Damage Control: A Novel Read online

  When I returned, Faraday was on the phone, reading the senator his statement. We got his okay, then I called back the K-CAL reporter and read it to him.

  Four and a half minutes had elapsed.

  The reporter inquired again about a connection between Emily Mortimer and Randall Downs, and I realized he was bluffing. If he knew anything, he would have asked a specific question. I told him this was the best we had right now but to keep checking. I also got his e-mail so we could send him updates as we got them.

  Then I called back the other reporters and said the same thing.

  Then I went back to Faraday.

  “There’s a complication everybody needs to know about,” I told him as Anabelle and her mother looked on.

  “The cops want to know where Anabelle got that black eye and why she spent last night here. They say there’s a history of domestic violence. That Senator Paxton called the LAPD last year, wanting to press charges against his son-in-law for beating up his daughter. The next day he changed his mind and the complaint conveniently disappeared.”

  I paused. “I imagine it’s a bit tricky for the cops right now. They want to catch a murderer. But they don’t want to smear one of their own as a wife beater, especially a high-ranking officer who’s been tragically gunned down. If it comes out that they covered up for Randall Downs by burying the Paxton family’s allegation . . .”

  A silence descended. Outside, birds chirped and sang.

  There were footsteps in the hallway, then Senator Paxton walked in. He hurried over to Anabelle and put an arm around her, whispering something.

  Then he looked up. “Harvey ought to be here any minute.”

  Faraday said, “Now that you’re all here, please tell me where each of you was between ten last night and six this morning.”

  “We were right here,” said Mrs. Paxton. “We visited with Anabelle for a while, then went to bed. I think we turned the light out around eleven forty-five, would you say, hon?” Mrs. Paxton asked her husband.

  “That’s right. I had an early morning breakfast meeting at the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce. Was up and out the door by six.”

  The door opened.

  “Harvey Lambert,” the maid announced, as the Paxton’s lawyer walked in.

  Faraday filled him in, then squinted at his phone. I saw messages from Fletch and Tyler.

  Faraday said, “My people say the cops estimate the time of death as between nine p.m. and three this morning. There was no dew under the body, and that forms a few hours before dawn.”

  Anabelle gave a wordless cry.

  Faraday waited until it died away. Then he said, “So you’ve all got alibis. Nobody left the house?”

  “That’s right,” Senator Paxton said heartily.

  “What if it was a professional hit?” I said, thinking out loud. “A killer hired by someone who hated Randall Downs. Some criminal Downs put away for a long time. The cops said there have been threats.” My eyes drifted to Paxton. “But sooner or later it’s going to come out that Randall Downs had a history of domestic violence. Someone will leak—”

  “That is a private matter,” interrupted Henry Paxton. “We all wanted Anabelle to leave Randall. That’s no secret. We’d seen the bruises, we’d begged her for years. But she refused. And sure, it infuriated me.” The senator threw up his hands. “I felt so helpless. This was my daughter, my darling baby girl, for God’s sake. I don’t deny that I often wished him dead. But that doesn’t mean that I or anyone in this family had anything to do with this tragedy.”

  “Whoa, whoa whoa.” Faraday’s face was red with apoplexy. “Henry, I don’t ever want to hear those words again. You all have alibis. You were here at home. You didn’t like the guy but your daughter’s an adult. You deferred to her wishes. Now we’re going to go over this thing. I play the cop and you give me your answer. First Henry, then Miranda, then Anabelle. Harvey, feel free to chime in. Maggie, fire up your laptop. You’re writing the script.”

  * * *

  After an hour my fingers began to seize up so they gave me a break and I slipped out for coffee. My cup sat, cold and untouched, on the kitchen table, a greasy milk skin floating at the top, one bite gone from my croissant. Dust motes danced over everything, the light brighter than ever. A painter would call it Still Life with Crisis Management.

