The Reporter (12 page)

“Okay, sweetheart.” Debra sighed. She’d hoped that by associating
Gia’s room with play, she might disassociate it from the murder. But she didn’t blame her daughter; even she avoided that
bedroom. She’d decided to convert the guest room upstairs for Gia. It was bigger, she was old enough now to be a floor away
from her at night, and Janet had sent over all her things from Jack’s house, so she needed more room.

“Oh, here they come, Gia,” Debra said, as the two blond neighbor kids came tripping across the sand. She hoped her daughter
would enjoy playing with them. She hoped she wouldn’t fight with them and come in crying. The youngsters came up on the deck,
had some lemonade and cookies, then all three cantered off onto the beach with giant squirt guns. As Bessie gathered up the
lunch dishes, Debra and Maxi went over to the reclining chairs to talk and watch the kids.

Debra suddenly felt very tired. “So,” she said, “the grand jury won’t convene until they get more solid evidence, Marvin says.
Meantime, I wait. I’m in limbo. I can’t work. Even if anybody were crazy enough to hire me, I can’t commit. This is hell,
Max; I’m terrified.”

“I know,” Maxi said. “At least the press has backed off—my esteemed colleagues.”

“They’re not your colleagues, Maxi, they’re the
crap
press! The
Enquirer,
the
Globe,
that whole scum bunch. Going to them and spilling my outraged and deeply offended guts pacified them somewhat—they love it
when you cry. They’ve all slithered off for now, until… I mean
unless
something happens.”

“But no preliminary hearing has been set—that’s good.”

“Yet! Not
yet!
Marvin’s dragging it out, but charges have been filed, I’ve been arraigned, and they’re digging hard,” Debra said.

“What do they have?”

“Not much. They’ve had me in three times; we go over the same stuff—Marvin says the Italian detective wants to get in my pants.
In his dreams! He
is
kinda cute, though—

“Jeez, Debra, how can you joke?”

“What
should
I do? Slit my wrists? Christ, don’t they get it that if I were going to kill him I would have done it years ago? Maxi, speaking
of killing someone, would you believe that during the custody trial he told me ‘friends’ of his offered to
do
me for him? Offered to
kill
me! Friends in the mob—he loved to pal around with them. He thought he could scare me into giving up my child. You know,”
she went on, “he used to pass counterfeit twenty-dollar bills they’d give him, just for kicks. He’d give bogus bills to maître
d’s, parking attendants, store clerks—then he’d brag to me that it was funny money.”

“Oh, God,” Maxi gasped. “He did the same thing with me once. I was shocked. I told him he was putting me in the position of
knowing about an illegal act. If I knew the bill was counterfeit, by law I had to report him. He said, ‘Oh,
please.’”

“He cultivated that bad-boy image, and the fact is, Maxi, he
was
bad. He had the soul of a criminal.”

“You don’t really think he’d have had you killed, do you?”

“Trust me,” Debra said. “I was looking over my shoulder. Maybe he wouldn’t have ordered the hit, because he wouldn’t want
some goon testifying in court that he’d asked him to do it, but he would definitely have popped a bottle of champagne if somebody
whacked me because he thought it would please the boss. Can you believe, Maxi, they called him the
boss!”

“I know,” Maxi said. “They’d call the house and say, ‘Is the boss there?’ Once I asked one of them if he meant Bruce Springsteen.
They’d come over with cartons of antipasto and baked ziti, and eat like the Sopranos. Jack would whisper to me that our guests
were packing.”

“Did he ever tell you that one day two of the ‘consultants’ on the
Hell-bent
set, two ex-cons, went across the street on the lunch break and robbed a factory of its payroll?”

“Oh sure, I heard that one ten times. That was one of his favorite dinner party stories.”

“Yeah, well, now I’ve gotta get through this,” Debra mused. “You know I’m strong, Max—whatever happens, I’ll handle it. But
can Gia? That’s what has me sick with worry….”

Maxi was watching a woman spread a blanket on the sand by the rocks near the house. Debra looked around to see what had caught
her attention.

“Oh, Lord,” Debra said, “now there’s another whole story. Do you know who that woman is? Take a good look, Max.”

“I can’t make her out.”

“Here.” Debra picked up a pair of binoculars from a side table and handed them to Maxi. “We usually gaze at the stars with
these—you are now about to gaze at a burned-out star.”

