The Reporter (27 page)

He turned back to face Maxi. He was afraid the accumulated stress of the last weeks might be wreaking havoc with her imagination.
“What makes you think so?” he asked gently.

“The… the seams. The double-stitched seams in red thread,” she breathed, her eyes still locked on the black costume. “I was
closer to it than this, at home in my study. I’m sure—”

Richard turned to take another look. The long, wide sleeves,
the mandarin neckline, the buttonholes, the seams, and the flowing hemline of the garment were all edged in thick, bright
red stitching on the black fabric. The shop owner he interviewed told him that the new kids’ movie about Dracula that had
recently come out was making the costume his biggest seller this Halloween.

“I’ll quiz the owner about his ‘Dracula’ customers, and I’ll call some of the other costume shops in town, see if anything
comes of it,” he said to Maxi. “You’re going back to the auction house?”

“Yes. And I’m going to look in on Yukon on the way. He’s right around the corner on Robertson.”

“I know, remember?” Richard smiled. “Tell him I’ll come by on Saturday and watch the Laker game with him.”

“Thanks, Richard—you cheer me up. Are you going back to the station when you’re through here?”

“Yes—I have to edit this piece for the Four.”

“Do me a favor? Take these phone records in and have one of the editorial assistants check them against the crisscross—they’re
all the calls Janet Orson made from the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She handed Richard the printouts that Alison Pollock had given
her.

“Sure thing—they’ll be on your desk when you get in.”

“Great. See you back in the newsroom.”

“Don’t forget, you can bunk at my place—I actually
like
sleeping on my leather couch.” He smiled. “And Maxi? Be careful.”

T
he surgery was just yesterday,” Dr. Sullivan told Maxi. He was trying to be reassuring. He said her dog had come through his
massive assault as well as could be expected, he seemed to be gaining a little strength, but the vet would not promise her
that Yukon was going to make it. “Give it time. Don’t be looking for miracles,” he said.

But Maxi wanted miracles. She was thirty-two, she hadn’t even had a date since her divorce from Jack Nathanson, she had no
children, and her parents lived on the other side of the country. Five-year-old Yukon was her baby, her roommate, and the
sum total of her family in California.

When she’d stopped in at the animal hospital to see him, she was horrified. Clinic staffers had been telling her on the phone
that he was responding well. She had not been prepared for his terribly debilitated condition. She’d found Yukon still lying
on the floor of his small kennel, his neck and chest bound up in blood-tinged bandages, his breaths coming in raspy, uneven
gasps. His coat was dry and matted, and he’d lost an alarming amount of weight. It broke her heart.

“I guess I
was
expecting miracles, old boy,” she said to him as she gently stroked his head. Beyond the fact that she loved him
so much, it seemed that Yukon teetering on the edge of death symbolized the fragile state of her whole world as each new horror
piled up upon the last. She wouldn’t feel safe again until the killer was caught, and all her instincts told her that time
was running out.

For the second time that morning, Maxi pulled into the parking lot at Sotheby’s. At the reception desk, she asked for Gabby
Modine.

“Go on in, Ms. Poole,” Lenore Baines told her. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Maxi found Gabby and told her what she’d learned, that Meg Davis had been with someone at the auction. She spread Remy Germain’s
sketches across her antique desk. Gabby put on her glasses and studied them, as Maxi pointed out Meg Davis’s raven-haired
friend. “Do you know who this woman is, Gabby?”

“Yes… I remember her, and somebody mentioned who she was. Let me think….” After a long moment, she scooped up the sketches
and took Maxi by the hand. “Come with me,” she said.

Gabby led her into another office across the hall and introduced her to Justeen Luggio, who had worked the door on Saturday,
she said. Gabby showed her the sketches. “Sure,” Justeen said. “She’s that disc jockey. Wait a sec; let me look at the patron
list.”

Justeen went over to a file cabinet and pulled out the guest register for the Nathanson auction. Running her finger down a
ledger, she stopped at a name. “Here’s your mystery woman,” Justeen said. “Zahna Cole, KBIS Radio.”

Maxi pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Information for KBIS in Culver City. Connected to the disc jockey’s
line, she heard a recorded message: “Your call is being answered by Audix. Zahna Cole is not available. If you’d like to leave
a message, please record at the tone.”

Maxi punched the END button. A call from the press might
put the woman off. She’d probably think Channel Six was doing a story on Meg Davis and wanted a friend’s comments on her suicide.
She decided to drive over to the station.

