Читать книгу A Perfect Obsession - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 11
ОглавлениеOSWALD MARTIN SEEMED appropriately grim, but comfortable and at ease as he spoke in the conference room with Craig, Mike and Detective Larry McBride.
He was horrified, a term that seemed to refer to everyone’s feeling about the discovery of Jeannette Gilbert, but he’d been begging the police to listen to him from the time she’d failed to respond to his call.
“The papers!” he said with disgust, waving a hand in the air. “Internet, media—whatever! These days, everything in the world is out there in a split-second tweet. That’s how I found out she was dead. Jeannette! A young woman—a beautiful girl I’ve worked with for nearly a decade—is killed, and I see it first on social media. I told the police over and over again that she wasn’t flighty, that she didn’t just take off and that she wouldn’t run away from me. But because I ‘discovered’ Jeannette, and because I’m older by several years, they just have to turn it into something dirty, something wrong. Yes, I loved her—like a big brother. And she loved me, in just the same way. The stuff I’ve read is disgusting. I was ‘angry’ about her so-called mystery lover. What a crock. She was twenty-seven years old. She’d seen other men through the years. I could advise her, no more. Did the police really investigate? No, they were just as bad as the tabloids!”
Martin was an interesting man. Late thirties, his head clean-shaven, one gold earring and all-black attire, he looked like a modern-day Aleister Crowley. Sure, he seemed appropriately “horrified.” But Craig wasn’t sure that the man was appropriately sad.
“We’re truly sorry,” Mike said gently. “The people there were asked not to tweet or say anything to anyone. Apparently, asking wasn’t enough.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a social media age, isn’t it?” Martin asked. He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He’d really made a statement. “I told Jeannette that all the time—that anything she did, anyone she saw, any word she uttered was up for grabs. She was a sweet kid. A truly sweet kid. The best. Her life sucked before I found her. I mean, I don’t know whether or not to hate her aunt. She took Jeannette in, but she treated her as if she were an unwanted pet! Almost like Cinderella with her stepsisters, you know? She was like an indentured servant. She was worked her little tail off. But the kid was beautiful. Beautiful. Perfect, you know?”
Perfect.
To Craig the word seemed to be disturbing.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Craig asked.
Martin sighed deeply, and not without aggravation.
“I told the police!” he said. “It was two weeks ago—or now it was two weeks ago plus a day or two! I saw her at dinner. We talked about what she was doing, what she aspired to do and the contract in the offing with a major cosmetics giant. She was going to be the new face of L’Amour, and you can only imagine... Anyway, I told her what the contract would mean. I told her that she’d really hit the big time, bigger and brighter than she’d ever been before. And I told her to quit handing out interviews, especially when it came to talking about this guy—this mystery lover—that everyone else seemed to know about. Everyone but me!”
“You talked where?” Craig asked.
“At Wine Bar Bacanalia!” Oswald Martin said. “A very public place. When we parted ways, we were in full view of every waitress, waiter, bartender and hostess in the place. You all should know this. I told everyone when I reported her missing. And I reported her missing because—due to the new contract—we had a meeting the next morning with the cosmetic company.”
“So,” Craig said lightly, “you reported her missing because she didn’t show up for her meeting with these people?”
“What are you, an idiot?” Martin demanded, looking at Craig. He quickly appeared to regret his words. “Sorry, sorry. You can’t possibly understand the importance of such a meeting!”
Yeah, what an idiot, Craig thought. He just didn’t understand fame and fortune.
“Sorry, sorry, truly sorry,” Martin muttered quickly. “Jeannette was a true pro. She grew up with nothing, but she was smart as a whip. She knew that the appointment we had could make the difference between her being a star who’d perhaps be forgotten as soon as a younger face came along or a supernova, shimmering in the public memory for decades. It was no publicity stunt when she didn’t show up. I tried so hard to make the police believe that. And then, of course, to the tabloids, I became like a monster, a slave driver, all for my own enrichment. Was Jeannette a major cash-flow outlet for me? You bet. But I represent other acting and modeling personalities, as well. Other than what you read in the tabloids, you won’t find anyone I’ve ever worked with who won’t tell you I’m a straight shooter!”
The man stared straight at Craig as he said the last; there was passion and sincerity in his voice. It seemed to be real, but, in Craig’s mind, it was far too early in the game to be certain.
