“We know what reporter privilege is, sir,” Preston says. “I guess we’re asking you to waive it since it involves the reporter’s own safety.” Now Robatelli stands, smacks his hand to his forehead, paces the length of his small office. “OK, OK,” he says. “But let me at least talk to my general manager first. He’ll probably want to check with the attorneys. But either way, I can’t give you access to what you want without his permission.”
“How long would that take?”
“I’m not sure. Could be an hour. Could be the rest of the day or tomorrow if we’re calling Legal.”
“Every second counts,” Mills warns him.
The man says, “I know,” in such a grave, inner voice that Mills believes him.
Gus spends most of his waking hours looking beneath the surface in one way or another. When he’s involved in psychic activity, his visions lay far beyond the layers of human consciousness. He explores the realms of realms. There’s an international date line quality to the experience, as well, where today is always yesterday or tomorrow, and if he digs deep enough, he can see the continuum of time all at once. Dizzying, to be sure. The hangover is the result of a cosmic jet lag that’s more profound than any time zone shift he’s experienced hopping the globe with Billie. Then, there’s Valley Imaging and his earthbound job where, during most of his working hours, he peers through human flesh into the bones and organs of strangers.
Going beneath the surface. Gus had been stuck on that notion, if only transcendentally, since earlier this morning. So far today he has peered at two knees, a hip, a pelvis, and a lower lumbar spine. And that’s just before lunch. There was something about Mrs. Bloomstein’s hip that gave him pause. Nothing serious. Her hip actually looked great for a 75-year-old hip. But there was a shadow there. Not a physical shadow. A shadow of doubt. It all becomes clear to him when he gets a call from Billie during his lunch hour.
“Hello, love,” she says.
“Billie!” His heart seems to flip. She still has that effect.
“I just woke up.”
He looks at his watch. “Of course you did. All good?”
She hums. “Oh yeah. Miss you.”
“Likewise,” he says. He moves to an unoccupied corner of the lunch café and sits. “Have you been recording?”
“Rehearsing. Until almost four o’clock this morning.”
“I don’t know how you do it—”
“But the band was off. They were playing like imbeciles.” Her laugh sounds more like a growl, a sweet growl.
“That sucks.”
“We’ll be back at it tonight,” she insists. “Hey, you coming to LA this weekend?”
Something goes thud in his stomach. He can feel a wince on his face. “Is it my turn to come to you? How did I forget this?”
“The last time we were together was when I was in Phoenix. Sorry if it wasn’t memorable.”
He scoffs. “No. Of course it was memorable. Always is. It’s just these days go by so fast. It’s hard to keep track.”
“Don’t worry, Gus. It’s all good. I just found out I’m having company. I thought I’d check to see if you’d be here as well.”
He shrugs. “Well, I can certainly come. Or I can make it up to you the following weekend.”
“Yeah,” she says, waking up fully. “Let’s do that. I haven’t seen Cam in years. We wouldn’t want to bore you with all the catching up.” “Wait,” Gus says, his shoulders high and tight, fight or flight. “Cameron Taylor? That Cam.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
That Cam is Billie Welch’s former on-again/off-again boyfriend, lover, drummer, arranger, burden. They finally called it off ten years ago, if you listen to Billie and the tabloids tell it. They had been living together, and he had insisted on drinking and drugging even after Billie decided to get the drugs out of her life. He would not change. She would not tolerate it. She threw him out. But their emotionally bruised relationship had made headlines for years. Her early music regularly reported the status of their heartache. Some songs were no more than anger bombs, f-bombs, coordinated sorties to attack Cameron Taylor.
Besieged After
the Fall Shadow
of a Man
Battlefield
Black and Blue Heart
The two of them have since reconciled their anger but have kept their distance. And that was fine with Billie, even more fine with Gus. But a couple with that much history looms large. Occasionally his name comes up. Occasionally a tabloid would speculate on a renewed romance, despite Billie’s full disclosure about Gus, despite the fact that Cam hasn’t stepped foot in Billie’s house in more than a decade. But Cam is stepping foot into Billie’s house this weekend.
“Is he staying with you?”
“I said I was having company.”
“That’s a yes?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
Trick question. Whether she intends it or not, it’s a trick question. If it weren’t a problem, then why is Gus too jittery to answer? He can hear his inner voice fluttering. Like a child. He won’t answer like a child. So, yeah, it’s a problem. It’s a problem because he doesn’t like the way it was presented. But it’s not a problem because he’s a grown-up and he respects Billie’s history and all the strange pieces that make up her puzzle. The respect thing. That’s the thing. He respects her, but how respectful was it of her to put him on the spot? To assume he’d be okay with a lover from the past?
