Damage Control: A Novel Page 4

  * * *

  Miranda Paxton was serving white asparagus as Henry decanted a bottle of wine. Anabelle had warned me I’d be expected to discuss art and war and politics, and nervous sweat had pooled under my arms. Reaching for my glass, I saw the ruby liquid refract through cut crystal and marveled at the complex taste on my tongue.

  By the second glass, I was describing the immaculately restored mid-century modern home where we lived in Encino, an upscale neighborhood on the Valley’s southern edge. When Henry inquired pleasantly what my parents did, I continued my carefully rehearsed script. My mom ran a hospital nursing department and my father, who’d passed on, was a screenwriter.

  “Really?” Miranda regarded me dreamily, chin propped in hand. “What studio did he work for?”

  “Monogram.”

  Just as I’d expected, Miranda looked puzzled.

  “It was a B studio that cranked out films in the 1950s,” I explained. “My dad was a lot older than my mom.”

  “Did he write anything we might have seen?” Henry suggested with affable interest.

  “Probably.” I shrugged. “But he used a pseudonym. He was very idealistic as a young man. He never told me the titles. Said they were no-good trashy pulps.”

  I took a languid sip of wine. “I guess he took those secrets to his grave.”

  Anabelle’s brow furrowed. Luke put down a forkful of lamb couscous and examined me with new interest.

  “Fascinating Hollywood history, and so close we can touch it,” Miranda Paxton said, her smooth, cool fingers gliding along my arm. “Henry and I grew up in the Northeast, a very different world. It’s a pity we never got to meet him. We’re so sorry for your loss, Maggie, and we want you to know you’re always welcome here.”

  I picked at my couscous and felt I might burst into real tears at the loss of this noble, talented, and completely fictional father. The truth: Dad worked in an airplane parts factory and liked to drink until he passed out.

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  The next day at school, I realized my whoppers would crumble to tabloid dust if Anabelle probed even the tiniest bit. To my puzzled relief, she never did. Nor did she push to visit me in “Encino.”

  Maybe it was a little Westside snobbery kicking in, and she was unable to conceive of a world more interesting than her own. Or maybe she just considered everyone’s parents irrelevant at that juncture in her life.

  Whatever the cause, I was too busy with precalc and my new role as Anabelle’s confidante to worry long. But I did check out some library books on Hollywood so I could entertain the Paxtons with a few anecdotes if the occasion came up.

  I’d always been a quick study, but now I was learning how to frame a narrative.

  Even though I wasn’t old money like the Paxtons, I’d cloaked myself in something more valuable and intangible here on the Coast—the nostalgic glamour that gilds all tales of lost Hollywood.

  * * *

  And then I was sitting in the Blair conference room once more, struggling to compose myself and stop the vivid, warm flush I knew was staining my cheeks. Faraday was speaking and Senator Paxton was jotting down notes. He didn’t remember me, I realized with relief. But it had nothing to do with my ugly duckling transformation.

  U.S. Senator Henry Paxton had more important things to think about.

  Which brought me back to what I’d been wondering since I realized who our new client was.

  Why had Anabelle’s father hired the city’s top damage control firm?

  Was it just a prudent step for anyone in the public eye these days?

  Or did he have something to hide?

  Paxton introduced his staff. Red Suspenders was his brother and chief adviser, Simon Paxton. Bernie Saunders, the senator’s PR director, had pale skin and red hair. Neil Bernstein, dark, handsome, and going to fat, was his chief of staff. The green-eyed, slightly fey man with wire-rimmed glasses was Paxton’s lawyer, Harvey Lambert, and he would tell us more.

  “There’s bound to be media speculation once they connect the dots,” Lambert said, explaining why he’d counseled his good friend and golf buddy Henry to hire a crisis management firm.

  “The tabloids will come sniffing around, and they’re brutal. Politicians, movie stars, it’s all fair game when a beautiful young woman linked to a wealthy and powerful man is murdered.”

  “Was she beautiful, Harvey?” Faraday asked dryly.