  I nuked the coffee and stood at the bay window to drink it. I couldn’t stop thinking of Anabelle’s black eye, of Randall’s fist connecting with her cheekbone. My marriage hadn’t lasted, but at least Steve had never hit me. I tried to imagine Anabelle’s despair, how badly she must have wanted to make this second marriage work. Also how difficult it would be to convince another cop that her cop husband had beaten her up, if she ever did press charges. The fear that the department would close ranks to protect their own, the true blue code of silence.

  And also, the humiliation she would have felt telling her parents, her fear that her powerfully connected father might pull some strings or take matters into his own hands. How torn she must have been between her love for her husband and her love for her parents, the need not to sully the Paxton name. Such a lot riding on those narrow shoulders.

  Perhaps if I’d tried harder to stay friends, Anabelle would have confided in me and I’d have found a way to help her. That was what I did for a living, after all. And with that thought, my brain looped back to damage control and I tried to assess things with a cool objectivity. Randall Downs had recently put away a drug kingpin. Could that man have ordered the hit from behind bars? Or what if Randall wasn’t as clean as he claimed? Could he have been embroiled in corruption that led to his murder? Then there was Randall’s comment to us in the kitchen the other day that he was looking into Emily Mortimer’s murder. Had he come too close to identifying her killer?

  23

  When I returned to the command post, a debate was in progress.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Faraday.

  “I insist,” said Miranda Paxton with a glacial smile.

  “They’re not going to let her in.”

  “Of course they will. She won’t tamper with the evidence, will you, Maggie?”

  “I never tamper with evidence. What’s going on?”

  And so I found myself driving to Anabelle’s house in Palos Verdes Estates to pick up the family dog, clothes, and personal items for my friend and her son.

  Lincoln knew his father had gone to heaven, but kept asking when he’d return. Anabelle feared the boy would be inconsolable without Snoots, the stuffed dog he slept with, so bringing Snoots back was my top priority.

  There were police cars and other official-looking vehicles parked out front when I pulled up. The front door gaped open and uniformed officers walked in and out, conferring and talking on phones.

  I advanced cautiously and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.

  A coroner’s chalk outline could be seen on the driveway where Randall’s body had lain, the concrete stained and discolored with dried blood, the area cordoned off with yellow police tape. After showing my ID and a hastily scrawled authorization note on embossed Paxton letterhead, I was allowed upstairs for five minutes. A policewoman accompanied me, warning me not to touch anything.

  “But I’ve got to pack clothes and stuffed animals and toiletries.”

  “You want anything, ask me and I’ll fetch it.”

  Snoots the stuffed dog lay on Lincoln’s unmade bed, the covers thrown back, as if Anabelle had plucked the child from sleep. Wearing plastic gloves, the officer examined and squeezed the stuffed animal to make sure no drugs or weapons were hidden inside before allowing me to pack Snoots up. I pointed to clothes in the drawers. Then I consulted my list and added three Hot Wheels, several Thomas the Tank Engine books, and a Game Boy.

  I did the same in Anabelle’s bedroom, checking things off—a nightgown and underthings, shirts and pants, a makeup kit from the bathroom, every item inspected by the police officer with the scrutiny of a Soviet-era customs
agent.

  I knew they feared I’d remove something that might yield evidence about the murderer, but I also thought they were a little paranoid. The last thing I packed was the live dog, Bangs, who cowered, tail between her legs, as if she knew something bad had happened to her master.

  I whistled, and she came, sniffing and wagging tentatively. Squatting, I scratched under her chin.

  My police chaperone said, “Too bad we can’t put her on the witness stand.”

  “Hello, Bangs,” I said, petting her. She stuck her cold nose into my hand and gave me her paw.

  The policewoman disappeared, then returned with a leather leash. Bangs’s eyes didn’t lose their haunted look, but she whined and shivered in excitement.

  The cop in charge appeared at the back door and told the policewoman she was needed inside.

  “Let me know if you need help getting her in the car,” the police-woman said, as she walked away. “I have two dogs at home myself.”