“Gus?”
“Yeah . . .” he says, stretching the word like a downward dog.
“You’re cool or you’re not cool.”
He laughs. “I’m always cool. Can I trust Cam not to put the moves on you?”
“No,” she says, to his confoundment. “But you can trust me to resist him.”
He says nothing. He lets that sink in. Trust. Resist. Why should she have to resist him?
“Besides,” she adds, “I’m an old lady. I don’t have the energy for multiple lovers.”
“You’re not an old lady,” he tells her. “And I’m not sure your energy level has anything to do with it.”
“Gus, I can tell you’re not thrilled with this. But Cam was a big part of my life.”
“As am I.”
“Right,” she says. “But it’s not like we’re joined at the hip.”
There it is! The hip! Mrs. Bloomstein’s hip!
The shadow of doubt.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gus challenges her.
“It’s supposed to mean that as long as we live long-distance, I gotta have a life.”
Gus groans. “Oh, God, of course you do. As do I. I think we’re doing it pretty well without hosting old lovers for the weekend.”
“Okay, Gus. I didn’t call to have a fight.”
If he had a dime . . .
Worst line in history.
“No, you didn’t. There’s no need. We’re adults. Do as you wish. Have a great time.”
She was going to do what she wished anyway. She always does.
“You know, with Cam, it could be a great time. Or it could be a nightmare,” she says. “He’s been clean for six years now. So I’m optimistic.”
Gus could not care less about Cameron Taylor’s sobriety. He doesn’t say so when he says, “Oh, damn, gotta get back to work, love you!” and hangs up.
He looks at his watch. Twenty minutes left.
There’s no way they can get a search warrant to listen to Aaliyah’s voice mails. Not at this point. Not unless they can convincingly and materially tie her to Viveca Canning’s death. Right now they just don’t have that. The Missing Persons detail might have an easier time getting the warrant. Mills coordinated a meeting after lunch with Missing Persons and Josh Grady, and they all mapped out a strategy for publicizing the Aaliyah Jones disappearance. Grady had already drafted a news release, and Missing Persons signed off on it with little alteration. The story hit Aaliyah’s station at noon. They didn’t have to wait for a news
release from the PD. But the story will be in the hands of the rest of the media shortly, and it’ll be all over the Internet by the end of the day, on the evening news tonight, in the morning headlines tomorrow. It should be a tweetstorm, a Facebook frenzy; reporters everywhere will be salivating over the proposition that one of their own has been victimized. See! It’s not an easy job! Mills has no fucking sympathy for media types, but oddly he feels an attachment to Aaliyah, like an older brother who shirked his responsibility, whose DNA is a helix of guilt and betrayal. He should have gone and found her that night. But he punted. He fucking punted and sent Powell to go find her. Every second counts. Write that one on the board a hundred times. If he ever had a burden of shame to carry, he earned this one. And he knows his squad knows it.
He plans to sit here and wallow in the misery. Because he can. Because what’s the alternative? Pound the desk? Throw a chair? This fuckup was uniquely his. He puts his head in his hands and squeezes his temples. Then his phone rings. It’s Powell.
“What’s up?”
“I’m at the lab,” she says. “They’ve been working on the Aaliyah Jones car. The reason we’re not getting a signal from her phone after the location where we found her car is because the phone remained in her car.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They found it in plain sight.”
“How plain?”
“It was on the floor of the passenger seat.”
“Great. Tell them to get what they need and then I’d like you to enter it as evidence so we can take a look,” he instructs her. “That is if it’s her personal phone.”
“Whose phone would it be?”
“Her employer’s. It could be a station-issued phone, in which case we might have a problem. Not a huge problem, but perhaps a delay in inspecting it.”
“Why?”
“First Amendment stuff. Reporter privilege.”
“Does the same thing apply to a thumb drive?”
“What thumb drive?”
Powell snickers. “Time to make your day,” she says. “We found a thumb drive in the car as well.”
Now, who’s salivating? Mills is salivating. “I’m surprised whoever snatched Aaliyah didn’t also snatch the thumb drive.”
“Well, it wasn’t as easy to find as the phone.”
“Where was it?”
“Wedged between the seat and the center console, down deep, practically on the floor,” she replies. “I’m not sure what it’s doing there.”
“I am,” Mills tells her. “She knew she was being followed. She sensed she was in danger. She slipped the damn thing down there. On purpose. They might take her, but they weren’t going to take it. It’s her gift to us.”
“You want me to bag it also?”
“Yeah. We’ll have to figure out, again, if it’s hers or the property of her employer.”
Powell groans.
