Falling Star (13 page)

Berta looked up. "I presume Miles had a key
to the box?"

"No. He was a signatory but I had both
keys."

"Then how would he have been able to get
in?"

Natalie hesitated. "I believe he took one of
my keys the night before he went to the bank."

Berta frowned. "Took it? From where?"

"He knew that I had it taped to the underside
of a desk drawer. In my study at home. Now it's gone."

"At home." Berta arched her brows. "And how
would he have gotten into your home? I thought you two were living
separately."

Natalie felt a flush rise on her cheeks. "He
got in ... on a pretext."

"Ah." Berta nodded slowly. "I think I get the
picture."

Natalie felt her face grow hotter. "I'm still
amazed there's no copy of the prenup in the file you inherited from
Henry," she said hurriedly, eager to move on. "He was my attorney
for years and I would swear he kept a copy of every document he
drafted."

"I'm sure he did. The only way I can explain
it is that the paralegal who went through Henry's files after he
died threw it out. Or misfiled it. You'd be amazed how often that
happens. And now we're looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Aren't these things a matter of public
record? Filed in a court somewhere?"

Berta shook her head. "No. They're like
wills."

It boggled the mind. People's lives depending
on slips of paper so easily lost. "And I suppose Miles's former
attorney has no incentive to come forward with his copy?"

"None, even if he still has one. So far he
hasn't returned my phone calls. I'll subpoena him if I have
to."

"And Miles's new attorney?"

Berta threw up her hands. "For all we know,
Miles is telling him there's no prenup. That's certainly what
Johnny would want to believe. That makes it a much more compelling
case. More money. A better story, so more publicity. Two of John
Bangs Jr.'s greatest motivators."

Berta pronounced the name with the derision
it deserved, in Natalie's opinion. She'd never liked "Johnny," as
he called himself, from the moment he'd started making headlines as
the divorce attorney to the stars. He'd quickly become as famous as
his clients, routinely appearing in the tabloids alongside his
plaintiff or defendant du jour. Johnny Bangs with his mane of
silver hair, deeply tanned face, and bespoke suits and shoes.

The women stared at each other, the pristine
ivory office silent save for the soft whir of the dictaphone.

"Without a prenup," Natalie murmured, "Miles
could claim half the assets remaining from the marriage?"

Berta nodded. "According to the
community-property laws in the state of California."

"And the fact that I'm the one who created
almost all those assets is irrelevant?"

"When it comes down to it, who earned what is
not relevant. But remember, the only thing that's unusual in your
case, and even that's becoming more common, is that the high earner
was the wife, not the husband."

"Great." Natalie smiled ruefully. "I'm a
pioneer." A dozen years of marriage and Miles's income was spotty
at best, though to all appearances he'd made a fortune before she
met him. How could he score such a huge early success in the sitcom
world and then fare so badly?

Berta was brisk. "Natalie, I'll need you to
compile financial records from all twelve years of the marriage.
We'll review them together and then provide photocopies to Miles
and Johnny. They'll have to go through the same exercise, of
course."

Natalie grimaced. "I'm embarrassed to admit
it but Miles handled all our finances. I literally have no idea
what's there."

"Well, now's the time to find out."

Natalie nodded, suddenly unable to speak. She
felt her throat constrict as if strong-fingered hands were
clutching it, choking off the air.
What if Miles gets away with
this outrageous claim? I'd lose the house. I'd lose a huge chunk of
my investments, and my retirement savings.

Right when I could lose my job.

Berta must have picked up on something,
because she leaned forward to rub Natalie's hand. "We'll fight
them. Don't worry. I'll have a paralegal go through what's left of
Henry's files, again. We may still find the prenup."

Natalie nodded, mute.

"Look." Berta clicked off the dictaphone.
"It's not an ideal situation, but don't despair. We're just getting
started."

Natalie raised the porcelain cup with a shaky
hand.
You're right, Berta. A lying, cheating, thieving husband
suing for half your property is not an ideal situation.

