Immaculate Reception (18 page)

That got a slight smile out of the bastard. He said, “Ramona's girlfriend had a birthday party out in San Fernando the night our Jesuit brother was killed. So he calls his legal aid attorney at two this morning and says the girlfriend's got a videotape of the birthday party complete with Ramona dancing the macarena.”

Honnett called out to a guy named Randy in the booth, and soon the video operator began to roll tape on the monitor in our little alcove. I watched as Ramona and friends drank beer and generally had a great time. There was a date and time stamp on the bottom left of the frame. Thursday
night at 9:30 p.m. There was no way Ramona could have simultaneously been at Warner Bros. in Burbank killing a Jesuit.

“Are you sure this wasn't doctored?” I asked, knowing of course it would have been checked.

“We're sure. So isn't this just what you were trying to tell me, Madeline? That you didn't buy it for a minute that a gangbanger did the job on Brother Frank?”

“Yes. It was impossible. But what I don't understand is why that idiot Ramona went and confessed to something he couldn't have done.”

“You'll like this,” Honnett said in a weary voice. “I hate it, so I know you'll like it. It seems Ramona's sister was nervous. She was afraid that if someone wasn't arrested for the murder of this Roman Catholic brother, the pope might cancel his trip to L.A. She had tickets for the mass.”

I looked at him, almost ready to laugh. “She didn't want to lose her seats?”

“She told him it was a blessing in the eyes of the church. He'd go sit in county lockup for a few days, something I might add he'd had plenty of experience with, and then once the pope was out of town, he could recant his confession. She came up with this brilliant idea because she had been on that fundraising trip to Warner Bros. and she figured he could just lie and say he'd been there, too.”

I could almost see their cockeyed logic. “They both were counting on the fact that the LAPD were pretty eager to arrest someone, and a Latino gangmember would make you guys salivate.”

“Well, whatever,” Honnett grumbled. “We look for nut jobs to give false confessions, not hard cases like Ramona. Anyway, it turns out that life inside our county jail was more of a trauma than Ramona expected. A gang member usually gets left alone in lockup, but when the guy is the confessed murderer of a priest, the regular rules don't apply. He was roughed up pretty bad. As soon as he heard that the pope's plane had landed, he demanded his release.”

“So that leaves you without a suspect in the murder of Brother Frank.”

“For the moment,” Honnett agreed.

“There a Miss Bean here?” called out a P.A. who had just answered the booth phone.

“That's me.” I picked up the extension on the desk in front of me.

“Miss Bean?” a male voice inquired. “This is Richard Burke. I hope I'm not bothering you at a busy time.”

The mayor. The mayor was calling me and hoping he wasn't being a bother.

“No, sir,” I said. I hate it when I say “sir.” It just slipped out.

“I'm in my car just heading over to the Mayfield, now,” the mayor said. “I should be there any time, but I wanted to take a minute to let you know what a bang-up job you're doing. You saved the city's butt. We'd gotten a bad start, I'm afraid, with the wrong folks trying to take on this big an event. Well, I wanted to let you know I'm proud of you, Miss Bean.”

“Thank you.”

“There's been nothing but praise for how well you've planned this event. From the archdiocese, from the city, from the music center, from security. I'd like to show our appreciation. Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you'd like?”

“A free lifetime parking pass for the beach lot in Santa Monica?” I asked, back to my old self.

“Ah, if it were only possible,” the mayor said, chuckling, “but, alas, this isn't Chicago.”

In awe, I hung up and said, as nonchalantly as I could manage, “The mayor.”

“Congratulations,” Honnett said.

On the multiple screens on the wall, we could see guests arriving on the red carpet in front of the fountains as well as several views of the Otis Mayfield. One monitor displayed the slowly panning overhead view from the blimp,
showing the entire auditorium complex below with the streets clogged with traffic.

On one screen, we could see the news reporter talking to the later-arriving dignitaries. On another screen, one marked Camera 6, Bill the cameraman was taking random shots of people coming out of the security tent. This camera shot was not being broadcast live, but was probably being saved to tape for a later program where an editor would select shots to compile a montage of arrivals and partygoers.

