Dead File (34 page)
As Rob Reordan’s boss at Channel Six, Capra had spoken first. Eloquently, for him. Then Maxi. Glowingly. Wendy passed; besides the fact that the man tried to steal her work, it was fairly well known, though she had the grace not to mention it today, that she never liked him anyway. Now, while others spoke, the three stood apart from the crowd, chatting softly with each other, waiting for a graceful time to make their exit. As was the case every day, they had a full slate of news shows to put on the air.
Dominating the news all week was the aftermath of the scandalous Gillian Rose case. Sandie Schaeffer was in custody, facing a murder trial. Her distinguished father, in his wheelchair, had been showing up on every channel, standing by his daughter, arguing for the insanity plea. Beside him always, her hand on the back of his chair, was Barbara Jean Martin, B.J. They were obviously a couple now. Maxi felt very good about that.
BriteEyes was dead. Bill Schaeffer would never sell his glaucoma formula for the purpose that Gillian had intended, and the story was too widely publicized now for Carter Rose to be able to steal it and proceed with the lab work that Gillian had done. Besides, Rose was facing prison time on a conspiracy rap.
Goodman Penthe got out of his deal to buy Rose International on a contingency; since the company was now tainted with both murder and fiscal corruption, he successfully took the position that consumers would no longer support the Rose brand. Only Maxi knew that the real deal breaker for Penthe was the demise of BriteEyes.
Beautiful Kendyl Scott was free on an immunity deal, and was making the rounds as a prominent guest on the national talk-show circuit. So far she’d been offered a cameo role in a Bruce Willis movie, a recurring part on a daily soap, and a regular panel slot on a revival of
The Gong Show.
This story wasn’t going to go away soon. The media were pouncing on every angle and sidebar—even the supermarket tabloids were full of it—and the country was getting to know all the players well. As is always the case when a story grabs the attention of the nation, news viewership was up, and the saga in all of its ramifications was on everybody’s minds and lips, including those of the three Channel Six News journalists. It was all anybody in their circles had been talking about since the Sandie Schaeffer meltdown last Monday.
Reporter Maxi Poole had since declined all offers to do print interviews, or go on local or national radio and television shows and talk about it. She told each editor and producer who called that she didn’t march in the parade, she just reported on it.
“We should get going,” Wendy said.
“Yeah,” Maxi concurred. “I’m doing a piece on the availability of the new anthrax and botulism antidotes for the Four.”
“I still can’t believe how lucky you were that most of the paramedics in the country have been carrying them as staples since nine-eleven,” Wendy marveled. “I hate to think—”
“Then don’t,” Pete squelched her.
“Gracious, as usual,” Wendy groused, tossing him a sour look. “What
I
can’t believe is that the nine-one-one dispatcher didn’t think you were one of the usual nuts who call in and make them crazy,” Pete put in.
“I talked to her yesterday,” Maxi said. “To thank her. And I asked her why she didn’t just hang up on me with my insane story. She said she recognized my voice, so she knew it really was me. Lucky break.”
“Why didn’t you call
me?
” Pete asked. “You just went running off into the night with your devil eyes and I had no idea what the hell was going on.”
“I was so crazed to find out what poison it was I couldn’t much think about anything else. And I thought everything would be okay if I got to Saint Joe’s on time.”
“What did your mother and father have to say?” Pete asked. Brigitte and Maxwell Poole had been hip-deep in Maxi’s last deadly imbroglio, and Pete remembered well that they had not been pleased.
“Oh boy. I thought I’d just spare them this one,” Maxi said. “I should have realized they couldn’t escape the story. Dad was majorly ticked that he had to hear about it on the news.”
“Yup. Their well-bred daughter in yet another tabloid cat-fight.” Pete smirked.
“Speaking of Sandie the cat, here’s something I still don’t understand,” Wendy said. “Explain to me again why she faked a coma and amnesia. And how the hell do you fake a coma, anyway?”
“Easy,” Pete tossed out. “You lie there, you keep your eyes closed, and you don’t talk. I have reporters who fake comas all the time.”
“She did it so no one would suspect her of poisoning Gillian,” Maxi said. “And nobody did.”
“And Carter Rose completely staged that would-be attack on himself, and even called a news conference about it,” Wendy said.
