Anabelle placed my vial on the table, where it rolled to the edge.
Would it fall onto the grass? Would it break? Anabelle studied the hand-lettered vial like she was trying to decipher a message from a long-extinct civilization.
“It’s very nice of you to bring me your latest discovery,” she said at last. “I haven’t thought about perfume in years.”
Abruptly, she rose and walked to the end of the backyard and I followed. Below us the sea crashed and roared. Just past the fence, a spiky green plant grew out of the sandy cliff. Its creamy white flowers with purple-tipped edges were beginning to open. They glowed in the dusk, giving off a cool lemony fragrance.
“Datura innoxia.” Anabelle reached through the fence and plucked a flower. “Also known as moonflower, thorn apple, jimsonweed.”
With a dreamy look, she lifted the delicate, trumpet-shaped bloom to her nose.
“Isn’t that toxic?” I asked.
“The witch’s weed?” Anabelle nodded. “Known to induce hallucinations and visions. The gardener wants to pull it out, it’s very invasive, but I love its shamanistic history. Sometimes when things get bad, I come out here and . . .”
In the dusk, the pale moonflower glowed with an atavistic beauty.
Anabelle sighed. “But it’s a fleeting vampiric beauty. By noon, they’re wilted and forlorn.”
“You feel an affinity to them?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, look, a luna moth.”
A giant jade moth with swallowtail wings dipped and soared. Anabelle ran after it, laughing, trampling the datura underfoot. But instead of heady fragrance, I smelled manure.
Anabelle wrinkled her nose and checked her espadrilles.
“Ick! I stepped in dog poop.” She pulled off the offending shoe. “Argghh. I just bought these.”
But I was staring at Anabelle’s foot. The Band-Aid couldn’t cover the red inflammation in the webbing between her second and third toes.
“Cat pounced on my bare foot,” she said, catching me staring. “I’m afraid it may be infected.”
Could my friend be using again? Had her husband found out? Did that explain the unease I sensed?
As these thoughts ricocheted around my head, I massaged my neck.
“What’s the matter?” Anabelle said, misinterpreting my frown.
“Oh, I um, woke up with a crick. Must have slept wrong.”
She smiled in sympathy. “Those can be so painful.”
“I’ll be okay.”
She placed her hand on my wrist. “I’ll get you something, just in case it gets worse.”
We walked back into the kitchen and Anabelle ran upstairs. I heard her slamming drawers. Taking advantage of her absence, I walked around the kitchen, inspecting the tile floor for the telltale food and water dishes that would tell me a cat lived here.
I didn’t see any.
“Randall, honey,” Anabelle called down, “where’s that Percocet the doctor gave you when your back went out?”
Anabelle’s husband came out of the den and stood at the foot of the stairs.
“Check my bedside table,” he called up.
“It’s not there.”
“Then I don’t know, honey.”
Seeing me, Randall came into the kitchen.
“So,” he asked in a low, falsely jovial voice, “did Anabelle give you an earful out by the pool?”
“About what?”
“Me.”
Anabelle began to walk down the stairs, complaining that the pills had disappeared.
Wordlessly, I shook my head at Randall.
Anabelle’s husband tucked his hands under his arms and shot me an enigmatic look. “All I’m saying is, don’t believe everything she tells you.”
* * *
When I played the conversation back later, I wondered why I hadn’t paid closer attention to the signs. Why did a shadow cross Senator Paxton’s face when he mentioned Randall. Why had Anabelle lied about the cut on her foot? And why, despite her insistence that life was grand, did Anabelle seem so dreadfully unhappy? I was so busy convincing Anabelle about my successful life that I failed to see the cracks widening in hers.
* * *
That night, Mom and I avoided talking about the PET scan. She was cranky and snippy, and I refused to engage with her. It’s ironic. A disease like cancer should have brought us closer. But it only heightened what was already there. We were still the same two people.
I got my laptop and Googled LAPD Captain Randall Downs.
Randall was a veteran cop who’d started his career in an area with heavy gang problems. Some of his colleagues had been accused of staging home invasion robberies to rip off drug dealers and coerce sex from prostitutes, but Randall had not been implicated. In fact, he’d recently been promoted and transferred to Devonshire Division for his role in an undercover operation that convicted an L.A. drug kingpin who laundered money through legitimate businesses.
Still uneasy, I googled the TV show Rookie, but turned up nothing. I wondered whether I’d be defending Anabelle’s husband from accusations one day. And what about the sore between Anabelle’s toes? Is that why she hadn’t tried to renew our old friendship? Because there were too many messy questions?
I turned off the computer and stood at my window. The moon was waxing, almost full. Dark clouds scudded across the sky and a warm wind whipped the curtains. A mockingbird began to sing. With its full-throated warble echoing in my ears, I got into bed and pulled up the sheet.
14
I hope I’m not calling too early?” said a male voice.
I lifted my head, propping my chin up with my elbow. I squinted at the digital clock: 6:30.
“No, no, I have to get up. Who’s this?”
“It’s Rob Turcotte. I just got back from my morning run. Look, I’d like to talk to you.”