Maxi looked through the glasses. “Whoa!” she exclaimed. “Meg Davis! She was at the funeral. And at the auction of Jack’s things
yesterday. I put her in my story. She bought a movie prop, the cross they used in
Black Sabbat.
…” Maxi was focusing the eyepiece.

“I know. I know. But listen to this,” Debra said. “She’s been camping out there all summer, two, three, four days a week,
lately
every
day. I didn’t think anything of it, until the detectives got very interested that she was out there on the day Jack was shot.”

“What?” cried Maxi, putting down the glasses. “Did you see her?”

“No, but Bessie did, and Bessie told the investigators. They told her to think hard about anything out of the ordinary that
went on that day—and she told them that the actress Meg Davis was on the beach in front of the house at the time of the murder.
Bessie was a nervous wreck, being hauled in to the Hall of Justice. She told me all about it when she got home.”

“Come on, Deb, how can you say you didn’t think anything of it? This woman goes way back with Jack, and who knows what went
on between them? Word is she’s a drug addict, hasn’t worked in a long time; maybe she blamed
him
—”

“Maxi”—Debra stopped her—“I keep my doors locked; the
police found no evidence of forced entry. There were no footprints around the doors or windows that they couldn’t account
for. There were no unfamiliar fingerprints anywhere inside—God knows,
mine
were on the goddamned gun. There weren’t any hairs anywhere—evidently hairs are a big deal. They vacuumed meticulously for
hairs and fibers; Bessie should only do such a good job. And they took some strands of
my
hair, and Gia’s and Bessie’s too, to compare with what they swept up. Marvin says they found nothing. Now, take a look at
that woman out there. You had her on the news last night—she’s a zombie! She looks like she couldn’t
dress
herself. How the hell could she get in my house, kill somebody, and get out without a trace?”

But Maxi was setting up the audiocassette recorder that she always carried in her purse. Getting up out of her chair, she
said, “I’m going to go have a chat with her.”

Debra watched Maxi saunter across the sand toward the rocks where Meg Davis was sitting, intently watching the three children
playing on the beach.

S
ee that lady over there?” Gia said to Kipper and Sunshine, pointing her squirt gun in the direction of the woman who was sitting
by the rocks, watching them. “She’s a witch,” she told them. “Honest, she’s a real live witch!”

“How do you know?” asked Kip, wide-eyed.

“Jason said so. His mom told him.” Jason’s family lived next door.

“Let’s go ask her if she’s a witch,” Sunshine suggested.

“No, we can’t; my mom says we’re not allowed to bother her, I think because witches need their privacy,” Gia said.

The three children were cavorting on the sand on this late October Sunday, still swimsuit weather on Southern California beaches.
Meg Davis was sitting motionless with her back against the rocks, holding the
Black Sabbat
cross upright in her lap, staring fixedly at the younger girl, Gia Nathanson. Now that she’d been granted the cross, her
grail, it was all very clear to her. She knew exactly what she had to do. God had made her mission known to her. She had to
protect Gia; she was the only person on earth who could save her.

She’d needed to know her possessor, this man whom she hated, feared, was in awe of, and, on some level, loved. She came
to understand that Satan was powerful, and able to inspire all of those feelings; that was his way. That’s when she began
diligently following Jack Nathanson’s activities in the press, tracking the progress of his movies, his many awards, his romances,
his marriages. Sometimes she would call his office, give his secretary the name of a prominent star or producer, and when
he would come on the line, she’d hang up. When she knew his movements in advance, knew where he’d be, which studio, what location,
she would be there waiting for him to arrive, watching from some hidden vantage as he drove his menacing-looking black Ferrari
through the gates. And she would wait, watching, sometimes all day long, until she saw him leaving.

Sometimes she would tail him at a discreet distance, follow him home, to a restaurant, to a romantic rendezvous. She always
knew who he was having affairs with, where he was living, when he was about to move, where he and Carlotta would next set
up housekeeping, and with what new woman.

