Damage Control: A Novel Page 30

  Good evening, Maggie. I’m glad you’re still here, as I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Please join me upstairs at 9:25. I’ll be in the garden. The elevator code is 4235.

  My heart fluttered and skipped a beat. Had I conjured him up like a genie, just by thinking about him? Did he read minds too? How did he know I was still at the office? I turned, my eyes making a complete sweep of the office, almost expecting to see him outside my door, tapping into his PDA. I was looking around my office for hidden cameras when I realized the explanation was much simpler. I was still logged on to the computer.

  With that resolved, I bit my cuticles savagely and wondered what Blair wanted from me.

  At nine twenty, I walked to the elevator and punched in the code for Blair’s penthouse.

  Suddenly Faraday was hovering beside me.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked with false joviality.

  Surprised, I turned. His face was a smooth blank, revealing nothing.

  “Blair wants to see me.”

  A muscle above Faraday’s brow twitched. “About what?” he said, gazing out the window as if the familiar smoggy cityscape had suddenly become enchanting.

  “I don’t know.”

  Faraday’s large, frank eyes swiveled back to me. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

  I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Consider it a friendly warning.”

  “About what?”

  “Look, Maggie. You’re still of great use to us on the Paxton case. Let’s keep it that way.”

  A chill went through me.

  What would happen if I stopped being useful? If they knew I’d begun holding back things I’d learned? That I had growing doubts about the Paxton crisis management campaign, the direction of the Emily Mortimer murder investigation, and Senator Henry Paxton himself?

  What happened to Blair employees who knew too much but were no longer useful?

  “Why wouldn’t it stay that way?” I said.

  He stepped closer. “You think I’m bad? Don’t let that Zen Buddhist shtick fool you. It’s strictly to impress the Hollywood crowd. Thomas Blair didn’t get to where he is by fasting and chanting in a monastery. He eats people like you”—Faraday paused—“and me, before breakfast.”

  * * *

  The penthouse foyer was lit with warm yellow lights, the fish tanks humming serenely.

  I walked toward the sliding wooden doors that opened onto the rooftop meditation garden. An ocean breeze rippled curtains of raw silk the color of flame. The path was lit by candles flickering in iron lanterns.

  I walked past bronze Buddhas, pillaged from Asian temples, raked gravel, and waterfalls fed by bamboo aqueducts. All was tranquil. All was serene. But try as I might, I couldn’t shake the feeling that danger lurked. Would a hand reach from behind and chloroform me, or inject me with a sedative? Not that I couldn’t use a sedative! Would my body be carried down in the private elevator and disposed of like industrial trash?

  The path led toward a grotto of volcanic stone flanked by clusters of slender green shoots. Was the stone real, or a papier-mâché prop fashioned by Dream Factory wizards? Overhead, Tibetan prayer flags fluttered like an obedient army. I smelled the salt of the sea and saw the jeweled nighttime necklace of the Santa Monica Bay stretching from the Palos Verdes Peninsula, where Anabelle lived, to the Colony in Malibu, where Trent Holloway fretted over his duplicitous au pair.

  Blair was sitting cross-legged in the lotus position, facing the ocean, hands relaxed on his knees. He wore loose, flowing white linen and his feet were bare. His bald head shone like a shiny egg.

  It was here, in his aerie overlooking the city, that Thomas Blair retreated to plan his elegant, chesslike strategies.

  Despite Faraday’s warning, there was something monstrously alluring about him, sitting there like a spider at the center of a web whose tendrils stretched from Hollywood to New York, London to Paris, Moscow, and Beijing. He was omnipresent, barely sentient, and, possibly, immortal. He knew it was human nature to hunger for a savior, one who could reassure us that we were beautiful and wronged and misunderstood, then tell us how to make things right. And the more we paid him, the more we believed.

  “Namaste, Maggie,” said Thomas Blair. “You are welcome here.”

  On a teakwood table next to him was a glazed Japanese mug steaming with tea and the blue light of a personal electronic device so cutting-edge it looked alien.