  Lambert held Faraday’s eyes but said nothing.

  For a moment, the room was silent. Blair seemed asleep.

  “Yes she was,” said Senator Paxton. “A lovely, lovely girl. Turned heads aplenty.”

  Lambert shot Faraday a significant look.

  “I see,” Faraday said slowly.

  I saw too.

  I saw that Henry Paxton might be skilled at navigating the cutthroat, bruising battles of Congress, but he needed to be coached and protected from himself. If he spoke truthfully and from the heart, his words would be twisted and used against him.

  The PR redhead spoke next. “I don’t care what anyone says. Hiring a damage control firm is a huge mistake. It suggests to the public that we’ve got something to hide.” His voice grew petulant. “And we don’t.”

  Lambert frowned but said nothing.

  Saunders’s next words were for Senator Paxton alone.

  “Please, sir. It’s not too late to walk away. My staff and I are perfectly capable of handling this internally. Haven’t we weathered the CIA oversight committee hearings? Your brother-in-law’s insider stock trades? The health-care gaffe? Our people can do everything Blair can, without the notoriety and the high price tag.”

  Simon Paxton put up a hand to silence him.

  “No one’s denying your brilliance, Bernie,” he said. “But this is about us tapping into a very specific skill set. Crisis management is what Blair does. They are the pros.”

  “Then let me go on record and say that no good will come of it and I am opposed.”

  “Objection noted and overruled,” Simon Paxton broke in smoothly. “My apologies to the Blair team for subjecting you to this turf war. Bernie, we need your cooperation.”

  The senator shot Bernie Saunders an apology, and the fraternal dynamic grew clear. The senator was the good guy. His brother was the hard-nosed enforcer.

  Saunders shot the Blair camp a look of cold loathing. “You’ve got it, sir,” he said sulkily.

  “Thank you, Bernie. All right, Neil, please brief us.” Simon Paxton drummed his fingers on the table.

  “The victim is Emily Mortimer, twenty-three,” Neil Bernstein said.

  He swallowed, struggling to compose himself. Then he continued.

  “Personnel records show that Emily Mortimer came on board June 27 of last year as a summer intern in our Washington office after graduating from Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. Her job was to develop the senator’s social networks. Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, YouTube, whatever the hell tube comes next. By November she was new media director.”

  Bernstein’s head dipped. “Emily was well liked and professional. She was a workaholic. She had a low-level security clearance. Two nights ago, she attended a fund-raising dinner at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Her tablemates say she got a call halfway through. Soon after, she made excuses and left, saying she wanted to turn in early. She never made it into work yesterday and didn’t return calls or e-mails, which was unusual. The cleaning lady found her at home this morning when she let herself in. Police say she’d been dead about twenty-four hours.”

  Blair opened his eyes. “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does the building have security cameras?”

  “Police are checking the lobby and parking structure.”

  “Who was the call from?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “The cops will get her records from the phone company,” Faraday said.

  I examined the Paxton camp for a tell. Except for the senator, th
ey were jumpy as cats. Was it dismay at realizing that the inner workings of their office were about to be thrown wide open? Or something else?

  “Do we know the cause of death?”

  Bernstein shook his head.

  “Was she sexually assaulted?” I asked.

  Faraday gave me a thoughtful look.

  “Don’t know,” said Bernstein, his lips disappearing into a straight thin line.

  “Anything missing? Purse? BlackBerry?” Faraday asked.

  Again, Bernstein didn’t know.

  I realized I was massacring my cuticles. A nervous little tell of my own. Placing my hands on the table, I nodded sagely, as if murder was something I dealt with on a regular basis.

  Harvey Lambert cleared his throat. “Ah. The fund-raising dinner isn’t quite the last anyone saw of Emily.”

  He glanced at the Paxtons. The senator stared fixedly at his notes. When Simon Paxton gave a terse nod, Lambert continued.

  “Henry has informed me that he met with Emily Mortimer two nights ago around ten p.m. at the Bryson, a hotel bar near Macarthur Park.”

