Damage Control: A Novel Read online

  And what kind of company was I working for?

  * * *

  Soon we were winding through the upscale malls and housing developments of Valencia and back to the freeway. On I-5, we joined the workday shuffle, moving in fitful starts. The car filled with a tense silence.

  Tyler would have cajoled all sorts of strategic information from Emily’s parents by now.

  “What did you think of Emily’s boyfriend?” I asked at last.

  “We never met him,” said Mr. Mortimer. “I didn’t get the impression it was serious.”

  For a while, we drove in silence.

  “I hear Emily was a real wiz at new technology,” I tried again after a few more miles.

  “Look,” said Mr. Mortimer, “I don’t feel like talking about our daughter right now.”

  “I understand,” I said quickly, “but the media is not going to let up. They are going to camp out on your sidewalk and ambush you each time you come out. They are relentless and cruel. I know, I deal with them every day. And so, on behalf of Blair, I’d like to offer my services as a ‘family spokesperson.’ At no cost, of course. It would give you some breathing room and create a buffer. There’s no need to subject yourselves to a pack of aggressive reporters right now.”

  “What’s the catch?” said Mr. Mortimer.

  “No catch. You refer all calls to us or put a forwarding number on your phone and we take care of everything.”

  “I’m sure you people would like that,” Mrs. Mortimer exploded. “Who knows what kind of shenanigans Senator Paxton was up to with our daughter. Like that other girl who was murdered, that Chandra Levy.”

  Chandra Levy was a pretty, young Washington, D.C., intern who’d disappeared while out for a jog in Rock Creek Park. She’d been having a secret affair with the congressman from her home district and, naturally, he came under suspicion. But eventually her body was found and a career criminal was charged with the crime. Not that I wanted to get into that with these bereaved parents.

  “Senator Paxton is hardly—”

  “I think your senator doesn’t want us talking to the press because he’s got something to hide.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, braking as traffic stopped. “But I wonder what makes you think that.”

  “Our daughter was a moral young woman,” Mr. Mortimer said. “She knew right from wrong. But a girl like her, raised to believe the best about everyone . . . to feel that serving her country in this way was a patriotic honor . . . a girl like that might be easy to manipulate, especially by someone older, someone in a position of power and authority.”

  From the backseat came the sounds of Mrs. Mortimer sniffling.

  “Do you have any proof that Emily and the senator were involved?” I pressed, needing to know.

  “If we did, why would we tell you?” said Mr. Mortimer. “You work for him. You’d just twist our words.”

  “We’ll save it for the police,” Mrs. Mortimer said tartly. “They’re coming this afternoon.”

  “And our lawyer,” Mr. Mortimer added.

  I knew this was just an afterthought. If they had a lawyer, he’d be sitting between us right now.

  Mr. Mortimer turned on the car radio and a notorious drive-time talk show came on.

  “There’s a rumor drugs were found in her nightstand,” one of the hosts said. “Maybe she liked the Michael Jackson sleep aid. A little propofol to numb her out.”

  “It could have been female Viagra.” The other host sniggered.

  “A twenty-three-year-old babe? What does she need that for? I bet it was meth. To stay awake through those boring speeches in Congress.”

  With a strangled cry, Mr. Mortimer punched off the radio.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, poking me with a thick, work-roughened finger. “Our daughter was not a drug addict. She didn’t even take aspirin when she had a headache.”

  “I’m very sorry you had to hear that disgusting filth,” I said, glad that the traffic required me to keep my eyes on the road.

  Was Faraday behind this whisper campaign? Had the plan to discredit Emily Mortimer and distance her from the senator’s clean-cut image started with an anonymous “police” leak about mystery drugs found in Emily Mortimer’s bedside drawer?

  We inched toward the cause of the traffic slowdown—a multicar collision. People stood on the shoulder, talking into cell phones, inspecting damage, gesticulating widely. Two people were still inside the smashed cars, heads flung back, while firemen bent over them. We crawled past and then the traffic opened up and we shot forward.