  I loaded the bags into the car first, then returned for the dog.

  Bangs allowed me to leash her up but I had to coax her to leave, and she slunk reluctantly along, giving the policemen a wide berth.

  When she stopped to sniff the front lawn, I gave her ample time. I didn’t want her to have an accident in my car.

  As Bangs completed her reconnaissance under a tree, as if looking for clues herself, a car pulled up next door, an older woman at the wheel. From inside, a small dog barked hysterically.

  The woman emerged, leading an elderly asthmatic pug on a leash. The pug tugged and strained to get to us.

  I held Bangs’s leash tightly, not knowing whether she was friendly with other dogs. Bangs sat and wagged her tail politely as they approached.

  The dogs sniffed noses. Then the pug inspected the tree while the woman looked at Anabelle’s house with concern.

  “What happened?”

  For a moment, I hesitated. But it wasn’t exactly a secret.

  “Your neighbor Randall Downs was shot to death last night in his driveway.”

  As the woman’s curiosity turned to shock, I decided to ask a few questions.

  “Did you happen to hear anything unusual?”

  The woman clutched a religious medal around her neck and tried to speak.

  “He’s dead?” she finally said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who are you? Why are you taking Bangs?”

  “I’m a family friend. Anabelle asked me to pick up the dog and get her and Lincoln some clothes and things. What’s your name?”

  “Verna Pratchett,” the woman said. “And I did hear something.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. I’ve got to tell the police.”

  She looked down at her pug, who was still sniffing madly. “Hurry up, Brandy.”

  “What did you hear, Mrs. Pratchett?”

  “Well, I was standing right here last night, about ten fifteen, when I heard an argument. CSI had just finished and I’d made a cup of tea and was taking Brandy for his constitutional. He always has a good sniff around this tree, it’s like a—”

  “And what did you hear?” I shifted with impatience.

  “I heard two men arguing. One was Mr. Downs. I recognized his voice, he brings my trash cans up the drive for me every Tuesday and we chat over the fence. A lovely man. But he sounded very angry last night, shouting that the other man should shove off and mind his own business. And then the stranger said, ‘You’re dead meat, Randall.’ I couldn’t see either of them, you understand. Then Brandy started barking and lunged for a possum and I was so upset to hear such language that the leash slipped right through my fingers. And by the time I caught Brandy and we walked back, it was quiet again.”

  “And you didn’t think to call the police last night?”

  “Randall is the police. I didn’t think he was in any real danger. He has friends over to play poker sometimes, and I hear a lot worse than that. Maybe they have a few.” She extended her pinkie and tipped her thumb toward her mouth. “But now I feel just terrible. To think I might have prevented that nice man’s murder.”

  Mrs. Pratchett stared with a queasy horror at the comings and goings of the police.

  I tried to think of what else to ask.

  “Did you, um, notice any cars you didn’t recognize parked in front of the house last night?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “There was a big foreign car parked right here, by Brandy’s special tree, I remember that. It was a dark color. And newish. Lots of shiny chrome.”

  “Do you recall the model?”

  She got a deer-in-the-headlights look. “I’m not very good with that.”

  “How about any part of the license plate?”

  She shook her head with an apologetic look.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pratchett. This will help the police. So you didn’t know he was dead?”

  “No! I leave the house very early to babysit my grandson. Brandy comes with me.”

  The pug had finally completed his examination of the tree and was looking up with that funny little pushed-in nose those dogs have.

  Bangs whined.

  “I better get going,” I said, eager to tell Faraday. “Does Anabelle have your number?”

  Mrs. Pratchett wrote it down. I loaded Bangs into the car as Mrs. Pratchett walked to her house.

  “Aren’t you going to tell the police what you heard?” I asked.

  “I’d like to change and put on some makeup first.” She primped at her hair. “I expect the TV may want to interview me too. I’d better look nice.”

  24

  I drove back as fast as I could.

