The Reporter (22 page)

“You see,” Maxi said, “Meg Davis talked about
protecting
Gia,
saving
her. She saw the cross as something sacred, an icon that would shield the girl, take care of her so she’d be safe. Meg Davis
did not intend to kill people with that cross.”

“And the intruder in your house last night?” Richard prompted.

“She… he… was a killer. Last night I told the police it was Meg Davis. It seemed so obvious. But now I feel sure it wasn’t.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Richard reasoned. “Who—?”

“I don’t know,” Maxi said. “I don’t know… but it wasn’t Meg Davis, I feel certain of that now. I was
this
close to both of them just a day apart, and I’m telling you, the person who was in my house last night was not Meg Davis.”

“Would you go on the air with that?” Richard asked.

“I can’t. I can’t report on the story; you know that, Richard. I’m
part
of the story.”

“I don’t mean as a reporter,” Richard said. “I mean as a witness.
That same person probably killed Carlotta Ricco, and you’re the only one alive who saw him. You think it was a man?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “The running shoes could have been either men’s or women’s, I didn’t see them well enough, but the
sheriff’s crime-lab technicians took photos of footprints at my house this morning, so they’ll know soon. The only thing I
do
know is that it was not Meg Davis. I’m sure of it.”

“Come on, let’s go talk to Pete,” Richard said. “We’ve got to figure out what to do with this. Obviously, you have to let
Mike Cabello know right away.”

“I know,” Maxi said. She was sitting at her desk, turning the tape cassette over in her hands. Her computer screen beeped,
and she looked over at it. She had the wire services on line, and the word URGENT flashed on her screen. Idly, she watched
for the story that would follow. The wires ran “urgents” frequently. As the story from the Associated Press scrolled down
the screen, her eyes widened.

“Oh, God,” she cried. “Oh, my God. Meg Davis has committed suicide!”

Maxi sat in front of Pete Capra’s desk; Richard paced. Pete had Mike Cabello on the phone, telling him that Maxi Poole had
been comparing in her mind the demeanor of Meg Davis to that of the attacker who was in her house last night, and she felt
sure that they were
not
the same person.

“How the hell do I know why she’d commit suicide if she wasn’t the killer? Yeah, yeah, Mike, she’ll call you in five minutes,”
Capra said, and he slammed down the phone. “He needs to talk to you,” Pete told Maxi. “But first, how are we gonna handle
this? Richard, I think you should lead the early block with the update, ‘Channel Six reporter Maxi Poole feels certain that
actress Meg Davis, who jumped to her death this morning, was not the black-robed intruder who broke into her home,’ et cetera,
et cetera. Then back up the story to Carlotta Ricco, the cross, the
auction, Jack Nathanson… pull a few frames of Meg Davis in
Black Sabbat
from Jensen’s archives, and voice over the sidebar that the hairdresser on the picture says the kid was sexually abused.
Then come out of the tape with an interview on set with Maxi about why she believes it wasn’t the Davis woman, and so on.
What do you two think?”

“Fine with me, if it’s okay with Maxi,” Richard said.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” Maxi told them. “I need to do it for Meg Davis. I think she only meant to do good. And for her family.
They must be devastated. I want to vindicate her, for them.

“And I need to do it for myself,” she went on. “I have to help any way I can. There’s a killer out there who’s alive, who’s
crazy, and who wants to kill me!”

J
anet Orson was stunning in shimmering, clinging, white silk jersey—a floor-length Vera Wang gown that emphasized her long,
sleek figure. Her golden hair was swept up in a twist and held by an oblong diamond clip. Diamond-and-pearl drop earrings
accentuated her alabaster skin, and a pearl choker hugged her neck, fastened to one side with a wide diamond clasp.

“You are
breathtaking!”
Alan Bronstein proclaimed. “But you sure don’t look like a grieving widow.” His eyes twinkled. He had just arrived at the
Beverly Hills Hotel to escort her to the big charity premiere of
Serial Killer,
her late husband’s last movie.

“Don’t start!” Janet smiled. She handed him her ermine jacket. He walked around behind her and placed it on her shoulders,
then guided her to the door.

