“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I said, turning to face him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I get kicked out of the band and I come home and there’s a man fucking stalking me and last night he’s in my house—”
“He came back?”
“—and now you’re showing me a picture of myself that maybe people all over the world have seen.”
“Did you say he came back?”
“Last night. I think it was him. I don’t know anymore. I’d been in the basement and the door was open and I set the alarm and ran, and then I saw this guy running down the block, but I didn’t really get that good a look at him. It looked like the same guy, he looked the same, but the hair was different.”
“Different how?”
“He’d shaved his head.”
Mikel scowled. “Motherfucker.”
“I don’t understand this! I don’t understand why this is happening to me!”
The scowl held for a moment longer, and then Mikel seemed to hear me, and it smoothed. “You’re famous, Mim.”
I shook my head.
“You are, and the sooner you admit that to yourself, the easier you’ll find it is to deal with this stuff.”
I pointed at the photograph. “How am I supposed to deal with that? How am I supposed to go outside? Fuck that, how the hell am I supposed to get onstage, thinking that maybe everyone in the audience has seen how I trim my bush?”
He winced. “See, that’s something I didn’t want to know.”
“It’s not funny!” I screeched.
“No, I know it’s not.” He came forward, put his hands on my arms. “Look, call a lawyer, okay? Get some legal advice.”
I caught my breath, then nodded. Mikel gave me a hug, and I took it, but it didn’t make me feel much better at all. I asked him if he wanted me to make coffee or anything, if he wanted to stick around, but he said he had to get going. He left the copy of the picture, saying that the lawyer might need it, and he gave me a kiss on the top of my head, and went out.
I locked up again after he went, then picked up the phone and dialed Graham’s mobile number. I wasn’t sure if he was in London yet, or if maybe they were in the air, or maybe even still in New York.
The phone rang twice before he answered. “Havers.”
“Graham? It’s Mim.”
“Mim,” he said, and he made the one word sound ominous. “You’re home safely?”
“I’m home. I need some help, Graham.”
“Mimser.” He sighed, an echo on the phone. “You know I’m doing everything I can, baby, but Van’s made up her mind—”
“It’s not about Vanessa, Graham. I need to know, do I have a lawyer in town, here in Portland? Or does Tailhook, at least, have someone I can talk to about something?”
Caution caved to concern, probably more for Tailhook than for me. “You in trouble, sugar?”
“Do we, Graham?”
“Of course we do, he’s been on retainer for two years now. Weren’t you wondering where five percent was going every month?”
“What’s his name?”
“What’s this about, babe?”
Normally I didn’t mind the “babes” and the “sweeties” and the “honeys” but right now it made me want to reach through the phone and throttle him. “It’s about naked pictures of me on the fucking Internet, Graham! Now will you give me the goddamn name and the goddamn number for this goddamn attorney?”
There was a pause, and I was getting angrier, thinking he was trying to determine if I was full of shit or not, then realized he was pulling the listing up on his PDA.
“Fred Chapel,” Graham said, then rattled off a string of digits. I didn’t have a loose piece of paper anywhere, so I ended up writing the number on the back of the picture. “This is just about you? Nothing about Van or Click?”
“No, Graham.” I snapped it at him. “I’m the only one who’s being humiliated.”
“Hon, I’ve got to ask—”
I hung up, then started dialing Chapel’s number.
The receptionist transferred me to Chapel as soon as she had my name, and without my having to ask. So even though I didn’t know who Fred Chapel was prior to five minutes ago, at least I was assured that he and his staff knew who I was.
Fred Chapel came on the line and greeted me like we’d spoken just yesterday, instead of never.
“Miriam, what can I do for you today?”
“I’m in Portland, I don’t know if you heard about that.”
“Yes, Graham told me. How are you feeling?”
“Can I come and see you?”
“Is it urgent?”
“There are nude pictures of me being sold on the Internet.”
“Are you getting a percentage?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“It was a serious question.”
“Wouldn’t a percentage require my permission? And if I’d given permission, do you think I’d be calling you?”
“Can you be here in twenty minutes?”
“I can be there in ten,” I said, but I was lying.
I was there in eight.
CHAPTER 13
Chapel’s office was near the PSU campus in downtown Portland, on the other side of the Willamette from where I lived, just off Market Street. I pulled into the parking garage just before ten and then rode the elevator up to the offices of Chapel, Jones & Nozemack. The offices were nice, comfortable and quiet, and the receptionist behind the desk was extremely pretty, and she recognized me the moment I came in, giving me a big smile.
I wasn’t even at her desk before she was speaking into her headset, saying, “Mr. Chapel? Miriam Bracca is here to see you . . . yes, sir, right away.”
“You took my line,” I told the receptionist. “Now I don’t know what to say.”
She looked immediately and sincerely apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“You can head on back.” She indicated the interior door, still giving me the big smile.
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Just left and down the hall. You can’t miss it.”
I thanked her and went through the door and left, and down the hall. There were framed posters on the wall, and four of them were Tailhook related—our covers and the European version of the tour advertisement. There were also a couple movie posters featuring actors and directors and writers who lived in the Rose City, and a promotional poster from last year’s Rose Festival. Apparently Chapel, Jones & Nozemack were a civic-minded firm.
The office door was ajar, and I knocked on it before pushing it open further, sticking my head inside. The last lawyer’s office I could really remember spending any time in had been the Multnomah County District Attorney’s, and Chapel’s office bore about as much resemblance to that as fish do to penguins. It was clean and bright, with a chrome desk and black leather chairs and black modular filing cabinets, and two walls were windows, giving a view of the river and the eastern sprawl of the city. I could see Mount Hood in the distance, snow-covered and sharp against the sky. The tinting on the window made the heavens look touched with green.
Chapel came around his desk to greet me, extending one hand while using the other to pull his headset off. The headset looked better suited to Mission Control than the legal profession. Fred Chapel himself was maybe in his early forties, but that was a guess, and maybe not a good one, because nothing else about him really indicated a specific age as much as a lifestyle. He was wearing blue jeans that looked either well cared for or brand-new, and a bright multi-colored sweater, and black leather walking shoes that I knew had to have come from Europe, because that was the only other place I’d ever seen them. His face was smooth and tanned, which meant he either spent a lot of the winter out of town, or under a lamp someplace, and his teeth were very white, and he smiled like he’d known me forever and was always glad to see me.