“Because he wanted the police to look for a murderer,” from Maxi.
“But he didn’t
do
it! He didn’t kill his wife. So why would he pull a stunt like that?” Wendy asked.
“Good question. You two know that since my insane bout with Sandie Schaeffer I’ve had many hours of conversation with the detectives, and I asked them about that. They told me they knew from the get-go that Carter Rose was lying about that attack. There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle, none of the help saw anything. . . .”
“So why didn’t they nail him with it?” from an incredulous Wendy.
“My question to them precisely. Salinger said they actually suspected Rose of murder because Gillian’s divorce lawyer came forward and told them she was divorcing him. That gave him motive. And that faked attack made them suspect him even more. So instead of tagging him with falsifying a crime report, which they couldn’t prove anyway, they decided to wait and watch him.”
“He
knew
they suspected him of murdering Gillian?” Pete asked.
“Evidently from the morning he got in from Taiwan, when they interrogated him for three hours at Parker Center. They got from that session that this was definitely not a grieving widower, and they let him know that.”
“So he faked an attack on himself to throw off the blame. Does he think they’re all stupid?” Wendy asked.
“Actually, yes,” Maxi confirmed. “Salinger and Barnett told me that’s how this kind of man thinks. He’s extremely arrogant.”
“I say he’s a nut-ball. That whole crowd deserved each other,” Wendy tossed out.
Pete was thoughtful. “You know,” he said then, “Sandie Schaeffer almost pulled off the perfect murder. If Maxi hadn’t stumbled on the clues, no one would ever have suspected her of killing Gillian Rose because she wanted the patent on the BriteEyes product, and—”
“Excuse me, boss,” Maxi interrupted adamantly. “
Stumbled
on the clues? That was not
stumbling,
sir. That was solid investigative journalism.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pete conceded grudgingly. “And there’ll be a little something extra in your paycheck.”
“Right, like always.” Maxi sneered.
Wendy was still thinking about the fascinating case theory. “And if the police
did
suspect murder, Sandie wanted the blame thrown on Carter Rose,” she said.
“Yes,” Maxi agreed. “She knew about the lab work that Gillian had done on the formula—that’s how she knew this product was going to be the golden goose. She had every intention of running with it, and it would have been even easier with Carter totally preoccupied. Like in prison.”
“And she kept tossing
you
some bones so you’d put her version of things on the air, reinforce it with news credibility, right?” Wendy finished.
“You’ve got it. It almost worked, too,” Maxi mused. “If it hadn’t been for the dead file—”
Maxi looked up just then to see Sunday Trent making her way across the grass toward them. “Well! Look who’s here, Wendy,” she said.
When Sunday caught up with the trio, she was grabbed in a bear hug by both the women, which totally surprised the young intern. “Wow!” she said when they let her go. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“Hey, Sun, good news,” Wendy said. “I got you a job.”
“Huh?” This from Sunday, still overwhelmed by the enthusiasm directed her way by her two women news idols.
“First, we finish up my book next week. Then you report to Channel Nine—to news director Nancy Bauer. You’re their new editorial assistant on the weekend news. If you work out, there’s a full-time slot on the writing staff waiting for you when you graduate in June.”
Sunday was beaming. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll work out. I’ll work my butt off—you both can count on that.”
“We know,” Maxi said.
Pete was gaping happily at Sunday, who was dressed in a thigh-high, skintight black miniskirt topped with a cropped, black fur-lined jeans jacket, black pantyhose, and high-heeled black suede boots: her funeral attire.
“Terrific body!” he said to her with a leer.
“Pete!”
Maxi and Wendy wailed in unison.
“You can’t
say
that to a woman,” Maxi admonished.
“It’s
sexist,
” Wendy said.
“It could be construed as sexual harassment. We have lawsuits like that on the news all the time. For God’s sake, don’t you
see
that, boss?” Maxi pleaded.
“Sunday, tell him,” Wendy said. “Maybe he needs to hear it from someone else besides the two of us.”
“Tell him what?” Sunday asked.
“Tell him when he makes a remark about your body, you’re offended.”