“The picture should only be half as good as you look,” Alan said; “then we’d make a fortune with it.” But they both knew that
Serial Killer
was
not
good. It was beautifully shot by a brilliant young French cinematographer, but the story was weak, and nothing could fix
that in postproduction.

“Well, darling,” Janet said with a sigh, “you didn’t take this on to make money. You did it for Jack, remember?”

“Wrong!” he said. “I did it for
you,
Janet; let’s make no mistake
about that. Still, the old man wouldn’t like to hear that I was running a philanthropic organization. It would be nice if
we could make a few bucks with it.” Bronstein thought to himself but didn’t say,
The only thing this turkey’s got going for it is that the famous sonofabitch who stars in it is dead.

He handed Janet into the waiting limo for the short drive to the Century Plaza Cinemas, where Monogram had taken over all
four screens to premiere
Serial Killer.
The black-tie gala afterward would benefit AmFAR, and many luminaries who worked for AIDS research would be there, as well
as several of the stars of the movie.

As their limousine pulled off Santa Monica Boulevard onto the Avenue of the Stars in Century City, Janet looked up at the
high-rise apartment buildings and shuddered. Her eyes traveled up the cluster of towers with their lighted windows, and she
couldn’t help thinking about actress Meg Davis, who had jumped off one of those terraces this morning, jumped nineteen floors
to her death. That would be on everybody’s mind tonight, she knew.

In fact, the suicide had been discussed that afternoon in a meeting at Monogram. It had happened in Century City, just yards
from where tonight’s premiere would be taking place. Would it put a damper on everybody’s spirits? It would be an industry
crowd, and Meg Davis was one of their own. The story had been all over the media since the actress’s arrest last night, including
her link to Jack Nathanson, and most of the 1,800 invitees would see the whole scenario played out again on the evening news
before they arrived at the theater.

“Don’t think I’m being crass,” Alan Bronstein had said in the meeting, knowing, of course, that he was being crass, “but if
anything, I think it just heightens the mood for this film. I mean, on the day of the premiere of Jack Nathanson’s final film,
which happens to be about a serial killer, his killer is arrested and commits suicide. I have to say, Jack himself would’ve
loved the timing.”

“Oh, are they saying that Meg Davis killed
him,
too?” studio chief Sid Levine had asked.

“No, not yet, but it’s looking that way, Sid. CNN says she was obsessed with him, actually stalked him, followed him around
for years, and of course she was bonkers. Probably had a crush on him way back when she was a vulnerable kid, doing
Black Sabbat.
Jack was in his early thirties then, a big star, and a charmer, not to mention successful, powerful, rich.”

“Yeah, and didn’t they say she was seen outside Debra Angelo’s house on the day Nathanson was killed there?” put in Joe Austin,
Monogram’s head of marketing.

“Gee, it
is
kind of a nice circle, isn’t it? But for chrissake, don’t anybody quote me!” Sid Levine had said with a chuckle. The subject
was closed.

The driver eased their stretch limo to a stop in front of the theater complex, and Janet and Alan stepped out into a barrage
of minicams and flashbulbs, but abruptly the cameras stopped, and the army of press practically knocked the two of them down
to get to the couple behind them. Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones had just stepped out of their limousine and were
making an entrance.

Bronstein laughed. The public was always more interested in the glittering faces they saw on the screen than the people behind
the movies, and that was just fine with him. When one of his films scored big, he always walked away with the biggest chunk
of the profits.

Bronstein had turned down reserved seats in one of the smaller upstairs theaters in favor of the largest theater in the complex,
which accommodated eight hundred people. Even though just about everyone here tonight was connected to the movie business,
after all the hoopla of the limos and the press and the fans waving autograph books, the celebrities, the colleagues, the
air kisses, and the champagne in the lobby, when they took their seats and the lights went down, they turned into movie fans
just
like ordinary mortals, and Alan Bronstein wanted to hear their reactions. Later, at the dinner, they would all tell him they
loved the movie, it was a winner, it couldn’t miss, just as he would say at
their
screenings. But what they
really
thought of it would emerge inadvertently while they were sitting in the dark, immersed in the experience of the film. Alan
would hear the gasps, the yelps of horror, the laughs, some in the wrong places—that’s what would give him a true sense of
how
Serial Killer
would do at the box office.