  “People have no decency,” Mr. Mortimer said through clenched jaws.

  “You think the drugs were planted?” I said, to keep him talking and deflect his anger.

  But Mr. Mortimer’s outburst seemed to have exhausted him. His shoulders drooped and he sagged against the seat and didn’t answer.

  * * *

  When we pulled up to the senator’s office on Wilshire Boulevard, the press was swarming along the sidewalk. The news media plus the tabloid paparazzi that appear like sharks when they smell celebrity blood. The story had just jumped the tabloid divide.

  “Here,” I said, handing the Mortimers an oversized atlas, “cover your faces.”

  And then they were crowding the car on either side, shoving cameras to the window, setting off flashes as I maneuvered into the underground lot.

  Soon I ushered the Mortimers into Paxton’s office.

  Within moments, the media had reassembled inside like a drifting protoplasm. The press conference began. I fetched coffee for the Mortimers. When I returned, Faraday was watching the monitor, looking pleased.

  “He’s an orator in the old-fashioned sense of the word, launching his words like rough-hewn boats into the stream,” said my boss, who was no slouch himself.

  Taking me aside, Faraday instructed me to position the Mortimers next to the senator once the press conference ended so the cameras could get a good shot at Paxton looking “presidential” comforting the parents.

  The reporters were asking Paxton to define his relationship with Emily Mortimer, the rumors that she was found naked, that she was a drug addict, that Paxton had been seen in her company late on the night she was murdered.

  The senator confirmed the late-night meeting with his aide and parried the accusatory questions with grace and goodwill. Yes, he’d spoken to the detectives. No, he couldn’t be more specific, the police had asked him not to discuss details of the case due to the pending investigation. No, he would not respond to hearsay.

  “Jeez, folks, last week all you did was harangue me on the banking inquiry. Don’t you want to hear how that’s proceeding?”

  A chorus of questions followed.

  The senator’s face eased, as though he’d stepped onto firmer ground. He looked energized and engaged.

  “One at a time. Betsy, you’re first.”

  “There are rumors that the commission you’re working with has subpoenaed records from twelve individuals high up in the regulatory chain of command. Can you release the names of those subpoenaed and what you’ve learned?”

  “That is correct and no we can’t, Betsy.”

  “Is the AG’s office preparing indictments?” asked a male reporter.

  “It’s too early to say. However, we are finding evidence of troubling ties among federal regulatory officials, banks, and lobbyists on the Hill.”

  Paxton was inundated with shouted questions. He said the committee’s work would continue through the fall and it was too early to discuss specifics.

  Neil Bernstein, the senator’s chief of staff, now bustled over to the podium.

  “All right, folks, last question.”

  “When will your report be finished, sir, and will it name names?”

  As Paxton embarked on a politician’s nonanswer, I sensed the Mortimers growing uneasy at the call-and-response, the senator’s jocular tone, the stylized theater of politics.

  A Paxton aide came scu
rrying out. “It’s time. Bring them up.”

  And then Mr. Mortimer balked.

  “I’m not going to do it,” he said, his jaw setting.

  Immediately, Faraday was at the man’s elbow. “It’s your opportunity to go on national television and ask for help in solving your daughter’s murder,” he said, his voice at once sympathetic and coaxing. “Somebody out there saw or heard something. Your plea will move them to go to the police.”

  “No thank you,” said Mrs. Mortimer, like she was declining a cucumber sandwich.

  Even as I cursed the loss of our photo op, I admired their refusal to become part of the spectacle.

  “Great,” whispered Bernie Saunders, his forehead beaded in sweat. “It’s going to blow up in our faces. I knew it.”

  Faraday pulled me aside, already scribbling. “Go up there, smiling, and give him this note. Then back the hell out.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  I walked across the stage into a sea of lights. I slid the paper on the senator’s podium, then walked away. The reporters’ faces quickened with hungry interest.

  Paxton never faltered. As he finished explaining an arcane point of the banking scandal, he opened the note and scanned it.