Suddenly, I was wide awake. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about last night.”
“Well, I just wonder, is this your way of saying you’re not interested?”
“Not at all. I’m just incredibly busy with this new job.” Pause. “So, you want to try to get together for a meal?”
There was a long silence.
“Hello?”
“I guess we can give it one more try. But, Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“Last chance. After this, the stars don’t align, you know?”
* * *
There was much excitement in Faraday’s office when I got in. Tyler’s cop source had called, saying they’d traced Emily Mortimer’s cell phone to a tenement in Koreatown. We turned the channels to local news with anticipation, but there was nothing new.
“All right, folks, let’s keep it moving. Tyler, see if you can get an update.”
When Tyler left, Faraday turned to me. “How’d it go with Anabelle Paxton?”
I flushed. “It was really just personal stuff, us catching up.”
“Tell me every little thing.” Faraday settled back in his chair.
And even though I felt squeamish, I sat there and recounted the visit. Faraday was interested in Anabelle’s child, in her relationship with her husband, in how she viewed her father.
“We didn’t really talk about the case and what her dad and uncle may or may not have done,” I said. “Anabelle loves Henry and believes what he’s told her.”
“And the son-in-law’s a cop, is he?” Faraday said.
“Yeah.” I frowned. “I didn’t really like him that much. He seemed a bit pompous. Said he was asking around about the case, making unofficial inquiries.”
This seemed to interest Faraday very much. “And how was he going to do that?”
“We didn’t get into it.”
“And how was his investigation going?”
“He said there was nothing to report,” I said, glad when Faraday changed the subject.
“And how would you describe Anabelle’s relationship with her dad? Close? Distant?”
“Distantly close,” I said. “She c
alls him Dad now, which is interesting. In high school he was Henry. Maybe she needs a father now that she’s an adult herself.”
“I understand she’s had some substance abuse problems?”
My mouth dropped. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe something. We like to know all the angles, we like to stay informed.”
“This conversation makes me feel like a traitor, like I’m supposed to spy on them and report back to you.”
Faraday leaned forward. “I’d never want to put you in an uncomfortable position. But we’re trying to learn as much as we can. You know we always conduct our own independent investigations. And we’ve learned that sometimes when you throw unrelated facts in the mix, patterns emerge.”
He saw that I wasn’t convinced.
“Come on, Maggie, why are you so protective? She doesn’t need it. She’s the kind of poor little rich girl who floats along without a dollar in her purse because she knows there’s always someone waiting to buy her a drink, pay for a meal, slip her past the velvet rope, make the bad stuff go away. You and I aren’t like that. We’re scholarship kids. We’ve had to fight hard for everything we’ve ever gotten.”
“How’d you know I had scholarships?” I said, annoyed. It was none of his business.
Faraday gave me a coyote smile.
Just then his computer beeped. He glanced down.
“HuffPo is taking the Trent Holloway piece but they want it by three p.m.,” he said. “Seven hundred fifty words. Can you get me a draft in an hour?”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon.
“Sure,” I said, swallowing hard.
“The tone is personal. He’s upset and outraged. He feels betrayed. His only concern is for his family.”
“Got it.”
At my desk, I tried to empty my mind.
Then I wrote:
A former employee has made false allegations against me after my wife, Boots, and I confronted her about $150,000 worth of jewelry that went missing from our bedroom. This employee demanded that we pay her $1.5 million or she would file a lawsuit accusing me of sexual harassment. This is a cold-blooded attempt to extort our family and damage and humiliate not only my wife and me but our two young children. We are not going to pay hush money so she will go away. We feel betrayed by her accusations and we vow to fight back.
My computer beeped.
“How’s it going?” Faraday queried.
“Fine,” I wrote back.
I counted the words, then wrote more. Fifty-five minutes later I hit Send and got some coffee.
When I returned, there was a message waiting.
“Nice work. It’s off to Holloway and his lawyers for approval. Go grab some lunch.”
But I had other plans.
I needed something to wear on my date and wanted to check Le Boutique.
I found the most amazing things there—designer dresses, plein air paintings, Art Deco mirrors. There was a magic about the place. With the regularity of the tides, it tossed up what I needed, often before I knew myself. And the prices couldn’t be beat.
Le Boutique was a thrift store. Like many women I knew, I struggled to make ends meet. Blair didn’t provide a clothing allowance, but I was expected to look neat, trim, sleek, and professional at all times. So, frugalista that I am, I waited for sales and then splurged on basic black and good bras.
But I would have frequented Le Boutique even if I had money. The giddy pleasure of finding something cool for next to nothing gave me a buzz that was akin to a drug.
At the counter, I browsed the jumble of cheap jewelry and asked to see a box of perfume.
It was called Chaos by Donna Karan and smelled smoky, sweet, and spicy. I said I’d think about the $29.95 price tag (pretty steep for the thrift store).
“Too exotic,” I told the clerk as I left ten minutes later, the clothes racks having proved a disappointment.
