was meant for him.
“For starters,” he said, “I recommend you send the flunkies out for coffee and give me a few minutes of your undivided attention. Now.”
For a moment he thought, hoped, she would refuse, but then she jerked one hand and the majority of the room’s occupants tried to beat one another to the door. Only two remained, Jillian and the blonde in pink. He turned a pointed glare on the blonde, who drew herself up sternly then ruined the effect by sniping pettily at Jillian, “If she can stay, so can L”
“They both stay,” said Camille. sounding bored. “Jillian, as you know, is my sister, and this is my mother, Gerry.” She waved a hand at the pink suit.
“That’s ‘Geraldine,’” the blonde in pink said, “Geraldine Hunsell Baker.”
“Actually, that’s Geraldine Porter Waltham Hunsell Baker,” Camille said slyly.
Zach made no acknowledgment of the litany of names, not even the two socially prominent ones. Instead, he removed a small notebook and an ink pen from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have the whole story.”
Camille shrugged and began applying makeup with tiny sponges as she talked, explaining how she had met, dated and eventually become engaged to a once successful but now-unemployed advertising executive named Janzen Eibersen, whom she had allowed to move in with her. According to her, Eibersen had at first seemed to actually enjoy the “public socializing” that, again according to her, was part of her career. Gradually, however, it became obvious that Janzen had a drinking problem, and he began embarrassing her. They argued, and he drank more. Absenteeism became a problem on his job, and he was eventually fired. When she broke up with him and threw him out the house, he blamed her with all his problems and vowed that “she wouldn’t get away with it.”
His “punishment” of her began with repeated phone calls and letters that were returned or destroyed unopened. He had even called her boss to complain that she was trying to control and ruin his life. His latest effort was an act of vandalism that had resulted in a broken window, a sure sign of growing desperation, even though Camille sniggered that it had to have been an accident because Janzen would never risk injuring himself to make a point She had no idea where to locate Eibersen and had met only a few of his friends. She believed that he would grow tired of the game when he saw that he was not affecting her noticeably and just go away, but for Jillian’s sake, she was willing to take the situation more seriously. Jillian, for her part, stood mutely with her arms wrapped around her middle as if holding in something that she desperately wanted to say.
Zach was uncertain what to think, really. Was Janzen dangerous or merely irritating? Had Jillian overreacted, or was Camille downplaying the seriousness of the situation? He knew only one thing for certain: it made no sense to take chances. If Camille was right, she’d have spent some money—which she obviously could afford—for no definite reason. If she was wrong, spending that money on her own security would be the best investment she ever made.
“I’ll want to see that window before I go,” he said, “but right now I have a few questions.”
She waved a hand as if granting him permission to ask what he would while she applied lipstick with a brush.
He tamped down his irritation and focused. “Has this Eibersen ever hit you?”
She considered her reflection in the mirror for a moment, smacked her lips and said, “Not intentionally.”
Jillian made a slight movement that he caught with the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he lifted a brow, inviting her to speak. She did so as if explaining for her sister was something she did every day. “Janzen was drunk. He took a swing at Plato, missed and clipped Camille on the chin.”
“She could hardly speak for a week,” Geraldine said, as though it were somehow Jillian’s fault.
“And never missed a newscast,” Camille said, batting her eyelashes as she brushed mascara into them.
Zach asked, “Who’s Plato?”
“Camille’s hairdresser,” Jillian answered.
“The gray ponytail? What’d Eibersen have against him?”
Camille capped the mascara and tossed it away. “Jan liked my full attention,” she said, giving her full attention to her reflection in the small lit mirror standing atop the dressing table.
Zach could just see a drunken Janzen trying to talk lucidly with a preoccupied Camille while the hairdresser fluttered around her ratting her hair until it filled the room. He could almost feel sorry for the guy, but that didn’t mean he could overlook the fact that Eibersen had thrown that punch. He sighed. “Any other episodes of violence?”
Camille picked up a hairbrush and began dragging it through her shoulder-length hair, smoothing and caressing. Jillian said, “He used to throw things, stomp around yelling and screaming.”
“He threw a bowl of caviar on the kitchen floor,” Geraldine said, no doubt considering it proof of insanity. “A crystal bowl.”
“He drove his car up onto the sidewalk, knocked over some potted trees and crashed right into the barrier in front of the TV station,” Jillian said quietly. “I was at the reception desk. I thought he was going to come right through the glass into the building.”
No doubt about it, the guy definitely had a screw loose. Zach finished scribbling in his notebook, flipped it closed and dropped it into his pocket. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ve heard enough to believe he can be dangerous, and you’re a public personality, Ms. Waltham, which makes you even easier to get at than the average individual. So I propose we bring in a couple of subcontractors to keep an eye on you.”
She turned away from the mirror then. “I can’t have a couple of goons trailing me everywhere I go. What would people think?”
Zach just barely curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t use ‘goons,’ as you put it. These men are professionals. They can keep a discreet distance. It won’t be enough to completely protect you, so you’ll have to be on your guard.”
Camille turned back to the mirror, her reflection laughing at him. “For Pete’s sake. Keller, all I want you to do is stop the man from bothering me. He’s not trying to kill anybody.”
“Not yet,” Zach said. “But who can say he won’t cross that line if he gets frustrated enough.”
She had coaxed her hair into a sleek flip. She smoothed it now with her hands, turning her head this way and that “Jan was born frustrated,” she said in a bored tone, “but he’s not stupid. He won’t do anything in front of witnesses, and since I’m never without an escort in public, I don’t see what the problem is.”
Zach felt an instant of relief. He could just turn around and walk out now. He’d given her his take on the problem, and she’d rejected it. Nothing was keeping him here now—except a pair of big, sky-soft eyes clouded with worry. It occurred to him that if he washed his hands of Camille Waltham right here and now he could ask her sister out on a proper date, and just the thought of that kind of freedom scared him right back into Camille Waltham’s corner.
“Is that tuxedo in there an example of the kind of escort you take out in public with you?” he demanded.
It
