The Reporter (11 page)

Zahna tailed the little red Fiat out to Malibu until it came to a stop on Seashore Drive, and the Davis woman stepped out.
To Zahna’s amazement, they were just a few doors away from Debra Angelo’s house, the house where Jack Nathanson was murdered.

She caught up with Meg, who motioned her to be quiet. The two walked down a path to the beach, and Meg led the way to a formation
of jagged rocks almost directly in front of Debra’s house. Meg reached into her tote bag and produced a blanket, which she
spread out on the sand in front of the rocks. Zahna saw the newly purchased crucifix in the bag. The two women sat on the
blanket, but Meg Davis did not face the roiling ocean, she faced the house.

“Who lives there?” Zahna asked.

“Gia.”

“Gia, Jack Nathanson’s daughter?” Zahna pressed.

Zahna, of course, knew the house well. She remembered the first time she’d come here. It was after Jack and Maxi Poole had
split up, and she was seeing a lot of Jack. He had taken her along one Saturday to pick up his daughter. When they’d pulled
up out front, he told her to wait in the car. She’d asked if she could come in, she would love to see this charming old home
and the beach beyond, but he’d insisted that she stay put. He was gone nearly an hour. He’d sent her a message that day: Even
though he was now a single man, Zahna was still a second-class broad, good for hot sex, but not important enough to shield
from the blazing heat and boredom of an hour wait in a closed car. And not good enough to introduce to his ex-wife once removed.
Yes, Zahna knew this house.

“Gia lives here,” Meg Davis was saying, “and I have to protect her—”

“Excuse me?” Zahna said.

“God wants me to keep Gia from being hurt by evil spirits,” Meg returned, her eyes riveted to the big, ramshackle house with
the wraparound sundeck, lights coming on in its windows now.

“Uh… why?” Zahna asked, studying the other woman’s hypnotic gaze.

“Because if I don’t keep the demons from stealing her soul, Gia will be spirited to hell with her father.”

“Uh-huh,” Zahna said guardedly. She lit a marijuana cigarette, its tip glowing red in the gathering twilight, and took a deep
drag. “How often do you come here?”

“As often as I can,” Meg responded. Then she removed the
Black Sabbat
cross from her tote bag and held it out toward the house with both hands, like a priest holding the sacred chalice toward
the altar as he’s saying Mass.

Zahna watched Meg’s bizarre behavior in fascinated silence. The woman seemed oblivious to her now, in a trance, and she began
uttering some sort of singsong chant, softly at first, then louder: “…
May this cross compel redemption, may it frustrate Satan’s evil ends.
…”

Whoa,
Zahna thought,
this chick is loony-toons.
She passed her the joint. As darkness fell, the two women sat silently on the beach, pondering their own private torments,
and getting stoned.

G
ood morning!” Alan Bronstein said, looking up from the Sunday
Times
as Janet came out onto the poolside patio. The Monogram Studios exec was wrapped in one of Jack’s blue terry-cloth robes,
drinking coffee, the remains of a toasted bagel on a plate in front of him, a bud vase spilling over with magenta bougainvillea
by his place, Carlotta’s signature.

“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” Janet laughed. Then, “God, Carlotta’s going to think I slept with you, only two weeks
into widowhood.”

“Hardly,” Alan said. “When she bustled through the living room this morning she couldn’t miss my six-foot-two body doubled
up on one of your four-foot-two love seats, and she couldn’t fail to note that your bedroom door was shut and presumably bolted
against this big, bad wolf—big, bad,
aching
wolf,” he grimaced, stretching and rubbing the small of his back.

“My last day in this
auditorium,”
she said, looking back through the French doors at the massive living room littered with boxes, packing scraps, lamps on
the floor, planters at the periphery, and her exquisite pair of Lawson love seats dwarfed in the expanse.

“Let’s get thee to a hotel,” Alan said, “before you start getting melancholy.”

“I can’t wait. I just have to sort out what to bring.”

“You don’t have to bring the world,” he reasoned. “It’s not as if you don’t have the keys to this joint. You
can
come back and pick up a hair dryer, you know.”

“I know. But I don’t
want
to come back.”

“Well, Carlotta will be here, and she can run anything you need over to the bungalow.”

