Damage Control: A Novel Page 5

  “On second thought, let’s bring them to the office to pick up Emily’s belongings and Senator Paxton can offer the family his condolences on camera.” Faraday turned to Paxton’s men. “Maggie will go fetch the parents. She’s got an excellent bedside manner.”

  Bernie Saunders flipped through a manila file. “The Mortimers live in Valencia, near Magic Mountain. They’re retired, in their late sixties. Wife doesn’t drive. Husband can’t, he’s got macular degeneration, according to what Emily told a staffer.”

  “Well done,” said Faraday with false bonhomie. “You ever need a job, come see me.”

  I rolled my eyes inwardly. Faraday’s affable and open demeanor was a mask. He cloaked himself in approachability to disguise his utter impenetrability.

  Bernstein put his face in his hands and groaned. “It won’t work. Henry’s got a press conference tomorrow morning at nine to announce the latest on the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission.”

  “But that’s excellent.” Faraday beamed.

  “Why?”

  “Because it gives you an opportunity to address Emily’s murder publicly while going about business as usual. The news will be out and the press conference will be mobbed. You can express sorrow for Emily’s murder and sympathy for her family. We’ll get the parents up on stage and the three of you can make an emotional appeal for the public’s help in catching the killer.”

  Henry Paxton stared at Faraday with revulsed fascination.

  “We need to sew up those parents,” Faraday went on. “Maggie will suggest that Blair represent them—pro bono of course. No one should have to deal with reporters camped out on their lawn at a time like this. Now, let’s hear more about this Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission.”

  Bernstein said, “Henry chairs a bipartisan committee that is working with a congressional commission to investigate the financial meltdown.”

  Senator Paxton took over smoothly. “There are suggestions of bribes and kickbacks to elected officials. The recent bankruptcy of industry leader JTM Financial Services and the sudden willingness of its directors to point fingers means that the public may soon learn more. But unless they get a larger budget to hire more staff, the commission is limited in what it can accomplish.”

  “Was Emily Mortimer privy to any of these financial briefings?” I asked.

  “No,” snapped Neil Bernstein, the senator’s chief of staff. “I’ve already explained that Emily Mortimer was director of new media.”

  “It’s a legitimate question, Neil,” Paxton said mildly.

  “You told us the dead girl had a security clearance,” Faraday said, running a finger along the table.

  “Not high level,” said Bernie Saunders. “This is getting way off track.”

  “That’s right,” Faraday said in mollifying tones. “Senator, we at Blair often find that there is more—or less—to a story than meets the eye. We plan to set up a truth squad to monitor all press mentions. Within twenty-four hours there will be hundreds of stories online and in print. We’ll review each one, and when we find a mistake, we call up the reporter and tell them, casting ourselves as crusaders for journalism ethics. Our goal here is to reframe the discussion and stress your bona fides, Senator: years of patriotism and service to your country. Valor and bravery. The war injury. The Congressional Medal of Honor.” Faraday allowed himself a tiny smile. “And we will use righteous indignation at anyone who suggests you were sleeping with your aide.”

  “You gonna get him on Conan or Letterman?” Simon Paxton asked.

  “What for?” Faraday said. “It’s very tragic that Senator Paxton’s aide was found murdered, but no one’s accusing him of anything. He should appear sympathetic but not defensive. That would just raise questions.”

  “What about Twitter?” I said. “Should the senator address his aide’s murder through social media?”

  Bernstein wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Too frivolous.”

  “Twitter is a neutral medium, it’s how you use it. Look at the Iran protests, the Mumbai terrorist bombings.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Faraday. “But first, we’ll draft a statement for the old media.”

  “Way ahead of you,” said PR man Bernie Saunders. He pulled a paper from his briefcase, got up, and handed it to Faraday with a flourish.

  As he leaned forward, I caught a whiff of his cologne.

  It was a scent called Kouros that assaulted my nostrils like a Mike Tyson punch. If Satan wore cologne in hell, it would be Kouros.