  “Folks, I’d hoped to have the Mortimer family here with me for this next announcement, but they have chosen to deal with their grief in private.”

  Paxton looked into the sea of faces. “I understand and respect their feelings. And I share their pain. And that’s why I’d like to announce that our office is putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Emily Mortimer’s killer.”

  A surprised murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “California’s broke,” came a cynical voice. “Where’s the money coming from?”

  “Good question, Bruce. And never fear, it’s not coming from Uncle Sam or Uncle Cal. The money is being provided by a trust, set up by my family, in recognition of the high esteem in which Emily was regarded by myself and all of our staff.”

  There was a buzz of approval.

  “What about the rumors of Emily Mortimer’s drug use?” asked a tabloid TV reporter.

  “I have no knowledge of that,” Paxton said.

  “Could you tell us when and where you saw her last?” a male voice from the back shouted. “And whether she seemed tipsy or high?”

  “The gentleman must have come in late. But for all those who slept through their alarm, I’ll repeat that the LAPD asked me not to discuss specifics of the case,” Paxton said, to a sprinkling of laughter. He made a show of gathering up his papers. “Thank you all for your time.”

  Paxton’s look of composure dissolved as he walked offstage. He looked suddenly old and tired.

  But he went straight to the Mortimers and extended his hand.

  They hesitated. Then their innate decency took over and they shook.

  “My deepest sympathies to you both,” Paxton said, as a camera flashed in the wings, unnoticed by the Mortimers.

  It was the woman I’d seen in the elevator yesterday with a salad and a smoothie. She shot off several more frames, then examined her film and smiled. And I knew that within the hour, a “compassion shot” of the senator consoling the Mortimers would be distributed to every news outlet in the country.

  “Emily was a valued member of my staff and a wonderful human being,” Paxton said.

  Mr. Mortimer looked like he might cry. Then slowly anger got the upper hand.

  “Our daughter is dead and you’re out there exploiting her murder for political gain.”

  “On the contrary,” said Paxton. “It’s a nightmare.” His voice faltered. “And it’s only begun. I . . .”

  It was almost uncanny how Faraday materialized at his side. “The senator’s overwrought,” he said. And he led Henry Paxton away.

  Within moments, Faraday was back, talking quietly and earnestly to the Mortimers.

  He gestured for them to wait a moment, then walked over to me.

  “Please go collect Emily’s things while I talk them into representation.”

  “Good luck,” I said skeptically.

  “And hurry back, I don’t want them wandering around shooting off their mouths to the press.”

  I glanced at Bernie Saunders, who was looking distinctly reptilian, as if he’d been up sick all night. A light had gone out of his eyes. I almost felt sorry for him.

  A staffer showed me to Emily’s cubicle, where two detectives were loading her personal belongings into boxes. Soon Faraday and the Mortimers joined us. Seeing a knitted blue scarf, Mrs. Mortimer gave a cry and snatched it up with such alacrity that one end of it slid across my cheek.

  I caught a whiff of cool citrus and herbs. Intrigued, I breathed in more deeply, trying to identify it. I wanted to bury my nose in it. I’d smelled this fragrance before. What was it?

  “We gave her that last year for Christmas,” Emily’s mother said, cradling the scarf against her cheek.

  “You’ll get everything back in due time, ma’am,” said the detective, his voice low and sympathetic. “I’m sorry, but right now, we’ve got to impound everything for the investigation.”

  Mrs. Mortimer’s hand trembled as she handed back her daughter’s scarf and stared blindly out the window.

  Mr. Mortimer stood stoically, patting his wife’s hands and looking lost.

  The Mortimers were silent on the drive back to Valencia, locked in private thoughts.

  When I pulled up to the alley behind the house, Mr. Mortimer extended his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Ms. Silver,” he said.

  I shook hands and tried to hide my surprise.

  “Your Mr. Faraday impressed us greatly,” Mrs. Mortimer said.

