Revenant Rising (44 page)
“That’s aggravated assault, asshole,” the bloodied paparazzo howls in his face.
“You got that dead right. You aggravated me, I assaulted you. End of story,” Colin spits back and struggles against the bodyguards, who haven’t decided whose side they’re on.
By now the other photographers are joined into the melee, recording the action as they wade into it. Additional bodyguards surround Rayce, and people pour out of the studio like it’s afire. It’s a tossup which will make the bigger story—the one he tried to forestall or the one brought about by his efforts to forestall.
In less time than he would have believed possible at this hour of the night, police swarm the scene and he’s hauled away without ceremony, other than being told to mind his head when they put him in the squad car. On the way to the booking station, he consoles himself with the not-so-outrageous idea of ringing Laurel to come bail him out.
“Good morning,” Laurel says, pausing to accept the handful of messages Amanda thrusts at her. “Anything serious?”
“You’re asking
me
if anything’s serious? Like last night wasn’t serious enough?”
“What last night? What are you talking about?”
“You were with him, weren’t you?”
“With whom? C’mon, Amanda, it’s too early in the morning for this kind of thing.”
“I‘m talking about Colin’s arrest last night. Weren’t you there?”
“Colin? Arrested? What for?”
“The
Wakeup Show
said it was aggravated assault and malicious destruction of property, but you’d better check with David. He’s in your office.”
“Wait, why is David in my office? He never comes in this early on Monday, the partners’ meeting’s not until eleven.”
“Ask him, I’m just the gatekeeper.”
“Finally,” David says without looking up when Laurel enters the inner office. She hears everything from reprimand to pained resignation in his one utterance.
“At eight in the morning you
cannot
be suggesting I’m late.” Laurel says.
“Only in returning my calls. I hope you have a damn good reason for avoiding me until now.”
“I do and it’ll keep for now. What’s this Amanda tells me about Colin Elliot being arrested?”
“He was. Early this morning during a break from a recording session with Rayce Vaughn.”
“Dare I ask why?”
“A photographer caught the two of them in the open, in a compromising situation. Colin immediately realized it and went for the guy. Roughed him up and smashed his camera. Unclear who called the authorities. Presumably the other paparazzi that were on the scene.”
“Dare I ask what the compromising situation was?”
“Colin was seen offering Rayce something that appeared to be drugs.”
“
Shit.
I could have bet that would happen sooner or later. He offered this Rayce Vaughn character a powdered aspirin product, didn’t he.”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Colin took some himself. Here in this office, the day we met, and I drew the same conclusion the photographer must have. Where is Colin now? He’s not still being held?”
“He should be out on his own recognizance by now. I sent Stan Mason as soon as I was informed.”
“Stan Mason, head of criminal division? Don’t you think that’s a little heavy-handed?”
“I was at the country house, you were in the Jersey suburbs with your phone turned off. Stan lives in lower Manhattan, closest to the holding center, and owed me a favor.”
“Okay, okay, but what’s that going to look like?” Laurel remains standing despite David’s urging that she take the client chair.
“Considering what the rest of it looks like, I doubt anyone’ll notice that we brought in a big gun.”
“What do you mean?”
“Although it was proven on the spot that Colin was dispensing an aspirin product and not the controlled substance the paparazzi were hoping it was, damage was done and I’m afraid it’s severe.”
“Where is Nate Isaacs? He must be apoplectic.”
“That’s what I was about to ask you. I’m unable to reach him.”
“I last spoke to him on Saturday, and now that I think about it, he did say he’d be hard to catch until Tuesday—tomorrow.”
“Well, wherever he is, however he reacts, he’ll be justified.
This is looking bad indeed. Even though the charges barely constitute assault, the whole thing’s being overshadowed by the original impression—that Colin was pouring water on a drowning man in the form of offering drugs to a recovering addict.”
“Where’s the so-called drowning man at the moment? Where is Rayce Vaughn? Have you talked to him?”
“Of course I’ve talked to him. He’s the one who alerted me to the situation in the first place. He called me from the scene and again from the holding center. Right now it’s reasonable to believe he’s asleep at his hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
“He’s at The Plaza.”
“I see.” Laurel paces the width of the large desk and back again.
“Could you please sit down?”
“Could you please sit somewhere else?”
