Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  “I hope this isn’t going to end like Sunset Boulevard, with you floating facedown in the pool.”

  Tyler chuckled. “Dina was never an actress, but she is a force of nature. She and her husband were bona fide card-carrying Hollywood Communists. They made a lot of movies here but fled to Paris in 1951 when they got subpoenaed during the blacklist. They lived in Europe for years, hanging out with Picasso and making films with Costa-Gavras and Fellini. Dina came back a few years ago when her husband died. She’s eighty-two and likes having me around.”

  “Is she a recluse?”

  “Hardly. She gets flown to film festivals all over the world because she’s one of the last remaining blacklisters. She’s in Trieste this week or I’d introduce you.”

  Tyler poured two fingers of the amber liquid into cut-crystal glasses and we touched glasses and drank. The scotch had a rich peaty, smoky, sweet taste and lit me up inside. I took another sip. The liquor radiated outward from a sweet spot near my lower belly.

  “What will your girlfriend say?” I asked, the liquor loosening my lips. “Diane. Wasn’t that her name?”

  Tyler looked at me in surprise. He pursed his lips. “I just made that up. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Hmmm.” I slid my glass around on the wooden table.

  Tyler poured us another scotch. Then he went around the table lighting candles, moving with an assured grace and ease. The office seemed a million light-years away. For a moment I fantasized what it would be like to live here with Tyler, watching the sunset as the aroma of grilling fish and chicken came off the barbecue. I’d be climbing out of the pool, beads of water clinging to my skin, slicking back my hair as I wrapped a towel around my waist. Tyler would be bringing out a bottle of wine and a freshly tossed salad so we could eat al fresco.

  He finished lighting the candles, then stood behind me, flicking his lighter aimlessly.

  “Maggie?”

  I turned and at the same time he leaned down and his lips grazed my ear.

  “Oh,” I said softly.

  Then he angled his shaggy head and inclined his face toward mine and then we were kissing. His lips were full and soft and warm. He stumbled and braced an arm against the table, kicking aside a chair as he moved in closer. Then he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to standing as he continued to kiss me. My arms went up around his neck.

  For a long time, we stood together while the moths beat and fluttered and threw themselves against the glass lamps. The sky grew dusky blue as the moon rose higher and the downtown skyline lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “You smell fantastic,” he whispered at last, gathering up my hair and sniffing my nape. His warm breath tickled the fine hairs on the back of my neck and made me shiver with longing.

  “Mmmm,” I said, smiling and rising up on tiptoes to press myself against him like a cat.

  “Maggie,” he said at last, “let’s go swimming.”

  “I-I . . . I didn’t bring a suit.”

  “S’okay. Neither did I.”

  We slipped off our clothes and dove into the cool water. I surfaced, tingling with pleasure, moving weightless through the dark water, suspended over the city lights.

  I dove back underwater and swam the length of the pool. I felt like a mermaid released back into the sea. The air smelled of lemon oil and honeysuckle and the persistent woodsmoke of the fires that were destroying the Angeles National Forest. Tyler surfaced beside me and our bodies entwined as he gripped the smooth tile edges of the pool with one hand. He felt slick and cool and hard against me.

  The moon was high overhead, a harvest moon, and I breathed in sharply as it illuminated Tyler’s upper body. A gigantic tattoo draped like a shawl over his shoulders and back. It was green and red and blue and black, nestling so perfectly under his shirt that I’d never suspected. I wriggled free and swam around to get a better view.

  “Tell me the story of how you got this.”

  “It’s the emblem of the marine squadron my grandfather was in during World War II. We went to a tattoo parlor in downtown Milwaukee, where he lived, and got them together the year before he died.”

  With butterfly fingers I traced the vines and eagle wings, the scrolled words.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He turned to face me. “You’re beautiful. Come here, I want to feel you.”

  I swam in. “I’m here.”

  “I want to get even closer.”

