Damage Control: A Novel Page 24

  Anabelle’s diction grew slow and precise. “He’ll go months without taking a drink. Then something happens at work and—”

  “That doesn’t excuse—”

  “He’s only done it once. Well, twice now.” Her hand crept to her cheek. “And he said he dropped the shears by accident. But last night, I thought it best to pack up Lincoln and come here.”

  I wanted to condemn Randall. But I knew it would also mean condemning my friend for putting up with him.

  “I can handle it. Really. Without Randall, I’d be in some crack house, a strawberry selling myself for a hit. He saved my life.”

  “But that’s no . . .”

  She tore savagely at her croissant. “I owe him. And he needs me. He acts strong, but really he isn’t. He’s a caretaker. It’s what gets him out of bed in the morning.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying that any man who hit his wife didn’t take very good care of her.

  “Last night, I told Dad we decided to drop by after visiting friends in Brentwood. But when he turned on the light he . . . I’ve never seen him so furious.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Maybe that’s Randall, come to apologize,” Anabelle said, a strange, eager light in her eyes.

  She hurried to the front door and opened it.

  Two men in dark suits stood there. One held up a badge and introduced himself as Charlie Smalls, an LAPD detective. His partner was John Delgado. Smalls asked to speak to the senator but Anabelle explained he’d already left.

  “I’m his daughter,” she added nervously. “Is there anything wrong?”

  The detective examined her. “You’re Anabelle Paxton Downs?”

  “Y-yes. Why?”

  “Then we need to talk with you too. Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

  Anabelle led the detectives into the living room.

  “Has something happened to my dad?” she asked, her voice wobbly.

  They sat down. I eased out my BlackBerry.

  The detective frowned at me. “Are you a family member?”

  “She a friend, and I’d like her to stay,” Anabelle said firmly.

  In her voice I heard the Paxton imperiousness. But she was also trembling, as if she already knew something was wrong. I pressed my shoulder against hers in support.

  “2 LAPD DET @ PAXTON HOME. DVLPNG,” I texted Faraday.

  “What brings you out so early?” Anabelle asked.

  Detective Delgado studied the David Hockney portrait of Miranda that hung behind our heads. Slowly, his eyes settled back on Anabelle.

  “Mrs. Downs, I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is dead. He was found shot to death in your driveway early this morning.”

  Anabelle gave a wordless moan. She began to rock and her hair fell forward into her face.

  I put my arm around her and began to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Then I remembered the blackened eye and stopped. As my heart expanded in sorrow for Anabelle, my brain considered what this meant: a second murder in the senator’s inner circle.

  “PAXTON COP SON-IN-LAW 187,” I texted, using the police code for murder. “I’m sorry about your husband,” said Smalls. “He was one of ours so it hits especially hard. I know it’s difficult, but these first hours are crucial, so I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Detective,” I interjected, “if my . . . if we could have a few moments.”

  I’d almost said my client. But Anabelle wasn’t my client. She was my childhood friend. Streaky tears were running down her face, carving rivulets in all that foundation.

  “We need to get some tissues,” I said, standing up.

  I wished Faraday would respond so I’d know what to do.

  “Go ahead,” Delgado said.

  Anabelle rose blindly and allowed me to lead her to the bathroom. I locked the door.

  Anabelle’s shoulders were stooped. Her eyes had turned haggard, her skin blotchy and smeared where the makeup had run.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “It’s impossible. I can’t believe . . .”

  A niggling thought stirred. Did Anabelle know who’d killed her husband? Should I ask her point-blank? But if she said yes, then what would my obligation be?

  As I wondered what my friend was capable of, another part of my brain swung automatically into damage control.

  If Anabelle refused to talk to the police, would that make her appear guilty or just prudent? Wouldn’t an innocent person be eager to talk to the men charged with finding her husband’s killer? Especially the wife of a cop?

  Never let the client talk off-the-cuff.

  It was a Blair mantra. You sewed it up, you zipped it shut, you dead-ended it and controlled the flow of information.

  “I want you to tell the detectives you’re too upset to talk right now,” I told Anabelle.

  Anabelle gave me the strangest look. “Why?”

  “Your father’s battling for his political life. The murder of his son-in-law, right on the heels of . . . well . . . it’s going to give his enemies even more ammunition. You don’t want to say anything . . .”

  I stopped, about to say “incriminating.”

  “. . . that you’ll regret later.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “I mean in light of . . .” I looked pointedly at Anabelle’s cheek.

  Her eyes turned flat and cold.

  “You really don’t know me at all, Maggie, if you think that just because Randall slapped me once or twice when he’d been drinking that I would ever . . . I love him. He’s my husband and . . .” Her voice grew husky, then wavered.

  How could the daughter of a U.S. senator fail to understand the delicate issues at play? But then, Anabelle had always been stubborn. And something else was going on here, I realized. Shame. Pride. Rebellion against anyone telling her what to do. I began to get an inkling of the grief she must have caused her parents over the years.

  My phone rang. Faraday, at last, I rejoiced!

  But it was Tyler.

  “Hi. How are you doing?”

