River’s End

she smiled.
    “Give it a rest. Brady,” he muttered. “That’s history.”
    He pushed himself up, then dug in his briefcase for the numbers he’d looked up and scribbled down before leaving L.A. Rain began to lash the windows as he made the call, and he adjusted his vague plans of going out and indulging in some San Francisco nightlife to a solo beer at the bar downstairs.
    “Good afternoon, Constellations.”
    “Noah Brady calling for Jamie Melbourne.”
    “Ms. Melbourne is with a client. May I take a message?”
    “Tell her I’m Frank Brady’s son, and I’d like to speak with her. I’m out of town at the moment.” He glanced at the phone, then reeled off the number. “I’ll be in for another hour.”
    That was a test, he mused as he hung up. Just to see how quickly the Brady name got a call back.
    He stretched back out on the bed and had surfed through the channels twice when his phone rang. “Brady.”
    “Yes, this is Jamie Melbourne.”
    “Thanks for getting back to me.” Within six minutes. Noah thought with a glance at his watch.
    “Is this about your father? I hope he’s well.”
    “He’s fine, thanks. This is about Sam Tanner.” He paused, waited, but there was no response. “I’m in San Francisco. I spoke with him earlier today.”
    “I see. I was under the impression he spoke to no one, particularly reporters or writers. You’re a writer, aren’t you, Noah?”
    The first name, putting him in his place, he decided. Maintaining control. A good and subtle move. “That’s right. He spoke to me, and I’m hoping you will, too. I’d like to set up an appointment with you. I should be back in town by tomorrow evening. Do you have any time free Thursday or Friday?”
    “Why?”
    “Sam Tanner wants to tell his story. I’m going to write it, Ms. Melbourne, and I want to give you every opportunity to tell your part of it.”
    “The man killed my sister and broke the hearts of every member of my family. What else do you need to know?”
    “Everything you can tell me—unless you want the information I gather coming only from his point of view. That’s not what I’m after here.”
    “No, you’re after another best-seller, aren’t you? However you can get it.”
    “If that were true. I wouldn’t have called you. Just talk to me—off the record if you want. Then make up your mind.”
    “Have you spoken with anyone else in my family?”
    “No.”
    “Don’t. Come to see me Thursday at four. At my home. I’ll give you an hour, no more.”
    “I appreciate it. If I could have your address?”
    “Get it from your father.” She snapped that out, her controlled voice finally breaking. “He knows it.”
    Noah winced as she broke the connection, though the click was quiet, almost discreet. Definitely stepping onto shaky ground there, he decided. She was predisposed not to cooperate, not to be objective about what he intended to accomplish.
    He flipped through channels without interest as he considered. Sam hadn’t told him about his death sentence in confidence. Perhaps he’d pass that information to Jamie, see if it made any difference to her. He could also use her reluctance to cooperate in his strategy with Sam.
    Playing one against the other would result in more information from both of them—if he did it well.
    And he’d just keep his own long-term and personal fascination with the case his little secret for now.
    He drifted off with the rain pattering on the windows and the television blaring, and dreamed a dream he wouldn’t remember of giant trees and green light, and a tall woman with golden eyes.

Thirteen
    The same guard took Noah to the same room. This time he’d brought a notepad and a tape recorder. He set them both on the table. Sam glanced at them, said nothing, but Noah caught a quick glint in his eyes that might have been satisfaction. Or relief. Noah took his seat, switched on the recorder. “Let’s go back, Sam. Nineteen seventy-three.”
    “Fever was released in May, and was the biggest moneymaker of the summer. I got an Oscar nomination for it. I listened to ‘Desperado’ every time I turned on the radio. The sixties were pretty well dead,” Sam said with what might have been amusement, “and disco hadn’t quite reared its ugly head. I was unofficially living with Lydia and having great sex and monumental fights. Pot was out, snow was in. There was always a party going on. And I met Julie MacBride.”
    He paused, just a heartbeat of silence.