Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

“Did he ask you to wear a wire?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give you a number where you could contact him?”

  “I threw it into a Dumpster,” I said, not mentioning that I’d memorized it first.

  Faraday studied me. Then, apparently satisfied, he said, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear about your loyalty. I will inform Mr. Blair and tell him how well you handled yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are not to speak to this investigator again. If he makes contact, I want to know about it right away.”

  “Okay.”

  I took a deep breath. “Now I’ve got a request.”

  He gave me a wary look. “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to take me off the Paxton case.”

  Faraday blinked. “Because this government guy freaked you out? He cannot compel you to do anything. You are not breaking any laws.”

  “I know. I just can’t deal with it anymore. I sit there in the Paxton house and I feel like I’m being split in half. I’m supposed to be their friend, but I can’t just be normal because I’m too busy figuring out how to spin everything they say. It’s giving me an ulcer. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

  “I need you to give it a few more days. Will you do that for me?”

  I looked up. Miserable, I nodded.

  Then I stood to go.

  “Henry’s counting on you, as a spokesperson and, even more, as a family friend. And so are we. You won’t let us down, will you, Maggie?”

  I thought about how the Paxtons had taken me into their home when I was sixteen and introduced me to travel, art, and culture. How Anabelle’s friendship and the family’s boundless confidence had helped me become the adult I was today. No, I wouldn’t let the Paxtons down. And then there was Mom. She depended on me. If I lost the house, we’d be back living in a dismal apartment over an alley somewhere, right where we’d started. But this time she’d be a lot older, and she might be very sick. No, I wouldn’t let down my mom either. And mostly, I wouldn’t let myself down.

  And so I assured Faraday, “You can count on me.”

  * * *

  I sloped back to my office and sat at the computer, trying to look busy.

  What if Oliver Goldman was right? What did I really know about the rough-and-tumble world of Washington politics and Senator Paxton’s investigation into the banking scandal, which mostly happened behind closed doors?

  And what did I know about Blair, other than the cases that I personally worked on? The nature of client confidentiality ensured that my colleagues did not discuss their work around the water cooler—how could they when they were sworn to secrecy?

  When Faraday buzzed me an hour later, I was nervous as a rat at a cat show.

  I slid into a seat across from my boss and then Tyler walked in, bustling with importance.

  “The LAPD raid was a bust. They sent a bunch of heavily armed guys to the apartment and found a couple of Korean teenagers using Emily Mortimer’s BlackBerry to Skype with friends in Seoul.”

  “Where’d the kids get the phone?”

  “Claim they bought it off a guy on the street.”

  “Do the cops believe them?”

  “They’re checking it out. The kids barely speak English and they’re scared shitless. They never heard of Emily Mortimer.”

  “It’s a big break for the cops,” I said. “They can check her list of contacts, everything sent and received, and who called her the night she was killed. Remember she left her fund-raiser dinner early.”

  “Maybe it was the senator confirming their meeting.”

  “His level of intimacy on the phone might be illuminating,” I said.

  Tyler said, “The phone’s been wiped. But LAPD’s forensics people will try to retrieve it, if they don’t get records from the phone company first.

  “But the big news,” continued Tyler, sticking his chest out like a peacock, “is that the coroner says Emily Mortimer was five weeks pregnant.”

  Faraday flopped back in his seat. “Jesus,” he said, “can it get any worse?”

  “Sure,” I said. “If the senator or his brother fathered the baby.”

  “LAPD’s already got their DNA samples. They’ll do paternity testing,” Tyler said.

  “Do they need special permission for that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But Lambert is going to have an absolute cow,” Faraday said.

  He typed the attorney’s name into the recipient field, then cleared the screen.

  “I’d better use a typewriter,” he said. “The police haven’t announced this yet.”

  “I can deliver it to the Paxton home if you’d like,” I said.

  I gave him a reassuring smile to show he could count on me. But inside, I was already strategizing. I’d drop the memo off, make sure nothing at Villa Marbella needed my attention, then leave early and hightail it home to see how Mom was doing. Right now, she needed my support more than the Paxtons.

  Faraday pursed his lips and considered. “That’s a swell idea.”

  15

  The coral trees were in bloom along San Vicente Boulevard, dense clusters of spiky red flowers jutting from the ends of branches. Red seed pods littered the grassy median like explosions of blood.

  Soon I was ringing the doorbell at Villa Marbella.

  The maid led me into the senator’s office, where he sat at a rolltop desk, reviewing his mail and jotting down notes with a blue cartridge pen. Several reports lay scattered on the desk.

  I saw now that he was on the phone. “Okay, Neil,” he said, “consider it authorized.”

  He signed off and swiveled in his office chair to face me.

  “Oh,” I said, stepping back. “I thought . . .”

  I bit my tongue, shocked to see Simon Paxton sitting at his brother’s desk. I’d thought that Simon was no longer advising the senator on politics.

  I’d thought he was supposed to stay away from Henry.

  I’d been a fool.

  Simon was dressed all in black. With his prominent nose, hunched shoulders, thin flyaway hair, and pouchy circles under his eyes, he resembled a beaky, disheveled raven.