  “Namaste, Mr. Blair.”

  He gestured for me to sit. I lowered myself a respectful distance away, on a woven mat of pleasing thickness.

  “May I offer you tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, thanks.”

  It was probably a faux pas, illustrating my dependence on Western stimulants, but it seemed suddenly necessary in the Adderall’s fading glow.

  “It’s a very special coffee, grown in the highlands of Indonesia, on an organic plantation where all cultivation is held to the highest standards and the civets are humanely treated.”

  “Civets, sir?”

  “The civets eat the berries of the coffee bush, which pass through the animals’ digestive tract, where amino acids and enzymes break down the bitterness of the bean,” Blair explained. “The beans are harvested by hand and thoroughly sanitized. The strength of the coffee, the mellowness of the bean, the aromatic essence, it is an extraordinary experience.”

  You want me to drink coffee from beans found in civet shit?

  “Sounds fantastic, sir.”

  Blair raised his hand.

  From the periphery of my vision, I saw a figure detach itself from the wall and disappear into the penthouse. My nerves exploded. I’d walked right past and hadn’t seen anyone else up here.

  “I hope everyone is treating you well and you have no complaints,” Blair said, like I was a guest at an exclusive hotel.

  Wordlessly, I nodded.

  “Good.” He paused. “I thought we might discuss the Paxton case.” He inclined his Buddha head, inviting my confidence, inviting me to slice my belly open and wrench out my liver and offer it to him, still steaming, on a stone altar.

  And at that moment, I would have done it.

  There was something mesmerizing about him, something innate that no MBA school could ever teach.

  “The Paxton family has the utmost trust and confidence in you,” Blair said. “You must not forget that, Maggie. This knowledge must inform and guide all your actions.”

  “Well, I’m trying, sir.”

  Blair closed his eyes in meditation.

  “But something troubles you.”

  Years of Catholic schooling washed over me, the unspoken “my child” hovering in the air, like I was at the confessional, kneeling on the soft leather bench, ready to confess my sins and be absolved.

  But that would have been stupid.

  “You have some concerns about Mr. Faraday?”

  I looked up in surprise, hoping my face wouldn’t betray me.

  “You fear he may be exceeding the law in his zealousness to defend our client the senator?”

  “Why, no, I . . .”

  How did he know? Had Tyler told him my suspicions? Iris the eavesdropping secretary? Faraday had been jumpy as a cat downstairs. Was he afraid I’d tell Blair he’d been flouting the law? Or did Blair already know, and this was a test of my loyalty and my ability to keep my mouth shut? What would happen if I told Blair the truth?

  “Maggie,” said Thomas Blair with infinite patience, “I vet all potential employees before they’re hired. It allows me to handpick the best. Such as yourself.”

  I searched his face and saw nothing except enlightenment radiating toward me, soothing me, encouraging me to tell him everything I knew and suspected.

  And I wanted to. I wanted to ask about the mysterious “Plumber” and explain how Tyler and I had seen him twice at scenes crucial to the Paxton case. I wanted to raise suspicions about the pornography found in Jake Slattery’s van, my fears that an in
nocent man had been set up to draw attention away from the true killer. I wanted to describe Faraday’s Good Samaritan scheme, how I’d been followed, the computer hacking, and the withholding of information from the police. I wanted to ask whether Blair had ever considered that Faraday might be a rogue agent, running an unauthorized operation from the heart of the Blair Company. Or whether the founder of the most highly regarded crisis management firm in town already knew and approved and was even directing the operation, from his penthouse suite.

  Instead, I cleared my throat.

  “I hope I can live up to your expectations,” I said.

  Blair’s aide arrived with a tray. He served the steaming civet coffee in a gleaming white enamel mug. Next to it he laid out lemon slices and a pitcher of milk and misshapen brown lumps of smoky sugar probably harvested from organic sugar palm trees by Bengali natives strapped into ergonomically correct harnesses on the night of a full moon.

  Gingerly, I sniffed the coffee. Not a whiff of civet polecat musk.