  Her husband nodded and regarded me sternly. “He’s managed to keep his integrity in this soul-sucking business. You can learn a lot from him, young woman.” He clicked his tongue. “He told us why he can’t quit. Such a shame.”

  I nodded, but my bewilderment must have shown.

  Mrs. Mortimer touched my hand. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that his wife has early-onset Alzheimer’s? Well, please don’t let on. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. But at least Mrs. Faraday led a full life, unlike our Emily . . .” Her voice wavered. “Oh, John, I’m going to start up again. We’d better go inside. I’m sorry, dear. Thank you for driving us home.”

  * * *

  When I got back to the office, Tyler handed me a menu and asked if I wanted to order in Thai food.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked forty minutes later in the lunchroom.

  “You can get the next one,” Tyler said, tucking into his pad thai.

  “Really, it’s okay,” I said.

  “Relax, Silver.” Tyler cocked his head. “Maybe I want you in my debt.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “So you’ll say yes when I suggest a drink after work.”

  Suddenly Tyler was very busy picking tiny but diabolical Thai chilies out of his food.

  Surprised, I put down my fork. “Are you asking me out?”

  “Maybe I’m considering it.”

  “Ah, I get it. You’re being facetious. You probably have a girlfriend anyway. And her name is Muffy or Buffy or Cricket. And she played lacrosse in school, while you crewed. That’s how you got those broad shoulders.”

  I bit my tongue. Now he’d know I’d been checking him out.

  “You’ve been checking me out,” Tyler said.

  I shrugged. “Hard to miss.”

  “My girlfriend’s name is Diane,” Tyler said.

  For some reason, my heart lurched.

  Tyler got up and walked to the fridge. “But we’re kind of on the outs.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” I said, between bites of Thai salad.

  It was chili-hot, spiked with tiny dried shrimp, fresh coconut, bean sprouts, peanuts, mango, and lacy purple onions. It was hard to feel sorry before such a creation. The heat of the chilies, the creamy sweetness of the
mango, the fresh lime dressing. Each bite was totally addictive.

  Tyler returned with two fruit sodas. He slid one across and I took it as a peace offering.

  “I hear Faraday locked up the Mortimers,” he said.

  “Yeah, with a big fat lie. He told them his wife has Alzheimer’s, when I know for a fact he’s not married.”

  “It’s his ex-wife, and she does have Alzheimer’s,” Tyler said.

  I chewed on that for a moment. “Maybe so, but there’s still something strange going on. When I went to pick up Emily’s parents this morning, there was a guy waiting at the curb who looked familiar. Have you seen that repairman who walks around the office sometimes in overalls, he’s got a toolbox?”

  Tyler was suddenly very busy slurping up his pad thai.

  “Does he work here?” I persisted.

  “I don’t think so,” Tyler said, rocking back on his chair. “Maybe he does odd jobs for the firm from time to time.”

  “How odd?”

  Tyler didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I could have sworn he was parked outside the Mortimer house this morning when I drove off with the parents. He was dressed like a housepainter.”

  Tyler shrugged elaborately. “Maybe if Blair can’t throw him enough business, he moonlights as a painter.”

  “I got the distinct impression he was waiting for us to leave.”

  “I think you’ve been working too hard,” Tyler said. “You’re starting to see things.”

  “He’s got a lantern jaw. And droopy eyes. And he turned away as we drove by like he didn’t want to be recognized.”

  “Forget it. You didn’t see anything.”

  “But . . .”

  “Maggie.” He placed a hand on my wrist. I glanced down and he quickly removed it.

  “You’re not listening. Forget it. What you saw. Or didn’t see. Or thought you saw. Understand?”

  But I was stubborn and didn’t like being wrong, and so his meaning filtered down only slowly.

  And when it did, I stood up, my appetite suddenly gone, the bite of scrumptious salad I’d just taken turning to straw in my mouth.

  “Hey,” said Tyler, friendly and jovial once more, “if you’re not going to finish your salad, can I have it?”