The Gentlemen's Hour

85

Boone looks up to see Donna Nichols, in a blue nightgown, her hair tousled, her eyes dull with sleep. Even so, she’s intensely beautiful, and Boone feels like a creepy voyeur, seeing her in person after he’s listened in on her having sex.

“Honey,” Dan says, “this is Boone Daniels. The private investigator I was telling you about.”

“Oh.” She walks across the living room and extends her hand. “I’m Donna Nichols. I don’t think we’ve met. Formally, that is. Apparently, you know a lot more about me than I know about you.”

“I’m not here on a social call, Mrs. Nichols.”

“Please—Donna.”

“Donna.”

“Why

are

you here, Mr. Daniels?”

Boone looks at Dan, like,

you

do it, dude. Anyway, he wants to watch her reaction. Dan stands up and walks to her. Holds her hands and gently says, “Honey, Phil Schering was murdered tonight.”

“Oh, my God.” She puts her face into his shoulder. When she lifts it up again, Boone sees that her cheeks are wet with tears. “Oh, my God. Dan, tell me you didn’t—”

“No.”

“The police are going to want to talk to both of you,” Boone says.

Dan turns and looks at him. “Did you—”

“No,” Boone says. “I kept you out of it, but it’s only a matter of time. They’ll subpoena my records, get your name, Dan, and they’ll come talk to you. It would really be better if you got ahead of the curve and talked to them first. Do you have a good lawyer?”

“Oh, my God, Dan.” Donna sits down on the couch. She looks shaky.

“Sure,” Dan says, “but only for business. I have squads of corporate lawyers, but . . . for something like this . . . I mean, I’ve never even had a DUI.”

Boone digs in his wallet, comes out with Alan Burke’s card, and hands it to Dan. Why not? he thinks. Dan can afford his hourly, and this is right in Burke’s wheelhouse. Alan apparently doesn’t mind defending guilty clients, and this is just his kind of case. Are you kidding? A celebrity billionaire on trial for murder? Beautiful, socialite wife? Sordid love affair? The media will eat it up, and Alan does like to see himself on TV.

Nichols looks at the card and says, “Oh, sure, I’ve heard of him. I mean, I know him from social events and . . . he gets out on the Gentlemen’s Hour sometimes, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Boone says. “We can call him now, he’ll meet us at the precinct.”

“At this time of night?”

“He owes me a solid.”

Dan looks at the card and asks, “Can’t this wait until morning, Boone? I mean, they probably won’t get your records until then and, you know, with a little sleep—”

“Trust me, Dan, neither of you is going to sleep,” Boone says.

And I don’t trust you, Dan, Boone thinks. With your money, you could be on a private jet tonight, then on a beach in Croatia somewhere, buying your way out of an extradition. The cops will claim that I tipped you off so you could run, and then I am looking at an accessory rap. Even if I beat it, I lose my card.

So, no thanks.

“Dan,” says Donna, “let’s get this over with. The sooner we face up to this the better.”

“But you’ll—”

“I’ll take ownership of what I’ve done,” Donna says.

That’s nice, Boone thinks. Somewhere in Donna Nichols’s busy days, she’s found time to DVR

Oprah.

“Take ownership . . .”

Dan hands him back the card. “Could you call him, please? We’ll get dressed.”

“Sure,” Boone says.

Donna nods. “I think that would be good.”

They go back upstairs to get dressed.