  Bangs seemed used to cars. She stuck her nose out the window and enjoyed the fresh air. I noticed dog drool on the window and figured I’d be expensing a car wash soon.

  I walked in with Bangs, unleashed her and let her out back, then I handed the maid the bags I’d retrieved. When I told Faraday what I’d learned, he groaned and buried his head in his hands.

  “Please, Lord, tell me that no one in this family drives a late-model dark-colored foreign car.”

  “I can check.”

  I slipped out and did a quick inventory. An old Toyota Camry was parked in the driveway. Probably the maid’s car. I peered into the garage and my breath caught. A late-model forest-green Mercedes sat next to a pale blue Prius.

  When I reported my findings, Faraday looked like he might bust a gut.

  “Holy mother of Christ,” he roared. “Maggie, get them in here. All three of them. Right now. This thing is like a Hydra. You cut off one head and five grow back.”

  * * *

  Paxton was the first to stroll in, sucking on a mint and trailed by his chief of staff.

  Faraday took one look at Bernstein and pointed at the door. “Out. Now. This is family only.”

  Bernstein turned to the senator, who gave a slight nod. With reluctance, he stepped out.

  Mrs. Paxton and Anabelle arrived together, clutching mugs of tea. Mrs. Paxton looked pale, Anabelle groggy, like she’d been roused from sleep.

  “Maggie, please close the door,” said Faraday.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Paxton. “I’m a busy man. And Miranda was upstairs with our grandson.”

  “Shut up,” said Faraday.

  Paxton reared back, affronted. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Why, I never . . .” said Mrs. Paxton. She stood up, fingers worrying the black pearls around her neck.

  “Sit down. All of you.”

  Mrs. Paxton gave her husband a look of entreaty.

  “Now,” Faraday roared.

  Pulling out her skirt, Miranda Paxton sat. The senator rolled his mint noisily and joined her.

  “Mr. Faraday,” Anabelle said icily, “please remember that you are employed by us and serve at our whim, at least until my parents come to their senses and fire you. I’ll thank you to speak in a civil tone.”

  So Anabelle didn’t know, I thought.

&nbs
p; “Sit down, Anabelle,” Faraday said wearily.

  He turned to the senator.

  “I don’t need this job, Paxton. My professional reputation is at stake here, as well as your political life, though you seem determined not to understand that. So why don’t you level with me for the first time since we’ve known each other and tell me what you were doing at your son-in-law’s house last night.”

  Paxton’s face went slack. “I already told you, I spent the night at home. My wife and I went to bed just before midnight.”

  “A car like yours was spotted in front of your daughter’s house. Maggie just spoke to Anabelle’s neighbor, a Mrs. Pratchett, who by now has told police she overheard a man arguing with Randall Downs. At some point, they will play her one of your speeches and ask whether that was the same voice she heard threatening her neighbor.

  “They will also talk to other neighbors. As soon as they put it together, the police will show up here with questions. So I suggest we go over this now, and you tell me the truth.”

  I’d been monitoring the TVs—Faraday had ordered two brought in—with the sound muted, flipping through the channels for coverage of Randall Downs’s murder. Suddenly, it was everywhere.

  “It’s out,” I said, boosting the volume on Channel 4.

  A reporter was standing in front of a house identified as belonging to slain LAPD Captain Randall Downs of Palos Verdes. Next to him stood a nervous-looking Verna Pratchett.

  “Breaking news from the murder site, and an interview with a witness who saw and heard suspicious activity when we return from our station break,” said the reporter.

  After an eternity of commercials, Mrs. Verna Pratchett proceeded to tell the reporter everything she’d told me. But her memory had improved since our conversation. She now recalled a late-model forest-green Mercedes parked out front.

  As the news moved on to a dog that could sniff out cancer (I made a mental note to explore that further, for Mom), I muted the sound and waited.

  Paxton took his wife’s hand and gave her a brief nod. “It’s all going to come out, Miranda,” he said.