Whatever punishment he wanted, thought he deserved, I wouldn't help him out.

I clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Billy, we're family. I forgave you for that a long time ago. And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

The hope drained from his eyes, then came back.

"I'll think of something else," he said.

I was uncomfortably aware of the old joke about what the s.a.d.i.s.t responded when the m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t begged, "Hurt me." But I said it anyway.

"No."

Caught in the Act

A Freddie O'Neal Mystery

Lane Josten was a minor character in The Luck of the Draw, and I wanted to give him more screen time-or page time, in this case. Since the Freddie O'Neal series was cancelled before I had the chance, the best I could do was offer him a starring role in a short story.

I could argue that the decline of America as a great power, a symbol of liberty and justice for all, occurred sometime in the years between 1953 and 1980-between High Noon and High Noon II. In the original, Gary Cooper is the lawman who puts duty before any petty personal considerations. Love has to wait until he shoots Hank Miller dead in order to save the town.

In the so-called sequel, the marshal is greedy and venal, no better-maybe even worse-than the ex-con he is hounding, while Lee Majors, in the former Cooper role, is a righteous man who operates without a badge. The law can no longer be trusted. The good citizen is forced to step in, with n.o.body discussing the line between the good citizen and the vigilante.

Distrust for law enforcement breeds disorder and decline in the community. And no matter how necessary the original vigilance councils of the West might have been, when we start to prefer them to due process, the barbarians have crashed the gates.

Of course, I could also argue that the causes of disorder in the community are more complex than the plotlines of a couple of old movies, and since I've never made it past the first half hour of High Noon II, the ending might undercut my original point.

For the record, I don't believe that my PI license gives me the right to take the law into my own hands. I consider myself an adjunct peace officer, bound by the same laws, if not always by quite the same rules, regulations, and procedures. And I've never personally had a bad experience with the police.

Nevertheless, I know people who have. So I was willing to listen when Lane Josten, anchor of the "Channel 12 News at Eleven," brought me a problem that he really should have taken to someone with a badge instead. Blackmail is, after all, a crime.

Lane and I had a friend in common, journalist Sandra Herrick, who had once been Lane's co-anchor. And I had met him a couple of times when another woman who used to be his co-anchor had been involved with a murder suspect. I had even borrowed his shirt. I hadn't gotten to know him for two reasons. There was a lot else going on in my life at the time, and I'm uncomfortable around men who are not only prettier than I am, they're prettier than any woman all the way up to Cindy Crawford.

His black hair had a glistening wave that didn't quite fall onto his forehead. His face seemed blessed with a permanent ski-b.u.m tan, wide dark eyes that crinkled with smile lines, and a generous mouth that usually gleamed with teeth so aesthetically perfect that the dentist should have signed them. Or maybe had, for all I know. I didn't get that close.

This day, the gleaming teeth were hidden by lips drawn tight in a face so rigid that the tan had cracked into Seurat-sized dots. As he sat across the desk from me, in one of the black-and-white cowhide chairs placed there for clients, he wasn't smiling. The tension and lack of animation added several years to the appearance of perpetual youth he presented on camera. I suspected his birth certificate would confirm that this older Lane Josten was the real one. Even so, he had the most perfect face I had ever seen in the flesh.

"Someone has some pictures of me." His eyes were focused beyond my shoulder at the fish swimming on my computer screen. "The person who has them wants money for them. I want you to make the exchange."

"Why me?"

"I don't want to see him."

That wasn't enough. I waited.

"Because I trust you. You're Sandra's friend." He glanced over at me to see if that meant anything. I nodded and waited some more. "I don't think you'd hurt me."

"What kind of pictures and why are you paying for them?" Whether I was going to hurt him depended on what was going on.

"Pictures of the two of us. Together. And I'm paying for them because he threatened to send copies to Horton Robb if I don't." He glanced at me again, hoping he wouldn't have to get any more explicit, then back to the fish.

