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Rupe’s grin widened. “You’re well informed.”
“Your commercials run nonstop on TV.”
“I believe in advertising, in putting yourself out there.” Rupe lightly slugged the man in the shoulder.
“So do I, Mr. Collier. We think alike.”
“Call me Rupe.”
“Pleased to meet you, Rupe. My name’s Rocky Van Durbin.”
Rupe’s stomach plummeted.
The tabloid columnist fished a business card from the breast pocket of his off-the-rack sport jacket and handed it over. Having recognized the man’s name instantly, Rupe realized he’d been cleverly ambushed. But he decided to brazen it out and pretended to read the card.
“New York City? We don’t get many shoppers from way up there. I’m honored.” He pocketed the card with as much nonchalance as he could fake. “If you’re seriously in the market for a new car, Mr. Van Durbin, you couldn’t do better than—”
“No thanks. I’m just looking.”
“Sure, sure,” Rupe said expansively. “Stay for as long as you like. Bob there, who you met out on the lot, will be happy to answer your questions and help you any way he can. But you’ll have to excuse me. Unfortunately, I’m late for an appointment.”
Van Durbin laughed. “I get that a lot.” Then he squinted his ferret eyes. “By people who’re afraid to talk to me.”
He’d practically called Rupe Collier a coward, and Rupe didn’t take the insult lightly. He felt like taking the slimy columnist by his scrawny neck and shaking him till his brains rattled. But he didn’t practice his smile in the mirror every morning for nothing. He managed to keep it intact.
“I enjoy chatting with anybody from the Big Apple. But I’m expected somewhere else soon. Let’s make an appointment—”
Van Durbin cut him off. “Well, see, that’s a problem, Rupe. Because, soon, I gotta be somewhere else, too. Besides…” He socked Rupe in the shoulder as Rupe had done to him. “You practically wrote the book on closing the sale. Long as I’m here? Just a few minutes of your time? How ’bout it?”
Rupe’s smile was growing stiff from keeping it in place. “Why don’t we talk in my office?”
“Great! Thanks.”
Rupe led the way, and, although he maintained his easy-breezy gait to keep up appearances, mostly for Van Durbin himself, he was anything but relaxed.
His unwanted visitor whistled softly when he stepped into Rupe’s inner sanctum. “Niiiiice. The car business must be good.”
“Can’t complain.”
“My mother, rest her soul, tried to tell me I’d chosen the wrong career path. ‘You can’t make money in journalism.’ She must’ve told me that a thousand times. I reminded her that Hearst had made some serious coin. Murdoch. But”—he sighed—“Mom was right. They were exceptions.”
Trying not to appear overanxious, Rupe said, “How can I help you, Mr. Van Durbin?”
Van Durbin’s attention had already been snagged by the copy of Low Pressure lying on the desk. Rupe gritted his teeth in frustration. He should have gotten rid of the damn thing after he’d read it. At the very least, he shouldn’t have left it in plain sight.
Van Durbin moseyed over to it now and picked it up, then made a production of fanning through the four-hundred-and-something pages. “Now this local gal has done all right in the writing game, hasn’t she? She’s making a killing off this book.”
Rupe was a natural showman, and he had used those innate showmanship skills to full advantage his entire life. He hoped they didn’t fail him now. He moved around the corner of his desk and sat down in his cowhide chair, motioning for Van Durbin to sit in the chair facing him.
“I have a hunch that you didn’t come all the way from New York to talk cars. That book brought you here. I’ll take it a step further and venture that you know I prosecuted the murder case of Susan Lyston, and that’s what you want to talk to me about.”
Van Durbin spread his arms away from his sides. “You caught me red-handed. Can I ask you some questions about your case against Allen Strickland? I’m addressing that aspect of the story in my column tomorrow.”
Bile filled the back of Rupe’s throat, but he tried to appear unflappable. “It was a long time ago. I’ll stretch my memory as best I can.”
“Thanks, Rupe.” Van Durbin produced a small spiral notebook and a yellow pencil dimpled with a disgusting number of teeth marks. “Don’t mind this. I have to write things down or I forget.”
Rupe doubted that. He doubted the bastard ever forgot anything. He was sly, and he was dangerous. Rupe considered calling the dealership’s security guard and having Van Durbin removed from the premises. But then it would appear that he had something to hide. He would also lose all control over what Van Durbin wrote about him.