  I took a sip. It was nice. Mellow, aromatic. An upscale joe.

  Then I thought of how they harvested it, pictured grimacing natives poking with sticks in a pile of steaming . . .

  I put my coffee down.

  Perception is everything.

  I mean, I know that. I’m in the perception business.

  I knew that the beans were disinfected and sanitized. And that this was probably the most expensive, exotic coffee I would ever drink. But I couldn’t drink it.

  So we waited in silence together, and the coffee grew cold.

  At last, Blair said, “I enjoy these opportunities to visit with employees in a more”—he looked around—“relaxed setting than a corporate boardroom.”

  He regarded me with benign interest and I tried my hardest to look relaxed.

  “I want you to know, Maggie, that your work on the Paxton case has already exceeded my expectations and . . .”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, seizing the opening, “I’m so glad you invited me up here tonight, because I was going to ask . . . if it’s not too much trouble . . . I ah . . . I’d like to be taken off the Paxton case altogether.”

  Blair consulted the stars for guidance. Then he said, “It was my idea to put you on this case.”

  “Mr. Faraday explained that, but in light of recent developments I’d feel more comfortable—”

  “You have a nimble and creative mind, Maggie. And you’ve done terrific work. The Afghan women’s charity. The Hollywood-Graystone Hotel. Art Salazar. Trent Holloway’s au pair. I’m watching you closely, and I’m very pleased at what I see. When the Paxton case wraps up, I’d like to talk to you about a promotion. You’d make an excellent vice president.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure what to say.”

  Was this a bribe?

  “I hope you’ll say yes. But let’s leave this just between you and me for now. And you have my assurance that I’ll be watching this case closely. Jack told me about the conflict you’ve been experiencing, due to your personal ties to the Paxton family. But you can stop worrying about where your allegiance lies. Ultimately, it doesn’t reside with work or with the family. It resides within you. Only you can choose the right path.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I knew it was a line, but it played into the part of me that so desperately wanted to believe. In fairy tales. In dream jobs. In happy endings. In noble senators and enlightened PR gurus. Because that was my business, after all. If Faraday and Blair were dishonest, what did that make me?

  Blair’s aide glided up silently and removed the coffee mug, replacing Blair’s now cold tea with a fresh steaming cup.

  Sensing my cue, I rose to leave. The papal audience was over.

  30

  By the next morning, Raven and I were Facebook friends.

  She was thrilled and surprised to hear from me and she’d love to have coffee. But she was busy packing for Europe. Was there any way we could meet later today, in Echo Park?

  We made plans for five, after I returned from Randall Downs’s funeral. I didn’t tell her where I was going. If Anabelle had wanted her there, she would have contacted her personally.

  I was standing in front of the closet, wondering what to wear, when the doorbell rang. Mom called up that she would get it.

  A moment later, she was in my bedroom, eyes alight with excitement. “You better hurry up and get dressed. There’s a young man at the door for you. I’ll invite him to wait in the living room.” Handsome, she mouthed, as she hurried out.

  Wondering who it could be, I shimmied into jeans and a blouse, threw on light makeup and a spritz of Chanel Gardenia, and hurried out.

  Then I froze.

  Oliver Goldman was sitting on my sofa with a mug in his hand. Unlike me, he was dressed in immaculate business attire even though it was Saturday morning.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Oliver Goldman only smiled. “If I’d known your mother made such excellent coffee, I would have come much earlier. I apologize for disturbing you on a weekend, but I’m afraid they’re watching you a little too closely at work. I wondered if you’ve considered my proposal.”

  “Proposal!” said Mom, lips quivering. “Maggie, you never . . .”

  “He’s a federal investigator, Mom. He wants me to become some kind of government informant. He thinks Paxton and Blair are in cahoots to cover up the senator’s involvement in his aide’s murder. I’ve already turned him down but apparently he doesn’t understand the word no.”

  I turned to Goldman. “The answer’s still no, Mr. Goldman. And if you persist in harassing me, I’m going to get a court injunction, forbidding you to get within a hundred feet of me.”