Horton Robb was the station owner and general manager. He wasn't known for tolerance. A local joke went that Horton wouldn't have a stereo in his home because it had a left speaker.

"Sandra hasn't talked about you," I said. "In case you were wondering, she didn't betray your confidence."

"I didn't think she would-or at least not without some good reason." Lane ran his hand through his wave, the only clue that he wasn't just fascinated by the fish.

"Okay. This is extortion. My professional advice is to go to the police, set up a sting, and press charges."

Lane looked down at his hands, away from the cartoon aquarium, and shook his head.

"Okay," I said again. "You don't want to go to the police. What would happen if you simply called the blackmailer's bluff? How bad could it be?"

"The end of my career. Even if Reno could accept a gay news anchor-and I haven't seen any encouraging signs of that-Horton couldn't. He'd demote me to field reporter immediately, even though it's in violation of my contract, and dare me to sue."

"You could sue and win."

"Maybe. And the suit would take years to drag through the courts, and he'd appeal, which would take more years. I wouldn't have a job. And the only person more undesirable than a gay news anchor is a gay news anchor in the middle of a breach of contract lawsuit."

I thought again of Sandra Herrick, who had moved from television to newspapers rather than sue Horton Robb over breaching her contract when she became pregnant. Lane was probably right. Still, I couldn't help wishing somebody would sue Horton.

"You know this, but I'll say it anyway. You'll have no guarantee that you'll receive the only copies of the photos. Even if this person gives me the negatives, he could have contact negatives stashed somewhere. Once you pay a blackmailer, you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of dread. Every time you check the mail, every time you answer the phone, you could get hit again."

"That's why I want you to go. I want you to make it clear-this is the only time. If he tries again, I'll tell him to go to h.e.l.l. I'll leave Reno and start over somewhere else before I'll pay another dime."

I had to puzzle over that a minute. "You think he may not believe you-but he'll believe me?"

Lane swiveled around to face me, and his mouth flickered with a ghost of its usual smile. "You're tougher than I am."

I couldn't argue with that. "Set up a meeting. I'll only charge you for the couple of hours it takes to do the job. And I won't threaten him-I'll simply report what you've told me."

He nodded. "That'll do."

It took him a minute to gather the strength to pick up the dark blue jacket draped over his knees and get out of the chair. The late October day was too warm for a jacket, but Lane evidently hadn't watched his own station's weather report the night before. Indian summer, the guy had said.

"How many people know?" I asked.

Lane paused at the door.

"That's hard to say. My friends know-Sandra knows, of course-and I have an occasional drink at Tom Thumb's. Not often."

Tom Thumb's was a bar on South Virginia, a couple of miles past the city limit.

"You thought you could do that and stay in the closet?" I asked.

"I hoped," he answered. He hadn't looked back at me. "I hoped we were all friends."

"I guess this guy isn't the friend you thought he was."

"At least not the friend he used to be."

Lane flashed a half smile over his shoulder and slipped out the door.

I hit a key on my computer to bring back Tetris.

Lane called again two days later to tell me he had set up a meeting. He stopped by my office that afternoon to give me a fat envelope. An address was written on it.

"His name is Jimmy Dahl. He's expecting you at four o'clock."

"How will I know I have all the photos?"

"You won't. I have to trust Jimmy on that." His skin and smile were almost back to normal, but a soft red glow traveled from his neck to his cheekbones. "I'd just as soon you didn't look at them."

"I'll ask him to seal them."

"Thanks." He hesitated, as if there might be something more, then closed it off with a smile.

"I'll call you when I get back," I said.

"Right."

When Lane had gone, I placed the envelope in a zippered leather folder that could hold the photos coming back and checked the address on a map. It was in a rundown area just off Glendale Avenue, between 395 and the Truckee River, ten minutes away at most.

I gave myself twenty.

