Damage Control: A Novel Read online

  “Maybe you’ll meet a rugged outdoors type on your trip, Olivia,” Earlyn said. She turned to me. “Virgil the Widower showed up with a bottle of cabernet for us and a gallon of rum for him. He put a good dent in it too. I wanted to call him a cab, but he insisted he was fine to drive.”

  My mother reached for a plate of figs and offered them to me. “Fresh from Earlyn’s tree.”

  They were the purple ones, creamy and sweet as honey, with red flesh inside. I ate three.

  “Enjoy, because that’s the last of them. Damn squirrels. You know how many apricots I got this year? Twelve. That’s not enough for one cobbler.”

  Mom took a sip of lemonade. “Earlyn, I’m dead tired of you bitching and moaning about those squirrels. I’m buying you a BB gun for your birthday.”

  “Mom!” I said, almost spitting out my lemonade.

  “On second thought, let’s make it an air-pellet gun like the kids have.”

  “I’ve thought of using my hunting rifle on them,” Earlyn said.

  “Maybe you should get a cat,” I suggested.

  “Can’t.” Earlyn sucked her teeth. “Coyotes would carry it off. I’ll never forget when I went walking early one morning and a coyote ran past with a white cat in its mouth.”

  “What did you do?” Mom asked.

  “I ran after it, hollering for it to let go.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, it did, Olivia. Dropped that cat right onto the sidewalk. It took off like greased lightning. Guess it used up a couple of its lives that day.”

  “What about a Maine coon cat?” I said. “I saw one at a client’s house once. They weigh twenty or twenty-five pounds, and I bet a couple of them can take on a large dog.”

  “Wonder how often those turn up at the pound?” Earlyn said. “But I’ve got to do something. Did I tell you how many apricots I got this year?”

  Mom fluttered her eyes at me.

  “Oh, there I go, repeating myself. Time for bed,” said Earlyn. “Maggie, hon, would you come over with me a minute. I want to show you something.”

  Surprised, I follow her down the porch stairs and across the backyard. We climbed through the hole into Earlyn’s yard.

  Earlyn whispered, “Maggie, I know you’re upset about the cigarettes, but I want to explain.”

  I crossed my arms. “Okay.”

  Earlyn sighed deeply. “Your mother smokes maybe one or two ciggies a day and it’s something that gives her great pleasure. She’s going through a very hard time right now, she’ll tell you about it. And if it calms her nerves or gives her comfort, you can’t get mad at her. She’s an adult. She has the right to make those choices.”

  “But it’s going to kill her.”

  “There’s a lot of things that could kill her before lung cancer,” said Earlyn. “You need to lay off.”

  I wanted to beat my arms against the fence and howl that she didn’t understand, it was my mother, the only family I had left in the world, and I didn’t want her to die, and at that moment, I realized that my anger toward Mom wasn’t about her at all. It was about me and my fear. That might seem obvious, but to me it was a revelation.

  “I promise to ease off,” I told Earlyn. “But I won’t pretend I approve.”

  * * *

  “What did Earlyn want to show you?” Mom asked when I returned.

  “Her varmint gun,” I said. “I made her promise to put it away.”

  Then, to distract her, I told her a little about the Paxton case.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. I voted for him last election.”

  “I didn’t even realize he’d gone into politics,” I said. “After Anabelle and I lost touch, I tried to forget about the whole family. But I was doing the math and he must have run for Senate the year Steve and I were in England for his job.”

  Mom’s voice grew sharp. “I never did like that Paxton girl. She was a bad influence on you.”

  “Mom! You met her only once, at graduation, and we weren’t even friends by then. So you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I grabbed a bottle I’d carried out from the bedroom.

  “What have you got there?” Mom said in an attempt at reconciliation.

  “Dune by Christian Dior. Luca Turin, who wrote a fragrance guide, calls it ‘the bleakest beauty in all perfumery.’ Here, try.”

  She sniffed the bottle and wrinkled her nose. “It’s bleak, all right.” She settled back in her chair. “I’ll stick with my Charlie. Revlon makes some fine perfumes.”