A group of three nuns in black habits walked out of the security tent and headed for the main doors of the Mayfield. A guard there opened the door for them to enter. Right behind them was a face I would never forget. It was the dark-haired, out-of-shape, red-faced bastard who had accosted me in the parking lot of St. Bede's Church.

“Honnett,” I said. My voice must have been pretty charged, because I grabbed the attention of everyone working in that small room.

The director even paused between saying “Ready Camera Four…” and the next command to his assistant, which should have been “Take Four.”

Instead, all of KTLA's viewers were momentarily stuck on the shot coming from Camera 1, the closeup of the anchorman back in KTLA's studio, while I blurted out to the whole control truck, “That's the man who attacked me at the church!”

The director urgently spoke into his headset, “Okay Bill, get focus on the guy in the navy blazer. Ready Six, take Six!”

Broadcast live all over the city was a closeup of the man who had tried to scare me off from working on this event. I was too excited to stay seated.

“Are you sure?” Honnett asked, while simultaneously giving directions into his radio.

“Positive,” I said.

I could hear the anchorman's voice talking over the live video shot of my attacker, who was now walking across
the open plaza toward the entrance of the Mayfield. The announcer was saying that they had received word that this man may be wanted by the police. I'd just heard the assistant director speaking almost the same exact words into his headset the moment before. These boys were fast.

Into the picture stepped a half dozen plainclothesmen, who circled my nemesis. All of this was going out live to the city.

“Get his badge,” the director whispered into the headset to his cameraman.

The shot on our monitor zoomed and quickly pulled into focus. The badge read Michael Stone.

“The name mean anything to you?” Honnett asked from the door of the truck, about to charge out.

“Nothing,” I said. “But it's him.”

Honnett left the booth and the voiceover of the announcer kept repeating the very little that was known about the situation they had been lucky enough to have fall into their laps.

“Apparently,” the man's voice announced, “this man, Michael Stone, is being detained by security forces including the LAPD, the FBI, and we understand, even members of the pope's own Swiss guard. It's interesting to note that the Swiss guard, when traveling with the pope, forego their customary uniforms the world has grown to love with the bright red and yellow stripes…”

“Ready Camera Two…take Two” the director instructed.

By now more cameramen had gotten into position. Camera 2 had a different angle, showing the phalanx of security operatives surrounding Stone and moving him out of sight into the white tent.

As Camera 2 pulled in to follow their retreating backs, the director was readying the next shot. “Okay, ready Camera One…Take One”. He snapped his fingers, giving the exact cue for the live cut to the technical director, who was pushing the buttons on the console. As the shot changed
on the director's monitor, which displayed the show as it was being broadcast to the folks at home, I watched as the mayor's limousine pulled up and the field reporter began to inform the people at home that Mayor Burke had arrived.

My radio squawked and I answered. Wesley was wondering where the heck I was. He told me Arlo had been there a while and was looking for me. He said Holly still couldn't locate Donald and she was getting antsy. And, he'd just heard from Xavier that the pope was going to be delayed. I looked at my watch. It was already nearly eight o'clock. We agreed to meet up in the main theater/ballroom, where the doors would be opened to the throng in five minutes.

As I stepped to the door of the truck I noticed on the broadcast monitor that Mayor Burke and his entourage did not go through the main security checkpoint, but proceeded directly to the pavilion. The mayor was just outside, only a few steps away from where this KTLA truck was parked, and if I opened the door I would probably see him. I was about to do just that when out of the corner of my eye, something caused me to stop and do a double take. The director had cut to another camera angle.

Victor Zoda, smiling and waving to the crowds in the temporary grandstands, was walking into the main entrance of the Otis Mayfield Pavilion. He had not been detained, as Detective Chuck Honnett had assured me. He had bypassed the security checkpoint because he was in the mayor's party.

In a panic, I pulled open the door. The bright Sunday morning light dazzled me as I stepped out of the dark control booth truck. Shielding my eyes, I tried to get my bearings in the real world and then I spotted the tail end of the mayor's entourage across the large open square as they slipped inside the Mayfield. I became aware of voices around me, as news producers followed me out of the truck with questions. Who was that man, Michael Stone, anyway? Why was he being held?