“Could you please identify who all you’re mad at so I can continue with this?”
“Continue with what?”
“Debriefing you is my principal reason for being here this morning. I’ve been trying since Friday to find out what your progress is with Colin, and I encounter nothing but answering machines, unplugged phones, or the moving target you are at the moment.”
David shows no signs of relinquishing the power position behind her desk. She remains on her feet, pacing an ever-expanding distance until she reaches the windows, where she gives in to his rapid-fire questioning. Her responses are adequate, nothing more, and her attention is divided between listening for subtext and pondering Colin’s predicament.
“To summarize then . . . In five days you’ve learned nothing all that revelatory about the subject,” David says.
“That’s correct. I have nothing new, nothing that a typical fan wouldn’t already know. Oh, wait a minute, maybe there is one thing. Yesterday he told me the real reason his band broke up—because of professional jealousies and unequal remuneration, he said.”
“That’s long been known.”
“Very well, then I’m batting zero.”
“Odd, considering it was Colin’s idea to tell the story. And yet he’s said nothing about any of the events causing the most speculation, nothing about his marriage or the accident?”
“Absolutely nothing. He doesn’t refer to his late wife by name, and the only time he referred to her at all was when I coerced comment from him about the murder of a drug dealer in the West Village.”
“That would have to be Gibby Lester, alleged supplier to the stars, and that’ll be
more
bad press to deal with.”
“How so?”
“I’ll leave it to Amanda to fill you in. She’s been keeping track better than most publicists do. Tell me, does Colin speak of his children?”
“Yes, frequently, and he’s even shared with me a few of the stories he makes up for them.”
“Interesting. That almost sounds as though he knows your background . . . But who would have told him?”
“I told him.”
“Well . . . I must say. . . . ”
“Don’t
you
go leaping to any wrong conclusions. I told him my history to make him feel more comfortable when it appeared he could only talk about himself in an oblique way. In fact, I’ve gone way beyond the call of duty in trying to draw him out on sensitive subject matter, and I think you should know I’m poised to resign the commission if he’s not more forthcoming by the end of this week.”
“Does he know that?”
“Not yet, I intend to tell him today.”
“A favor, please. Don’t deliver any ultimatums for a day or two. Let me look into this. Discreetly, of course, because none of it makes sense unless Colin regards you differently than he did when this all started. Do you think that could be the case?”
Before she can supply even a bad answer, Stan Mason bursts into her office, hubris on the hoof.
“Ah, there you are, David. Thought you might be holed up in here. You’ll be glad to know Elliot’s been sprung and a court date set for early June.” Mason directs at David without as much as a glance in her direction. “The media are all over it, which is all the better for rubbing Nate Isaacs’s nose in it,” he continues, either indifferent to her presence or actually unaware she’s in the room.
The right thing for her to do is cough, clear her throat, or in some other subtle way announce herself. But she bides her time.
“Great piece of luck this happened on your watch, Davey-boy. Puts you in excellent scoring position.” Mason surges on with characteristic devil-may-care flair.
Doing the right thing is no longer a consideration. And it’s David who bears the most watching—watching for signs that he’s uncomfortable with these disclosures. Then, when the blustering defense attorney does get around to noticing her presence, she’s compelled to focus on Mason because he’s right in her face, as was often his tactic when opposing her in a courtroom.
“You know, Laur, ever since you turned down a plum position in my division, I’ve wondered why’n hell you’d want to waste your all-brain-no-heart technique in David’s bailiwick, and now I’m finally catching on. There’s more than one way to be the star attraction, isn’t there?” Mason chortles, delivers a lewd wink, and pantomimes an elbow nudge.
“Thank you for stopping by. I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” Laurel says through clenched teeth, sidesteps Mason and moves to reclaim her desk. “You too” she says to David who’s slow getting to his feet when he ought to be running for his life.
Mason exits without further comment. David hesitates in the doorway, “We’ll finish up later,” he adds.
“I won’t be here later. I won’t be available for the rest of the day.”
“What about the partners’ meeting?”
“I’m a partner in name only.”
She shuts the door in his face and locks it for good measure. At her desk, she goes one better on the Mississippi method for slowly counting to one hundred; she writes out the numerals in script on a legal pad. When she’s finished, she places the pages in a pile destined for the shredder, unlocks the door and signals for Amanda to join her.