  “Yes?” he inquired, frowning.

  “I’ve, um, got a package for the senator.”

  “I’ll take it.” He extended his hand, but something in his proprietary tone made me dig my heels in.

  “Mr. Faraday said to deliver it personally.”

  “Well, he’s not here right now, so you can’t deliver it personally,” Simon said in a mocking tone.

  For a moment, we stared at each other. I’m not sure who showed more distaste.

  Then Simon stood.

  “Come this way.” He walked into the hallway. The passage was cool and shadowed, the iron sconces along the wall casting dim, watery light.

  This side of the house faced a row of towering eucalyptus trees that screened out the light, even at high noon. Now a crepuscular dusk seeped in over the open windowsill and pooled in the corners.

  In these close confines, I smelled Simon’s aftershave and something more sharp and acrid. We entered another room and he gestured at a carved wooden desk.

  “You can leave it there and I’ll lock it. No one will touch it.”

  Simon brushed past me, and opened the middle drawer. I slid the envelope inside.

  “You feel quite comfortable here at Villa Marbella, don’t you?” Simon Paxton said with distaste.

  I wanted to tell him that Anabelle and I were old friends and I knew my way around the house blindfolded. But I kept quiet.

  Simon’s eyes darted to the door, as if measuring the distance.

  I wondered who else was home. I sensed in him the desperate caginess of a fox as the hounds close in. He moved toward me.

  “I thought Mr. Faraday asked you to stay away until this is resolved,” I said with a bluster I didn’t feel.

  Simon stopped. He stood perfectly still.
r />   “That’s right. My noble senator brother can’t risk associating with an adulterer and possible murderer.”

  He raised his arms and I couldn’t help but flinch.

  “Then why are you here?” I said.

  He cocked his head. “Certain matters still require my attention.”

  He saw my expression.

  “Nothing illegal. But for instance, Henry likes to run his four-hundred-dollar Beverly Hills haircuts through my credit card so they don’t show up on his quarterly government reports. Journalists and political opponents seize on silly things like that, especially coming from a self-proclaimed man of the people.”

  The mockery in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Where is Henry?” I asked, suddenly uneasy.

  One eyebrow went up. “Henry?”

  “The senator.”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Maggie. That’s not part of your job description. You ought to stick to your job. It would be a lot safer for you. We do, after all, pay your salary. We could have you taken off the case at any time.”

  Be my guest! Perhaps you’ll have more luck than me convincing Faraday.

  Simon Paxton pursed his lips. “A complaint in the right place and you could be out of a job altogether. And it’s a tight market, even in the damage control business.”

  A shadow passed over my heart. Why did he hate me so much?

  It rolled off him in waves. Was it because he’d been forced to take the fall for his guilty brother and now his own reputation lay in tatters?

  He stepped closer, and involuntarily, I stepped backward. He glanced at the fireplace, where his eyes lingered over the iron poker and coal tongs. I took another step back and tripped over a footstool.

  Simon Paxton laughed. “We’re being defended by rank amateurs,” he said. “They sent a girl to do a man’s job.”

  “What girl is that?” The light switch flipped on and Henry Paxton stepped into the room.

  “Good heavens, who’s that crawling on the floor?”

  The lamp glow illuminated me as I struggled shamefacedly to my feet.

  “It’s your . . . damage girl, Henry,” said Simon Paxton. “It seems she’s tripped.”

  “What’s going on here?” the senator asked. “Are you okay, Maggie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I was incapable of words.

  “Simon been giving you a hard time?”

  Gratefully, I nodded.

  “He’s very displeased about this turn of events. But when we’re dealt such a hand, we must play it as best we can.”

  He bounced on his heels as I retrieved the envelope and gave it to him.

  “Ah,” Henry said, “my Blair care package. Thank you, Maggie.”

  “They want you to read it right away.”

  “Let me walk you out,” said Henry.

  * * *

  His shoes crunched on the gravel, hands clasped behind his back, his big leonine head bowed.

  After the darkness inside, the sunlight was almost blinding. A silver moon hung in the daytime sky.

  Henry looked around, master of all he surveyed.

  “I miss this so much when I’m in Washington. Being able to walk in my garden, watch the seasons change. It’s lovely on a sunlit day. But it’s also beautiful at night. Hushed and green and shadowed, the elms and sycamores with their black silhouettes. Rather eldritch, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.” I paused, looked around. “There’s a new development, sir. Emily Mortimer was five weeks pregnant.”

  He stopped. His face showed no surprise. He either knew, or he was a master at disguising his emotions. But surely this wasn’t the time to hide behind a mask?

  “Maggie,” Senator Paxton said gravely, “I’ve spent my whole life building a safe world for my family. Making it impenetrable. With money. The best schools. A stellar reputation, a respectable career. And now, in these last few days, I find everything I’ve worked so hard for threatened with destruction. I’d do anything to protect it. I hope you understand that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know there’s been talk of my running for higher office.”

  “I’ve heard that. Yes.”