On the way, she called Debra. She was sure that, like herself, Debra had to be panicked after hearing the news about Janet
Orson’s murder last night. Debra picked up immediately.

“God, Maxi,” she shrieked into the phone, “what the hell is going on? Is some maniac after all the bastard’s wives? Like it’s
our
fault he was such a prick?”

“I have no idea, Debra, but I think you’d better get some security over there,” Maxi responded.

“I’ve already done that. I had Gavin De Becker put a twenty-four-hour guard service in place. There’s a huge bozo walking
around my house right now with a gun. Jesus, Max, it’s like being in prison.”

“How’s Gia?” Maxi asked. Debra told her about Gia getting expelled from school the day before. Bessie was in the kitchen right
now carving Halloween pumpkins with her, she said, like she was on vacation. Debra didn’t know whether to punish her or give
her extra love and attention.

“Her shrink says just act normal, and enroll her in public school. Act normal!” Debra scoffed. “I don’t
remember
normal.”

“I don’t either. How are you holding up?”

“I’m holding up. What choice do I have? I was offered a movie yesterday, a good part, in the new John Grisham film. The producer
must have been living on the planet Jupiter for the last month—he didn’t even express concern that it could be a slight production
problem if I turned up dead or behind bars before we finished. God, I’m so broke, I would
love
to have that part.”

“How did you leave it?”

“I told him to send the script over, give me a few days to read it. I’ll stall him as long as I can. Maxi, what do you know?
Anything?”

Maxi told her about her chase around town that morning to
try to find out something about the
Black Sabbat
cross and where it went.

“Good Lord, Maxi, that’s
crazy!
You could get hurt. Stay out of it,” Debra implored.

“I can’t—I’m terrified, too. The worst thing I can do is sit around and wait.”

“Are you getting some protection at
your
place?”

“No… but I’m not going to be staying there. You have Gia and Bessie, Deb. I’m totally alone. Yukon is still in the animal
hospital, and when he gets home, he’ll be ailing. Even with a guard patrolling outside, I’d be a wreck.”

“Do you want to stay here?” Debra asked halfheartedly. Instinctively, they both knew that was a bad idea.

“I might stay at Richard Winningham’s place tonight, then figure out what I should do from there. There’s no point checking
in to a hotel because Yuke will be getting out of the hospital soon. The vet says if there’s no infection, maybe he’ll release
him on Friday.” She didn’t tell Debra that Yukon was fighting for his life. Maxi had always believed that if you expect the
best, if you focus on the positive, you’ll get it.

“Richard Winningham, your new crime reporter?” Debra asked. “He’s a stud! What’s
that
about?” Maxi had to laugh. That was Debra. Even in the most horrendous of circumstances, Debra was up for the dish. Maxi
explained that Richard was just being a friend.

“Oh,
sure!
If he’s just a friend, darling, send him over here. I could sure use a big, strong, gorgeous
friend
around!”

Maxi smiled. Debra practiced her own version of positive thinking. That’s why she was a survivor. “You’ve got a guard outside,
and I’m sure the neighbors are all looking out for you,” Maxi said, trying to sound as cheerful as Debra did.

“Well, I’ll be thinking about you with Mr. Fab tonight.” Then, in a serious tone, she added, “Really, that’s good, Maxi. At
least I won’t have to worry about you being alone.”

“And it sounds like you’ve got things under control—I won’t worry about you, either,” Maxi ventured. But both friends knew
they wouldn’t stop worrying about the other until this insanity was resolved. They promised to talk later that night, and
rang off just before Maxi reached the studios of KBIS-FM in Culver City.

A uniformed guard sat behind a counter in the lobby. Maxi told him she was there to see Zahna Cole, and she showed the guard
her press pass. He looked at her picture, then up at Maxi. “Yeah, you
are
Maxi Poole.” He grinned. “My wife and I watch your news every night—I get home just in time.”

“Thank you, and thank your wife for me. Is Ms. Cole here?”

“I think she’s on vacation,” he told her. “But go in and see Edie, the program director’s assistant—she’s in charge of schedules.
Down the hall, first right, and you’ll see her office, marked Edie Washington.” He buzzed Maxi through the security door.

Edie, a cheerful, rotund black woman of fifty-something, sat behind a desk that was heaped with what looked to be well-organized
clutter. She looked up at Maxi and broke into a wide grin. “You’re that newswoman, Maxi Poole.” She beamed. “You coming to
work here, honey? This joint could
use
some class!”

