Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  “Did you not hear that?” said Faraday. “It’s already out. Hear that phone ringing? It’s either the media or the cops.”

  Mrs. Paxton looked like she might cry.

  “I know it looks bad,” said Henry Paxton, “but I swear to you, I didn’t kill my son-in-law.”

  Faraday raised his eyebrows. “But you did go over there last night?”

  Paxton hesitated, then nodded.

  “You’re right,” Faraday roared. “It does look bad. It looks like you killed your son-in-law in a fit of rage because he beat up your daughter. And then you covered it up and lied about it. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Because it was none of your business,” Miranda Paxton said, her sibilance coming on strong.

  Faraday’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

  “Let’s get this straight, lady. Everything you do, including when you move your bowels, is my business until we get this thing resolved.”

  “Really!” said Miranda Paxton.

  “I can’t represent you if you keep bobbing and weaving and making everything I say look like a lie.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with that aide’s murder,” Miranda Paxton said icily.

  “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” Faraday said, “but the senator needs to tell me what happened.”

  “Daddy!” said Anabelle, who had started to cry.

  “It’s okay, Anabelle, your father isn’t a murderer,” said Mrs. Paxton. “Last night after you went to bed, he called Randall to have it out with him. Randall kept hanging up. So Dad drove over to confront him.”

  “Oh, no,” said Anabelle, wringing her hands. “Mom, you and Dad promised you wouldn’t interfere.”

  “I know, honey, but it’s gotten out of control. One of these days he’s going to put you or Lincoln in the hospital. We couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Mom!” groaned Anabelle. “I’m not a child. You have no right—”

  “Anabelle, listen to me. Your father was in the U.S. military. He fought in Vietnam. He knows how war traumatizes people, he’s seen it firsthand, some of his buddies . . . God, if anyone knows, it’s him. But that is no excuse for Randall to hit you. Randall was coarse and common. We put up with him because he loved you and he straightened you out. But he was not the sort of man your father or I would have chosen for you.”

  “Can we please get back to the point?” said Faraday.

  “If you will allow me these moments with my daughter, I would be most grateful, Mr. Faraday.”

  Mrs. Paxton turned back to Anabelle. “Dad went over there last night to offer Randall a deal: Go into rehab, which he’d pay for so it wouldn’t show up on his LAPD file. Or else he’d press charges.”

  Anabelle lifted her head, curiosity on her tear-streaked face.

  “What did Randall say?”

  The senator took up the story. “He was drunk, belligerent. He taunted me about Emily’s murder. Said a man should get his own house in order before trying to clean up someone else’s. Said he’d been asking around, and he’d learned some things. It was the low blow of a mean drunk who wouldn’t fight fair.”

  “I’m sorry.” The corner of Anabelle’s mouth twitched. “Randall was worse than I’d ever seen him last night. Ugly. Tightly wound, like he was about to explode. It scared me.”

  “You were right to leave. And you can imagine how his words enraged me. We got into a shouting match, and well, Anabelle . . . I threatened Randall. Said I’d kill him if he ever laid another hand on you. That was wrong, but you have to understand, I’ve been under incredible pressure with this Emily Mortimer thing. And now my own daughter . . . I love you and want to protect you, and it makes me crazy that I can’t. Randall lunged at me and I called him a dirty cop and we scuffled.”

  “Oh,” said Anabelle, aghast. “I never should have come here last night. Then none of this would have happened. And Randall would still be alive and my own dad wouldn’t be under suspicion of . . .” She burst into tears again. “I’ve ruined it for everyone. It’s all my fault.”

  “Stop talking like that,” Mrs. Paxton said sharply. “That’s the blame-the-victim mentality. You and Lincoln have the right to live with a husband who doesn’t lift a hand against you. Who knows what Randall would have done to you, if he was drunk enough to pick a fight with your father.”

