The Reporter (32 page)

She’d seen a notice in the trades that recently widowed top agent Janet Orson had just signed the lead singer from Minefield,
who was starring in a movie. That gave Zahna the idea to call Orson’s office and request an interview about the singer for
her radio show. She’d never use it, of course—her fans didn’t want to hear some woman talk about a rock star, they just wanted
to get stoned and listen to the music. But that would get her into Janet Orson’s orbit again—she still wanted that huge diamond
ring, the one Jack
should
have given Zahna.

She was amazed that Orson accepted—after all, she was supposed to be
grieving,
wasn’t she? Coldhearted bitch, business as usual, she didn’t care that Jack was dead. Zahna scheduled the interview at the
Beverly Hills Hotel because she’d probably have
her good stuff there. She figured Janet wouldn’t be ready when she came to the door to do the interview—that kind of woman
never is. She’d be fussing with her hair and makeup in the bathroom, and while Zahna was waiting, she’d poke around and snatch
things, whatever she saw lying around. Maybe that ring would be on the dresser. She would carry her tape equipment in a big
tote bag, and toss some nice expensive goodies into it.

Not a bad plan. The only problem was that Janet Orson might recognize her from the funeral. So she came up with an even better
plan. On the night before the scheduled interview, they showed live coverage of the arrivals at the premiere of Jack Nathanson’s
last movie, Seriai
Killer,
on the news. And there she was, Janet Orson, the star’s beautiful widow, entering the theater on the arm of the man Zahna
had seen her with at the auction. The glittering scene added more fuel to Zahna’s fury. Her rage, and the vodka, the crack,
and the pills, turned up Superwoman again, and the caped crusader found herself gearing up for another mission.

She’d tried to get Janet Orson’s room number from the hotel operator that afternoon, but the woman was snippy. Turns out she
didn’t need it—Orson actually returned her call and gave her the number herself. “Just come to bungalow 16,” she’d said in
her message, and she added that she looked forward to meeting Zahna the next day.

Why wait? Zahna decided to go over to the hotel that night, get to the bungalows the back way, off Crescent Drive, find number
16, and maybe break a window—those units wouldn’t be wired for alarms, and they were pretty secluded. She would prowl around
the place, filch a few pricey little presents for herself while the lady was at the party.

When she got there, there were too many waiters, bellmen, security guards, guests, and strollers around the grounds for her
to break in without being noticed. So she hid in the bushes and smoked some rocks, and lost track of time. When she became
aware that the activity had died down and there was no one around, she was about to make her move when she heard the click-click-click
of high heels coming along the quiet walk.

Peering out through thick oleander hedges, she saw a vision. In her cracked-out, light-sensitive haze, her eyes adjusted to
see a gleaming goddess moving toward her in slow motion, floating in a shimmering, silver-white floor-length gown and a white
fur wrap, and glistening, dripping in diamonds.

Suddenly, the picture snapped into focus. It was that damn Janet Orson, in the dress she’d seen her in on the news earlier,
coming back to the bungalow before Zahna had a chance to break a window and get in and out of the place with some booty. It
infuriated her, sent her into a frenzy. She’s
spoiling my life again,
she thought, and she pounced on the silver goddess and ripped at her with the death cross, again and again.

Why did she kill Janet Orson? Because it felt right. In that final few seconds, it wasn’t about jewelry and furs anymore;
she was evening the score. Janet Orson had it all, and Zahna had nothing. After spending every waking minute over the last
three years obsessing about one or the other of Jack’s damn wives, it was payback time.

It was supposed to be Zahna’s turn, she’d told the woman, and Janet Orson stole her turn. Jack was never meant to marry her,
he was supposed to marry his Zahna. If Ms. Superagent hadn’t gone sucking around him, seducing him and promising him movie
projects, none of this would have happened, she told the eyes of Janet Orson staring up from the floor. Thinking back on it
now, getting angry all over again, she was glad she killed her.

