Desperate Measures

SIX
1

The uniformed male servant opened the door in response to Pittman’s knock. “Yes, sir?” He was middle-aged and somewhat portly. So much unexpected activity evidently puzzled him.

“A minute ago, a man named Bradford Denning came here,” Pittman said.

“Yes, sir?” The servant looked more puzzled.

“Did he mention that he was expecting us?”

“No, sir.” The servant’s brow developed deep furrows.

“Well, we’re with him. It’s important that we see him.”

“George?” a woman asked from inside. “Who is it?”

“Someone who claims to be with your visitor, ma’am.”

Pittman peered inside toward a tall, slender woman in her late fifties. Her hair was short and frosted. She wore a scoop-necked designer dress made of silk, the blue of which brought out the sparkle in her diamond earrings. Although attractive, her features had the severe tight-skin-against-prominent-cheekbones look of someone who’d had numerous face-lifts.

The woman stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the mirror-like finish of the vestibule’s hardwood floor. “You know Bradford?”

“We were supposed to have dinner with him tonight.”

“The last time we saw him, he didn’t look well,” Jill said. “Is he all right?”

“Actually he looks dreadful.” The woman’s expression became tighter. “But he didn’t mention anything about you.”

Pittman tried to remember the false names he’d given to Denning. “Tell him it’s Lester King and Jennifer.”

“Don’t listen to them, Vivian.” Denning appeared suddenly at a doorway on the left. With a wrinkled handkerchief, he continued to wipe glistening sweat off his face. “They’re reporters.”

The woman’s gaze darkened, her voice deepening with disapproval. “Oh?”

“But we’re not here to make trouble,” Jill said quickly. “We’re here to help.”

“How?”

“We suspect Bradford Denning came here to tell you what we spoke to him about earlier. You might want to get the story directly from the source.”

The woman’s severe face didn’t develop lines of emotion. Instead, suspicion and confusion were communicated by the rigid tilt of her head and the hardness of her gaze. “Come in.”

“No, Vivian,” Denning said.

The woman ignored him. “It’s all right. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Pittman said.

“But if it turns out that you are here to make trouble, I’ll have George summon the police.”

The threat caused a further surge of adrenaline to roil Pittman’s stomach. He fought not to show his concern.

As the servant shut the door behind them, the woman led Pittman and Jill toward Denning. They went through the doorway on the left.

Pittman had expected antiques and a Colonial atmosphere. On the contrary, the large room was furnished in a glinting glass-and-chrome modern style. Abstract Expressionist paintings hung on the walls, splotches of colors communicating a welter of emotions. Pittman thought he recognized a Jackson Pollock.

“May I offer you anything?” the woman asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Jack Daniel’s,” Denning said.

“Bradford, you reeked of alcohol when you arrived. You know how I feel about overindulgence. You’ve had enough.”

Denning continued to wipe his flushed, glistening face.

“Since none of the rest of us wants anything, why don’t we sit down and discuss why the three of you came here?”

“Yes,” Pittman said, “I’d like to hear Bradford’s version of the conversation we had with him. If that’s all right with you, Mrs.…?”

“Page.”

The name meant nothing to Pittman. His lack of appreciation must have shown on his face.

“Mrs. Page is one of Washington’s leading socialites,” Denning said, his boastful tone suggesting that he thought he gained stature by knowing her.

“Obviously our guests still don’t recognize the name,” Mrs. Page said. “Or else they have the wisdom not to be impressed by society.” Her lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “But perhaps another name will be significant to them. It’s the only reason Bradford ever comes to see me, so I assume that your visit has some connection with it. I’m Eustace Gable’s daughter.”