  Senator Paxton cleared his throat. “And if you’d let me finish, what everybody here needs to know is that we scuffled and I stormed out. Randall was alive when I left. He swung at me out on the driveway and missed and almost went down, he was so blind drunk. I got in my car and drove home, ashamed of myself and worried sick for you.”

  “You baited him, Dad,” said Anabelle. “Randall was so sensitive about the dirty cop thing. You always hated him and knew how to push his buttons.”

  I studied the Paxtons, trying to stay detached from my emotions. In crisis management, we constantly assess what clients say. We have to decide if they’re lying, or if their words—on which we base our defense—might come back to haunt us. At times I feel like a dowser, searching for my moral center, trying to align it with the truth, seeking the right thing to do. But in this case, my ties to the family meant I was hopelessly muddled.

  Were they lying? They had motive, God knows. They were people who could afford to be careless because they knew there was always somebody else to clean up the messes they made.

  Outside, we heard a commotion. I looked through the blinds. At the end of the driveway, cars had stopped. I saw an antenna unfurl.

  The media had arrived.

  * * *

  When I walked back inside after speaking to the media, Luke was in his father’s office, talking in hushed, vehement tones to Simon.

  Seeing me, they fell silent.

  “Maggie,” said Luke, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  “She’s just leaving,” said Simon Paxton.

  “Really? At least let me walk you out.”

  “What brings you out here in the middle of the day?” I asked, happy to see him.

  “My afternoon pleading got postponed so I took a long lunch to check in on the old paterfamilias. He doesn’t let it show, but it’s beginning to wear him down.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And hey, we really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  “It’s my job. I’m sorry it’s so awkward for everyone.”

  “It’s not awkward.”

  I felt his eyes on me. “You were pretty at sixteen, but now you’re beautiful. I bet your boyfriend has to beat them off with a stick.”

  I looked out the window at the heirloom rosebushes Miranda had ordered from a catalog almost twenty years ago, their fluted, pale pink petals edged with crimson.

  I thought of Steve, my ex-husband, whom I never should have married. Of Rob Turcotte, the globe-trotting, do-gooding doctor I’d just kissed off for good. Of Tyler, who’d made me dizzy with longing but wary with distrust.

  I thought of giving Luke a smart-ass answer, but we weren’t in high school anymore and I’d never been very good at that game anyway.

  “No boyfriend. No sticks.”

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” he said.

  After the gloom indoors, the sunlight was blinding. It scorched my pale skin and baked the roses, releasing a perfumed attar oil.

  Suddenly shy, I bent over a rose, only to recoil as a black hornet crawled from its pink, secret heart and rose in the air, a ladybug clasped in its dangling legs.

  Then Luke was standing beside me. There was a hint of bourbon on his breath, mixing with a fresh soapy skin scent and starch from his ironed shirt.

  The hornet flew in circles with its prey.

  I shrank back, brushing against him.

  Luke flicked his hand, knocking the hornet sideways. The ladybug dropped to the ground and scuttled away and the hornet buzzed in fury.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said.

  Luke laughed, removed a shoe,
and swatted at the air until the hornet lay crumpled on the ground.

  “Any other dragons that need slaying, your highness?”

  I shook my head. Luke’s close presence. The white, searing heat. The perfumed roses. The sinister hornet and the trapped ladybug. The hatred that had rolled in waves from Simon Paxton.

  Then Luke leaned in and kissed me.

  I thought I must be having one of those lucid, waking dreams.

  I broke away.

  It felt wrong. How could it not, under the looming shadow of his family’s troubles? This was my client’s son. Which made it inappropriate, sticky, and complicated. But Luke was also my sixteen-year-old crush. Scratch that, my unrequited puppy love. Which made it transgressive and irresistible.

  But I had to be careful. I’d jumped into things quickly with Tyler and regretted it, now that I saw his shady dealings. He might even be dangerous. Whereas Luke was a known quantity. My friend’s brother. I’d carried a torch for him more than half my life.

  Luke said, “Turns out it’s been you, all this time. I was just too stupid to see it.”