“No. This is all good news, Jan. This is the best news of the day.” It’s only now, when he disconnects from Powell, that he sees he missed a call from Gus earlier in the day. From first thing this morning. He calls back, gets voice mail, leaves a message. “You’re it,” he says.
His computer dings. Email. Myers.
Alex—
Attached is the first in a series of emails between Viveca Canning and Francesca Norwood. There are many. I can only get to a certain amount at a time because of how they’re partitioned off in the cache.
So this is the first. Happy reading. I’ll probably have more tomorrow. MM
Homework.
Turns out Kelly has homework too. The Trey Shinner case wrapped up today. Closing arguments will likely begin Monday. Lately, their evenings have been characterized by good books and good wine. Tonight, it’s homework and good wine. Kelly pours.
“You sure you’ll be up to the closing Monday?” Mills asks his wife. “That only gives you two days to recover from surgery . . .”
“How many times are you going to ask me?”
“I don’t know. How many times have I asked already?” “Forty-four.”
“Then forty-five.”
“I’ll be fine. I told you what the doctors said.”
“You did?”
“Alex, you are in such a fog. What’s wrong with you?”
He puts his head in his hands. “What’s wrong with you is what’s wrong with me.”
She scoffs. “If you had been at the appointment yesterday you would have heard the doctors yourself.”
“I already feel guilty for not going. Don’t remind me.”
She scoffs again. “That’s not what I mean, dumbass. I mean, they sat there and told me some women go to work a day or two later. I remember we had a 77-year-old paralegal at the firm who had a lumpectomy and went to jazzercise class the very next day. I hate the thought of jazzercise. So I’ll work all weekend and prepare for the closing.” Alex shrugs. Fine. Whatever. He’s not going to fight her. She’s a warrior. She doesn’t know how to lose. Good. She can be in charge.
Maybe she’s always been in charge. Mills married a fiercely independent woman. Nothing’s changed. Some fucking spidery mass of tissue, or whatever the fuck the tumor is, isn’t going to change that.
“If worse comes to worst,” she adds. “Deb can do the closing. She’s preparing as well.”
“I really think we should call Trevor.”
She shakes her head and sighs. “I told you, I think it’s best we wait until I’m recovering over the weekend. No need to worry him.”
“And I told you, that’s not the point.”
“Alex, you’re working my last nerve.”
He says, “Sorry,” and goes back to work.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: What flight number?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: What flight number? Re: 2021
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: New email
Viv, this is my new private email address. Fran
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: somewhere in the world
It’s the best plan, Viv. I can’t believe I forgave him!!! How could I be so stupid?
It’s all about the money, always about the money.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: attorney
I know a good real estate attorney who’s done lots of international transactions. He’s discreet. Won’t say a word.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
How did he know I was changing the will?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: stuff
I think Bennett told him. You know Bennett thinks of himself as second in command now that Gabriel’s out of the picture. Gleason’s like a second father to him.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: stuff
Gleason better hope Bennett never finds out what happened to his real father. I’m still researching all about exhuming.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I don’t think we have time to exhume.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I have to. If there’s something to prove, I have to prove it. I can’t go to the police with nothing.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I think we just have to get away before it’s too late. Clark didn’t know what was coming. But you do.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I never should have sent Gleason that email. I tipped my hand.
&nbs
p; To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
At least you didn’t threaten to go to the police. You’d be gone by now. And I don’t mean Tahiti, darling.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
Right. Which is why I’m trying to put together the perfect dossier. I’ll have it couriered to the Phoenix police just hours before we hop on that plane! It would be a whole lot more convincing if I could get Clark exhumed and include some kind of report with proof!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I actually think you need the cops or somebody to sign off before you exhume a body.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I’m still researching.
Do you want a ticket to the Heart Ball next weekend? You can come as my date?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Stuff
I hope you’re trashing all your emails, Vivi. And you should delete all your browser history.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: whereabouts
Vivi, I’m staying at the Desert Charm until this whole thing gets settled and we take off. XO
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: time
Is running out. I don’t know how he’s going to do it. But he’s consumed with anger. Frothing at the mouth, practically. I just don’t like what I see. Can we move up the departure date?
“Jesus Christ,” Mills hisses. “These people are a whole new brand of crazy.”
Kelly coughs up a laugh, her head sinking in paperwork.
There are many more emails between Viveca and Francesca, most of them out of order and out of context. But a story is emerging. Some of it with flashing lights and sirens, some of it with whispers and innuendo. One thing is clear: he’ll be questioning several people again, bringing them in for their callbacks, a second audition. Another thing is clear: “I never should have sent Gleason that email.” He needs to see that email. He texts Myers instructions to search for correspondence between Viveca and Gleason Norwood first thing in the morning.
Valley of Shadows Page 26