And she’d wanted to kill Debra Angelo, who had Jack’s kid. And Maxi Poole, that smug little bitch, on the news every night
and everybody thinking she was the quintessential L.A. Woman. That was how Los Angeles regarded his wife, Jack had told Zahna
once, and ever since then she’d refused to play that Doors song
on her show. But Jack loved Zahna more; he told her so. Still, he wouldn’t leave Maxi. And even when Maxi Poole was begging
him to move out, he wouldn’t go. He would come over to Zahna’s house at night and drink Scotch and smoke a couple of joints
and ball her brains out, and then have the fucking nerve to cry over Maxi, and ramble on that he had to win his wife back.

She had fully intended to kill Maxi Poole. She still had the key to Maxi’s house, copied during one of those airport runs,
and people never bothered to change their alarm codes. She was going to steal some of Maxi’s nice things, too, things that
should have been Zahna’s, and make it look like a robbery. But Maxi had managed to escape her wrath. She’d just killed her
goddamned dog. Too bad. She’d go back and do it tonight if she didn’t have to get the hell out of Dodge.

She finished off the double whammy, and she was soaring. Ready to burn all her identification, toss some things in a bag,
and clear out of there. She would buy some clothes in Mexico City, start fresh.

At that instant, her doorbell rang. She froze. Her heart felt like it was exploding as she shuffled over to the front window
and peered out from behind the tattered curtains.

She couldn’t believe who was standing on the other side of her gate. Maxi
Poole!

H
ey, buddy, I’d like to help, but to answer your question,
everybody
bought a Dracula costume this year, and if you ask me,
all
of them were odd,” the manager of Westside Masquerade yelled into the phone.

Richard sat at his desk and checked off another costume shop in the L.A. Yellow Pages. Tomorrow was Halloween, and most of
the salespeople blew him off—they were busy.

His second line lit up. It was Pete Capra, wanting to see him. Richard got up and walked across the newsroom to the glass-enclosed
office where Pete sat barking orders into the phone. The early block was on the air. The Four, Five, and Six O’clock News
shows ran back to back, two and a half hours of live broadcasting where anything could go wrong, and usually did.

Richard’s Halloween warning report was running on the Four, slated at forty-two minutes into the hour. He had finished writing
the script, tracking the narration, editing the tape, and hammering out the ins and outs, and the piece was ready to go. The
anchors would throw to him for the lead-in, live from the newsroom camera, in about fifteen minutes.

It was almost 4:30. He’d been using the time while waiting to go on the air to try to find a merchant in the L.A. area who
might
have observed anything strange while selling the costume that Maxi thought she saw on the killer. A long shot, but you never
knew.

Pete cocked his head toward a chair in front of his desk, indicating that Richard should sit down, while he continued chewing
out the director in the control booth for taking a three-shot when it should have been a close-up on the political editor.

“Fucking idiot belongs in Boise!” Pete muttered, slamming down the phone. “Richard, you’re a big music fan…. Ever heard of
a disc jockey named Zahna Cole?”

“Nope.” Richard shook his head.

“I thought you were hip,” Pete carped, flicking the ash of his cigar into an empty coffee cup on his desk. Though he was off
cigarettes, he figured cigars didn’t count.

“I’m new in town, remember?” Richard pointed out. “I’m still trying to wean myself off Don Imus.”

“I need you to do some legwork,” Pete said. “Find out what you can about this Zahna Cole that Cabello is investigating. He
says it’s not much of a lead, but she made an appointment to interview Janet Orson today, and insisted on doing it at the
Beverly Hills Hotel where Orson was staying, but it turns out she happens to be on vacation this week, so maybe she just wanted
to find out which unit the victim was staying in.”

Mike Cabello and his partner were on their way over to KBIS in Culver City right now, Pete said, to find out what they could
about the lady. In the meantime, the detectives wanted to know if Pete had ever heard anything about her inside the industry.

“So if you come up with something in the next twenty, thirty minutes, call Cabello,” Pete said, ripping half a page off a
yellow legal pad with the detective’s cell phone number scribbled on it.

Richard walked back through the newsroom with the number. Where to begin? Might as well continue on the tack he’d taken, but
in the vicinity of that radio station. He went behind
the assignment desk to a set of shelves filled with area phone books and pulled out the Culver City Yellow Pages.