“Naturally, we’ll be verifying what you’ve told us,” Craig said.
“Yep. And we’ll check out the cops who worked the missing person detail,” McBride said, the undertone in his voice so low Craig doubted Oswald Martin had the least idea of how deeply he had offended the officer who was there representing the City of New York.
“You travel much, Mr. Martin?” Craig asked.
“Around the USA, Europe, anywhere?” Mike added pleasantly.
“Of course. I travel all the time,” Martin said. He appeared to be perplexed. “Why do you ask?”
“You do any work in Virginia?” McBride asked.
“Not much, no. Most work in the US comes out of New York, Los Angeles and sometimes Miami,” Martin said, looking at them all. “Virginia? I mean, an ad campaign can take you almost anywhere, but even if Jeannette was headed to a certain location, it wouldn’t mean that I’d be there with her. I tried to accompany her—every star needs a shield!—but I couldn’t always, because, as I mentioned earlier, I do represent other people. Still...she was part of a shoot that was a public service announcement, encouraging people to enjoy the country. That was about six months ago. Yeah, we were in Virginia then. She filmed in Richmond and Williamsburg. And then Charleston, South Carolina, Savannah, Georgia, and Saint Augustine, Florida. I can send the footage of the announcement, if you like.”
“We would greatly appreciate it,” Craig assured him. “Along with the names of your other clients.”
Martin suddenly leaned forward. “You think that I’m going to balk at that? Well, you’re wrong. I didn’t kill Jeannette. And when that’s been proved, and you all look like a pack of in-your-face asses, I’ll be sitting pretty. Whatever you want, you go for it—and if I can provide it, so help me, I will. Now, are you through with me for the day?” he asked.
Craig smiled pleasantly. “Almost. Tell me. Have you ever frequented Le Club Vampyre?”
“Yeah. Hell, yeah. That place was a pile of publicity opportunities. We were at the opening, both Jeannette and me. Both openings, actually—the soft, which they had for critics and reviewers, and the hard, when they opened for the public. There are stunning pictures of Jeannette on the steps below the main arch. Her face was everywhere.” He sat back, deflated, and lowered his head. “Who knew?” he added softly.
It was the first time he seemed to show real emotion, in Craig’s mind.
“Are you through with me?” he asked tonelessly.
“For now,” Craig told him. “We may need to call you back in the future. Because I know you’re going to want to help in any way we may need. Also, we’d like a copy of your calendar for the last six months.”
“Jeannette only disappeared two weeks ago.”
“Yes, but knowing what she was doing prior to her disappearance may be of major importance,” Craig told him.
Martin nodded dully and stood. “Gentlemen...”
“I’ll see that you’re escorted out,” Mike said.
Craig and Larry remained in the room. When Martin was gone, the detective exploded. “He made it sound as if the NYPD is nothing but an organization of incompetents!”
“He’s bitter,” Craig said.
“He’s damned suspicious.”
That was a statement Craig didn’t argue.
* * *
“It started about six months ago,” Kevin told Kieran. They were seated in the office at Finnegan’s again; she was behind Declan’s desk while Kevin sat on the sofa by the wall. He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke, but rather away, as if he were seeing the past play before him like a movie reel. “We were working on the Lilith music video.” He looked over at Kieran then, his expression apologetic. “I was a shirtless hunk. She was one of the recognized beauties. The song hit the charts at number one. The video claimed awards, too.”
Kieran nodded. She was proud of Kevin’s achievements, even when he was playing eye candy.
“I’ve seen it. It’s a good video. Though, honestly, I’m sorry, Kevin, I watched it for you. I didn’t even notice Jeannette Gilbert.”
He winced, and Kieran remembered that the dead woman had been someone he loved.
“There was a lot of filming for flashes of each beauty in the three minutes and twenty-eight seconds of the song,” Kevin said. “If you saw it again...”
“Of course.”
“So, we started talking on set. We just had so much in common and so much not in common. She was fascinated by our family and couldn’t wait to come to Finnegan’s. She has cousins and, contrary to what they write, she loves them...loved them, but...”
“But her parents died and she grew up with an aunt?”
