Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  Behind them stood friends and colleagues, a sea of black police uniforms as the cops came to mourn one of their own. A few reporters had also slipped inside. I sat in back.

  Downs’s former partner from his squaddie days, Lionel Comstock, with muttonchop sideburns and intense black eyes, gave the eulogy. He praised Randall’s service to his country in Afghanistan and his years of unstinting devotion to his job. There was no mention of how Randall and Anabelle had met, just talk of how they’d built a life together and weathered their share of “difficulties.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t liked Randall Downs much when I’d met him. But despite his flaws, he’d saved my friend. If not for him, she might not be alive today.

  When the service ended, a phalanx of uniformed cops led by Comstock carried out the coffin.

  I joined the flow of people walking out, making a beeline for reporters who were approaching the senator’s protective cordon.

  I tapped one on the shoulder. “There will be no comments today. Please respect the senator’s wishes. This is a private ceremony, and if you persist in your efforts, I will have a police officer escort you to the sidewalk.”

  This mostly worked, except for one tabloid reporter with lacquered hair, torpedo breasts, and hornet-stung lips who kept insisting it was a free country and she could do what she wanted. I beckoned for assistance and two cops appeared to lead her away.

  “Next time we confiscate your equipment,” they growled.

  The rest of the churchgoers filed out, then I got in line to give Anabelle my condolences. People milled on the church steps, sweating under the August sun in their funereal black. The senator and Mrs. Paxton flanked their daughter as if to shield her, and Luke hovered just behind her holding a solemn-eyed Lincoln.

  “Thanks for coming,” Anabelle said with a tremulous smile.

  She looked so stoic in her simple black sheath and matching gloves, like Jackie O. without the pillbox hat.

  “I’m so sorry.” I hugged her, then moved on so she could greet other well-wishers.

  Suddenly I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. From the top of the church stairs, LAPD officer Lionel Comstock was watching me.

  Taken aback, I lowered my head and fished for my car keys.

  When I looked up again, he was making his way down the stairs and through the crowd toward me. I had to stifle an impulse to duck and hurry away.

  “I’ve seen you on TV,” Comstock said. “Don’t you know this is a private ceremony? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a longtime friend of Anabelle’s,” I said, summoning up all my dignity.

  He inclined his chin. “And I’m a longtime friend of Randall’s.”

  I swallowed my annoyance and stuck out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Comstock. Your eulogy was quite moving.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hesitated, then shook my hand. One of those cop crunches, but I was expecting it.

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “We don’t talk about ongoing investigations.”

  I nodded. “They wouldn’t have you investigate your old partner’s murder anyway, I’d imagine. Too close to the bone.”

  He regarded me with new interest.

  “I’m sure they’ll be giving your client, the senator, a close look.”

  “Do they have any leads?” I said, ignoring the jab. “I imagine cops make enemies out on the streets. There must be constant threats on their lives.”

  “Senator Paxton would certainly like to spin things that way.”

  “The Paxtons have nothing to hide. They’ve been completely forthright with the police.”

  Comstock snorted. “The day I see a forthright politician is the day Hollywood freezes over.”

  He studied the pavement, scuffed something with his shoe. Then, in a softer voice he said, “As a matter of fact, Randall did have enemies. He led the drug task force that put away Félix Guzmán last year. There was talk Guzmán had ordered a hit, but our concrete canaries wouldn’t sing and Randall laughed the whole thing off.”

  Comstock crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits.

  “Homicide will look under every rock until they find who did this. And they will bring him—or her—to justice. And I will help them all I can. Randall Downs was my friend. He was a good and loyal guy. He didn’t deserve what happened.”

  “Nobody deserves to be killed.”

  Comstock laughed in disbelief. “You should ride along on patrol one night. Change your mind.”

  “Maybe.”

  His face grew somber. “Look, lady, I’m here to mourn my pal. That’s all.”

  “You’re the one who started this conversation.”

  “And now it’s time to end it.”

  * * *

  At the cemetery, Anabelle threw the first spade of earth on the coffin. The wind shifted and ash fell softly and silently over us all, blanketing the dark soil and clinging greasily to our clothes, reminding us of where we’d come from and where we would all return.

  31

  Rachel, aka Raven, was drinking chai when I arrived for our rendezvous. We squealed and she hugged me as if we’d been best friends in high school instead of frenemies. I guess time congeals all wounds.

  Rachel wore a ribbed tank top and cutoff jean shorts and a series of necklaces with pendants and semiprecious stones. Her limbs were toned, with cut muscles, there was a gap between her front teeth, and she sported a tattoo on her right biceps that said “Viva Dollface.”

  She saw me looking and chuckled. “Viva is my Roller Derby name. I gave up Raven when a boyfriend took my Sandman collection after we broke up. So! I looked you up, chica. You’re a PR star.”

