Rocky Mountain Valor. Jennifer D. Bokal
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her breath for a count of three, then exhaled slowly. The past disappeared. “I disagree,” she said, finally joining the conversation. “The days of glorifying celebrities have ended.”
“You don’t get it,” said Mike. “It’s the glory that makes them celebrities.”
“You heard the interview. Steve Chan wouldn’t have accepted my saying that Joe is above the rest of us.”
“What I heard was an agent who refused to take control of the interview and get out our message.”
“Next time, convince Joe to go on the show. Let him speak for himself if he’s done nothing wrong.” The sun, a bright white ball, hung in a sky of turquoise blue. Heat shimmered over the expanse of blacktop as she walked across the parking lot. Petra used her remote fob to start her car, a roadster, and unlock the doors.
“And since you mentioned Joe,” Mike said, “several sponsors have expressed reservations about renewing his contract. We can’t handle another scandal. He’s your client. You control him.”
Petra’s phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. “Speak of the devil,” she said. “That’s Joe.”
“Talk to him, Petra. Get him to clean up his act.”
She didn’t bother to point out that Mike couldn’t have it both ways—either Joe was blameless because he was famous, or he had to behave better. “I’ll do what I can.”
“You’ll get the job done,” said Mike, “or find a new one.”
Despite the summer’s heat, Petra went cold. Sure, her boss was taciturn, but Petra was good at what she did. “Are you threatening to fire me?”
“No. It’s a promise.”
Mike’s call ended abruptly and Joe’s immediately came through.
“Petra?” He sounded breathless. “We need to talk.”
Was he going to complain about her performance, too? “Hey, Joe, did you hear the interview?”
“No. What interview?”
“I just spent a few minutes with Steve Chan in the Hot Seat.”
“Oh, that show can get brutal.” He paused a beat. “Listen, something happened. I need you to handle the public relations.”
“That’s what I was doing, Joe. Public relations, as in talking to Steve Chan about you.”
“Well, you might have to visit his show again because this is bigger than big. Lots of heads will roll, you know.”
One of those heads, she assumed, would be hers. Her muscles contracted with tension. She rubbed her shoulder with her free hand. “What happened?” she asked.
“I can’t talk over the phone. You need to come here, to my house.” A beep sounded from Joe’s side of the call. “That’s my driveway intercom. I’ll see you in half an hour.” The line went dead.
With the news of the FBI raid still fresh in her mind, she pulled up her friend Katarina Floros’s social media page. Katarina worked for Ian as a communications specialist, and two weeks ago she’d posted a picture that Petra hadn’t found the courage to “like.”
A couple stood before a lake. The Rocky Mountains served as a backdrop, and the water was so clear there were two sets of mountains and two skies. Without question, it was a photo of a couple as they took their vows. The groom, tall and handsome, was someone Petra knew well—Roman DeMarco, another employee of RMJ. The bride was a woman she’d never seen. Katarina’s husband officiated the service. Ian Wallace, the best man, stood just behind Roman’s shoulder.
It had been two years since Petra ended the relationship with Ian and she had no right to wonder about his life, yet she did. He’d obviously remained in Colorado and hadn’t returned to England after their breakup. Had he taken a date to the wedding, and if so, were they serious? She wondered who Roman had married and if Katarina had thrown a bridal shower—it seemed like something Kat would do. Petra glanced at the picture once more, a voyeur into the life she would never live, and shoved the phone into her bag.
* * *
As she drove through Denver’s more exclusive neighborhoods, Petra’s headache returned with a vengeance. She’d been rash to ignore the pain when it first began at the radio station, and now it was a full-blown migraine. Each throb of her pulse exploded like a bomb inside her skull.
The sun beat down, surrounding everything in a brilliant and blinding halo. She gripped the steering wheel with knuckles gone white and rounded the corner. Joe Owens’s home came into view.
Made of golden brick, with a set of double doors and a side room that resembled a turret, the three-story home was impressive and immense, even on a street of impressive and immense homes. The wrought iron gate was open—unusual, but then he had told her to come. Since she was expected, Petra didn’t bother with the call box. She followed the winding drive to a circular courtyard, where Joe’s cobalt blue SUV sat.
Petra parked her car next to his and turned off the engine. She closed her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Again and again. The pain remained, lurking just beneath the surface, like wisps of fog over a river on a sultry night.
After tucking her keys into her handbag, Petra walked to the front door and rang the bell. Far-off chimes announced her arrival.
Nothing.
She gripped the door handle and pulled down. It held fast. She hit the doorbell three times in a row, the chimes playing and replaying, the echo rolling across the courtyard and down the wide lawn.
Her head throbbed with each chime of the bell, and her frustration grew. There was no way Joe hadn’t heard her, unless he wasn’t home. His car was here, but really, that meant next to nothing. He could have easily been picked up by someone else, or left with the person who’d stopped by earlier, while they’d been on the phone.
Whatever the excuse, her client owed her an explanation. She called his cell phone. It went directly to voice mail.
“Joe.” Petra didn’t bother to keep the irritation from her voice. “Where the hell are you? I’m here.”
She ended the call and rang the bell again. Still no one came to the door.
Petra made a second call to Joe. Again, voice mail picked up. “Just so you know, your behavior is costing me my job. If I get fired because of you, I’ll kill you.”
Shoving the phone back into her handbag, she followed the brick walkway to the back of the house. A pool, complete with a slide and whirlpool, was empty. Two tumblers filled with amber liquid and ice sat on a table. Sweat trickled down the side of the glasses. Joe hadn’t been gone from his drink for long. But where was he? And who had been drinking with him?
Sunlight glinted off the water’s surface. The glare left Petra blind, and the pain in her head was now a thunderous roar. She fumbled in her bag for a set of sunglasses and slipped them on. They did little for the pain, but at least she could see.
Beyond the patio, a set of French doors stood open.
None of what she’d found made sense. Joe valued security even more than privacy. It was unlike him to leave the front gate open and his house seemingly unattended.
Maybe he was home, but doing what? And why ignore Petra, when he had insisted that she stop by? Certainly, visiting a client while sick with a migraine was the worst thing to do. Yet if she could get out of the sun, the worst of her headache might abate.
She approached the threshold and took a tentative step into the family room. Sheer curtains hung from ceiling to floor and billowed in the breeze.
“Knock, knock,” she called. “Joe? It’s Petra. Are you home?”
From somewhere, she heard a gurgling. Petra strained to listen. The noise was gone as quickly as it came.
She took another