Kevin nodded. “Her aunt had four children. Their father had passed away, too, and Jeannette’s aunt was remarried to a worthless piece of trash. He couldn’t see feeding another mouth. Jeannette spent her formative years hearing about being a burden and being told that she was going to have to get out on her own early, because they weren’t going to feed her forever. Anyway, she wasn’t a mean or bitter person. She bought her aunt a house in Brooklyn when she had the money to do so. But she loved that Declan ran this place now and that the rest of us had other work, but that we all helped out here. I guess she always wanted a real family—one where she was unconditionally welcome.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kieran said. Images of Jeannette Gilbert in death kept flashing before her eyes. “Kevin, how serious was your relationship? How often were you seeing one another?”
He hesitated and then shrugged. “At first? I thought it was going to be a one-night stand. Not on my part—I was like a starry-eyed kid. I couldn’t believe she’d even looked at me. I tried to maintain some dignity, but I figured I might have been a novelty to her, entertainment for that one night. And she had to leave the city for a work project. Anyway, when she was back, she called me and we started seeing one another. I lived for every chance to be with her. And she wasn’t keeping quiet because she was ashamed or anything like that. She wasn’t even trying to pretend that she was attainable to the zillions of men and boys drooling over her. She wanted something good and private, something...normal. Then one day I couldn’t reach her. But I wasn’t crazy. I knew she’d come to me when she could. We both knew that we wouldn’t always be able to contact one another. There were events that had to do with our professional lives. But then...then I heard...” He stopped speaking for a minute, and she watched his eyes fill with tears.
Before they could spill over, he continued. “I didn’t think that Oswald Martin had done her in, either. She didn’t hate him. He didn’t follow her every move. That was some writer’s imaginative speculation. But I did wonder if it was some kind of a publicity thing because she was about to become the face of one of the biggest new cosmetic firms to launch in the past twenty years. This is so, so...wrong!” he finished on a breath.
Kieran wanted to hold her twin and comfort him. She was afraid that the door was going to open any minute. While she knew that Kevin loved his brothers and would happily share this with them, keeping this on a need-to-know basis was best right now.
Declan or Danny couldn’t inadvertently spill information they didn’t have.
“Kevin, where did you two see each other?” she asked.
“My place,” he said huskily. “No one pays attention to my place. I saw her at her apartment only once. It was with a group of people. She invited me to a reading, a show that may or may not make it to Broadway.”
“But you stayed after.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t something anyone would have noticed. There were a number of actors there. She was friendly and nice to everyone. Her work reputation was amazing. She was never cross with a single makeup person, lighting person, cameraman...anyone.”
“You’re telling me that absolutely no one knows that you were seeing her, that this actually started six months ago, but no one knew?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he said.
Kieran pondered that. “Kevin, trust me, someone knew,” she said. “Someone saw you together somewhere.”
He shrugged. “She was with actors all the time. Posing at parties, openings, fashion shows. I don’t think anyone would have noticed me over anyone else.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Kevin, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. How serious did you two get?”
“We both knew we loved our careers. Sometimes it’s bad when two people are actors, or models, or in that kind of world. Egos clash. But maybe we were different enough. I really love acting. I take the underwear commercials or whatever because I see them as a stepping-stones. Jeannette didn’t love it so much. She loved art and images and what a good photographer could do with her. But we also wanted to make sure that our relationship worked. We weren’t making any real commitments until we’d been together at least a year. She was famous—I’m not. She wanted to make sure that I could handle that. Maybe she wanted to make sure that I didn’t want to use her, either. You know, fake a real love just to use her for more exposure and better parts. If we made it a year—trusting one another, still wanting one another, ready to deal with the whirlwind as a couple—then we’d put our relationship out there.” He paused. “She used to tease me. Said it would be the coolest thing in the world if we were secretly married here. At Finnegan’s.”
“Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that you kept all this from me. And for so long! I’m your twin.”
“Well, you’ve kept a fair amount from me, too, at times,” he reminded her.
“Sometimes I don’t talk because I’m professionally not able to do so,” she replied.
“What do I do?” he asked her. “Just step up now and tell the truth?”
“That’s probably the best. You can talk to Craig. He’ll believe you. You know that.”
Kieran started, hearing the doorknob twist. Then there was a bang on the door.
“Hey, what’s going on in there?”
