At least until Randy Whitehead Senior said to me in a voice that was deathly quiet, “You’re going to regret this, girlie. I know you did it to get back at my boy for what he did to your friend’s sister. But dragging in all those other girls and the police…you’re going to regret it.”
Now Rob didn’t look relaxed at all. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Excuse me. But are youthreatening her?”
“Oh, you’re damned straight I’m threatening her,” Randy Senior said. “Her. You. Her parents. This is war, girlie. You crossed the wrong man, this time.”
“I don’t think so,” I said matter-of-factly. “And here’s why. The only person going down here today is your son. If anything happens to me, or to my family or friends, you’re going to be joining your son in the big house. Or, in your case, I guess you’d call it the doghouse.”
Randy Senior blinked at me.
“Just what in the hell,” he said, “are you talking about?”
“Well, as the owner and developer of the Fountain Bleu apartment complex, you are, of course, ultimately responsible for the management of it, including who you employ to run it…. In this case, that would be your son, Randy, who, as we know now, took advantage of his position there to illicitly house underage runaways, then film them in sex acts with himself—” Across from me, Kristin let out a sob. “Sorry,” I said to her apologetically.
“It’s okay,” she said with a sniff.
I went on. “Obviously, this leaves you pretty open to both criminal and civil charges. You’re in a very vulnerable situation right now.”
Mr. Whitehead Senior stared at me. “Just what, exactly, are you saying? Are you trying to offer us some kind of deal?”
The buzzer on the intercom sounded again. “Mr. Whitehead.” Thelma sounded tense. “I don’t know how much longer these police officers are willing to wait on you….”
Randy Senior threw Just For Men and his friend an appealing look. “Go on out there,” he said. “And see if you can stall them.”
Just For Men nodded. “Will do,” he said. And they both left.
Randy Senior looked at me. “Now. Just what kind of deal are we talking about?”
“Oh, no deal for your son,” I said quickly. “Obviously. But for you…well, there’s a piece of property I know you have your eye on—Pine Heights Elementary School?”
Mr. Whitehead’s eyes narrowed at me. “That’s right. You were at the city council meeting last night. That’s where Randy said he met you.”
“Right. Your plan is to convert the building to condos. If, however, you could see your way to abandoning the condo plan and put your support—and a sizable donation—towards establishing an alternative school there, I think I might be able to work out a deal with the offended parties that will keep you out of jail and civil court as well.”
Randy Whitehead Senior stared at me. So did his son. So did Rob. The only person in the room, in fact, who was not staring at me was Kristin, and that’s because she was looking at her reflection in her compact mirror and carefully wiping away the mascara tracks her tears had made down her cheeks.
“Just how much,” Randy Senior wanted to know, “of a donation are we talking about here?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “To a man of your wealth, anyway. And you could write it off as a tax deduction, I’m sure.”
His voice was cold. “How. Much.”
“I think three million dollars would work,” I said.
Down crashed the golf-ball paperweight again. Kristin jumped, with a little hiccup.
“There is no way!” Randy Senior bellowed. “No way! Just who in the hell do you think—I have friends in this town, girlie. I’ll take my chances in court! I’ll pay off whoever I have to! I’ll—”
Rob stood up. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he seemed to take up an astonishing amount of space in the large office.
“You’ll do,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “what she tells you to do.”
Randy Whitehead Senior made a mistake then. He looked up into Rob’s face, and he laughed.
“Oh, yeah?” he squawked. “Or what?”
A split second later, Rob had pulled Mr. Whitehead halfway across his desk, and had the golf-ball–shaped paperweight pressed against his carotid artery.
“Or I’ll kill you,” Rob replied with no change in tone.
Which is when Randy Senior made his second mistake. He gurgled, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I know? I can have you snuffed out like a candle, fella.”
“Not if you’re already dead,” Rob said calmly, pressing the golf ball so deeply into Mr. Whitehead’s throat that he began to choke.
I got up from my chair and strolled towards Mr. Whitehead’s desk. His face had gotten very red. Beads of sweat were popping out all over his shiny forehead. He rolled his eyes towards me. One hand reached limply for the intercom. But even if he could have reached it, it wouldn’t have done any good. He couldn’t speak with the pressure Rob was putting on his larynx.
“You may know people in this town, Mr. Whitehead,” I said. “But the fact is, Rob here probably knows more. And the people he knows are local. He doesn’t need to send all the way to Chicago for muscle. So let’s put aside the physical threats for the moment, because the fact is, you’re going to do as I say, and not because if you don’t, Rob will kill you. You’re going to do as I say because if you don’t, I’m going to tell your wife about Eric.”
Randy Junior looked up from the twitching ball he’d rolled himself into.
“Who’s Eric?” he asked tearfully.
Kristin, who’d put away her compact and was staring, transfixed, at the way Rob’s muscles were bunched beneath his shirt sleeves (I’d have a word with her about that later), looked equally confused. “Who’s Eric?” she wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Rob said, looking down at me. “Who’s Eric?”
“Okay!”
We all glanced at Mr. Whitehead, surprised he’d been able to summon up an intelligible word.
But he was gripping Rob’s hands with white-tipped fingers and croaking, “Okay. Okay.”
Rob loosened his hold, and Randy Senior sagged against his desk, gasping for air.
“Okay you’ll do what she says?” Rob asked him cautiously.
Mr. Whitehead nodded. His face was slowly turning back to its normal color. “I’ll do as she says,” he wheezed. “Just don’t…tell my wife…about Eric.”
“Fine,” I said. “But you should know, I’m not the only one who knows about Eric, Mr. Whitehead. And if anything should happen to me, my associates will—”
“Nothing will happen to you,” Mr. Whitehead said. He’d gone almost as pale as he’d been red just moments before. “I swear it. Just don’t tell.”
“Deal,” I said. And I reached across the desk to slip my right hand in his sweaty, trembling one.
Then I leaned down and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Say it,” I said to Mr. Whitehead.
He coughed a few times, then adjusted his collar and tie where Rob’s grip had mussed them. Then he said into the intercom, “You can send the police in for Randy Junior now, Thelma.”
That caused his son to spring from his seat, looking panic-stricken.
“No!” he cried. “Dad! You can’t—”
“I’m sorry, Randy,” Randy Senior said. And the funny thing was, he really did sound sorry. “But I don’t have a choice.”
“But I did it for you, Dad,” Randy pleaded. “To show you I could handle more responsibility. You can’t let them do this! You can’t!”
But Mr. Whitehead just stood there as the police who’d come into his office instructed Randy Junior to put his hands up against the wall and proceeded to frisk him.
The police weren’t the only ones who came in, either. They were followed by a young guy in a Hellboy T-shirt, brandishing an X-Men comic book.