It was not Michael Stone that I was worried about. I began running. I had to find Honnett. Victor Zoda had not been stopped by security. And now, Victor Zoda was inside the most rigorously guarded building in Los Angeles.

I
ran as quickly as I could, whipping across the plaza, past the fountain, and up the steps of the Mayfield Pavilion. My black shoes had tall chunky heels and a thick ankle strap, so at least I didn't run out of them. At the door to the Mayfield, there was a line of guests waiting to be admitted. I pushed to the front, excusing myself as I elbowed aside the wife of the city's chief of police.

“You have a security band radio,” I said to the guard at the door. “Call Detective Chuck Honnett!” The guard was asking me to slow down and repeat that name. Hell! I waved my badge in his face and entered the noisy foyer of the Mayfield. Just as I stepped inside, I saw two thousand expectant guests begin gathering outside the doors of the auditorium. As I moved among them, looking for Zoda, looking for Honnett, looking for someone, anyone, the inner doors opened and the crush of the well-dressed and well-connected attendees surged towards the reconfigured theater.

The sounds of oohs and ahs rippled back toward me as each wave of guests entered the space, amazed by the splendor, startled to find themselves stepping upon a suspended floor with an ethereal glow. Damn it! I love this part of the event. And instead of standing with Wesley, feeling duly proud, I was desperate to get to Honnett so he could round up Zoda.

The guests had been assigned tables according to a care
fully worked out seating chart. The design of that chart had taken the full attention for two weeks of a committee of fourteen from the mayor's office, ten from the county supervisor's office, and Cardinal O'Grady's four top aides.

I scanned the crowd, but there were too many suits, too much movement. As the guests were finding their tables and chatting with friends, I kept my eye out for Zoda. I immediately looked at the mayor's table. No one was there yet.

I felt a sudden increase in heat, a frisson of electric current as someone approached from behind and touched my elbow. I jumped from the warmth of that contact and spun to see Chuck Honnett, tall and at ease, as always.

“Simmer down,” Honnett said, kindly. “It's me.”

Like that wasn't the whole problem.

“My God, I'm so happy you found me,” I said, taking a deep breath, my first in too long a time.

“Don't worry. We got Zoda. The security boys just called. They're holding Zoda in the tent outside.”

“Thank goodness,” I said, relieved. The kaleidoscope of the room seemed to focus back to its usual appearance. I could now actually make out faces of people I recognized. Many of the county supervisors were present, and I was surprised to see a familiar ponytail over the collar of a tailored suit coat. I didn't see the man's face, but I thought it must have been Carlos Schwartz. Fancy that. I even spotted the mayor in the crowd. Zoda was no longer with his group.

“We picked up that fellow, Michael Stone,” Honnett said, as we continued to watch the people find their places and pick up their menus. “I think he's the guy, all right. His sister-in-law is miserable, so he's been taking it upon himself to harass you.”

I looked at him utterly confused.

“She and her guild at St. Bartholomew's were originally in charge of organizing this party. They do quite a good job, I hear, raising money for their school. But when this
job got too political, the mayor stopped making nice with the church and hired you.”

“I knew the city hadn't been satisfied with the previous caterer. I just had no idea I'd replaced a group of well-meaning church ladies.”

“Well, Stone isn't so well-meaning. He just wanted to throw a scare into you, he said. But we'll get his prints, and if they match the ones we found near the power plant downstairs, we can write him up.”

As groups and clusters of guests began to settle into their seats around us, I noticed the woman in the eggplant-colored suit. She had found her table, located near the center of the massive room, and was setting her large tote bag on the empty seat beside her. On the other side of the tote bag sat a tall nun.

I thought I'd better warn the sister to keep her plate as far away as possible from that tote bag. And then I relaxed. Looking closely, I realized it was Holly. And Holly could fend for herself.

The reaction to our menu was gratifying. As waiters circulated, collecting the engraved order forms from each table, I could hear comments from those sitting closest to me.