  “There are only so many times in a man’s life when that door cracks open. And when it does, he’s got to take the opportunity and push his way through, because the chance might not come again. And if we succeed,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “I could use a bright young woman like you on my team. Think of the possibilities, Maggie. The sky’s the limit. We could ride this thing all the way to the White House.”

  It was intoxicating to listen to him. I thrilled at his inclusive “we,” of being part of a winning team, of the frank enthusiasm and excitement in his voice. It was clear why both ordinary citizens and party leaders saw him as a rising star.

  “There’s nothing that could stand in my way,” Senator Paxton was saying. “I simply won’t let it. Do you understand?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  He sighed. “You’re young. Youth is careless. Youth thinks it’s immortal. And age is left to pick up the pieces.”

  “Is that Shakespeare?”

  He smiled and opened my car door. “No. It’s Henry Paxton.”

  * * *

  The doctor called at seven thirty with the results of the PET scan. Mom and I were moving food around our plates, neither of us able to muster an appetite.

  I watched her face as she took the call and knew that the news was not good. I got up and put my hand on her arm. Her flesh seemed bony and loose, like a bird’s.

  “He wants to move forward with a biopsy,” she said as she hung up.

  She looked at me apologetically, like it was her fault, and her mouth creased.

  “He says the PET scan was inconclusive. A biopsy will allow them to rule out malignancy one hundred percent.”

  And if it doesn’t?

  The words remained unsaid between us.

  “How quickly can they schedule that?”

  “He said it should be in the next six weeks. They have to get the authorization and put through the paperwork.”

  I imagined a malign flower blooming inside her, its tentacles reaching out to taint surrounding tissue. Every day might count if the mutated cells were hitching rides in her bloodstream, moving through her body, looking for new organs to lodge in.

  “What can I do?”

  She looked up. “I suppose you can call the insurance company, try to hurry them along. But I can do all that, if you’re busy.”

  “If we both hammer away at them, maybe it will move faster.”

  Mom sighed and asked if we could talk about something else for a while.

  So I brought out my pretty, faceted glass bottle of Donna Karan, told her the story, and spritzed the fragile stem of her wrist.

  “The perfume website I like says sandalwood, cardamom, cinnamon, paduk wood, agarwood, saffron, clove, amber, musk, sage, lavender, chamomile, and coriander. I’m not even sure what several of those are.”

  “I think you should keep it.”

  “But we ought to be saving money right now, not spending it. What if your insurance balks at paying for some of the tests or . . . treatments? Remember last time, we had to battle them for those antinausea pills, and even then they paid only half.”

  “Thirty dollars or three hundred is not going to make a difference in the long run,” Mom said. “If it makes you feel rich as a duchess, keep it.”

  16

  The next morning I placed a drop of my new perfume on each wrist when I got dressed.

  It was intimate on my skin, warm as sable, cool as a monsoon breeze, and I marveled at its almost alchemical ability to transform me. I wasn’t a twenty-first-century crisis consultant, I was Cleopatra, welcoming Marc Antony to her bed. I was Tzu Hsi, the Chinese concubine who schemed her way to empress. I was Josephine Baker, dancing naked on a Paris stage.

  “I like that, what you’re wearing, Silver,” Faraday said, s
niffing the air at our morning meeting.

  Tyler grabbed my arm and planted his nose against my inner wrist, sniffing like a bloodhound. For a moment, his chin scraped my sensitive skin, sending electric sparks up my arm and down the center of my body.

  “Tyler, it’s my duty as a supervisor to remind you about our sexual harassment policy. Knock it off.”

  We were reviewing the latest media on the Paxton case and making lists of whom to contact with corrections and amplifications. Faraday was especially incensed at a Los Angeles Times reporter who’d suggested that Simon Paxton was taking the fall for his brother.

  “Sam, I want you to comb through that story, looking for misspellings, factual inaccuracies. Titles, dates, anything. We’re going to get him,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  We also discussed the latest on the LAPD investigation.

  “Emily Mortimer’s boyfriend is still MIA,” Tyler said. “He moved out of his apartment two months ago, left no forwarding address.”

  “Job?”

  “Until late last year, he worked for a venture capital firm in Marina del Rey. They downsized his ass, but it wasn’t personal. They got rid of the entire real estate division.”

  “What address did he give them?” I asked. “He’d have to provide that for his severance and COBRA health care.”

  Tyler flipped through some papers. “A post office box in Culver City.”

  “Is LAPD staking it out?”

  “We can’t wait for him to surface,” Faraday said. “I’m going to sic Fletch on this and see what he comes up with.”

  * * *

  Tyler laid on the horn and cursed.

  We were south of downtown, stuck in a massive traffic jam in the middle of the day. Crackheads wove in and out of the stalled cars, begging. USC students pedaled blithely past giant potholes and blocked-off lanes. Tired, sweaty, annoyed people stepped off the curb and peered into traffic for exhaust-belching packed buses that never seemed to come.

  “From street level, Los Angeles sure looks like a Third World country,” I said.

  “This city is doomed.” Tyler was in a foul mood because his car A/C was out.

  He leaned forward and the back of his sweat-soaked shirt peeled off the seat with a wet suck.