  Lousy, you schmuck. You lied to me about the Plumber. You’re up to your ears in some kind of dirty business, and it’s too bad I found out only after I slept with you. Well, that’s not going to happen again.

  “Hi, Tyler. I’m okay. But I can’t talk right now.”

  “Why not?” His voice was lazy, like he was still in bed.

  “Big development on the Paxton case.”

  “What?”

  “Faraday will tell you. I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  “No regrets, I hope?”

  “Talk to you later.” I thumbed off the phone.

  “Besides,” said Anabelle, “it would look suspicious for a cop’s wife not to talk to the detectives.”

  That was probably true. But even as I sympathized with my old friend, my inner damage controller was busy scrutinizing all the possibilities. Could Anabelle have killed her husband? Perhaps in self-defense? Had she snapped after years of abuse? Could Anabelle and her family have hired a professional killer? The Paxtons were powerful. Wealthy. Used to calling the shots. I was also beginning to get an inkling of how ruthless they might be when pushed to the wall. Senator Paxton himself had looked me square in the eye and said he’d do anything to protect his family.

  A fierce look came into Anabelle’s eyes. “I’m going back in.”

  And before I could stop her, she opened the door and walked out.

  “I’ll be right in. Please wait for me.”

  I shut the door and called Faraday at work and home. No answer. I imagined him singing in the shower, oblivious.

  Swearing, I texted him again. “PAXTON SON-IN-LAW SHOT DEAD IN OWN DRIVEWAY LAST NITE. COPS W/ANABELLE P. RITE NOW @ SENATOR’S HOUSE. AM HERE, PLS ADV OK 2 TALK OR TERMINATE?”

  Then I opened the door and ran after Anabelle, who sat like death’s bride on the living room couch, a box of tissues clasped to her chest.

  “Any idea who killed your husband?” one of the
detectives asked.

  “No.”

  “Had your husband ever talked about anybody who might have it out for him? Any threats against his life? Disputes? Personal enemies?”

  “No.”

  “Any strange phone calls? Visitors?”

  “No. Could you please tell me what you’re getting at?”

  The cops looked at each other.

  “Captain Downs recently supervised an undercover investigation that sent an Arleta drug lord away for a long time,” said Smalls. “This SOB is very vindictive. He’s sworn to seek revenge, and we believe he may still operate his organization from behind bars. Have you noticed any strange cars parked on your street?”

  “No,” Anabelle said.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Last night. Around nine. That’s when my son and I left to go visit my parents.”

  A beat, and then, “It got late and we decided to spend the night.”

  Delgado rubbed his chin. “Is this something you do regularly?”

  “Yes.” She pressed her lips together. “Yes, it is.”

  “Was Captain Downs home when you left?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Did anything unusual happen last night before you left.”

  I kept glancing at my BlackBerry, hoping for a directive, but it remained mute.

  Anabelle shook her head.

  “I need you to answer yes or no.”

  Anabelle’s shoulders slumped. “No.”

  “Was he expecting visitors?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Nine o’clock at night seems pretty late to go visit your folks all the way across town. Is that what time you usually go?”

  “Usually we go for dinner.”

  “But not last night?”

  “That’s correct,” Anabelle said coolly.

  “What made you go?”

  Anabelle lowered her head.

  I held my breath.

  “We had an argument,” Anabelle said almost inaudibly.

  “And did that argument escalate to physical violence?” Smalls asked, staring at her face.

  Anabelle shook her head.

  “Mrs. Downs, I’m going to have to ask you to answer—”

  “No!” shouted Anabelle. “It did not.”

  We heard footsteps in the hallway, then Miranda Paxton walked into the room, a silk robe belted over her nightgown, her hair still tousled from sleep. She looked from her daughter to me to the strange men sitting on her couch.

  “Anabelle, what in God’s name is going on?”

  The detectives got to their feet. “Good morning, Mrs. Paxton. We’re sorry to disturb you so early, but your son-in-law Captain Randall Downs was found shot to death in his driveway last night. We’re trying to establish a few things.”

  A look of horror crept over Miranda’s features. Her mouth twisted and her eyes grew wide.

  My BlackBerry chimed. Glancing down, I saw one word: “STOP!!!”

  My phone began to vibrate.

  I jumped up. “I’m sorry, detectives, but my client’s family is unable to continue the conversation at this time.”

  Anabelle looked at me in fury. “What the hell are you doing, Maggie? Who gave you the right to speak for—”

  “Maggie’s absolutely correct,” purred Miranda Paxton. “I am going to have to ask you gentlemen to come back at a later time.” A hint of Long Island lockjaw crept into her voice, which I knew happened only in times of extreme stress.

  Anabelle stared from her mother to me. I could see the outrage floating like a thought bubble above her head.

  How dare my mother and my pliant old school friend tell me what to do. Who do they think they are?

  “Mrs. Paxton, with all due respect . . .” began Detective Smalls.

  I hit Talk and put the phone to my ear.

  “Do not allow anyone in that family to speak to the cops or the media,” Faraday said, his voice skating the edge of hysteria. “Now give me Anabelle.”

  I handed over the phone. “For you,” I said, giving my friend a reassuring smile.