It was Danny, the “baby” of the family, younger than Kevin and Kieran by a little more than a year. He was the wild child of the family, now a respectable tour guide for the City of New York, though, of course, he could still get into a great deal of trouble. Always with the best of intentions, of course.
Kieran stood quickly and opened the door. “Did I lock it?” she murmured.
Danny burst into the room and flipped on the TV. “This is so sad and so crazy!” he said. “Imagine, that poor girl found in Le Club Vampyre! And now... Wow! The bad boy of the silver screen stepping up and offering a huge sum of money for information on her murderer. Brent Westwood! You’ve got to see this news conference. It’s Brent Westwood saying that he was Jeannette Gilbert’s secret lover!”
* * *
It was past nine. Craig was getting ready to head home from the office, and he’d told Mike and McBride to do the same. But his office door opened.
“You might want to hold on just a minute!” Mike said, stepping back in.
“What—”
“Put the TV on. Any news channel,” Mike said. He’d already gone for the remote that controlled the screen on the far wall of Craig’s office.
Light and sound filled the room.
A man stood at the front of the New York field offices of the FBI, surrounded by a sea of reporters, all jockeying to get better positions with their microphones.
Craig recognized the guy; it took him a minute to know why.
Then he realized quickly that it was Brent Westwood, aging star of stage and screen. He was an exceptionally well-muscled man, an “action hero.” Craig remembered that he’d halfway paid attention to a slice of life news piece recently that had talked about the beautiful people of “yesteryear” who were still working hard at their craft, even if they weren’t getting the leading roles they’d once enjoyed.
The actor listened to a question from a reporter and answered it gravely.
“You had to know Jeannette to understand,” he said, the right amount of pathos in his voice. “She was, at heart, a shy girl. She wanted what we had to be special. We’re both public figures, but we didn’t want our relationship to be public. It was something so private, of the heart.”
“Weren’t you worried when she disappeared?” someone shouted.
“I’ll be honest. I thought it was a publicity venture, directed by those controlling her career,” he said, not mentioning any names.
“But wouldn’t she have told you?” another reporter asked.
“In this field, we have to be very careful. I knew that she’d tell me what was going on as soon as she felt that she could. Was I worried? Yes! But I knew that the police—New York’s finest—were working on finding her. I feared their anger, really, when she surfaced. I never expected that they would find her...as they did.”
He put a hand in front of his face, as if shielding himself from more questions—and as if hiding his tears, as well. “Please, I’m beside myself with grief, but I’m here to see if there is anything at all that I can do to help in the investigation into her death. This is...”
He broke down and turned away.
Mike groaned. “Great. He’s coming here. And he’s using this to garner publicity for himself. That girl had great taste in men.” He snickered. “Maybe she was looking for a father figure.”
“He was the biggest thing in action movies at one time,” Craig said.
“Guess they don’t know our offices actually close at night,” Mike muttered. He turned to the NYPD detective. “You want to handle this?”
“He probably knows you’re here, given what’s going on,” McBride said.
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Craig said. He pointed to the screen. “There he is, going for the door—and there’s security. In less than a minute, someone will be calling up here.”
As he spoke, the intercom buzzed.
It was one of the young agents in reception.
“Do we go get him?”
Craig didn’t believe that the man pretending so much grief was Gilbert’s killer.
Such a recognizable man didn’t sneak around easily. Nor did he appear to be the type who would have dressed a murdered girl so carefully. Or managed to get down to Virginia to have carried out a murder there and done the same. Craig had no proof. It was only a gut feeling, but his gut feelings had served him well.
He toyed with the idea of having security send him away and tell him to come back during office hours.
But, of course, that would make the Bureau look callow.
And he wouldn’t do that.
“Of course, anyone with information that could lead to the solving of this heinous murder is thanked for bringing us information at any time,” he said.
And so Mike sat and McBride sighed, and they waited for the actor.
* * *
The three of them—Kevin, Kieran and Danny—stared at the flat-screen television in the office, watching as Brent Westwood spoke to the press.
Kevin’s expression was blank, stunned.
“I don’t get it,” Danny said. “Not that Westwood wasn’t—isn’t—a cool guy and all, but, hey, Jeannette Gilbert was a kid in comparison. Not that I’m judging. We’ve seen a lot of older guys with younger women and younger guys with older women who seem to be happy as larks. Love is love, right? No matter what our age, sex, race or preference. Still...I wonder if it all seems so shocking to us because the church—the club—is right behind us.” Staring at the screen, he was unaware when Kevin looked at Kieran with a warning glance.