  Faraday skimmed the press release. “Has this gone out?”

  Saunders shook his head, releasing another gust, and I put my hand discreetly to my nose. Amazingly, no one else in the room seemed to mind.

  “So no one’s talked to the press yet?”

  “We know better than that,” Saunders snapped.

  “It’s good,” said Faraday, holding the statement between his thumb and forefinger like a soiled diaper. “But we don’t need all these details. The tone we’re aiming for is magisterial sorrow.”

  “But . . .” spluttered Saunders, who thankfully had gone back to his seat. Faraday handed me the paper. “New draft, please, Maggie. Well-regarded employee, etc . . . . My prayers and thoughts go out to the family . . . difficult time . . . I and everyone in my office are cooperating fully . . . hopeful that authorities will resolve the case soon . . . justice for Emily Mortimer and her family, etc.”

  Faraday looked up. “We’ll have the senator sign off on any quotes, of course,” he assured the room.

  “This is how it starts,” Saunders said darkly.

  “That’s enough, Bernie,” snapped Simon Paxton.

  He leaned over and whispered in the senator’s ear.

  Saunders immediately began whispering in the senator’s other ear.

  What a snake pit the senator’s office must be, I thought, with staffers constantly backstabbing one another and jostling for position. Emily Mortimer was a newcomer to this cutthroat world. Could it be she’d made a powerful enemy?

  Paxton listened to both sides, then brought the power struggle to a close by saying, “Mr. Faraday, you may proceed.”

  Saunders pounded the table.

  The senator looked annoyed. “They’re the damage control experts, Bernie, and we’ll do what they advise.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” Faraday said smoothly. “We prefer the term crisis management. It’s more neutral.”

  Bernstein’s phone beeped and he looked down, then swore.

  “The LAPD want to interview the senator tonight.”

  Faraday rocked in his chair. “Tell them he’s happy to oblige—tomorrow. It’s late and we’re still getting our ducks in a row. How’s that statement coming, Maggie?”

  I hit several keys and handed the laptop to Faraday, who tweaked a few words, then passed it to the Paxton camp.

  “Looks good to me,” Paxton said.

  “Great.” Faraday beamed. “From now on, please refer all media inquiries to us. They can call twenty-four/seven.”

  He slapped down business cards like he was dealing a hand of poker.

  “And make sure none of your people tell the press ‘no comment.’ ”

  “Why shouldn’t they say that?” Saunders demanded.

  Blair smiled disdainfully. “Because when you say ‘no comment,’ it suggests that you’re hiding something. We want the senator to tell his story first, get it out there in a controlled way, with our spin.”

  “I think we should ride it out,” Saunders said.

  “The Internet abhors a vacuum,” Blair said. “If you don’t talk, others will, and within hours you’ll have an electronic echo chamber of gossip and innuendo. And that will be what people remember. It will float through the Internet forever. So we always comment. And we tell the truth. Or at least we don’t tell lies. Please make sure your staff understands that.”

  Everyone nodded.

  I caught Senator Paxton studying me. I’d forgotten that politicians were trained
to remember faces.

  So much for hiding behind my laptop.

  I’d been made.

  Faraday’s phone buzzed just then and we all looked over. My boss squinted at the LED readout, then took the call.

  “Thanks,” he said after twenty seconds, thumbing it off.

  Simon Paxton glared, baleful at the interruption.

  “My apologies, gentlemen. That was our computer whisperer. He can crack any code, retrieve any deleted file, find anything that’s ever floated on the Internet. He’s been monitoring the political and celebrity websites. Nothing so far and”—Faraday tapped his watch—“let’s hope it stays that way until bedtime.”

  “Bedtime?” Simon Paxton frowned.

  “The end of the East Coast nightly news shows. It could buy us until morning.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll know more as soon as my electroboy gets hold of Emily’s records from the office computers.”

  Paxton looked nervous.

  “Wouldn’t the police see that as tampering with potential evidence?” Faraday smiled.

