All Night Long

looked at Alexa. She sat on the seat across from him, stunning and dramati n a conservatively cut black suit and veiled hat. She would photograph beautifully today, just as she always did, he thought.
    Pamela had been useful in his campaigns in the past few years, but a presidential candidate required a wife. The voters would never go for an unmarried man in the White House.
    “I’ll want you beside me when I confront the press this morning,” Ryland said to Alexa.
    She folded her gloved hands on her lap. “Of course.”
    He switched his attention back to Hoyt. “Was there any fallout from the story in the [_Glaston Cove Beacon?” _]
    “Nothing we can’t counter easily enough with your statement this morning.” Hoyt glanced at his watch again. “The
Beacon
did hint at an investigation, but—”
    “That’s bullshit,” Ryland snapped. “McPherson isn’t conducting an investigation. I made it clear that I didn’t want one.”
    “Yes, sir, I know, but I’m afraid the
Beacon
implied that there were some questions about Pamela’ eath that were being looked into by the local authorities, or words to that effect.”
    Hoyt glanced at the folder. “The good news is that no one reads that damn rag. It won’t be a problem.”
    “It better not become one,” Ryland muttered.
    And in all likelihood, it wouldn’t, regardless of Irene Stenson’s interference, he told himself. Sam McPherson understood that it was his job to keep things quiet.
    Nothing like owning an entire town, including the chief of police, he thought. Dunsley was a boring little spot on the map, but he had to admit that occasionally it had its uses.
    The limo glided to a halt in front of the funeral chapel. Ryland examined the scene through the heavily tinted windows.
    He relaxed when he saw that there were only a small number of media vehicles.
    “I don’t see any sign of Irene Stenson,” Alexa said, sounding relieved. “Everything is going to be fine, Ryland. Stop worrying. As soon as the funeral service is concluded, the press will lose interest in this tragedy.”
    “I agree,” Hoyt said. “Things are under control, sir.”
    “Your father is here,” Alexa said. “He’s just going into the chapel.”
    “Mr. Webb’s flight from Phoenix was on time,” Hoyt said. “I checked earlier.”
    Ryland watched his father, distinguished in a gray suit, make his way into the church.
    A volatile mix of anger, resentment and, yes, plain old fear churned through him, the same poisonous elixir that he always experienced when Victor Webb was in the vicinity. He could not remember a time when he had not felt the intense pressure to live up to his father’s demands and expectations. Nothing was ever good enough for the old bastard.
    The sooner Victor went back to Phoenix, the better, Ryland thought. Whatever happened, he had to make certain that the sonofabitch did not discover the blackmail problem. Victor would be furious, and when he was furious, there was hell to pay.
    Ryland’s fingers clenched around the folder. He had to find the blackmailer and get rid of him befor is father found out what was going on. In the meantime he had no choice but to continue makin hose damned payments into that mysterious offshore account.
    One thing was certain. When he did finally succeed in identifying the blackmailer, the extortionist wa dead man. Or a dead woman.
    He watched Victor disappear into the chapel. There had been, he reflected, a number of convenient deaths over the years: his wife, the Stensons and now Pamela. Each tragedy had helped him manag potentially difficult situation. Why not another one?
    He was momentarily dazed by his own daring. [_Get rid of Victor? _]
    For years he had relied not only on the old man’s money, but also on Victor’s connections and his uncanny ability to assess an opponent’s weaknesses. Victor had always been his real campaig anager, the strategist, the power behind the throne.
    [_I’m fifiy-three years old, _] Ryland thought.
I don’t need the bastard anymore. I can
[_run my own life. _]
    He felt as if he were having an epiphany.
    Money would not be a problem. He was Victor’s sole heir. Besides, Alexa was rich in her own right.
    He did not need his father. What a liberating thought.
    The door of the limo opened. Ryland assumed an expression that was appropriate for a father who had just lost a troubled daughter to drugs and alcohol and followed Alexa out of the car.

----
    Victor Webb watched his