  I stared at the gravel where black bits of hornet lay scattered. Already, ants had come to scavenge the carcass and carry it away.

  “I work for your father,” I said.

  “That won’t last forever.” He lifted my chin, a bemused smile on his lips.

  “I’m a gentleman,” he said. “I can wait.”

  25

  I was back at the office, making halfhearted attempts to work but mainly daydreaming about Luke, when Faraday buzzed and told me to come in.

  Samantha, Fletch, and Tyler had already assembled. I greeted them, avoiding Tyler’s inquisitive eyes.

  “I keep reminding Fletch that we work in crisis management, not private investigation, but he’s a curious boy,” Faraday said.

  He turned to the webgoblin. “Tell them what you’ve learned.”

  “Emily Mortimer had a checking account and a savings account,” Fletch said, legs crossed, one knee bouncing madly. “But I’ve found a third account. It was harder to . . . access, but not impossible. Last fall, a pattern emerged in this account. Monthly payments. Never a full, round figure but always around $1,000. One month it was $979; the next $1,025.”

  Faraday leaned forward and licked his lips.

  Fletch said, “So I dug a little deeper. It wasn’t her paycheck. She didn’t have a trust fund. She didn’t report any outside income on her taxes, consulting, that kind of thing. So where does this money come from? I’ve traced it back to a bank in Palau.”

  “Where the hell is that?” Samantha said.

  “It’s a sovereign island in the South Pacific. The place has ten thousand inhabitants and four hundred offshore banks, all registered to a single P.O. box.”

  “So it’s a dead end?”

  Fletch cracked his knuckles. “I just need more time.”

  “I can put Maggie or Tyler on it too.”

  Fletch looked sheepish. “I work better alone.”

  Faraday looked around the room. “Okay, folks. Who’s been paying off Emily Mortimer? And what’s she doing for this money?”

  “Maybe she’s got herself a sugar daddy,” Samantha suggested.

  “If so, he’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to shield himself,” Tyler said.

  “He’s right,” said Faraday. “Your average wealthy guy fooling around on his wife wouldn’t go to such trouble.”

  “Maybe not for adultery. But what if he’s already got an overseas account set up,” I said.

  Fletch nodded. “A politician would have a lot to hide. His marriage wouldn’t be the only thing at stake. It would be his career, maybe even a shot at vice president.”

  “But it was Simon Paxton who had the affair,” I pointed out.

  “That’s right,” said Samantha George.

  “Maybe the payments were to ensure that Emily Mortimer didn’t do something,” I suggested. “What if she was blackmailing the senator or his brother?”

  “About what?” Tyler asked.

  Faraday looked very interested. “And they got tired of paying her off? What’s your time line on this, Fletch?”

  “I’m close to getting the name on the account that issues the checks. But my hunch is that it’ll be a shell company. I’ll have to find out who it’s registered to, then try to track back the names. A lot of these accounts hide their real ownership behind layers of dummy firms.”

  “Okay, Fletch. Go do the voodoo that you do. But stay within the law.”

  “Of course,” Fletch said, smirking.

  Faraday looked like he’d discharged his duty to any microphones in the room. I got a queer feeling in my stomach. Fletch was breaking the law and Faraday didn’t care.

  * * *

  “Why are you ignoring me?” Tyler said, following me to the cafeteria.

  I picked at my spinach salad and didn’t answer.

  “Damn it, don’t you think you owe me an answer?”

  I put down my fork. “I saw you leave work last night.”

  Tyler looked startled for a moment, then his usual confidence returned.

  “What are you talking about? You left before I did. I tried to say good-bye but you had no time for me, remember?”

  “I came back. I’d forgotten my cell phone.”

  At that point, I was so outraged by his deception and my stupidity for sleeping with him that I blurted out everything I’d been thinking.

  “Stop lying to me. You were with Faraday’s creepy operative. He was driving a red sports car and you were in the passenger seat. The two of you looked like old friends. Why’d you tell me you had no idea who he was?”