I parked the Jeep in front of a crumbling stucco six-plex wedged sideways between two clapboard houses of uncertain vintage. Some kind of deciduous tree held out bare limbs as if it didn't know how to react to the sun. I had grabbed a denim jacket as I left the house, out of October habit, but I left it on the seat.

Jimmy Dahl's apartment was number three.

As I started down the walk, a man wearing a tan cowboy hat brushed past. His head was lowered against an imaginary breeze, and I didn't see his face.

When I knocked on the door marked three, and it swung open at my touch, I had a sinking feeling that I should have been more observant.

The apartment was only a combination living room and sleeping area, with a counter-topped half wall marking where the tiny kitchen area began. The unmade sofa-bed took up most of the room.

And a naked male body on blood-soaked sheets took up most of the bed.

I should have picked up the phone and called the police. I know that. Even if I wanted to protect my client-which I did-I would have had time to look, carefully, for the incriminating photos while I waited for an official response. We could have worked something out.

But adrenaline kicked in, and I raced back to the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man in the tan hat.

He was waiting for me, leaning against the leafless tree. Beneath the cowboy hat he was wearing a blue work shirt and boot-cut Wranglers. His face was round, bland, and full of good cheer.

"Pete Lowry," he said, holding out his right hand. A tan cowhide briefcase was in the left. "You're Freddie O'Neal, right?"

"How do you know who I am?"

When he realized I wasn't going to shake, he retrieved his hand and lightly touched his hat brim in what might have been a salute.

"Saw you on television-that nasty bidness at the university."

He actually said "bidness." I don't think even real cowboys say "bidness" when they mean business. And Lowry wasn't a cowboy, he was a private investigator. Even though I hadn't met him, I'd heard the name. He'd retired under unspecified pressure after not quite twenty years on the Las Vegas police force and moved to Reno. A Las Vegas PI had e-mailed me to be careful if I ran into him.

"What are you doing here?"

Lowry pointed to the leather folder under my arm. "I suspect we're here for similar reasons. The unfortunate young man in number three had some photographs that a client of mine was willing to pay good money for."

"So what have you got in your briefcase?" I realized when I said it that I was pushing, but I didn't think he'd pull out a gun and shoot me on the sidewalk. Not that the man on the bed had been shot. Even though I hadn't looked closely, I was sure there was too much blood for that. And none of it was on Lowry.

"Well, little lady, I'm afraid I can't let you see that." I must have frowned, because he added, "Figure of speech, no offense. I took the time to find the pictures I came for, and I don't think my client would approve if I showed them to you."

"If you have the pictures-and you didn't kill Dahl-why did you wait for me?"

"If you'd called the police, what's the first thing you would have said?"

"I saw a man leaving the scene."

He nodded, smiling again. "There you go. Thought I'd save you the trouble of looking through mug shots."

"And save yourself the trouble of defending why you left a crime scene without reporting it. Which is what we have to do right now."

"After you."

I turned back toward the building, but stopped short as a beefy man wearing tight slacks and a loose jacket walked up. This one I knew. His face was red, and he had to be sweating into his shoulder holster.

"h.e.l.lo, Crane," I said. "You know Lowry?"

"O'Neal." He nodded at me, then glanced at Lowry and added, "I haven't had the pleasure."

Crane didn't look like it was a pleasure. Neither did Lowry, who gripped his briefcase a little tighter even as he smiled.

"Pete Lowry, Barry Crane," I said. "Lowry and I both have clients facing an extortion threat from one Jimmy Dahl. You too?"

"So it seems," Crane said, "so it seems."

For a moment I couldn't figure why they were both doing the puffed chest routine instead of shaking hands like colleagues. Even if Crane had heard of Lowry and didn't like the information, it would have been like him to offer a damp palm. Then I remembered that my client and the dead man were both gay. I'd make book that their clients were as well. Neither of these guys would refuse anybody's money, but they each evidently felt some tension over this one.

"There's a dead body in number three," I said.

"What?" Crane jerked around, the loser in the staredown.

"I'm going back to call the police."