  I dabbed on Dune. Immediately, I was transported to a smoky Bedouin campfire in the North African desert. Our camel caravan was trekking to the bazaar, loaded with bags of myrrh and frankincense, cloves, honey, salt, and lemon oil. I love how scent takes me on a magic carpet ride.

  “Steve used to buy you all those perfumes,” Mom said.

  I often think she misses my ex-husband more than I do. What she means is that there’s no man to buy me presents anymore. But I’m a liberated woman. I can buy my own damn perfume.

  “I was looking online,” I said, “and there’s a group of perfumistas that meets in L.A. to sniff and swap.”

  “I doubt you’ll meet anyone eligible there.”

  “Straight men like fragrance too,” I said. “What about all those French perfumers? Guerlain, Houbigant, Ernest Beaux of Chanel. They not only had wives and families, they had mistresses too.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” said Mom. “The French are different. And we don’t live in Paris.”

  “Grasse,” I said. “That’s the capital of perfume. Where they grow the flowers.”

  I pulled out some Craigslist apartment rentals that I printed out at work. I’d also gotten lists of government-subsidized senior housing in West Hollywood, Fairfax, and Pasadena. Mom qualifies because her pension is so minuscule. The Pasadena apartments are located in the historic Hotel Green downtown, walking distance to everything.

  “I’ve circled a dozen places that look promising. We can check them out together and I’ll help fill out the forms.”

  Mom folded her arms over her chest and stared stubbornly ahead. “My own daughter wants to kick me out. Kick me to the curb and leave me homeless.”

  Exasperation and anger began a slow boil inside me.

  “Mom, the deal was that you’d move in with me so I could take care of you during chemo. That was last year. Look at you. You’re healthy as a horse now. Why do you want to live with me? We fight all the time.”

  “Why, darling girl? Because I love you.”

  I groaned. “Oh, Mom, I love you too. But I want my space. My privacy.”

  “Why? So you can bring men home and sleep with them?”

  “Mom!”

  “Maybe I’ll move in with Earlyn. How would you like that?”

  Oh, no! Then she’d be next door, peeking out her windows, climbing through the hole in the fence. Nothing would change.

  I nodded judiciously, pretending to think it over. “You could do that.”

  “She’s asked me, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have your own place?” I wheedled. “Like before?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t want my entire pension going to rent.”

  “Look, I’m glad I was able to cook and clean and run errands and offer moral support when you were sick. But this was never meant to be a permanent arrangement. You’re fine now.”

  It was at this moment that my mother revealed what she didn’t tell me on the phone yesterday. The doctors wanted a PET scan. Maybe even a biopsy. There were concerns.

  “I’m sure everything will be all right,” Mom said, hunching, and suddenly she was a shrunken little girl with crow’s-feet, wrinkles, and thinning hair.

  She wouldn’t look me in the eye and I knew it was because she was scared and embarrassed and didn’t want to beg.

  “Oh, Mom.” I put my arms around her.

  And for a while we just sat there like that. I was filled with two kinds of horror. Because part of me thou
ght, oh no, what if the cancer’s come back? What will her odds be this time? What if she dies?

  And shoot me now, but another, more selfish part of me throbbed with despair, because now I’d never get my place back or have any solitude or peace. Because even when she was sick, Mom still tried to mastermind my life. And with that, a spark of resentment kindled. I wished my father were still alive. I wished I had siblings to share the burden. I wished everything didn’t always fall to me.

  Mom watched me closely. “Earlyn will take me in,” she repeated.

  “You’re going to stay right here. You’re my mother and I’ll take care of you.”

  “Really?” she said in that breathless, hopeful voice.

  On one condition: You have to promise to stop smoking.

  I thought this, but I didn’t say it because I remembered Earlyn’s admonition.

  “How big is the lump?” I asked.

  “Smaller than a pea. I didn’t even notice until the doctor showed me.” She took my hand and moved it under her arm. I thought I felt something.

