Read Online Injustice for All by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page A

“Reporters? In there?” She nodded toward the dining room overhead.
    “The desk clerk told me last night that some of them stayed over. I know for a fact Maxwell Cole did.”
    “He was that funny-looking fat man you were talking to in the lobby when I came back from being fingerprinted? The one who was supposed to meet Don Wilson?”
    “One and the same.”
    “Who does he work for?”
    “The P. Z He writes a crime column.”
    She paused thoughtfully. “Is that all he’s interested in? Crime?” I couldn’t see where the discussion was going. “Why are you asking?” She grinned impishly. “I told you I’d get Darrell, starting now. I’ll file on Monday, but it’ll hit the papers Sunday morning. The only reason they want me to reconsider is to keep it quiet until after election day. Believe me, Darrell doesn’t want me back. Now, where do I find what’s-his-name?”
    :’Max? Probably under a rock somewhere.”
    “I mean it, Beau. I want to talk to him.’ Hell hath no fury, and all that jazz. I figured Darrell Watkins
    deserved just about anything Ginger could dish out: “Go on into the Moran Room and wait by the fireplace. I’ll see if I can find him and send him there. I’m also going to have your things moved to another room for tonight, if you’re going to stay over.”
    “Why? Can’t I stay with you?”
    I shook my head. “Discretion is the better part of valor, my dear. You can sleep wherever you damn well please, but you’d better have a separate room with your clothes in it or you’ll get us both in a hell of a lot of trouble.”
    “Oh,” she said. “I guess I should’ve thought of that.”
    Maxwell Cole was eating breakfast. Talking to him was tough because all I could see was the blob of egg yolk that dangled from one curl of his handlebar mustache. “Ginger Watkins wants to talk to you,” I said. His eyes bulged. “No shit? Where is she?”
    “In the Moran Room, just off the lobby, waiting.”
    Cole lurched to his feet, signaling for the waiter to bring his check. “Hey thanks, J. P. I can’t thank you enough.”
    Max persists in calling me by my initials. My real name is Jonas Piedmont Beaumont.
    Mother named me after her father and grandfather as a conciliatory gesture after my father died in a motorcycle crash before he and Mother had a chance to tie the knot. It didn’t work. Her family never lifted a finger to help us. She raised me totally on her own. They never forgave her, and I’ve never forgiven them. It’s a two-way street. I shortened my name to initials in high school. In college people started calling me Beau. Except for Max. He picked my initials off a registration form, and he’s used them ever since, mostly because he knows it bugs me. “How about if you drop the ‘J. P.’ crap, Maxey? That would be one way of thanking me.”
    With a hangdog expression on his face, Max followed me out of the dining room to the crackling fireplace in the Moran Room. Afterwards I stopped at the desk to reserve a new room for Ginger. Just as I finished, someone walked up behind me and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Peters. I shook his hand. “Huggins got ahold of you, then?”
    “No. I came because a little bird told me. ” Peters grinned. Then in a lower voice, “What the hell are you doing packing hardware? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
    “It’s a long story,” I said.
    “I’m sure it is. The ferry was crawling with deputies. They’re handing out copies of Wilson’s picture to everyone who gets on or off the boat. What’s up?”
    Peeking around the corner, I could see Ginger and Max in deep conversation. I had noticed a small, glass-walled conference room just off the dining room. I asked to use it. Once inside, with the doors safely closed against unwanted listeners, I told Peters all I knew. Maybe not quite all. I left out a few details. He didn’t have any business messing around in my personal life.
    Peters shook his head when I finished.