  I put my arms around him and he put his hands under me and lifted me up. And we tried. The movies make it look so easy, but water really does get in the way. Finally, Tyler climbed out of the pool and threw a towel down onto the grass. The air was warm and caressing and I lay down and he knelt next to me, touching all my secret places.

  When he entered me, I gave a little gasp and clutched his slick, wet shoulders. The stars wheeled across the sky and the moon looked down on us, so huge and luminous that it made me want to cry.

  * * *

  “I’ve got to get home,” I said, several hours later.

  We stood in front of the open refrigerator, tearing strips of roast chicken off the bones with our fingers. We were starving, trembly, gluttonous.

  “Jesus, Silver, that was amazing. I had no idea,” Tyler said.

  I reddened. “I didn’t either,” I said, wrestling the top off a pint of chocolate mocha almond swirl ice cream.

  There’s something about a hit of gooey chocolate fudge that really enhances a sex buzz, I thought, licking the spoon dreamily. Then I rinsed off my spoon, handed Tyler the ice cream, and collected my clothes.

  I thought about calling him Matt or Matthew instead of Tyler, now that things had changed between us. I tried it out in my head, but it sounded flat and wrong.

  Tyler sat on the kitchen counter and watched me dress.

  “Just like that?” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re leaving?”

  I nodded.

  I wondered if he’d try to stop me. But he just shrugged and said, “Okay.”

  We didn’t kiss good night. We were shy and nervous around each other, jumpy as cats again. I said good-bye. He squeezed my hand.

  “Until tomorrow, then. At the office,” he added, as if he found it hard to believe.

  I told him I’d take the stairs this time.

  He followed me across the grass and stood there hesitantly.

  “I’ll walk you down,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I said, already eight steps down.

  I paused and turned. “One thing you should know about me. I’m terrible at good-byes.”

  “Hello, then,” Tyler called down. “Hello hello hello.”

  The canyon took up his cry, amplifying and ricocheting his voice as I made my way down in the lavender dark.

  “Ello llo o oh ohhh.”

  20

  I was showered and at work by eight the next morning.

  Faraday was already in, talking on the phone with the door closed. His tie was loosened and his eyes bloodshot. Empty coffee cups and plastic food containers littered his desk.

  He waved absently as I walked past. I wondered if he’d gone home. Feeling like he might need an energy boost, I went to the cafeteria and returned with two coffees. After a quick knock on Faraday’s door, I walked in to deliver the fresh rocket fuel.

  Faraday looked up with annoyance, then motioned me to leave.

  I placed the coffee on his desk, thinking that no good deed goes unpunished, when I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line say, “You’ve got to do something.”

  It was Luke Paxton.

  Thank you, Faraday mouthed, shooing me away.

  Wondering what new crisis had erupted, I walked back to my desk and scanned the wires. I was still puzzling it out when Faraday summoned me back.

  He was on a different call now.

  “You know what I’m wondering, Rick,” he said into the phone, winking at me. “Why aren’t the cops pounding the pavement to find J
ake Slattery? Yeah, Emily Mortimer’s boyfriend. Her spurned boyfriend. Let’s just suppose Slattery learned that Emily was stepping out on him with Simon Paxton. He might have flown into a rage. He might have even killed her. Now there’s a motive for you. Jealousy. The old if-I-can’t-have-her-then-no-one-can. That’s right, Rick. Jake Slattery is the wild card. He’s the cipher in all this. Where is he? Why did he run? What does he know? Our clients, by contrast, have been up front about everything. They are cooperating fully with the police. They have nothing to hide.”

  He slapped down that line and picked up another waiting call.

  Faraday listened for a moment, nodding, then said, “That’s exactly right, Carl. You’ve summed things up beautifully. Now I’m going to tell you something. On the Q.T. A little gift, from me to you. Just because we understand each other and sometimes we help each other out. But you didn’t hear it from me, okay?”

  A squawk of assent came over the line.

  “Okay, Carl, here goes. Ask the cops exactly what they’re doing to find Jake Slattery. And ask them about a Honda Odyssey in long-term parking at LAX.”