  Goldman smiled nastily. “Empty threats, Ms. Silver. Imagine what bad PR that would be for your bosses at Blair. If clients knew their damage control people were talking to the feds, they’d drop you in five minutes.”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “If you give us your home number, Mr. Goldman, my daughter could contact you if she changes her mind.”

  “Mom!” I said, whirling on her. “That is not going to happen.”

  I turned back to the federal investigator. “Please leave. Now.”

  “You’re in danger, Ms. Silver. Two people have already died. I’d like to put you under twenty-four-hour surveillance, but I can’t do that unless you agree to work with us and share what you know. In that case, you’d have full immunity when we file criminal charges.”

  “But I don’t know anything.”

  “You think Randall Downs’s murder was a coincidence? You think we don’t know he was looking into the Mortimer case? These are people who think nothing of killing a high-ranking police officer, Ms. Silver. Who are determined to protect their interests at any cost. People die every day in this city. They get hit by cars, run off the road. They OD and have heart attacks and jump off bridges. A slick assassin can make murder look like suicide or an accident.”

  “Anyone who knows me knows I’d never take my own life,” I said.

  “Job pressures. A failed romance. A toxic cocktail of prescription pills that shuts down the heart. We can never truly know someone.”

  “Maybe you ought to consider what he’s saying,” said my mom, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “And maybe you ought to butt out of my business,” I told her. “He’s trying to frighten and threaten me into cooperating with him. But he’s got nothing, not a single detail. And it’s because there’s nothing to tell. No one’s breaking any laws. Mr. Goldman, it’s time for you to leave.”

  I strode to the door and held it open.

  Goldman stood up and I noticed for the first time that he’d brought a briefcase, filled, no doubt, with recording equipment and contracts for me to sign.

  “You’re a wise woman,” Goldman said, addressing himself to Mom. “And I hope you’ll be able to talk some sense into your daughter.”

  Just past the threshold, he paused. “Blair has been on
our radar for a long time. Many of the clients your firm takes on are incredibly wealthy and powerful, and they think that makes them immune to the rules that everyone else has to play by. There’s a reason people pay Blair millions each year, and it’s that your bosses are willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. We need someone on the inside, Ms. Silver, someone who wants to do what’s right by her country and make sure the bad guys don’t win for once.”

  I slammed the door in his face.

  Then I leaned against it and lowered myself to the floor.

  * * *

  Randall Downs’s funeral took place as ash rained down like an apocalyptic warning. It wasn’t just me and it wasn’t the Adderall; the whole city felt jumpy and raw, teetering on the brink of psychic collapse, while in the San Gabriel Mountains, the Station Fire continued to pump pyronuclear mushroom clouds into the sky.

  After telling my mother not to worry, but also swearing her to secrecy about Oliver Goldman’s visit—“You can’t even tell Earlyn, promise me”—I’d finally donned black linen, low pumps, and pearls and headed out. Even though I’d scoffed at the federal investigator’s dire pronouncements, I took them to heart and now they burrowed and festered and bloomed.

  His words seemed to confirm my own deep-rooted paranoia about the company where I worked. What if he was right?

  I worried all the way down the Harbor Freeway, through Hawthorne, and up to Palisades Episcopal Church, where new concerns took over.

  The parking lot was overflowing, including news vans and boxy American models with antennas that suggested undercover LAPD vehicles. Ducking inside, I saw that the Paxtons had not yet arrived. Several senatorial staffers clustered near the back entrance, waiting for the family, just like we’d arranged.

  I headed for the sidewalk where the media had set up and explained that the Paxtons would not be making any comments today.

  By the time I finished and went inside, the service had started. The coffin was draped in an American flag and an LAPD emblem. With relief, I saw the Paxton family in the front pew: the senator, Miranda, Luke, Lincoln, and the bereaved young widow, Anabelle, her head bent, a black lace mantilla covering her golden hair. Across the aisle, also in the front row, stood a middle-aged man and woman who might have been Randall’s siblings.