Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part XI

Flak took a deep breath, exhaled on his hand and sniffed.

Minty fresh.

He licked his lips, took another deep breath, visualizing himself a lot calmer and his heart beating a lot slower than it was right now as he prepared to insert the key card that would unlock room 215 of the Carstairs Hotel at the request of his recently dead publicist, who, he expected, he would find behind the door.

I can't imagine how this can be good for me. Janey would tell me to leave now and send someone else.

Flak rubbed his temples.

But Janey's dead. Or behind this door.

Irony gave him headaches.

He put the card in the slot.

"So! What have we here?" Flak jumped back from the door as Samara Steele strode smartly down the hallway. "A rendezvous with a secret source? Or, perhaps a rendezvous of another sort, hm?"

"Steele," Flak said, regaining his posture and mustering a nervous sort of condescension. "This is police business."

"Yeah, and this is First Amendment business!" Steele boomed. Flak was impressed. She was just as dramatic live as she was on TV. Shorter, though. Regardless, he wasn't ready to face whatever was behind that door with a reporter. Especially one without a camera.

"Listen, Steele. You're smart and you're cute." That should butter her up! "You'll get your story. But I can't let you in here." He narrowed his eyes. "There's too much at stake."

"Really, Flak," Steele said. "Like what?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Where's your camera?" Flak asked.

"Coming up the back stairs. He'll be here any minute. We can go live like ..." she snapped her fingers under Flak's nose... "that."

"Look," Flak said, trying to achieve some sort of 'I'm-on-your-side' tone of exasperation, "wait by the stairs with your cameraman. I have to go in there alone."

Steele bit her lip. "I'll get the story?"

"Exclusive. Do you see anyone else here?"

"Don't screw me, Flak," Steele threatened.

"Not unless you ask," Flak said. Good one, Flak!

Steele turned on her spiked heels and stalked back down the hall toward the stairwell. He admired her ambitious, merciless gait.

Then he slipped the key card into the door, waited for the soft click of the lock mechanism, jammed the handle down and shoved the door open, stumbling as if he'd been pushed from behind. Thus, it was from the floor that he saw her -- the shiny patent leather boots, the fishnet stockinged legs, the wide -- too wide -- leather skirt, the cream-colored silk blouse accented by a chain of gold links. The smiling face, the professionally whitened teeth, the lipstick just a little too red. The big brown eyes and painted on eyebrows. The dark bobbed hair sprayed to perfection, the hair of someone ready to pitch, to sell and any time, any place.

Janey.

"Petey! So nice of you to drop in."

"Janey!" Flak croaked out loud. "You're dead!"

"Rumors, statistics and lies, Petey," Janey said. She knelt down next to Flak and smiled a wide-mouthed grin. "I thought you were a detective." Then she stood up and laughed. And laughed some more.

Flak was getting uncomfortable. This was more laughing than was appropriate.

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NEXT TIME -- Part XII: The thrilling conclusion!

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