  “Officers, could you please excuse us for just one minute,” drawled Mrs. Paxton.

  She marched to the sofa, grabbed her daughter by the upper arm, and levitated her out the door.

  Anabelle’s face turned even more pale, then set unhappily as she pressed the phone to her ear and walked to the guest bedroom. “Okay,” she said at last and handed me back the phone.

  “Lock that family in the bedroom if you have to but keep them the fuck away from the cops. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Faraday boomed.

  Mrs. Paxton shut the bedroom door, then turned, arms across her chest.

  “That Blair man is right,” she said. “No one in this family is talking to the police until we speak to Harvey Lambert.”

  Anabelle looked like she’d gone through Alice’s looking glass and was shrinking with every word her mother said. Sad, bereft, and with head hung, a chastised little girl.

  Soon we heard a commotion in the hall.

  “Young lady, I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me. I certainly do have an appointment with the Paxtons. They’re expecting me and it’s urgent.”

  The door opened and Faraday burst into the room, the uniformed maid hanging on his arm and trying to tug him back.

  “It’s all right, Gloria,” said Mrs. Paxton, “we are expecting him.”

  “Mrs. Paxton, you didn’t tell me anything about it,” Gloria said reproachfully.

  “I’m sorry for the oversight. Mr. Faraday, please close the door behind you. Gloria, please bring scones and coffee to the two men sitting in the living room, use the second-best china, if you please, and tell them we’ll be out shortly. Thank you so much.”

  Mrs. Paxton’s smile, which was wavering all over her face, vanished the moment Gloria left.

  “I’m glad you’re here to rescue us from this unholy mess, Mr. Faraday,” she said. “We’d best call the senator immediately and ask him to come home.”

  “He’s already on his way, Mrs. Paxton. I took the liberty of calling him. He’s heard the reports by now, it’s all over the city. And it’s just a matter of time before—”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” said Mrs. Paxton.

  The maid stood there, apologetic. “There’s a call for the senator. It’s K-CAL. And call waiting keeps beeping too.”

  “They’ve made the connection,” Faraday said softly.

  “What do we do?” Mrs. Paxton asked.

  “Maggie, could you please stall them while the Paxtons brief me,” said Faraday.

  I was already scurrying out the door, following the maid into the kitchen.

  I knew the drill.

  Engage, without giving anything away. Try to control the conversation. Stay calm, friendly. Appear transparent and open. Make vague promises and follow through with as much information as possible. And if you can’t tell the truth, at least don’t tell any lies.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Mrs. Paxton?”

  “No, this is a family spokesperson. Can I help you?”

  “Tell the family we’re going live at the murder scene in five minutes, detailing possible links between the dead LAPD captain and the senator’s dead aide. We need a comment.”

  I gripped the phone tighter.

  “We’d like to cooperate with you and tell you everything we can, but it may take a little time.” I hesitated, framing my words. “The family has only just heard the news, and everyone’s in shock. Could you please explain what link you’re talking about?”

  “Four minutes,” the reporter said.

  “We will get you a comment,” I said coolly.

  I repeated the same thing to the next three callers, then hung up and ran back to the bedroom.

  Faraday had his laptop open and was on the phone to Paxton.

  “They want a comment from Paxton or Anabelle in the next five minutes or
they’re going live at the murder scene saying we refused to answer questions.”

  Faraday told Paxton we were drafting a statement and would call back.

  Despite the early morning cool, my boss was sweating. But I had to admire his unruffled demeanor. A glow animated his features. He twirled his fingers over the keys, then sat back, hands clasped over his belly. “Maggie, please go tell the detectives that Anabelle is too distraught to speak to them. She’ll call to set up an appointment once she’s composed herself.”

  “What about the senator?”

  “Just go.”

  The detectives slapped their phones shut as I walked in.

  I repeated Faraday’s statement.

  “We’re all on the same side here,” Detective Smalls said. “We want to get this guy in the worst way. We take it personally when it’s one of ours.”

  “I’ll let Mrs. Downs know. You’ll be hearing from her soon.”

  “Is the senator’s wife feeling well enough to talk to us?” the detective asked.

  “She can’t leave her daughter’s side,” I said.

  “What about the senator?”

  “I believe we’ve already told you he’s not home.”

  “Any idea where he is?”

  “No,” I said, realizing that Faraday had kept this from me on purpose so I couldn’t lie.

  The detectives looked at each other. They turned to go.

  Delgado said, “You Blair people had better watch your step, or we’ll have you up on charges of obstructing a murder investigation.”

  “I would never . . .” I said. Prickles of apprehension marched up my back.

  “You think we didn’t notice that shiner?” Smalls said.

  “What shiner?”

  “We know it’s not the first time either.”

  “I don’t know what . . .”

  “You may not, but Senator Paxton certainly does. He called the cops on his son-in-law last year, demanding that we press charges for spousal abuse. The daughter wouldn’t cooperate, which is all too typical in this kind of case. And the following day the senator changed his mind and wanted the whole thing to go away. Which it did, and that’s no easy thing these days. Let’s just say pressure was applied. So we’ll be looking into whether there was any bad blood between the senator and his son-in-law.”