  “Remember those laws about a worker’s expectations of privacy in the workplace? As Emily Mortimer’s employer, you have every right to examine any and all correspondence that occurs on U.S. government computers, phones, or other electronic devices. We’re not going to wipe the files, but we are going to exercise that right.

  “Moving on,” he said smoothly, “did Emily Mortimer have any friends or colleagues we should look at? Had she received any threats? Gotten into any arguments? Maybe with constituents?”

  The chief of staff threw up his hands. “Everything you can imagine flows through the senator’s office, from UFO sightings to immigration appeals to crazy dames who send him proposals of marriage. It’s a lot to sift through.”

  “But you’re not aware of anything negative directed personally at Emily Mortimer?”

  “No.”

  “What about boyfriends?”

  The chief of staff checked his notes.

  “She had an on-again, off-again boyfriend named Jake Slattery. The receptionist said they often argued. No one on staff seems to have met him.”

  “I hope the police interview this fellow,” Senator Paxton said. “Isn’t that what they always say?” He looked around. “That the husband or boyfriend did it?”

  A silence descended.

  “That’s one theory,” Faraday said.

  “She was a wonderful girl. Smart, a fast learner. Reminded me of my own daughter.”

  To my horror, U.S. Senator Henry Paxton now pointed at me.

  “And don’t think I don’t remember you, Maggie Weinstock Silver.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry we have to meet again in such unpleasant circumstances.”

  5

  U.S. Senator Henry Paxton seized my hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  The meeting was over and I stood there uncertainly, wondering how to navigate this murky new terrain between crisis consultant and family friend.

  “Both the kids are finally back in L.A.,” Paxton was saying. “Luke’s a prosecutor and Anabelle’s a stay-at-home mom. Her husband’s been a calming influence. But now he’s the one who needs . . .”

  A shadow darkened Paxton’s brow. “I was always sorry when you and Anabelle lost touch. How have the years treated you?”

  His eyes went almost imperceptibly to my ring finger. Self-conscious, I tucked my hand behind my back.

  Alarmed by our tête-à-tête, the senator’s chief of staff walked over. “Henry, if I might have a word,” said Bernstein, wedging himself between us like a sheepdog who smells a wolf.

  “Yes, yes. So many official things await me. But this is important too,” he said. Impulsively, the senator pulled out a Montblanc pen, jotted down a number, and thrust it at me.

  “Anabelle’s in Palos Verdes. I know she’d love to hear from you.”

  And with that, they hustled him away.

  * * *

  In the hallway, Faraday’s eyes glittered at the paper in my hand.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Fletch was sprawled on the couch in Faraday’s office, noodling on his laptop as we walked in. He had hair like straw, pale skin, ropy, gym-worked arms, and tiny black eyes behind round glasses. I’d seen him around but we’d never spoken.

  Now I detected a faint accent I couldn’t place.

  “Jake Slattery lives at 435 South Orange Grove in the Fairfax District. He’s got . . . hold on,” Fletch said, flipping through screens, “exactly $2,317 in his bank account and looks like . . .” He pressed a few keys and scrolled up. “His Visa shows a purchase of a plane ticket, earlier today, to Mexico City. Open-ended return.”

  He looked up and grinned. “Want me to drop by his place? Check for a bloody glove?”

  “Do we even know Emily’s cause of death?” I asked.

  “It’s possible,” continued Fletch, “that Slattery left an electronic trail to mislead the police. He could still be holed up in L.A. I’ll need to check the airline’s passenger manifest.”

  He bent over his keyboard once more.

  I said, “Maybe the police are interviewing Jake Slattery right now and we’re all jumping to illegally gained conclusions.”

  “Get out of there, Fletch,” Faraday said. “If you say so, boss.”

  Fletch winked at me. His fingers scurried along the keyboard like long pale spiders.

  “You’re going to the senator’s office,” Faraday told him. “Please shut the door behind you.”

  “So what’d the senator give you?” Faraday asked with a conspiratorial lilt after Fletch left.