*

Tony stared at the spread on pages six and
seven of the catalogue he'd picked up at John Morse Lexus/Cadillac,
careful to keep it flat on his desk so no one in the newsroom could
see what he was reading. It didn't exactly qualify as
news-related.

He licked his lips. The Cadillac DeVille DTS.
Big, silver, three hundred horsepower, the kind of car Old Man
Bergamini cruised around in on Sunday mornings in Queens to take
the family to 9:15 Mass at Most Holy Redeemer. All six Bergaminis
fit inside, and looked damned comfortable, too, even Two-Ton Tina
in the backseat.

A helluva contrast to the Scoppio clan, the
five of them crammed inside the '53 Chevy his parents had owned for
a decade, the interior stinked up by the acetone his father used to
scrub off the shoe polish that stained his fingers his entire life.
All those years Cosimo Scoppio owned that goddamn shoe repair shop
and never once did his hands lose the stain of that polish.

Tony looked down at his own thick fingers
clutching the catalogue. He could picture his own Sunday scene:
Anna-Maria in the DeVille, her silver-blond hair dolled up, wearing
something she'd picked up from Neiman or Saks, and not from the
sale rack, either. Other men in his position might want a Beemer or
a Mercedes but he knew what he liked. Anna-Maria would look good in
a Caddy. 'Course they couldn't get the kids to go with them to
Mass, that had ended years ago, but he and Anna-Maria could park in
a primo spot, then stroll up the aisle to a front pew, tossing a
couple twenties in the collection basket when the time came. Not
even use the church envelopes, just so everybody could see how much
they gave.

And it could happen. If he got the newscast
to number one in the ratings. If he got the news department out of
the red. And if that pecker Pemberley stuck to the incentive deal
he'd promised when Tony had signed.

"May I bother you for a moment?"

Damn.
Kelly. He shoved the catalogue
underneath some folders but knew he hadn't been fast enough. He saw
her big brown eyes flicker down, then up again.
Damn. Was she
laughing at him?

And what the hell was she wearing?

"I know this is a difficult time, Tony, what
with all the problems with Natalie. I feel just terrible for her."
Kelly settled herself in the chair in front of his desk and raised
her eyes to his. He struggled not to let his own eyes drop, where,
goddamn, there was a helluva view. "And for you," she added.

He squinted at her. This chick was a sly one.
"Why for me?" he asked.

"Well, here you are, Tony, trying to repair
the damage to this newsroom from years of poor management, and your
main female anchor is having emotional problems that are affecting
her work on air. I know you're being sensitive to her needs, but
you have a newsroom to run. It puts a great deal of pressure on
you."

He settled back and crossed his hands over
his paunch, peering at Kelly over his half glasses.
What the
hell did she want? And why was she dressed like a
streetwalker?

"After all, I owe a great deal to Natalie,"
she added.

Yeah, he'd heard something about that.
Natalie was some kind of mentor to Kelly when Kelly was in college,
even got her an internship at KXLA. The things women did—it was
nuts sometimes.

He glanced at Kelly and noticed her staring
at him. Then—
was he seeing things?
—he could swear she batted
her eyes.

Tony squirmed. It made him
uncomfortable—that's all he knew. Very uncomfortable.

"I have to admit I have an ulterior motive,"
she went on. Giggle, giggle. Bat, bat. No, he hadn't imagined it.
She looked away, which gave him a chance to scan the scenery.
Hot damn
. He felt himself stir, which hadn't happened for a
long time. Christ, he'd had the other problem lately.

"I'm thinking Natalie will want to take a few
days off, what with everything that's been going on."

He practically guffawed, but Kelly didn't
seem to notice. He'd have to blast Princess out of the anchor
chair. She probably had it soldered to her butt.

"Personally, as a woman, I think it would do
her a world of good to get some well-deserved R and R." Kelly
raised her eyes to his and instantly Tony snapped to attention. "If
that happens, Tony, would you let me fill in for her?"

That was it. Interesting.
Howard had
come babbling to him with something about Kelly filling in.

"You may not be aware," she went on, "that I
did a great deal of fill-in anchoring when I worked in Palm
Springs." She held up a tape. "May I?"