“I love asparagus,” I heard one woman say to her companion.

I smiled and Honnett looked over at me, interested.

“What's that?” he asked.

“We're trying some unusual combinations. This is a pretty conservative crowd, so there was a question if all the items would fly. That woman mentioned my favorite, the asparagus frittata with avocado and bacon in warm lemon vinaigrette.”

Honnett gave me a full look into his clear blue eyes and said, smiling slowly, “You make me hungry.”

I laughed.

Allen, my favorite waiter, came up to me with a Diet Coke, which I will happily drink any time of the day.

“Madeline, we got a pair of Demento sisters at Table
Nineteen. You gotta check them out. They're sitting right next to Arlo,” Allen said, amused.

I looked back over to the table in the center of the room. Two plump thirtysomething women were huddled together, talking to a waitress. Near them, Arlo was seated, looking forlorn. Next to Arlo was Sister Holly, then a tote bag full of doggie and finally eggplant woman. What a table. I could see Arlo craning his neck around and knew he was bugged I hadn't said hello.

“'Scuse me,” I said to Honnett, and turned to Allen and whispered, “bring the lieutenant here some of the asparagus frittata.”

I drifted my way among the round tables, with their candles all aglow, brushing against the backs of chairs covered in gold embroidered gauze, smelling the lovely scent of the two thousand flower garlands in the room.

As I worked my way to Table Nineteen, I overheard a conversation that had been in progress for some time.

“I can't eat this!” one of the women was saying, plaintively, to the waitress as I approached.

“It's not on our list,” said the other woman. “Haven't you got anything we can eat?”

“I'm sure we can prepare something,” the waitress said. By her cheerfulness, I could tell she was on a tight schedule and had spent too much time with these ladies.

“We can eat broccoli,” one woman said to the other, after digging through her bag and coming up with a wrinkled sheet of paper.

“But only with celery,” the other said, looking at the list.

“We don't have broccoli,” the waitress replied.

Arlo looked up and saw me there. “This has been going on for ten minutes,” he whispered. “If they don't shut up and eat something I'm going to shoot myself.”

“Cope, Arlo,” I said.

“Mad!” Holly was seated next to Arlo. “Have you seen Donald? I'm really worried about him.”

“Did you come here together this morning?” I asked her, concerned.

“Yep. And he went to the men's room and that's the last I saw of him.”

“He'll turn up,” I said. “I'll mention it to Honnett, okay? They'll find him for you.”

“Thanks, Mad. You're a doll.”

“So, ‘doll,'” Arlo said, putting his arm around me. With Arlo seated at the table and me standing, that meant his hand was resting on my, well, behind. He seemed content. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if the table of nuns next to us was praying for my soul.

“This won't do,” said the plump woman to her friend across the table.

The waitress had just brought her a dish of melon.

“We can't eat fruit until after two o'clock. You're going to have to take this away.”

“Right now,” the second woman agreed.

The first woman took a large zip-top bag out of her purse. It was filled with raw celery. The other woman helped herself to a stalk and sprayed it with some kind of diet dressing in what looked like a Windex bottle.

“I need to go find Xavier,” I told Arlo. “The pope is delayed and I better find out when he's expected.”

“Hang on a sec, I need to talk to you,” Arlo said.

“Can't it wait?” I asked, distracted with the demands of running a party that's begun to get challenging.

“I need to talk to you alone.”

I looked at Arlo and inwardly sighed. “C'mon,” I told him, and led him, weaving between tables, across the glowing floor, and out through a side exit into a service hallway.

“Okay,” I said. “I don't have much time, here, but you got me. What?”

“You sure you can talk now?” Arlo asked. The weasel.

“Arlo.”

“Okay. Look. I think we should stop seeing each other for a while.”

“What was that?” I asked, not sure for a moment where
the punch that knocked the wind out of me came from.

“You need space. I need space. It's for the best, right?”

“Space? Space!” I was dizzy. “Arlo, people needed space in the seventies. We were kids in the seventies. What are you talking about?”