Chris Rock was on stage doing a welcoming monologue. The newly svelte Bette Midler was dressed totally in orange feathers—later
she was going to perform. Streisand wouldn’t sing, but she showed up, her husband James Brolin good-naturedly shielding her
from the press. Actress Jennifer Lopez was in yet another dress that seemed glued to strategic parts of her body; actor Ed
Burns was looking adorably confused, as he usually did. The massive Los Angeles Ballroom in the Century Plaza Hotel across
the avenue from the theater complex was filled, and festive.

The lustrous crowd sat at tables set with peach-colored linens, fine china, and real crystal, and gracing each table were
tall taper candles set in a lush centerpiece of lilies and peach roses. Tuxedoed waiters served an après-theater supper of
crab and shrimp, cheeses and pâtés, lobster quiche, and baby grilled lamb chops, followed by lavish dessert trays with dozens
of selections, along with wines, champagne, coffee, and liqueurs. Most of the participants, on stage and off, wore the AIDS
red ribbons that were handed out at the doors.

For the silent auction to benefit AmFAR, Jean-Paul Gaultier had donated the famous pinstriped suit that Madonna made news
in when she took the jacket off on the runway and displayed her perfect naked breasts; Bjork contributed the white froufrou
swan dress that she sang in at the Oscars; Elizabeth Taylor had donated the pièce de résistance, the violet, chrome-bedecked
Harley
Davidson motorcycle Malcolm Forbes had given her. You could bid on a trip for two to Venice with a week at the fabulous Hotel
Cipriani, or a week in Aspen with a suite at the Little Nell, along with ski outfits from the Aspen Mogul Shop. Artist David
Hockney had donated a brilliant canvas; decorator to the stars Waldo Fernandez would completely redo a room in your house.

While Janet was chatting with friends, Alan wrote his name on the bidding sheet for a dazzling diamond-and-emerald necklace
donated by a prominent Rodeo Drive jeweler. Its retail value, listed at the top of the sheet, was forty thousand dollars.
Alan filled in his bid—fifteen thousand. He was pretty sure he would get it for that amount. He well knew the gentlemen’s
agreement at these celebrity-filled silent auctions. If a member of the “club” wanted a certain item and entered a reasonable
bid, the rest would stay away from it and set their sights on something else. Unless, of course, someone who couldn’t stand
you wanted it. Or if someone who couldn’t stand you didn’t want it but enjoyed yanking your chain, they might bid higher and
buy it just to piss you off, then, on their way out the door, clutching their purchase, smile and tell you it was a wonderful
evening and let’s do lunch. A small example of the civilized knife-twisting that went on all the time in this industry town.
The jeweler stood to gain some quality publicity with potential customers in this rich and famous crowd, as well as a tax
write-off for donating the piece. And Bronstein’s own fifteen-thousand-dollar check would be made out to AmFAR, with a memo
“for AIDS research” on the bottom, so he, too, could take a tax write-off. And not the least of it, he would be getting a
terrific bargain on a fabulous piece of jewelry. It was a nice system where nobody lost, and everybody won. And he wanted
to give that necklace to Janet.

“Do you mind if we stop for a nightcap on the way home?” Bronstein asked her now, as the star-studded benefit show was winding
down. “Sid and the guys want to compare notes on how the picture played.”

Outside the Century Plaza Hotel, the horseshoe drive was lined with limos. Alan waved for their driver, who pulled up and
took them to Mortons, where they found the group from Monogram at a front table.

“So?” Alan asked, as he and Janet joined them.

“So, okay… it went okay, I thought,” Sid Levine threw out. “And I got a not-too-bad feeling from the press. I mean, nobody
looked away in embarrassment when I said hello.”

“Yeah, me too,” Alan responded. “Some nice laughs, no terrible gaffes… Shit, Sid, maybe we’ll make our money back.”

“You didn’t get ‘huge hit’ vibes, huh?” Sid asked hopefully.

“Come on, buddy.” Alan grinned. “We’ve both been in this business too long to kid ourselves. This one never smelled good,
you know that.” Suddenly, he became aware that Janet was looking uncomfortable. This was, after all, her late husband’s picture,
and he had been dead for less than three weeks.

“I’m sorry, Janet,” he said to her. “We’re being insensitive jerks. Maybe we should skip this—”