Until now she’d been guarded, careful to let no one know of her appointed task. She could never tell her mother. She could
never tell the many different therapists who had tried to pry her thoughts and plans and reasons from her. They wouldn’t understand.
They would try to dissuade her. They would lock her up in hospitals. They would conspire to keep her from fulfilling her God-given
assignment. But she realized that the woman she’d met last night at the auction, Zahna, was sent from God, because she’d felt
compelled to talk to her, and like a soul mate, this Zahna had listened and understood. It was a tremendous relief to finally
be able to tell everything. She no longer needed to keep it secret. Now she was meant to divulge her work to those whom God
designated to rally round and help.

She was distracted suddenly by Gia calling out, “Maxi! Maxi! Do you want to play with us?” Looking up, she saw a woman walking
toward her on the beach, a woman with swinging blond hair—
Maxi,
the girl called her. Of course. Maxi Poole.

“Not now, honey,” the woman called to Gia. “I want to talk to Miss Davis.”

Meg’s initial instinct was to flee, just as she’d fled from her at the auction. But the woman was smiling at her as she approached.
Maybe
she
was being sent to help, too. Maybe Maxi Poole was one of God’s archangels, called upon to spread the word now that Meg had
been given a sign that secrecy was no longer useful. After all, this woman was on the news. Meg made the decision that she
would talk to her. Maxi Poole was being sent to help her save Gia.

D
ebra had a screeching headache. Bessie was full of questions about what Maxi was doing down there on the beach with that weird
actress who was loitering around their house all the time. Maybe Maxi was right, maybe Meg Davis
was
some kind of threat. Debra had dismissed her as just another druggie, as industry gossip suggested—she had certainly looked
stoned on the news last night. But lately she seemed to be a fixture out there by the rocks. And she’d showed up at the auction—maybe
it
wasn’t
just a coincidence that the woman’s favorite spot on the beach was right outside the house where Jack was murdered. Debra
was relieved that Maxi had decided to talk to her. Maxi knew how to get answers out
of
people.

Suddenly, Bessie called from the sundeck, urgently, “Miss
Debra, come quickly!”
Thinking something had happened to Gia, Debra lunged for the door.

“Look!” Bessie said to her, pointing down the beach. Maxi was walking toward the house with Meg Davis in tow. And the three
kids, curious that the weird woman was going to Gia’s house, were following.
Give me strength,
Debra thought, and she sank into a deck chair to await their approach.

“Debra, I want you to meet Meg Davis,” Maxi said brightly,
as she and her entourage lumbered up the steps. “Meg, this is Debra Angelo, and Bessie, Gia’s nanny… and this is Gia, and
her friends Kipper and Sunshine.”

What the hell is Maxi doing?
Debra wondered, even as she extended her hand and offered Meg a seat at the redwood table in the shade of the umbrella. Maxi
and Debra joined her, while Bessie settled resolutely into a deck chair, looking vaguely disapproving, and the kids huddled
together on the hammock, enthralled by the eerie-looking stranger.

In the harsh light of the blazing midafternoon sun, Meg Davis looked sallow, haggard, old beyond her years, her eyes sunken,
harsh lines around her mouth, her once lustrous auburn hair dull and matted. Debra said nothing, waiting for Maxi to make
the first move, to let on what this odd visitation was about.

“Meg has the most fascinating story to tell,” Maxi began, “and I want you to hear it from her yourself, Debra.”

“Yes?” Debra responded, turning to Meg.

“Well,” Meg said, glancing uncertainly at Maxi, who nodded encouragement. “God has directed me to protect your daughter Gia
from evil. That’s why I come here. I can’t let her down, because if I do, the spirits will possess her soul, and she’ll be
taken to hell with her father. I promise I won’t let that happen. I have the cross, now—” Suddenly she became flustered. “The—the
cross!”
she stammered. “I left it on the blanket….”

“I’m sure it’ll be safe,” Maxi said. “Go on, Meg, please.”

Scrutinizing this frail, spacey-looking woman sitting here on her deck, listening to her spin a yarn that sounded like
The Twilight Zone,
Debra was nonplussed, astounded at the gibberish she was spouting, and frightened at the way she was staring at Gia, intensely,
proprietarily. Debra got up. She went over to the hammock and took Gia firmly by the hand.

“Excuse me, Meg,” she said, “but I see that Gia is sunburned and I need to get some lotion on her. Maxi, Bessie, would you
help me?” She nodded deferentially at Meg, then led Gia inside. Maxi and Bessie followed.