  The only sound was the gentle burble of a water pump in the aquarium.

  Blair’s eyes had gone slitted. Bernie Saunders wore a look of shocked and queasy fascination. So he hadn’t known.

  Anticipating what would come next, I tried to hide my surprise. I’m not naïve. I know that wealthy and powerful people often have secrets. But this was Henry, whom I’d grown up with, who adored his children and his wife and had a rosy future in politics. It was completely out of character that he’d throw it away for a roll in the hay.

  Or was it? I wasn’t sixteen anymore. I was an adult in a profession where scandal, crisis, and disgrace were everyday occurrences. My job had taught me that people don’t always act rationally. In fact, given the right circumstances, they’re capable of almost anything. I could no longer make assumptions about the man sitting across from me. Years ago, he’d been a father figure and a role model to me. Now he was a stranger.

  “The senator met Emily Mortimer at a hotel bar? So perhaps he sent the text after all?” Faraday suggested, hands folded over his stomach.

  “No, sir,” Lambert said. “The senator most emphatically did not send Emily a text that night.”

  We waited for Lambert to elaborate. After a moment, he went on.

  “The senator had a meeting with Emily Mortimer scheduled at two p.m. But he ran late, so they made impromptu plans to meet up later. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  The senator nodded.

  “When they got to the bar, Senator Paxton and Emily Mortimer each had two drinks and she briefed him on how to make his Twitter postings more personal and humorous. Together, they posted several tweets in this lighter, more casual vein. Do I have that correct, Henry?” Lambert asked solicitously.

  “Yes,” said the senator. “You can check the, erm, tweets. We finished up by eleven thirty. Then we said good night and went our separate ways.”

  I glanced at Thomas Blair. His eyes were fully open now, focused on something far away that none of us could see.

  Faraday rubbed his jaw. “So the doorman, the parking valet, the security cameras . . . there would be witnesses that you left separately?”

  Paxton winced. “I’m afraid not. The valet brought my car and I drove Emily to her car. She’d parked a few blocks away and the neighborhood can be dicey late at night.”

  “Senator Paxton dropped Emily Mortimer off at her vehicle before midnight,” Lambert picked up. “He waited while she started her car. Then he drove home. His wife will attest that he woke her up at one thirty getting into bed.”

  Blair stirred. He regarded the senator, his eyes seeming to glint and reflect light like a cat’s.

  “Don’t you have a driver and a car to take you around?”

  Lambert pursed his lips and nodded vigorously. “Good point. Yes, he does. And most days, he uses them. But the senator enjoys taking his own car occasionally when he’s home in L.A. It’s nicer than anything the government provides.”

  Blair’s chin was propped on his hand and he stared out at the night sky like he was mapping the Horsehead Nebula. “And Tuesday was one of those days,” he mumbled into his hand.

  “That’s right,” said Lambert.

  “Any witnesses when the senator dropped the girl off?”

  “It was deserted,” Paxton said. “I remember being glad I’d insisted on driving her.”

  “So there’s almost a two-hour gap between the time you dropped her off in Mid-City and your wife noticed you were home in Santa Monica?” Blair pressed.

  “I was downstairs watching TV for a while,” Paxton said.

  “Does your home have a security system that would have recorded your arrival time?”

  “We do, but my wife hates it so it wasn’t on.”

  “Did you make any calls on your cell phone during that time?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Paxton’s lawyer spread his hands. “So there it is, folks,” he said with faux cheer. “You can see why we brought you in.”

  “Was this night meeting with Emily Mortimer on the senator’s calendar?” Faraday asked.

  “We’ve already told you it was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Simon Paxton said sharply.

  “Does he often meet aides after hours in bars? The media’s going to have a heyday.”

  “The senator enjoys getting out in his district,” Bernstein said. “Architectural preservation’s a little hobby of his and the Bryson is a historic Art Deco landmark. I’ve met him for drinks at a dozen nightspots in the last two years.”