Back at the office, I found the fragrance had dried down subtle and intriguing—a warm essence of cinnamon and cardamom, musk and lavender. It conjured up Southeast Asian bazaars, aromatic oils, harems, Arabian genies emerging from lamps to grant wishes.
On impulse, I Googled it.
Chaos was discontinued and highly sought after, selling on eBay for hundreds of dollars. Sniffing my wrist again, I revised my initial opinion. Now I could appreciate its complexity. Shallow and easily swayed, that’s me.
Calling the thrift store, I gave them my credit card number and asked them to hold it, fretting about the unbillable minutes I’d just wasted.
But who doesn’t love a bargain?
Besides, if I sold it on eBay, I’d have money for Christmas.
* * *
I was leaving the thrift store with my new fragrance when I noticed a man at the plate-glass windows, contemplating a display of baby furniture. He’d also been there when I walked in, but in my hurry to buy the perfume, I’d paid him no mind.
He was about fifty-five, with a comb-over, clad in brown slacks and a corduroy jacket that must have been murder in this heat. Somehow, I didn’t think he was in the market for baby furniture.
“You like perfume?” he asked.
I gave him a stony stare and kept walking. I liked to keep my thrifting private. It didn’t go with the image of the fancy PR executive.
“Ms. Silver?”
I turned. “Who are you?”
He stepped closer and pulled out a badge. “Oliver Goldman, U.S. Attorney General’s office.”
“I-I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“I’ve seen you on TV. You work for Blair.”
I wound the bag handle tighter. “What do you want?”
“We’re interested in your employer. Their name keeps popping up in a criminal investigation.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, I know.” He smiled. “You just do damage control on the Emily Mortimer murder.”
“What are you getting at?”
“We’re pretty sure Blair does more than straight crisis consulting.”
“That’s news to me. What else do they do?”
“Blair is a high-powered outfit, known for getting the job done. They are relentless on behalf of their clients, and vindictive bastards when they perceive a wrong. They’re also very creative, always pushing the limits of the law. We suspect that Blair is breaking the law and engaging in criminal activity on behalf of clients. Perhaps even federal conspiracy, in the case of a major player in the banking meltdown. You don’t want to get mixed up in anything illegal on the Paxton case, Ms. Silver. It would blacken your name and destroy your career.”
“I would never . . .”
“But there’s a lot we still don’t know. That’s why the government is very interested in keeping lines of communication open. You can help us.”
“Even if I knew anything, why would I risk my job and breach client confidentiality?”
Oliver Goldman rolled forward and bounced on the balls of his feet.
“Because when indictments come down, you’ll want to be on the right side.”
“What exactly are you insinuating?”
“I’m just warning you. Remember what I said, stay in touch. Here’s my card. You can reach me at this number day or night.”
Without even thinking, I took it, then said, “Why would I want to reach you?”
“Because our work is going to intersect down the line. Don’t hesitate to use that number if you feel overwhelmed or run into trouble. We can protect you.”
“Are you saying I’m in some kind of danger?”
He gave me a shrewd look. “You have no idea what you’re mixed up with, do you?”
“I have a pretty good idea that you’re on a fishing expedition.”
“You’re a nice girl, I can see why Blair hired you. Bet he keeps you far away from the black ops.”
“I have no knowledge of anything like that.”
“Keep your e
yes open,” said Oliver Goldman. “And don’t do anything you’ll regret. Remember, we’re watching.”
* * *
“Come in,” said Faraday, looking up at my knock.
“Something very strange just happened,” I said.
Faraday’s glasses slipped down his nose and he peered over the frames.
“What is it, Maggie? Sit down.” His voice was warm and smooth as twenty-year-old scotch. “Has Anabelle called with something interesting?”
“No, nothing like that. I was coming out of a . . . store after lunch and this guy stopped me. Said he was with the U.S. District Attorney’s office.”
Faraday wrinkled his nose. “What did he want?”
“He knew my name and where I worked. He said Blair’s name kept coming up in investigations his office was doing into criminal conspiracy.”
Faraday was suddenly very alert. “What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. It wasn’t a long conversation. I got away as quickly as I could.”
I looked up, expecting an explosion. But Faraday’s face had relaxed.
“We get accused of black PR,” he said. “It’s usually our competitors who spread those rumors. Engaging in a little black ops themselves, accusing us of industrial espionage, smear campaigns, defamation. It’s just sour grapes.”
“He also hinted that Blair had done illegal things on behalf of a client who played a major role in the bank industry meltdown. And he seemed interested in the Paxton case. He specifically mentioned Emily Mortimer’s murder.”
Faraday’s face was unreadable. “The senator is a powerful politician who is tackling one of the most explosive and divisive issues of our day, and that’s the banking collapse. Some unscrupulous people have made millions of dollars in recent years. Many more lost their homes, their jobs, their savings. It’s natural for emotions to run high and for people to point fingers. As to Emily Mortimer’s murder, let the feds investigate all they want. They won’t find anything illegal because there’s nothing to find. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Did this Goldman guy ask you to cooperate with his investigation?”
“Yes, but I told him I wouldn’t.”
“Did he threaten you in any way?”
“No.”
Damage Control: A Novel Page 17