Let it lie. Don’t let on about anything I was saying to you.
“And the whole grave thing,” Danny went on. “I mean, do you know that half our city parks are built on old graveyards?” He turned and looked at Kieran. “John Shaw was in today, right?”
“Yes, he was pretty shaken,” she murmured.
“I wonder... I’d love to get down into that basement sometime. Think he’ll take me down there?”
“I would think,” Kieran said.
“After all this, obviously. I mean, go figure. They make that kind of find, and then discover a missing starlet displayed down there. Wow. So sad. And still...”
Kieran could feel Kevin’s tension. He wasn’t angry with his younger brother. He was just ready to explode.
The door to the office opened and the last of their clan, Declan, stood there, looking in at the three of them. “I know you guys have other jobs, and, hey, I should be all right and well-staffed here for a Friday night. But Cody is on her honeymoon and with everything going on, those who came to gawk around the block are here now, hungry and thirsty. Mary Kathleen is running around out there like a madwoman. Don’t any of you actually help anymore when you’re here?” he asked.
“Hell, yeah! Sorry!” Danny said, leaping to his feet.
Kevin rose more slowly. “I’ll take the bar,” he said.
“No, no. Go home, Kevin,” Kieran said. “I don’t have real work tomorrow. It’s Saturday. That okay, Declan?”
“Sure. One good body actually involved in working would be great,” Declan said.
Kevin still appeared a little shaky.
“I’m so tired,” he murmured.
“Then go home,” Kieran said, jumping up. “I’ll be a bundle of energy, Declan. I promise.”
“Hey, well, you did work today, too,” Declan reminded her.
She nodded. “Yeah, kind of makes me need to work now,” she said, and headed out of the office. “Kevin, go home!”
“I’m going,” he assured them. “Thanks,” he said softly, and left.
Declan was right. Their Friday nights were often busy, even when Wall Street, the Financial District and the government offices closed and downtown became somewhat quiet. But Finnegan’s was known for bringing in great Irish bands and local talent, and people were often willing to hop on the subway or drive down for the established platform of good food, great taps and music. Also, when the club had opened around the block, many who had tired of the constant thrum of the dance music had found themselves wandering over for the more relaxed venue.
But tonight was exceptional—once again, because of the club. Not because it was opened.
Because it was closed.
And the talk among everyone had to do with poor Jeannette Gilbert.
And most of the talk was the same.
The slimy manager-agent had done it.
The mystery lover had done it. No, the mystery lover wasn’t a mystery anymore, and good God, everyone knew that Brent Westwood was no killer! He stood for truth, justice and the American way.
What about the step-uncle who had raised her? The jerk! Or her aunt, or her cousins?
What about the guy who had bought Saint Augustine and turned a venerable and historic old church into a club? Hey, that guy bore some watching, too. And then there were the freaks who wandered around the city. And that history group. Everyone knew that some of the city’s cling-to-the-past historians were insane. That was it! One of them had murdered her to prove the point that you needed to let the dead rest in peace!
Everyone had a theory, and Kieran heard them all.
She spoke with their regulars and also noted all the new people—those who probably hadn’t been downtown in years but had come down to witness the events at Le Club Vampyre, if only from the street. She noted businessmen and construction workers. Older women, younger women. All kinds of people.
One especially attractive young woman at the bar drew Kieran’s attention because she kept pulling out her phone and looking around the pub.
“Can I help you in any way?” Kieran asked her.
She smiled. “Just biding time,” the woman said. “That old clock on the wall is right? My cell phone has died.”
“Yes, it’s the right time,” Kieran told her.
“Thanks!” The woman smiled at her. “You have to be Kevin’s sister,” she said. “One of the Finnegan family.”
“Yes, I am. You know Kevin?”
“I was in a print ad with him about a year ago. He told me about this place. First time I’ve had a chance to get down here. Is he here somewhere?”
“No, he went home. I’m so sorry. You could give him a call.”
“Ah, well, I’m only here a few more minutes. I’ll call him, though, and I’ll come back.” She smiled. “You’re gorgeous—but then, so is Kevin!”