  Faraday leaned forward. “But you’re not a pretty young girl and you’re not dead.”

  I glanced at Blair, but he’d lapsed back into a comatose state.

  “I object to what you’re implying,” Lambert said, half rising from his seat.

  “Sit down, Harvey,” said Faraday. “You’re not in court.”

  He turned to the senator. “Sir, there will be hard questions asked. They will delve into your personal life. You know that, or you wouldn’t have hired us.”

  Paxton nodded.

  “In order to draw up the best strategy, we need to know all the facts. So let me ask you, sir, with all due respect, is there anything else that we here at Blair should be aware of?”

  The entire room held its breath as the unasked question percolated through the air.

  Paxton held Faraday’s eyes without faltering.

  But my boss didn’t know Henry Paxton the way I did. He didn’t know the stubborn look that crept across Henry’s face when faced with something he didn’t want to discuss. Like the time Anabelle and Luke asked him about Vietnam atrocities like My Lai. Or the night the police picked Luke up in Carpinteria for trespassing onto private property to get to his favorite surf spot.

  But I’d spent two years practically living in Henry Paxton’s house. I knew the look. And I saw it bloom across his face.

  “You want to know if we were having an affair,” Paxton said.

  Faraday grimaced and nodded almost apologetically.

  “No, we were not,” the senator said through clenched teeth.

  I let out my breath. A rush of fresh oxygen seemed to fill the room.

  Paxton’s eyes glowed with candor and sadness. His hands lay on the table, loose and relaxed. He was calm, in control.

  “Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to drive off with her in front of witnesses if we were having an affair? Or if, God forbid, I meant to do her any harm. This is just ridiculous!”

  “Sir!” said Bernstein, appalled. “No one here is suggesting . . .”

  “That’s all right, Neil,” the senator said. “I’m not offended by Mr. Faraday’s questions. But I would never jeopardize the trust of the American people or the love and respect of my wife, Miranda, and our wonderful children, Anabelle and Luke. And I refuse to believe that even my political enemies would stoop to make hay out of this sorrowful occasion.”


  Tyler shot me a look that said, maybe they won’t, but their surrogates on the blogs, websites, and talk shows will be attacking his character and demanding his resignation within hours.

  If Faraday thought so too, he gave no sign.

  “Thank you, Senator,” he said smoothly. “That’s what I need to know.” Lambert steepled his fingers and looked at Faraday. “So? What’s the plan?”

  Faraday put both hands flat on the table. Then he addressed Henry Paxton.

  “The next twenty-four hours are critical. You are a public figure, Senator, and you need to explain to the public in your own words how close you were to Emily Mortimer and what happened the night she was killed. I realize that even public figures have private lives, and you don’t need to tell everybody everything, but because of what has transpired and the rumors that are going to swirl, it is essential for you to address this. You don’t want to be seen as lying and you don’t want to be seen as dodging the topic. So my advice to you is: Own the story. Tell the truth, with full sincerity and conviction. Then I’d like you to get on the phone with the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the Wall Street Journal. The rumors and innuendos will fly, so brace yourself. But you have an opportunity to change them into truth if you tackle them head on. You need to get this behind you so you can get back to governing our fine nation.”

  “All right,” the senator said in a resigned voice.

  “What about the police?” Saunders asked.

  “At this point, the senator isn’t required to speak with them. But I think he should. And I’d like him to tell the authorities exactly what he just told us. The bar meeting is troublesome, but there’s no way around it, he was seen with the girl.”

  Faraday pursed his lips. “Have you called Emily’s parents to offer your condolences?” he asked the senator.

  Paxton’s eyes filled with resigned dread. “I was going to do that tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps you could pay them a personal visit,” Faraday said. “We’ll alert the media.”

  “I refuse to turn this tragedy into a circus,” Paxton said.

  “It’s already a circus,” Faraday drawled. “That’s why you hired a ringmaster.”

  “We’d better get their okay first,” I said, pleased to have something intelligent to add. “It could backfire on us if the family refuses to allow TV cameras into the home.”