Janet had reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a month. Now that the auction was over, she would get out of
this mammoth villa that she had shared with Jack. She had put it on the market, and she would stay at the hotel while she
looked for an apartment for herself and Carlotta, something minimal, until she could get her bearings and figure out where
she wanted to live next. Meanwhile, Carlotta would oversee the big house, clean it up, and get it ready for sale.
Thank God for Carlotta,
she thought.

And thank God for Alan. During the late hours of the auction yesterday she had felt a tremendous letdown, seeing Jack’s things
scrutinized and pawed over, each one eliciting memories, good, bad, and bittersweet. When it was finally, mercifully, over,
she’d walked out of the hall without looking back, Alan at her elbow. He took her to a small restaurant on Beverly Drive,
a low-profile bistro where it was unlikely they would run into friends. The waiter brought drinks, she took one sip, and that’s
when she dissolved into a deluge of tears.

“Go ahead; let it all out,” Alan had urged. “There’s nobody here but us, and you don’t have to worry about your makeup; it’s
all gone anyway. What are you feeling?”

“Nothing,” she’d sobbed. “I just feel…empty.”

“Well, let’s fill you up,” he’d said. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk. Or not. Meantime, let’s order some dinner.”

He’d summoned the waiter and made a show of choosing.
This salad or that? A little caviar to start? Why not? Go over the fish entrées, please, he had a woman here he had to feed.
Look at her, he told the waiter; she was actually crying with hunger pains. Janet was blowing her nose and laughing at the
same time.

“Oh, this is attractive,” she’d sniffled. “Give me a minute; I’ll pull my act together—”

“I’m enjoying your act,” he’d said with a smile. “I like
all
your acts…. This one’s good. Oh, splendid, here’s the bread. A little bread for you, no butter, I know….” He broke off half
a roll and extended it to her. “Comfort food,” he said, “good for you.”
He
was good for her, good therapy.

After dinner, they drove back to Sotheby’s to pick up her car. “I’m going to follow you home,” he’d said, and when she protested
that it wasn’t necessary, he said he thought it was. And she did need his bolstering.

When he ushered her back into the big house, she was engulfed by an overwhelming loneliness. In the cavernous living room,
mostly barren now except for a few skeletal pieces and the detritus from the auction preparations, the emptiness was underscored
by the hollowness inside her.

“Stay for a while,” she’d pleaded.

“Sure, but Janet, you’re exhausted,” he’d responded. “And I don’t think you should have any more to drink.”

“I guess I just don’t want to be alone,” she’d said.

“Tell you what,” he’d rejoined, “I’ll sleep on your couch. Oh, right. You don’t
have
a couch anymore.”

“There’s a daybed in the sewing room,” she offered. “I’ll get some sheets and blankets—”

“I have an idea,” he said. “You go get into your comfiest feet-in jammies with the buttoned-up dropseat, and we’ll tuck you
into bed, and I’ll sit out here and read Time.” He’d picked up the magazine from the bar. “You’ll go sleepy-bye, and I’ll
be out here, and after you’re long gone to dreamland I’ll slip out, how’s that?”

“You mean you’ll baby-sit me?” she’d asked, laughing.

“Sure. Now hurry up; get ready for bed. I get eight dollars an hour.”

Wonderful Alan. He had ended up falling asleep all cramped up on one of her small love seats in the living room, and she was
surprised and pleased to see him here this morning. She sat down across from him at the patio table, and Carlotta appeared
with her usual fresh grapefruit juice and cereal. Life was definitely looking sunnier. They lingered, reading the papers,
enjoying Sunday morning.

“Okay,” he said at last, “I’m going home before my dog sends you a nasty fax—Bruno’s hungry.”

“Thanks, Alan; you’re the best,” she said. He was going to help her move today.

“You dress and pack your stuff.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be back with the Cherokee at two o’clock. And anything you
forget, we’ll get it tomorrow, or Carlotta will bring it, or we’ll buy a new one, okay? Now, I’ve gotta go home and change.
I feel like a hooker in last night’s suit.”

He made her laugh. She was grateful that he wasn’t going to give her the time or opportunity to feel sorry for herself.

The bungalow was cozy. It had two bedroom suites—the second one would be her office. They stopped at a gourmet shop and stocked
her little kitchenette with wine, bottled water, coffee, juice, cereal, fruit, and cheese. Alan had sent over a huge bowl
of tulips; they graced the living room coffee table in a profusion of pinks and reds. The card read, “Don’t forget to water
us!” It was comfortable being contained in this limited space; Janet felt in control again.