  Faraday listened some more.

  “I’m sorry, Carl. You’ll have to get the rest from them. And we understand each other on this, I hope. Good. Talk to you later, buddy.”

  He killed that call, then told me to sit down, a broad smile on his face.

  “The cops don’t know anything about an Odyssey at LAX,” I said.

  “They do now.” He played with his earpiece.

  “You and Tyler did excellent work yesterday. But I wasn’t thinking things through when I sent you two to LAX. What if the guy had a gun? What if he took you hostage or threatened to blow himself up?”

  Faraday shook his head. “We’re crisis consultants, not a SWAT team. And we were in over our heads. That’s why I called Tyler back in. Then I called the LAPD and told those detectives what we’d learned. I said we’d gotten a tip to check out parking spot 749 in LAX long-term parking lot G. That Jake Slattery might be hiding out there. Let them do the dirty work.”

  Faraday paused, looking pious, looking for praise.

  His phone beeped with a text. Faraday squinted. “It’s Samantha,” he said gleefully. “She’s at LAX.” He looked up. “A safe distance away, of course. Police cordoned off the lot. They’ve got the van open, forensics people crawling all over it.”

  Faraday picked up a cigar and chomped on it.

  “I’m feeling optimistic.”

  * * *

  Back at my computer, I watched it unfold live. Police had swarmed the van and found it empty. There were shots of burly guys carrying out boxes of evidence.

  “Too bad they didn’t find the boyfriend dead in his van,” said one of the secretaries, dropping a memo into my in-box.

  I jumped. Too much Adderall, too much coffee, not enough sleep.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” She lingered, watching the screen. “Isn’t that one of your cases?”

  I nodded.

  “I bet it’s a murder-suicide,” the secretary said, “and it’s just a matter of time before they find the boyfriend’s body.”

  I stared at her.

  And a very unpleasant thought occurred to me.

  “That would be convenient for a lot of people, wouldn’t it?”

  * * *

  “What was Luke Paxton calling about?” I asked Faraday later when things had calmed down.

  My boss snorted. “He wants me to rein in the media vans. The senator’s neighbors are having hissy fits because they park on the lawns and urinate into the begonias.”

  “Want me to go out there and ask them politely? Maybe point out the surveillance cameras mounted on the wall?”

  Faraday looked incredulous. “I need you here. Now, tell me what bright ideas you’ve come up with on the Salazar case.”

  I’d spent some time brainstorming, and now I sketched out my plan.

  “Salazar grew up poor, right? But he’s humble. He remembers his roots. He wants to give back to the community. He doesn’t know it yet, but for months now, he’s been hatching this plan, see, to sponsor a baseball team at an elementary school in a poor Latino neighborhood. We hook him up with the school and he can announce it and give the kids an inspirational talk as the TV cameras roll.”

  “I like it,” said Faraday. “Let me run it by his people. How soon could you line it up?”

  “Pretty quickly. I’ll start working on it right away.”

  I’d just gotten an enthusiastic bite from a principal at El Sereno Elementary School when Faraday called me back in.

  Samantha George and Tyler were already sitting in chairs. Sam looked haggard. Tyler had his poker face on. It was as if last night had never happened.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Faraday said, “we’ve got game.”

  He pointed his remote at the TV and the volume swelled.

  The news feeds were reporting that pornographic videos had been found in the van belonging to Jake Slattery. Several showed women being strangled. Just like Emily Mortimer had been. The police said these weren’t homemade snuff films; they were professional porn, probably churned out ten miles up the 405 Freeway in the San Fernando Valley, the epicenter of America’s adult film industry.

  The noose of circumstantial evidence was tightening around Emily’s missing boyfriend.

  “This is a significant development,” Faraday said. “My disappointment is nonexistent.”

  When he finished gloating, Faraday gave us our assignments: I’d get a comment from the senator and write a press release. Samantha would chase down Simon Paxton for the same thing. Tyler would pump the cops for details.