“You never wanted a commitment, so I never pushed you. You always wanted to have your independence. And that was fine. But now, I think it's time to grow up.”

The irony. Arlo lecturing me about growing up. I could almost laugh if my head wasn't suddenly aching so hard.

“Arlo,” I said in a slow, calm voice. “Arlo, the pope will be here in a few minutes. I am in charge here. I'd love to talk to you about ‘space' any other time. But for the moment, you must excuse me.”

“See what I mean? You can't even have a simple conversation about our relationship without running away.”

“Okay, I get your point. But this is not a good…”

Down the service aisle, far away, still out of sight, we could hear a strange, deep rumbling. The noise grew louder and louder.

Arlo looked at me quizzically. “What is it?” he asked, trying to make sense of the sound of galloping that was coming towards us.

“Stampede!” I yelled at Arlo, and pulled him ahead, as fast as I could drag him.

I pushed open the door into the main hall and hurried Arlo away from the opening. Five seconds later a rush of waiters carrying trays piled with breakfast entrees descended upon us. They swarmed out of the doorways into the hall and made a rapid move towards their tables. Each silver-domed dish was set down at once in front of each guest. There was a smattering of applause as the guests were riveted by the unexpected service.

Meanwhile, Arlo sat back down at Table Nineteen and began talking to Holly. I wondered if he was casually mentioning that he had just broken up a relationship that had been the longest one either of us had ever sustained.

I moved out to the foyer, which was now a vast empty
area patrolled by dozens of cops. Wesley spotted me and came over.

“We can't seem to find Brother Xavier.”

“Isn't he on a radio?” I asked. Security had their own network of Motorolas, and so had we.

“Yes. But he's not answering. And we just heard that the pope should be here any minute.”

“Great,” I said, checking my watch. It was eight-thirty. He'd made it after all. “Holly's worried. Has anyone seen Donald?”

“No,” Wes said, subdued.

“Wesley, what aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing,” Wes said, in a voice that wasn't all that convincing.

I was about to grill him further when Honnett joined us. Almost at once, Wes had an “emergency” and had to go fix it.

“He's not too fond of me, is he?” Honnett asked.

“Can you blame him?” I asked.

“Guess not. Things seem to be going well. We caught some bad guys, which always gets my blood going. And the mayor and the chief of police look pretty happy. That's saying something. And your party food here looked swell.”

I remembered that I'd had Allen bring Honnett a meal. “Did you like the frittata?” I asked.

“Oh, it looked real good. But I can't eat anything while I'm on duty.”

“Really? I thought that rule had to do with alcohol.”

“Any and all distractions.”

Honnett looked me over and sighed. “You want to know what your trouble is?”

I must say that is about my least favorite question in the universe. It means someone is about to analyze your life and find you at fault.

“Okay, Honnett, why don't you go ahead and tell me. My boyfriend, Arlo, just decided to end our relationship
after three and a half years, so I expect this is my morning for insight. Let 'er rip.”

He leaned against the railing and looked down at me.

“When did you start splintering men into need groups?”

“Pardon me?”

“Or have you always done that? You know you figure out what you need and then you find yourself a guy to take care of it.”

“I do not.”

“No? You need a soul mate, you run to Wesley. For jokes, you've got Arlo. You need money, and some Hollywood producer like Bruno Huntley comes to mind.”

“Are you saying I would use a man to get money?” I was shocked.

“Of course not. You work for your money. But you always have some guy on the line who can hire your company. I'm just talking about ‘needs' mentality, here.”

“Oh, really,” I said, totally insulted. “And what do I do for sex?”

“For sex, I guess Arlo's been the starter. But I'd say lately you've been auditioning me for the role,” Honnett said.

“My God!” I said, blaspheming just moments before the Holy Father was scheduled to arrive. “You must be crazy. Where did you ever get such a load of shit?”

“Hear me out,” Honnett said.

“I will not! The arrogance,” I said, shaking my head. “How did my life get filled up with so many severely flawed men?”

“Don't you know?” Honnett asked, in a soft drawl. “You seek us out.”

“What!”