  “How soon can they schedule the PET scan?”

  “Early next week.”

  “We’ll get through this, Mom.”

  I hugged her tight. Her shoulders were bony, poking into me. I welcomed this mortification of my flesh.

  With cool, dry fingers, she caressed my temple.

  Sometimes I wished we could communicate like this all the time. Without words. Then we’d never fight and say mean things and hurt each other.

  The wind gusted, blowing ash. It settled on my tightly closed lashes, then rolled down my cheeks in gritty wetness.

  And then I understood: I was crying.

  13

  By six the following morning, I was at my desk, eating a blueberry muffin and rereading the New York Times story when the phone rang for what seemed like the hundredth time but was probably only the eighty-seventh.

  It was USA Today.

  “Senator Paxton and his brother are unavailable at the moment,” I said, “but we’ll be happy to e-mail you a statement they made late last night. And we urge you to visit www.SupportSenatorPaxton.com to see the entire interview with the New York Times last night.”

  I slurped some coffee to wash down the muffin crumbs.

  “The Times story uses selective quotes that we believe create misconceptions about the case. Senator Paxton put the unabridged interview online so people can decide for themselves, no filters or manipulation.”

  As I spoke, I typed the reporter’s contact information onto my log. Then I e-mailed him our press release, including my contacts.

  Faraday was finishing up with MSNBC.

  “I’ve got CNN on line one and Extra! on line two,” Tyler called out.

  I took another call, watching Faraday move around his office, a wire attached to his ear. He seemed calm and intensely focused. A liter of water and a bottle of vitamins stood atop his computer and he sipped coffee from a gigantic cup that said, “I don’t get ulcers, I give them.”

  Around noon, the calls slowed to a manageable level.

  Faraday popped his head out. “Maggie, Tyler, come in here.”

  “He looks almost happy,” I said as we walked in.

  “He likes mixing it up with the bigfaces,” said Tyler.

  Faraday looked insulted. “It’s not about status, it’s about the fight. I never feel more alive than when I’m juggling three or four big scandals. It stimulates the creative juices. Do you know how many interview requests I’ve got here?”

  He held up a thick stack.

  “Everyone from Diane Sawyer to Leno to the Financial Times of London.”

  “What’s the next step?” I said.

  “Tyler, did you get with the LAPD?”

  He nodded.

  “Do the cops consider either of the Paxtons suspects?”

  “They, um, wouldn’t say.”

  “But you asked and they declined to use the word ‘suspect’?” Faraday asked testily.

  “Correct.”

  “So you say that. Quote the officer. And send it out immediately.” Faraday gave a ghoulish smile. “We need to feed the beast.”

  “Will we sit in on the LAPD interviews?” I asked.

  My boss shook his head. “The cops don’t want us there. Plus it would look weird.”

  “What about Lambert?”

  “Lambert and I will coach Henry and Simon Paxton, but I’ve recommended they go alone. They have nothing to hide. This is purely an information-gathering meeting. You just heard Tyler. The LAPD does not consider either of the Paxtons a suspect in Emily Mortimer’s murder.”

  He gave us his Stare of Steel, daring us to disagree.

  “I’ve got something else,” said Tyler, proudly sliding a copy of Emily Mortimer’s preliminary autopsy report onto Faraday’s desk. It was stamped confidential.

  No one asked how he’d gotten it. Instead, we crowded around like vultures.

  Death had occurred by strangulation. There was no indication of sexual assault. Emily had eaten Mexican food for dinner. There was trace alcohol in her blood but she wasn’t drunk. Tests also showed the presence of Percocet, a synthetic opiate and controlled substance.

  “That’s what police found in her bedroom drawer,” I said.

  “Nice job,” Faraday said. It was his highest praise. “I can use this.”

  “But they also found pill residue in her mouth,” Tyler said, reading on.

  “Do they think she took one right before she was killed?” I asked.

  “Maybe someone dropped it in postmortem and it didn’t dissolve all the way,” said Tyler.