  “It’s not looking good for Jake Slattery,” I said to Tyler as we stood by the vending machine that dispensed free energy drinks, smart water, and Japanese vitamin infusions.

  I wanted to see if he’d bring up last night.

  “No,” he said, looking morose.

  “What?” I prodded.

  “Nothing.”

  But still he looked disconcerted. Then a sudden brain wave hit. Maybe Tyler’s demeanor had nothing to do with us.

  “You wish you’d been there when the cops raided Slattery’s van,” I said.

  “No,” Tyler said, but I knew I’d hit a nerve.

  “I guess for starters, you didn’t have a car. How’d you get to work, anyway?”

  “Rode my bike. And Viken’s already got my car sorted. Says it was a loose wire.”

  “That’s good.”

  For a moment he said nothing.

  “It was good, wasn’t it, Maggie? You doing okay today?”

  I nodded.

  Then suddenly I remembered something. “Who replaced you on watch out at the airport parking lot last night?”

  Tyler glanced around. “Faraday called him back before the cops showed.”

  “Called who back?”

  “I told you yesterday. I don’t know his name.”

  “C’mon, Tyler, you know the name of every single person in this office. You make it your business.”

  Tyler’s eyes darted unhappily. “He’s not on staff.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Faraday calls him the Plumber.”

  An image rose before me. Of a tall, lanky guy in overalls and a work belt.

  Now it was my turn to look over my shoulder.

  “That’s who relieved you at the parking lot? The creep I told you was lurking around the Mortimer house in Valencia the other day?”

  “I don’t know who was at the Mortimer house, Maggie. I think you may be imagining things. Last night, Faraday told me to come back to the office when my replacement arrived. And that’s what I did.”

  Tyler walked away and I hurried after him. Why was he acting so weird? Was it because we’d slept together? Or did he suddenly share my uneasiness about this case?

  Lowering my voice, I said, “That Plumber guy. He breaks in and snoops, doesn’t he? I mean, that’s his job. And what if last
night, he broke into Jake Slattery’s van, not to snoop but to leave something behind? Something the LAPD detectives would be sure to find.”

  “You mean the porn?”

  I nodded.

  Tyler nervously licked his lips. “The cops said it was hidden behind a false panel in the van.”

  I nodded. “The Plumber wouldn’t leave it lying around. That would have been too obvious a plant.”

  I paused, recalling my surprise that Faraday had tipped off the cops. It was out of character. As if he’d known that the cops would find something. Something that would incriminate Jake Slattery and distance our client—my friend’s dad, U.S. Senator Henry Paxton, and his ever-loving adulterous brother, Simon Paxton—from the murder of Emily Mortimer.

  “I think you’re way out of line, Maggie,” Tyler said, two lines appearing on his brow. “Paranoid, even. Do you really think the Blair Company would do that? Do you think I’d work here if I believed they broke the law and shielded murderers and planted evidence? And if you do, then why did last night happen? And why are you even working here? How can you live with your conscience?”

  The air felt fragile, like it might crack apart and shatter. Last night seemed like it had happened in a dream, or a million years ago.

  “I don’t know what I think anymore. About anything.” I glared, willing him to catch my double meaning.

  His hand took mine, large and warm and firm.

  “I care about you, Maggie. Last night was so . . . magical. Even this very moment I’m finding it hard to concentrate. But . . .”

  There’s always a but.

  “I wouldn’t bring any of this up to Faraday,” Tyler said.

  “I suppose you’re right.” I turned, chilled by his clear warning.

  I wondered if I’d made a mistake by confiding in Tyler. Last night, he’d unzipped all my defenses. But it was time to put the armor back on.

  Would Tyler tell Faraday about my suspicions? How could I find out more about the Plumber without alerting my boss? Did Thomas Blair have any idea that one of his vice presidents might be breaking the law? Or did the directives come from the top floor? I wanted to be able to lay it all out to someone I could trust. Someone who could tell me whether my concerns were legitimate or the paranoid consequences of too much Adderall.