Public Secrets

the press. I need to walk.”

B ACK IN LONDON , Robert Blackpool read the newspaper report. It amused the hell out of him. The Fleet Street stories were the best. All that murder-of-passion and death-of-a-dream nonsense. They’d gotten hold of a couple of pictures as well. They were grainy, a bit out of focus, but immensely satisfying. Emma being wheeled into an ambulance. Her face was a mess, and that pleased Blackpool very much.
He’d never forgotten the way she’d turned on him.

He thought it was a pity that Latimer hadn’t beaten her to death. But then, there were other ways to pay back.
Picking up the phone, he called the London Times .
Pete was livid when he read the article the next day. Robert Blackpool, expressing deep sorrow at the death of a talented young artist like Latimer, related an incident that involved himself and Emma. From his slant, she had shown vicious jealousy over his relationship with her roommate. When her attempts at seduction had failed, she had tried to attack him with a pair of scissors.
The headlines were bold.
T HIRST FOR L OVE D RIVES E MMA TO V IOLENCE
It didn’t take long for people to gobble up the reports. Opinions were now torn as to whether she had acted in self-defense or in a jealous rage when she had shot her husband.
Grabbing the phone, Pete dialed.
“You fucking lunatic.”
“Ah, and good morning to you.” Blackpool chuckled. He’d been expecting the call.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, spreading a story like that? I’ve got enough of a mess to clean up.”
“It’s not my mess, mate. If you ask me, little Emma got just what she deserved.”
“I’m not asking you. And I’m telling you to back off.”
“Why should I do that? I can use the publicity. You’re the first one to say press sells records, aren’t you?”
“I’m telling you to back off.”
“Or?”
“I don’t care to make threats, Robert. Just take me at my word when I tell you that scrounging up nasty secrets isn’t healthy for anyone.”
There was a long, humming pause. “I owed her this one.”
“Perhaps. That isn’t my concern. Your numbers have been slipping the last couple of years, Robert. Record companies are notoriously fickle. You wouldn’t want to have to go digging about for a new manager at this stage, would you?”
“We go back, Pete. I doubt either of us wants to break up an old friendship.”

“Remember it. Keep stirring things up and I’ll drop you like a dirty sock.”
“You need me as much as I need you.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Pete smiled into the phone. “I doubt that very much.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

M ICHAEL PACED THE corridor, stabbed out his cigarette, then paced again. “I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Emma took her breathing carefully. After three weeks, her ribs still tended to twinge if she moved the wrong way. “It’s what I want to do, and what I feel is best.”
“Holding a press conference the same day you’re being released from the hospital is just stupid. And stubborn.”
“I’m better off making a formal statement than trying to dodge them.” She spoke lightly, but her arms were ice-cold under her linen jacket. “Believe me, I know more about this than you.”
“If you’re talking about that bullshit Blackpool started, it’s already blown over. He did himself more damage than you.”
“I don’t care about Blackpool, but I do care about my family and what these last few weeks have put them through. And I want to have my say.” She started to walk into the conference room, then stopped and turned back. “The police investigation ruled it self-defense. I’ve spent the last three weeks convincing myself of the same thing. I want my record clear, Michael.”
It was useless to argue. He’d come to know her well enough to understand that. But he tried anyway. “The press has been behind you ninety-nine percent.”
“And that one percent makes an ugly stain.”

He relented enough to cross to her and brush a thumb over her cheek. “Have you ever wondered why life gets so screwed up?
“Yes.” She smiled. “I’ve begun to believe that God really is a man. Are you coming in with me?”
Sure.
The press was waiting. Cameras, lights, microphones at alert. Flashes went off the moment she stepped up to the podium. Murmurs accompanied them. She was very pale so that the healing bruises showed in vivid contrast on her skin. Though no longer swollen, her left eye was a mass of ugly fading