The third shop he dialed was Culver Costumes, owned by a Mr.Oscar Pepys. Richard identified himself, and Mr. Pepys happened
to recognize his name. “Oh, you’re that crime guy on the news,” he said, and Richard acknowledged that he was. “But this isn’t
a crime story, Mr. Pepys,” he said, “it’s a piece on zany disc jockeys who dress up on Halloween. You know, they’re on radio,
and the listeners can’t see them, so we’re going to show what they look like in their wacky costumes, that kind of thing.”

“Uh-huh,” Pepys said.

“Yah, well, we’re told the disc jockey Zahna Cole bought her costume from you, and we want to know what it was,” Richard said.
“Do you know Zahna Cole, Mr. Pepys?”

“Oh, yes. She’s quite a character. Her station is right down the street. She bought her costume here, but maybe she wants
to keep it a secret. Why don’t you ask
her?”

“We can’t,” Richard responded. “She’s off today, and her station doesn’t know where to reach her. But she’s very popular,
and we wouldn’t want to leave her out of the story.”

Pepys hesitated, so Richard jumped in again. “And we’ll mention the name of your shop,” he lied, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Well, all right, sure,” Oscar Pepys replied. “She’s gonna be Dracula this year.”

The words sent a chill through Richard’s body. The warning lights came on in the newsroom then, blazing incandescent key lights
that flooded the set where the newsroom camera was mounted, signaling that the next reporter’s piece was up in two minutes.
It was 4:40—these lights were for him.

He grabbed his script, skidded over to the set, jumped into the seat, jammed his telex in his ear, adjusted his tie, and looked
straight into the lens, just in time to hear the anchorman in the studio say, “Tomorrow is Halloween. Our crime-watch reporter,
Richard Winningham, has some tips to protect the trick-or-treaters in your family….” Richard did his lead-in and watched his
tape roll, then tagged the piece off and answered a couple of anchor questions. When he was finished the lights went off,
and he raced back to his desk.

He dialed the number that Pete had given him for Mike Cabello and caught him in his squad car. He told Cabello what Maxi had
said this afternoon, that her attacker had worn a Dracula costume. And he had just learned that Culver Costumes had sold a
Dracula costume to the woman they were asking about, Zahna Cole.

“Yeah, well,” Cabello yelled into the phone, “the whole country is probably buying Dracula costumes this week with that movie
out, but thanks for the tip, Winningham. We’re pulling up at the station now. Call if you hear anything else.”

He looked up to see Pete Capra lumbering toward him. “Maxi’s not in yet,” Capra blustered. “She’s never late. The assignment
editors don’t have her out on a story—”

“I ran into her on Melrose a couple of hours ago,” Richard offered. “She was chasing down an ID on a woman who was with Meg
Davis at that auction where she bought the cross.” As he heard himself say those words, his blood ran cold. He grabbed the
phone and asked Information for the number for Sotheby’s in Beverly Hills.

Yes, Maxi Poole had been in some time ago, the receptionist said. Richard told her he knew that Maxi had gone to Sotheby’s
to identify a woman who was portrayed in some sketches she had with her, and he needed to know if she’d been successful.

The receptionist told him that Gabrielle Modine had helped Ms. Poole, but she was gone for the day. She couldn’t give out
Gabby’s phone number, she said, but she would try to reach her in her car, and if she wasn’t able to get her there, she would
leave a message on her answering machine at home. She took Richard’s number, and promised she would ask Gabby to call him
ASAP.

Pete Capra was standing over him. “What’s Maxi’s cell phone number?” Richard asked him. Pete yelled the question in the direction
of the assignment desk, and one of the editors consulted his computer files and yelled back the number. Richard was dialing
before he’d finished. He punched up the speaker phone so Pete could hear. A recording blared: “Thank you for calling. The
mobile customer you are trying to reach is away from the phone, or beyond our service area. Please try your call again later.”

Richard told Pete then that Maxi said the assailant was wearing a Dracula costume, black with red stitching—she’d realized
it when she happened to spot that same costume at the shop where he was doing his Halloween story. And that he’d just found
out that this disc jockey the detectives were running down, Zahna Cole, had recently bought one.

His phone lit up. He punched up the line, leaving the speaker on. It was Gabby Modine. She was in her car and had just got
his message, she said.