Maxi laughed. She told her she was looking for Zahna Cole. Zahna was on vacation, Edie said. Maxi asked if she knew where
the disc jockey had gone.

“Oh, Zahna never goes anywhere,” the woman offered. “I keep telling her she should, but she usually just stays home, kicks
back, and gets lost for a while.”

“How long will she be out?”

“All this week, and I think I’ve got her off next week, too. I’ve got a pile of mail to send out to her,” the woman said,
indicating a stack on her desk. “Zahna gets mail from all the late-night crazies. I’ll check and see when she’s due back.”

Edie swiveled her chair around, and as Maxi watched, she brought up a screen on her computer with the header ARTISTS’
SCHEDULES. While Edie perused the file, Maxi glanced down at the stack of mail addressed to the DJ. Beside it was a large
manila envelope with a typewritten address label in place:

Ms- Zahna Cole

6420 Sumac Drive

Sherman Oaks CA 91405

Maxi committed the address to memory. Sherman Oaks was in the San Fernando Valley, just east of the San Diego Freeway. It
was on her way to work. On the drive back to Channel Six, she would stop by and see if she could catch Zahna Cole at home.

“Yup, she’s off next week, too,” Edie said. She turned back to Maxi. “Want me to give her a message for you?”

“No.” Maxi smiled. “I won’t bother her while she’s on vacation. I’ll call her when she gets back. Thanks, Edie.”

Back in her car, Maxi checked her Thomas Guide and located Sumac Drive in Sherman Oaks. If she caught Zahna Cole at home,
she could spare a few minutes to chat with her before she had to get to work.

Z
ahna stood in front of the glass cases displaying rings, watches, gold, diamonds, pearls. She had brought Janet Orson’s pricey
necklaces to the wholesale jewelry district, to a place called Estate Gems, one of hundreds of jewelry vendors in this busy
section of downtown L.A. She’d pulled the name out of the Yellow Pages; the ad said they bought jewelry. She was the only
customer in the small, shabby showroom on this Wednesday afternoon. A Mr. George Pasha had taken the pieces in the back, to
appraise them, he said.

He could be calling the police, she knew, but the odds were with her. When news of the murder of Janet Orson broke, there
had been no mention of jewelry missing. In fact, they reported that there was no indication of robbery. Still, you never knew.
Often, the authorities concealed certain facts when they put a story out, she’d heard, to trip up the suspects—Mr. Pasha might
know that.

Another man, slight, stooped, balding, in a shiny suit and wire-rimmed glasses, came out from the back and went over to one
of the far showcases, took out a brooch and examined it with a jeweler’s loupe, then put it back, but Zahna sensed that his
real mission was to examine
her.
She could feel him surreptitiously
looking her over. Her inclination was to flee, but that Pasha guy had the jewelry.

The man passed by her on the other side of the showcases and nodded somberly, then disappeared into the back. How the hell
did they appraise jewelry, anyway—did they have machines that told how much gemstones were worth? And how could she trust
them? Even as that thought occurred to her, Zahna caught the irony in it—who was
she
not to trust someone? Obviously they’d offer her much less than the pieces were worth, but she was hardly in a position to
haggle.

She was cruising on cocaine and adrenaline, hadn’t slept at all last night, never even went to bed. She’d spent every waking
minute charting her own personal witness-protection program.

This would be her last errand before she skipped the country. By the time anyone figured out that the jewels had been taken,
then maybe traced them to this small shop on the sixth floor of an old downtown building, she’d be in Mexico.

Her plan was all laid out. When she got back to her house she would burn her passport, her driver’s license, and all other
identification. She would carry only the new picture ID with her new name that she’d had made this morning at a local computer
print shop. She would throw some things in a bag, then drive out to LAX, abandon her old, battered heap in one of the airport
lots, grab a cab to the Greyhound bus station downtown, put her money on the counter, no questions asked, no names needed,
and buy a bus ticket to San Diego. There, she would hop the light rail shuttle to the Mexican border and walk over the bridge
into Tijuana, along with the hundreds of Americans and Mexicans who crossed back and forth every day, no papers needed, just
a smile for the INS agents and the Mexican border patrol guards on the other side. In TJ, she’d take a cab to Generali Rodriguez
Airport. At the Aeromexico counter, she’d buy a one-way ticket on the midnight flight to Mexico City under her new name, Carla
Valdez.