“Offended? I
love
it,” Sunday fairly squealed. “Why do you think I kill myself in the gym at six o’clock every morning? To hear guys tell me I have a great body, that’s why. Thanks, Pete,” she directed at the man. “You’re such a teddy bear.”
She flashed Capra a megawatt smile as she turned to continue on her way. Capra watched her retreating backside admiringly, then responded to Maxi and Wendy with an I-rest-my-case palms-up and a big, self-satisfied grin. The two women could only roll their eyes. Sunday was no help, and Capra was hopeless.
The appearance of Sunday Trent had reminded them of the shameful saga of Wendy’s book. Since it had been brought to light that
Don’t Be Dumpy
was in fact the intellectual property of Los Angeles television news producer Wendy Harris, that the author called Sophia LeGrande did not exist, and that her alias was no longer among the living, the other literary agent had dropped all claims to it.
Maxi looked out toward the flower-bedecked casket and murmured to both her companions, “Do you think Rob actually thought he could get away with it?”
“Sure,” Pete said. “All Rob had to do was hide behind the fictitious skirts of Sophia LeGrande, who was a very shy author, or maybe an extremely busy one, because she would never make any personal appearances. It was a beautiful scam, if you think about it.” Clearly this was a subject that intrigued Pete Capra.
“And where would the publisher have sent the fictitious Ms. Sophia’s money?” Wendy asked, a subject that intrigued her.
“To Sophia LeGrande’s bank account, wherever Rob set it up,” Pete said.
“What about her taxes?” Maxi asked.
“Ha! The IRS would never find her,” Pete said, “because she didn’t exist. It was beautiful.”
For a couple of moments of contemplative silence, they all looked over at the coffin again.
“What a guy,” Pete finally said. “What an asshole,” Wendy muttered.
F
riday night. Home from work. The end of an emotional day
.
The end of a bizarre and dangerous week. The end of a roller-coaster case that had spawned a blockbuster news story. Maxi was completely drained. She was curled up on the couch in her cozy living room in Beverly Glen, in sweats and her comfy sheepskin slippers, with Yukon stretched out on the floor at her feet. Too tired even to get up and go to bed.
When the phone rang.
It was Richard Winningham, calling from Tel Aviv.
“Capra told me your eyes were shocking hot pink on the air,” he said. “You’ve just gotta get more sleep, sweetie.”
“Um … well, actually, what happened was—”
“I know, I know—I got the whole story. About a dozen people e-mailed me about it, including Pete. And I read all about it in the
International Herald Tribune.
Are you okay, Maxi?”
“I’m fine. Are you coming home, Richard?” she heard herself asking.
“Yup, one of these months. Dinner at Spago?”
“You’re on.”
MAXI POOLE AND I WANT TO THANK SOME VERY IMPORTANT FRIENDS OF OURS WHO HELPED GET
DEAD FILE
“BANGED OUT AND ON THE AIR,” AS THE HARDWORKING FOLKS IN THE SWEATY NEWSROOM AT FICTIONAL CHANNEL SIX NEWS WOULD SAY:
My thanks to dynamic NBC-4 News producer
Wendy Harris,
the soul of the newsroom and my longtime friend, who plays herself in all my books.
And to my former news director
Tom Capra,
who would jump on the desk in the newsroom and point and scream,
“You, get a vest on and scout the riot area! You, get downtown and smoke out the mayor!”
(and who would get severely cranky every time he gave up smoking); and my former managing editor
Pete Noyes,
who was known to punch out a reporter for burying the lead (before they put you in jail for that). Together these two inspired my character, Maxi Poole’s boss, Pete Capra. Thanks, guys, and don’t get mad.
I’m indebted to
Dr. Paul Khasigian
of the California Poison Control System, Fresno/Madera division, for teaching me how to poison someone and get away with it; to
Detective Sergeant Richard Longshore
of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau for shepherding me through two weeks of “murder” school; to
Assistant Chief Juan Jimenez
of the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Investigations Division for a tour of the morgue, with lunch (yes, they do that!); and to
Dr. Rick Gold
at Cedars, medical adviser to me and all the doctors in
Dead File.
I owe
Dead File
and Maxi Poole’s very life to my editor
Sara Ann Freed,
the sage of Warner Books’ Mysterious Press and America’s undisputed queen of the mystery genre.
