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“SUV. I don’t know what kind.”
“Did you get a look at the plate?”
She shook her head and tugged at the drink. “I was too busy cowering between two cars. The windows were darkened, I remember that. It took a very good bottle of wine right out of my hand, a Mondavi Reserve Cabernet.”
“That’s tragic,” Jim said, making her laugh. “Do you really think they were trying to hit you?”
“How could they come that close if they weren’t trying?”
“I’ve got my famous meat loaf in the oven. It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes or so.”
“I’ll just suck up bourbon until then,” she said. “Maybe even another one after this.”
“You won’t get an argument from me,” Jim said. “I know how much fun you are with a couple of drinks in you.”
She squeezed his hand. “You could join me.”
“I can do that,” Jim said, pouring himself one and sitting next to her on the sofa.
She leaned close to his ear. “You know that thing I told you about?” she whispered.
“I know that thing you didn’t tell me about,” he whispered back.
“I think someone heard me not telling you about it. There’s a tabloid that has a history of bugging Vanity Fair people to get inside info on what stories they’re working on.”
He leaned back and looked at her closely, but she pulled him back. “Do you know somebody who could come here and look for bugs?” she whispered.
He kissed her on the ear. “I know somebody who will know somebody who can do that.”
“Have them do it tomorrow, please.”
Herbie Fisher was at his desk when Jim Rutledge called. “Good morning, Jim. Thanks for taking care of that lighting problem so quickly.”
“All it took was twenty-seven desk lamps,” Jim replied. “Herb, I need some advice.”
“Sure. You want to come see me?”
“No, I just need a name.”
“What sort of a name?”
“The sort who can come to my apartment and sweep it thoroughly for bugs.”
“Do you have some reason to believe you’re being bugged?”
“My girlfriend told me about something— No, strike that, she didn’t tell me about something, but she intimated that she knew about something that happened in L.A. during the opening of The Arrington, that she couldn’t tell me about. Then, last night, she was on the way home with a bottle of very good Cabernet in her hand when she was almost hit by a black SUV, darkened windows, traveling very fast. Took the wine right out of her hand.”
“Who is your girlfriend?”
“Kelli Keane, magazine writer.”
“Yeah, I remember her being out there.”
“You were there, too?”
“Yes, my girl and I got there late, but we had a great time. Is Kelli talking about the three bombs that were intended for The Arrington?”
“No, that was reported in the press. There must have been something else.”