  It hit me then that Faraday knew all about my relationship with the Paxton family. Somehow, the bastard had found out.

  Which meant I wasn’t sitting here because of my hotshot PR skills. I’d been brought onboard solely because of my connections, because Faraday wanted an inside pipeline to the senator.

  “Damn it, Faraday,” I said, “did your operatives put together a dossier on me when I applied for this job?”

  “We can’t afford to hire whack jobs,” my boss said mildly. “We check out all prospective employees.”

  The idea made me supremely uneasy.

  That’s an invasion of our privacy, Boots Holloway had complained this afternoon.

  Suddenly, I knew exactly how she felt.

  “All the way back to high school? Give me a break.”

  Faraday tapped a pencil. “We just did, Maggie. Mr. Blair himself suggested you for the Paxton team. A friendly face to inspire trust and confidence.”

  He gestured to the note. “And look, it’s already paying off.”

  “It’s just his daughter’s number,” I muttered. “He wants me to call her.”

  “A fine idea,” said Faraday.

  I scowled and shoved the paper in my pocket. Tonight’s events had stirred my curiosity. But I didn’t want to be played like a marionette. I wanted to call Anabelle when I was good and ready.

  “It’s a little late,” I said stiffly.

  “Tomorrow will be fine,” said Faraday. “I’ve asked Allison to bomb your in-box with stories about the senator so you can get up to speed. But right now, Tyler’s taking you to meet one of our cop sources.”

  “Wouldn’t I be more useful here tonight?”

  Faraday flipped through a stack of papers.

  “Tyler is a brilliant strategist, but he can get a little . . . overeager. He has, at times, stretched the boundaries of propriety.”

  “You expect me to keep him in line?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary. He’s already been warned: no cowboying. Do you have any other questions, Maggie? I’m happy to take the time to answer them.”

  Faraday smiled. He was at his most deadly at these moments, when his voice grew softly solicitous, his manner ultrapolite.

  I shook my head.

  Faraday pulled a photo out of a manila en
velope, slid it across the desk. “The senator was right about Emily Mortimer.”

  I leaned in and saw a serious girl with shoulder-length blond hair. Her eyes stared steadily at the camera, as if confronting it. Her mouth was large, her lips full and mobile. She looked very young.

  “His kind?” Faraday asked slyly.

  “I wouldn’t know if he had a kind.”

  “Do the Paxtons have a happy marriage?”

  “Since you’ve obviously snooped so extensively into my past, you know I haven’t seen any of them in ages. So I have no idea whether Senator Paxton has a happy marriage. Not that that ever has anything to do with it.”

  “Speak from experience, do you?” Faraday’s voice was playful now.

  “You’d like to get something like that on me, wouldn’t you? Well, sorry to disappoint you. But it sounds like you think the senator hasn’t told us everything.”

  Faraday’s face was inscrutable.

  “Go see the daughter,” he said. “Make nice. And let me know what she says.”

  “If you think Senator Paxton is lying, then why did we agree to represent him?”

  “I didn’t say he was lying. Maybe he’s getting a raw deal and he needs our help. You know Blair’s a soft touch for the underdog.”

  “I’ve noticed. Especially underdogs with deep pockets.”

  Faraday grew thoughtful. “Even if he did sleep with her, adultery’s not a crime in this country, last I heard.”

  “But murder is.”

  I stopped, appalled. What was I saying? That I believed Anabelle’s father had killed his aide?

  “Senator Paxton says he’s innocent and we believe him. In this country, people are innocent until proven guilty and that’s what keeps us in business.”

  I heard a Windbreaker zip. Matt Tyler was standing in the doorway.

  “Ready?” he said.

  6

  Tyler drove east on Olympic.

  I stared at the neon skyline, how the downtown skyscrapers clustered around the glass-crowned U.S. Bank Tower like chessmen protecting an embattled queen. At seventy-three stories, U.S. Bank was the tallest building west of the Mississippi. Pretty brave for an earthquake zone.