Jennifer studied him a moment and said, “I’ll go with you on one condition. I want the answer to a question.”
Michael nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“Whose idea was it to frame me with the dead canary?”
He answered without hesitation. “Mine.”
So now she knew. And she could have killed him. Grimly she stepped into the limousine and Michael Moretti moved in beside her. Jennifer noted that he gave the driver the address of her office building without asking.
As the limousine drove off, Michael Moretti said, “I’m glad about all the great things that are happening to you.”
Jennifer did not bother to reply.
“I really mean that.”
“You haven’t told me what it is you want.”
“I want to make you rich.”
“Thanks. I’m rich enough.” Her voice was filled with the contempt she felt toward him.
Michael Moretti’s face flushed. “I’m trying to do you a favor and you keep fighting me.”
Jennifer turned to look at him. “I don’t want any favors from you.”
He made his voice conciliatory. “Okay. Maybe I’m trying to make up a little for what I did to you. Look, I can send you a lot of clients. Important clients. Big money. You have no idea—”
Jennifer interrupted. “Mr. Moretti, do us both a favor. Don’t say another word.”
“But I can—”
“I don’t want to represent you or any of your friends.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I represented one of you, from then on you’d own me.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Michael protested. “My friends are in legitimate businesses. I mean banks, insurance companies—”
“Save your breath. My services aren’t available to the Mafia.”
“Who said anything about the Mafia?”
“Call it whatever you like. No one owns me but me. I intend to keep it that way.”
The limousine stopped for a red light.
Jennifer said, “This is close enough. Thank you for the lift.” She opened the door and stepped out.
Michael said, “When can I see you again?”
“Not ever, Mr. Moretti.”
Michael watched her walk away.
My God, he thought, that’s a woman! He suddenly became aware that he had an erection and smiled, because he knew that one way or another, he was going to have her.
23
It was the end of October, two weeks before the election, and the senatorial race was in full swing. Adam was running against the incumbent Senator John Trowbridge, a veteran politician, and the experts agreed it was going to be a close battle.
Jennifer sat at home one night, watching Adam and his opponent in a television debate. Mary Beth had been right. A divorce now could easily have wrecked Adam’s growing chances for victory.
When Jennifer walked into the office after a long business lunch, there was an urgent message for her to call Rick Arlen.
“He’s called three times in the last half-hour,” Cynthia said.
Rick Arlen was a rock star who had, almost overnight, become the hottest singer in the world. Jennifer had heard about the enormous incomes of rock stars, but until she got involved with Rick Arlen’s affairs, she had had no idea what that really meant. From records, personal appearances, merchandising and now motion pictures, Rick Arlen’s income was more than fifteen million dollars a year. Rick was twenty-five years old, an Alabama farm boy who had been born with a gold mine in his throat.
“Get him for me,” Jennifer said.
Five minutes later he was on the line. “Hey, man, I’ve been tryin’ to reach you for hours.”
“Sorry, Rick. I was in a meeting.”
“Problem. Gotta see you.”
“Can you come in to the office this afternoon?”
“I don’t think so. I’m in Monte Carlo, doin’ a benefit for Grace and the Prince. How soon can you get here?”
“I couldn’t possibly get away now,” Jennifer protested. “I have a desk piled up—”
“Baby, I need you. You’ve got to get on a bird this afternoon.”
And he hung up.
Jennifer thought about the phone call. Rick Arlen had not wanted to discuss his problem over the telephone. It could be anything from drugs to girls to boys. She thought about sending Ted Harris or Dan Martin to solve whatever the problem was, but she liked Rick Arlen. In the end, Jennifer decided to go herself.
She tried to reach Adam before she left, but he was out of the office.
She said to Cynthia, “Get me reservations on an Air France flight to Nice. I’ll want a car to meet me and drive me to Monte Carlo.”
Twenty minutes later she had a reservation on a seven o’clock flight that evening.
“There’s a helicopter service from Nice directly to Monte Carlo,” Cynthia said. “I’ve booked you on that.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.”
When Ken Bailey heard why Jennifer was leaving, he said, “Who does that punk think he is?”
“He knows who he is, Ken. He’s one of our biggest clients.”
“When will you be back?”
“I shouldn’t be gone more than three or four days.”
“Things aren’t the same when you’re not here. I’ll miss you.”
Jennifer wondered whether he was still seeing the young blond man.
“Hold down the fort until I get back.”
As a rule, Jennifer enjoyed flying. She regarded her time in the air as freedom from pressures, a temporary escape from all the problems that beset her on the ground, a quiet oasis in space away from her endlessly demanding clients. This flight across the Atlantic, however, was unpleasant. It seemed unusually bumpy, and Jennifer’s stomach became queasy and upset.