed so the guy who hired him will try again, count on it. You need me, if for nothing else, as a bodyguard.”