Why the hell not?
He nodded and she
made her way across his office, her hips bumping and grinding like
nobody's business. Shit, if he did let her fill in, maybe she and
Ken could do the news standing up. He thought it looked stupid on
Channel 14 but they didn't have this kind of raw material to work
with.

Kelly rolled the tape, and he had to admit,
she wasn't bad. Too much makeup but that rarely hurt the
numbers.

They watched in silence and he saw her glance
at him a time or two, like she hoped he didn't notice. He kept his
face noncommittal.

"So what do you think?" She was up close
then—
how the hell had she made it across his office so
fast?
—leaning toward him, her voice husky. He kept his eyes
glued to her face, which required big-time effort. Her boobs were
practically falling out onto his desk.

"How about filling in Friday night?" he heard
himself ask.

She smiled. "Perfect." Then she leaned over
more and he got a good whiff of her. Baby powder and musky perfume.
"Tony, you won't regret giving me this opportunity."

He watched her sashay out. True. He saw no
regrets on the horizon. But he did want to make one change to her
plan. Not Kelly and Ken. Kelly and Natalie. Now
that
he'd
like to see.

*

Geoff stood in the contemporary two-storied
space that served as his living room, studying with
uncharacteristic nervousness the sleek green Italian marble clock
on the pristine white wall. Its ticking reverberated in the modern
hollowness. When he saw that the clock's slim gold hands indicated
9:54 PM, his heart rate picked up yet again.

It was ten o'clock and he hadn't asked her
yet. He'd meant to do it at dinner but hadn't. Somehow the right
moment never came.

He reached into his jacket pocket and touched
the little black velvet box. Still there.

He doffed his jacket and tossed it on the
sofa.
Well
, he decided,
this would keep
. He could
hear Janet upstairs running a bath and knew she'd be happily
occupied for some time. No doubt, he told himself, an opportunity
would present itself later in the weekend.

He strode across the hardwood to the spindly
metal-and-glass sideboard, the only other item in the room apart
from the sofa and two writhing metallic sculptures. His designer
had thrown up her hands and dismissed the decor as "spartan" but
Geoff didn't care. Long before the designer's fussy arrival, he had
decided that naturally beautiful spaces didn't require much
decoration. He sloshed two fingers of scotch in a tumbler and threw
it back.

He refreshed his glass and walked into the
adjacent home theater, the only room that made any concession to
plushness. It was thickly carpeted and equipped with an enormous
screen and four rows of crimson velvet seats, three on each side,
the same as would be found in any cinema, only wildly more
comfortable. He played with a few knobs at the rear controls and
switched from video to television, surfing for Channel 12. It was
9:58. He might as well catch
The KXLA Primetime News
while
Janet was soaking.

The show opened. An unfamiliar female voice
pierced the theater's silence. Geoff frowned and settled himself in
a seat, watching the screen fill with video of a gargantuan
fire.

"Tonight, allegations that yesterday's deadly
refinery fire in Torrance may have stemmed from human error."

Who was
that
? The screen wiped from
the fire video to a warship at sea. To his relief he heard
Natalie's husky, commanding voice.

"The Pentagon sends another battalion to the
Adriatic Sea, as U.S. troops already in that region remain on high
alert."

Then the other woman again, in a lighter
tone, over video of a Hollywood party. "And actress Hope Dalmont
wraps her final scene on the final film of her career, just weeks
before taking on the biggest role of her life—bride to the world's
most eligible bachelor, Prince Albert of Monaco."

KXLA's pulsating news theme filled the
theater. Geoff put aside his scotch and leaned forward, hands
clasped between his knees, impatient to see Natalie and this
mystery coanchor.

Fade up from black to a wide shot of the two
anchors on set. He focused his gaze first on Natalie.

A vision in a turquoise suit, she looked in
control, confident. He realized that he'd begun to worry about her
on-air performance. Those flubs she'd made in the last few weeks
were the first chinks he'd ever seen in her professional armor. It
was jarring, like a star quarterback suddenly throwing lots of
interceptions.