  Tyler lowered his voice. “Please don’t get angry at me. I can explain everything. Viken thought he’d fixed my car, but last night it wouldn’t start again. Just when I was getting ready to call a cab, this guy—Stu Nicholls is his name—pulled up and offered me a ride home. I took him up on it.”

  Tyler kept good eye contact as he told the story, but I still didn’t believe him. It was too pat, too convenient. But I was eager to learn more about Stu Nicholls, the mystery Plumber.

  “So did you clear up the mystery of what he does for Blair?”

  “He calls himself a troubleshooter. Says he’s known Blair since his East Coast days and does special projects.”

  “Uh-huh. And you believed that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Did he say what he’s working on now?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. You know we all work on a ‘need to know’ basis. All I can say is, he seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “So did you,” I said, walking away.

  * * *

  I’d been back at my desk a half hour when Faraday strolled in.

  “The text Emily Mortimer got on her cell phone the night she disappeared?” He flopped into a chair. “The police retrieved it but it’s inconclusive.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a male voice, muffled, telling Emily he’ll see her later. Then he hangs up.”

  “Can they tell if it’s Senator Paxton’s voice?”

  “They’ve done a voice comparison. They don’t think so.”

  “Could it be her killer?”

  “If so, he didn’t leave many clues. The call was from a pay phone downtown.”

  “So it’s pretty much a dead end?”

  Faraday met my eyes. I thought I saw satisfaction hiding behind his. “Seems like it.”

  He stood up, as if to go.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, Harvey Lambert and I think it’s a good idea for you to spend the night at the Paxton house tonight to make sure nobody does anything crazy.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “That family is at the breaking point. They don’t need damage control, they need a minder. And that person is you.”

  “I’m supposed to just show up and announce we’re having a pajama party?”

  “Call Miranda and tell her you’ve got some p
ress clippings for the senator and you’d like to see how Anabelle’s doing. Once there, make yourself useful. I guarantee that before long they’ll beg you to stay.”

  “Do I have to sit in the parlor all night with a shotgun on my knees?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy. You can sleep. But keep your bedroom door open.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for a good night’s rest. And besides, what am I supposed to wear tomorrow?”

  “Don’t be such a girl, Silver.” He examined me. “You can go home and change in the morning. Or get the maid to wash out your things. It’s not important.”

  My tail swished. “It is to me. With my luck, you’ll stick me on national TV tomorrow morning and everyone will see the sweat stains on my blouse.”

  Faraday snorted. “At least on TV they can’t smell you.”

  “Hey,” I called to his receding back. “How about if I stop at the mall real quick and buy something.”

  Faraday turned.

  “I need you working on billable hours until you head out there. I’m serious, Silver, I better not see any Agent Provocateur brassieres on your next expense report.”

  He shot me a sly, satisfied smile and swaggered off.

  “I bet you didn’t think I knew about those bras. I know about La Perla too. I know a lot of things.”

  * * *

  On the way out, I pulled up to the guard shack and asked for Viken. They raised him on the two-way radio and he arrived, holding a chamois cloth.

  “Hi,” I said. “Tyler from the Blair Company tells me you’re a great mechanic and can fix anything.”

  Viken shrugged. “In my country, I am working for the best garage in all Beirut.”

  “Well, I’ve got an MG that’s giving me trouble. Would you mind taking a look at it one day this week?”

  “I would be happy.”

  “Great.” I nodded. “But I don’t want to rush you if you’re still working on Tyler’s car. I heard he couldn’t get it started last night.”

  Viken squared his shoulders and wiped his hands methodically on his cloth.

  “I think you are mistaken. I test-drove it yesterday afternoon. Everything perfect. The engine, smooth like butter.”

  * * *

  At seven p.m., I was in the kitchen of Villa Marbella, where the family had gathered, except for Lincoln, who’d already been put to bed with his beloved Snoots.