“Thank you. My twin has the camera charm, trust me!” Kieran said. She would have talked longer, but another patron called her and she moved on.
It was around 11:00 p.m. when Craig reached her on her cell, checking to see if she was still there. He told her he’d head into the pub, and they could go home together.
She felt her heart beating a little too quickly. She didn’t have to worry that she wasn’t saying anything to him about Kevin’s admission. Brent Westwood had gone to Craig’s office, claiming to be the mystery lover. But still...
Lying to him was so uncomfortable.
Was she really lying?
Yes, she reasoned, omitting the truth—an important truth—was a lie.
Luckily, when he arrived, he offered her a weary smile before heading to an empty bar stool. She watched him talk to Declan and order a soda. He looked tired. Despite knowing he’d have to be up for work early the next morning, he was waiting for her.
The Friday night crowd was diminishing, so Declan thanked her and told her to go on home.
She didn’t argue.
“Your place or mine?” Craig asked, pointing the way to his government car, parked down the street. Thanks to his decal, parking was much easier for Craig than it was for most people in the city. “You know,” he said, as they reached the car, “we don’t have to be asking that question of one another all the time. Moving in would be kind of like the right move now.”
“Probably,” she murmured. “My place tonight?”
“As you wish.”
She glanced his way. He had to be far beyond exhausted, but he was also easily able to go with the flow. She studied him for a moment; he seemed deep in thought, and, of course, she knew he was thinking about the day’s events.
She winced, turning away. She really was so in love with him. What was not to love? He was a walking wall of extremely striking testosterone, masculine to the hilt, yet he never behaved rudely, and never seemed threatened in any way by another man’s—or woman’s—talents or abilities. He was faultlessly courteous. Oh, he had a temper, she knew, but the ability to contain it. His features offered exceptionally fine cheekbones, a strong jaw and wonderful, hazel eyes that far too often seemed to be all-seeing.
“One day soon,” she murmured, finally responding to his comment about moving in together.
She was suddenly, almost irrationally, angry with her brothers. First, one of Danny’s best-intended foibles had gotten him into the trouble when she’d met Craig; now Kevin’s tragic romance seemed to be putting her once again in an extremely awkward situation.
That anger quickly dissipated. She felt so bad for her twin.
In minutes they reached her apartment above a sushi restaurant–karaoke bar in the Village.
Someone was warbling an Aerosmith number as they climbed the stairs. They were both so accustomed to the sometimes painful entertainment that they barely noticed.
Upstairs, she immediately headed for the shower. “Underground graves,” she muttered, heading in.
He joined her.
She wasn’t surprised. Or disappointed. Sharing a shower with Craig, she wouldn’t have to talk to him.
But as he stepped in behind her, slipping a bar of soap from her fingers and easing it down her back, she was the one who nervously spoke.
“So, what about the mystery lover?”
“Narcissistic blowhard,” he said, twirling her around, finding her lips.
His kiss was good, wonderful. Seductive. And it made her forget the day. Hot water and steam swirled around them. The soap made their naked flesh sleek and wet. They kissed and touched and stroked one another until they were certainly clean—and their sense of hunger and need was great. Then they stepped out of the shower, reached for towels, more or less forgot the concept of them and stumbled onto the bed in Kieran’s near-dark room, and back into one another’s arms. Once there, they eschewed foreplay. She crawled atop him and straddled him, and he entered her, the heat of his body bursting within her. They made love, again and again, their lips locked as they climaxed each time with a ferocity that left Kieran breathless. She marveled at it, amazed that she was with him, that the world could be so good, that sex was such an amazement every time.
He pulled her down into his arms and held her and stroked her hair. The glow of aftermath and a sense of warmth and security enveloped her.
And then she realized that he was lying there awake, no doubt thinking about the day once again.
And he picked up right where he had left off.
“Liar.”
“Pardon?” Warmth and serenity slipped away.
“That man. Brent Westwood. He’s a liar. I can’t prove it. There’s no way, really. Jeannette Gilbert is dead. But, in my gut, I know it. There’s no way in hell that man is the mystery lover Jeannette alluded to in her interviews. He’s a liar.” He smiled grimly as he stroked her face. “I will, however,” he assured her, “discover the truth.”