“I’d say you’re settled, darlin’,” Alan observed, looking around in satisfaction. “Let’s wander over to what is now your own
personal dining room and see what’s for dinner.”

At the Beverly Hills Hotel dining room, they ordered Rex
Harrison salads, a longtime specialty of the house. Alan started laughing.

“What’s funny?” she asked. The whole weekend, of course, had been theater of the absurd.

“The last time I was here and ordered a Rex Harrison salad, my date was so young, she said, ‘Wasn’t he one of the Beatles?’”

“Alan,” she said with a grin, “you are a dirty old man.”

They meandered back through the night-blooming jasmine to bungalow 16. Inside, he dropped the key on the kitchen counter and
kissed her on the forehead.

“Umm…” she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone… again.”

“Fine,” he said. “I have a huge, well-appointed house, as you know. But hey, where do you want me? On the miniature couch
in the living room? Or how about the bathtub off the office? It’s deep. I’ll have housekeeping bring some blankets—”

“How about my bedroom?” She smiled.

“What?” he questioned, not sure he’d heard right.

“It can be a nice, friendly thing. Like old times. Oh, God, Alan, it’s been so long—”

“Janet, it’s been two weeks since you lost your sex partner,” he reminded her.

“No,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

He put his arm around her and steered her into the bedroom.

O
kay, computer says, spell
monkey
—type it in, Gia,” Maxi said, staring at the screen. “Now spell-check, control, function key F-2, you are
correct,
missy. Next, computer says, spell
morning
…”

“This is fun, isn’t it, darling?” Debra fairly sang, giving her daughter a squeeze. The two women sat on either side of Gia
in front of her Mac terminal, working through the new spelling program that Maxi had brought to the beach.

“You are a computer wizard, Gee,” Maxi pronounced. They’d been at it for two hours, and Gia’s mother was delighted that she
was actually enjoying the spelling exercise, making a game of it. It was Sunday, fifteen days after Gia’s father had been
shot to death in her bedroom, and Debra felt that, for a while at least, the terrible weight of that knowledge seemed to be
off her daughter’s mind.

“Lunch is ready,” Bessie announced, peering into the den. “Pasta and salad. It’s a lovely day,” she said. “Will you have it
out on the deck? Get some fresh air?”

“What a nice idea,” Debra responded. “Let’s do, shall we?” She started to get up.

“Just two more,” Gia pleaded. “Then we’ll be done with the M’s. Please, Mom?”

“Who
are
you?” Debra laughed. “Are you
my
daughter, actually
begging
to spell? This program is brilliant, Max.”

Debra was troubled by Gia’s behavior since the murder. She never talked about it, nor spoke of her father, but she’d been
listless and unmotivated, had no interest in playing with her friends, or even with her toys. Her teachers were telling Debra
that Gia wasn’t concentrating in class—she was lagging far behind in reading, doing poorly in math, flunking almost every
test. And she wasn’t getting on with her schoolmates. She was picking fights at every turn. Debra was told that Gia was being
tolerated for the moment because the poor youngster had lost her father, but if she didn’t improve markedly, and soon, they
wouldn’t be able to keep her there. Debra was also getting negative reports from Gia’s therapist. Dr. Jamieson was coming
out to the house now, to observe Gia in her home environment; he didn’t feel he was making progress with the girl, he said.
Now, as they sat down to lunch on the broad redwood deck overlooking the surf at beautiful Malibu beach, Debra felt it was
the closest to a normal day that they’d had since the murder.

“Gia,” Debra said to her daughter, “after lunch, Sunshine and Kip are coming over to play. I’ve invited them, okay?” Sunshine
and Kipper were the daughter and son of a film producer and his wife who lived a few houses down the beach.

“Where are we going to play?” Gia asked. She wouldn’t go into her bedroom, hadn’t since the murder. She alternated between
sleeping with Debra, or upstairs with Bessie when Debra was out.

“Well, darling, since all your toys are in your room, and Sunshine and Kip haven’t seen your Sports Flyer game yet, you could
play in there, and Bessie will bring you lemonade….” Gia was vigorously shaking her head.