"I'm afraid, as much as I prefer to cooperate with the police, that would be impossible. Unless you have a warrant," he said pleasantly.
"You don't have a client to protect, Mr. Beeker." Jenner leaned forward. "What's left of her is in a coffin."
"I'm aware of that. However, I do have a client. Mr. Gardner has this company under retainer. As the deceased's husband and beneficiary, I am morally bound to accede to his wishes."
"Which are?"
"To investigate his wife's murder. To be frank, gentlemen, he's dissatisfied with the police investigation to date. And as he was my client during his wife's life, and continues to be after her death, I can't ethically turn over my files without the proper warrant. I'm sure you understand my position."
"And you'll understand mine," Finn said pleasantly. "Liaison or not, I am a reporter. As such, I have an obligation to inform the public. It would be interesting to inform the public of the kind of work you did for Angela. I wonder how many of your other clients would appreciate that connection."
Beeker had stiffened. "Threats, Mr. Riley, aren't appreciated."
"I'm sure they're not. But that doesn't make them any less viable." Finn glanced at his watch. "I think I have enough time to squeeze in a quick feature on the evening news. We'd be able to do an in-depth version tomorrow."
Jaw clenched, Beeker lifted his phone, buzzed his secretary. "I'll need copies of Angela Perkins's files. All of them." He cradled the phone again, linked his fingers. "It will take a little time."
"We've got plenty," Jenner assured him. "While we're waiting, why don't you tell us where you were on the night Angela Perkins was shot?"
"I'd be happy to. I was at home, with my wife and my mother. As I recall, we played three-handed bridge until about midnight."
"Then you won't object to us questioning your wife and your mother?"
"Of course not." Though he wasn't pleased at being out-maneuvered, Beeker was a practical man. "Perhaps I can offer you gentlemen coffee while we wait for the files?"
Chapter Twenty-six
Marshall Pike had been waiting in his car in the CBC parking lot for more than an hour when Deanna finally walked out. He felt the quick, unbidden tightening of his muscles in response at the sight of her: part anger, part lust. For the past two years, he had been forced to content himself with images of her on the TV screen. Seeing her now in the gloom of dusk, short-skirted, her legs flashing as she hurried toward a dark sedan, exceeded his memories.
"Deanna," he called to her, climbing quickly out of his own car.
She stopped, glanced toward him, peering through the rapidly deepening night. The quick, friendly smile of greeting faded. "Marshall, what do you want?"
"You never returned any of my calls." He cursed himself for sounding petulant. He wanted to appear strong, dynamic.
"I wasn't interested in speaking with you." "You're going to speak with me." He clamped his hand over her arm. His gesture made Deanna's driver spring out of the car.
"Call off your dog, Deanna. Surely you can spare five minutes?"
"It's all right, Tim." But she removed Marshall's hand before turning to her driver. "I won't keep you waiting long."
"No problem, Miss Reynolds." He gave Marshall a measured look, then tipped his cap. "No problem at all."
"If we could be private." Marshall gestured across the lot. "Your guard will be able to see you, Deanna. I'm sure he'll leap to your rescue should I try to manhandle you."
"I think I can handle you alone." She crossed the lot with him, hoping the meeting would be brief. The wind was bitterly cold and she didn't relish speaking with him. "Since I can't think of anything we'd have to discuss on a personal level, I assume you wanted to talk to me about Angela."
"It would have been difficult for you. Finding her."
"Yes, it was."
"I could help you." "Professionally?" Her brow quirked. The wind, and anger, brought color to her cheeks, a snap to her eyes. "No thanks. Tell me what you want."
For the moment, he stared at her. She was still perfect. Fresh, seductive. All luminous eyes and moist lips. "Have dinner with me," he said at last. "The French place you always liked so much."
"Marshall, please." There was no anger in her voice, only pity. It scraped like rusty blades over his ego.
"Oh yes, I seem to have forgotten to congratulate you on your engagement to our dashing correspondent."
"Thank you. Is that all?"
"I want the file." At her blank look he tightened his grip. "Don't pretend you don't understand. I know Angela gave you a copy of her investigator's report on me. She told me. She gloated over it. I didn't ask for it before because I'd hoped that you'd come to realize what I could offer you. Now, under the circumstances, I need it."
"I don't have it."
Rage darkened his face. "You're lying. She gave it to you."
"Yes, she did." Her arm was throbbing now, but she refused to struggle. "Do you really think I would have kept it all this time? I destroyed it ages ago."
He gripped both her arms now, nearly lifting her off her feet. "I don't believe you."
"I don't give a damn what you believe. I don't have it." More furious than frightened, she struggled against him. "Can't you understand I didn't care enough to keep it? You weren't important enough."
"Bitch." Too incensed to think clearly, he dragged her toward his car. "You won't hold that file over my head." He grunted, his wing tips skittering on the pavement as he was yanked from behind. He went down painfully, bruising his hip and his dignity.
"No, Tim, don't." Though she was shaking, Deanna grabbed her driver's arm before he could haul Marshall to his feet and knock him down all over again.
Tim adjusted his bulky coat, seeing Marshall was quelled. "You okay, Miss Reynolds?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Hey!" A baseball cap shielding his eyes, a camera on his shoulder, Joe raced across the lot. "Dee? You okay?"
"Yes." She pressed a hand to her temple as Marshall got to his feet. Perfect, she thought. Pictures at ten. "Yes, I'm okay."
"I was just pulling into the lot when I saw this guy hassling you." Joe's eyes narrowed. "The shrink, right?" He slapped a hand on Marshall's chest before Marshall could step toward his car. "Hold on, pal. Dee, you want me to call the cops, or should Tim and I just show this creep what happens to men who push women around?"
"Just let him go."
"Sure?"
She looked into Marshall's eyes. There was something dead in them now, but she couldn't find any pity. "Yes. Let him go."
"The lady's giving you a break," Joe muttered. "If I catch you bothering her again, I won't be so nice."
Silently, Marshall got into his car. He locked the doors, fastened his seat belt, before driving out of the lot.
"Are you sure he didn't hurt you, Miss Reynolds?"
"No, he didn't. Thank you, Tim." "No problem." Tim sauntered proudly back to the car.
"I wish you'd let me punch him." Joe gave a regretful sigh before looking back at Deanna. "Spooked you, huh?" He glanced at the camera on his shoulder, grimaced. "I got so pissed I didn't get any tape of it."
That, at least, was something. "I guess there's no point in my asking you not to mention this in the newsroom."
He grinned as he walked her to her car. "No point at all. News is news."
She didn't want to tell Finn, but they'd made a deal. No holding back. She'd hoped Finn would have to work late, but as luck would have it, he opened the door and greeted her with a long, sloppy kiss.
"Hiya." "Hi yourself." She rocked back on her heels and gave Cronkite the caress he was whining for.
"We had a change in schedule, so I got home a little early." The change in schedule had been canceling all of his appointments and spending his afternoon with Jenner reading through Beeker's files. "Made dinner."