  “The coroner will run tests to see if hair follicles show traces of earlier drug use. But that takes awhile.”

  Fletch was surfing online, as usual. Now he gave a yelp.

  “Borez Milton has a crime scene photo of Emily Mortimer up on his website.”

  We crowded around. The photo was blotchy, the girl’s face puffy and discolored, her eyes popped out, her tongue purple. It brought home to me that this case, at its most basic, was about a young girl who’d been murdered. And there was no way to spin that.

  “If everyone has satisfied their prurient curiosity, let’s get back to business,” said Faraday.

  “Just one more thing,” said Fletch, peering at his screen. “Looks like the LAPD has launched an internal investigation into how the photo got leaked. They’re going to look into the autopsy report too if you’re not careful how it leaks.”

  “Things are getting nasty,” said Tyler.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Fletch.

  “Back to work, everyone,” Faraday said loudly, but when I rose with the others, he told me to stick around.

  “Have you called Paxton’s daughter yet?”

  What, between one a.m. and six a.m.?

  I grimaced. “It’s been a little busy.”

  “Maybe you can see her this afternoon.”

  “This feels creepy, Faraday. What exactly am I supposed to find out?”

  “It’s Blair’s idea, I’m just passing it on. Why don’t you give her a try now.”

  I pulled the number out of my pocket and dialed.

  A generic recording came on, asking me to leave a message.

  “Hello. This is, um . . . Hi, Anabelle, this is Maggie Silver.” I bit my tongue. “Maggie Weinstock Silver . . .”

  Remember me?

  No, that was too corny.

  “Your old high school chum. And I don’t know if Henry, um, Senator Paxton, told you, but my firm is doing some work for him. Some PR work.” I winced. “And he gave me your number. Said I should look you up. And I thought, you know, it has been way too long. So here I am . . .”

  I stopped, banished the fake chipper tone from my voice.

  “And I’d . . . I’d love to see you, Anabelle, or at least chat with you, when you’ve got a bit of time. That would be lovely. After all these years. So, um. Just give me a call at your convenience.”r />
  The awkwardness had left my voice by the time I left my number on Anabelle’s machine, replaced by a rush of real emotion. Still, she was going to wonder what kind of dolt was representing her father.

  I hung up, my cheeks flushed and hot.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad,” Faraday said, beaming. “Now, how about putting in a few hours on the Holloway case.”

  He tossed me a file.

  “I had Tricia run out to Malibu to pick up the documents you requested on the au pair. Our girl is Marie Connor. Twenty-three years old. Born in Limerick, Ireland. She signed the standard confidentiality agreement when the Holloways hired her so that’s strike one against her.

  “Second, the wife found texts she’d sent last year when the Holloways gave her time off and paid for a ticket to Ireland so she could visit her dying mom.”

  I pulled one out. Boots, I’m really sorry to leave you in the lurch, you guys are the best and kindest bosses and I’m really thankful for all you’ve done over the years.

  I looked up. “Exhibit A for the defense, perhaps?”

  Faraday grunted.

  Next up was a list of the stolen Holloway jewelry, estimated to be worth $150,000. Most of it was still missing. But the cleaning lady had found a ruby ring hidden under a floorboard in Marie’s old bedroom.

  “Think the kids were playing hide-and-seek?” I said dryly.

  “Not a chance, boiled ants.”

  Shuffling the deck now brought up two reference letters from Marie’s former employers in Limerick. Both praised her as patient, good-natured, and trustworthy. She’d completed a year of nursing classes at the local uni and knew CPR and first aid. She had a way of making scrapes, bruises, and sore throats disappear. She cooked, read to the children, and was an enthusiastic player of board games.

  I cocked my head at Faraday. “I want to hire her myself after reading this. And I don’t even have kids.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Too good to be true?”

  Faraday shrugged. “The agency says it vets them carefully.”

  His BlackBerry beeped. He glanced down. “So look into it. And close the door on your way out, I’ve got France-Soir on the line about the Paxton case.” He smirked. “The French have the right attitude about affairs of the heart.”