  “Not exactly. But it’s a living.”

  “You’re one of my friends who made it big,” Rachel said. “I was bragging about you last night at practice. Who would have thunk it, back in high school. You were so standoffish. A lot of people thought you were stuck up, but I knew that wasn’t it.”

  This came as a huge surprise.

  “I was shy and insecure,” I said. “And when you started dating Luke . . . and Anabelle hooked up with Luke’s friend Graham, the four of you were so beautiful and glowing and perfect. I could only look on in awe.”

  I hesitated. “It must have been devastating when you and Luke broke up.”

  Rachel raised one eyebrow. “Why would you think that? I’m the one who broke it off.”

  “Really! Why?”

  She stirred her chai, then looked out the window, where a woman was pushing a double stroller down the sidewalk. We watched the babies roll out of sight.

  “Oh, all the usual reasons, I guess,” she said at last.

  She gave me a strange look. Had she picked up on the caressing way I’d said Luke’s name. Maybe she still felt proprietary, in that way some old lovers do, even years later. I decided not to tell her that Luke and I were getting close.

  Instead, I said, “Have you heard about Luke and Anabelle’s dad?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “You know he’s a senator, right?”

  Rachel looked sheepish. “I don’t follow politics. I’m not even registered to vote.”

  “Well, one of his aides was murdered last week and I’m doing the PR. Turns out that the senator’s brother was having an affair with her. But he didn’t kill her.”

  “Wow,” said Rachel, wide-eyed. “I guess I was in Japan when all that went down.”

  “I kind of wish I’d been in Japan myself,” I said. “But on the other hand, it’s brought me back in touch with Anabelle, so that’s good.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “She’s gone through some hard times,” I said, sipping my coffee.

  “Haven’t we all, baby. But, hey, live to tell, right?”

  “I just came from the funeral for her second husband. He was a cop and was murdered in their driveway.”

  “No!”

  “There are no suspects and
it’s under investigation.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah. But sitting here with you . . . I realize . . . look, um, something happened to Anabelle one night when we were in high school. I don’t know if she ever told you . . .”

  Rachel shook her head. Her eyes were curious and sympathetic.

  “You hung out with Anabelle a lot back then. When she got so wild.”

  I paused, remembering Anabelle and Rachel in the bathroom at the Cathay de Grande, snorting cocaine off the toilet lid.

  “You used to buy drugs together, right?” I asked.

  Rachel pulled back. “On occasion. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to figure something out.”

  Rachel put her teacup down very carefully. “Anabelle and I had a falling-out too, you know.”

  “No,” I lied. “Over what? Did it have something to do with Luke?”

  Rachel looked out the window. “Nah. We just drifted apart.”

  I asked her twice more as we sat there, but got no further. Either Rachel truly didn’t remember or she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Eventually she put some money on the table and rose to leave.

  I sat and finished my coffee, watching her through the plate-glass window as she picked her way through the hipsters and their dogs. From the back, she still looked like a teenager.

  Does the past ever really go away? I wondered. Or does it remain inside us, hidden under calluses of age and experience but still affecting everything we do the rest of our lives?

  * * *

  At home, I heated up leftover spaghetti Bolognese in the microwave, then brought it upstairs, fired up the computer, and typed “Randall Downs” and “Félix Guzmán” into the search engine while I ate.

  Google is my friend.

  Twenty minutes later, I’d downloaded a bunch of stories about how a task force headed by Randall Downs had taken down Félix Guzmán’s organization after a yearlong investigation that included wiretaps, undercover agents, and surveillance.

  The L.A. Times had sent a reporter to the high-security pen where Guzmán was being held. Manacled to the wall, clad in an orange jumpsuit, his ankles and wrists chained together, Félix Guzmán had argued that the LAPD takedown was an elaborate plan to frame him, concocted by some crooked cops and an Antelope Valley drug lord named Ricky “Freeway” Ruiz who wanted to eliminate the competition. The prosecution had dismissed these allegations as sour grapes, and no evidence to support that theory had ever been introduced at the trial.

  But I wondered.

  What if Ricky Ruiz had worked in league with LAPD Captain Randall Downs, giving him information that would defeat his rival and leave him a bigger share of the street-drug market?

  Is this where the money for the beautiful house in Palos Verdes had come from? Was Randall Downs’s Hollywood consulting gig just a cover?

  If so, it seemed to me that there were two possibilities. One was that Guzmán had ordered Randall Downs killed in retaliation for working with his rival to put him away. The second was more speculatory. Once Guzmán was safely behind bars, what would have prevented Ricky Ruiz from putting a hit on Downs, the one cop who knew the truth? A cop who might one day decide to come after Ruiz himself? Downs’s murder had all the earmarks of a professional hit, after all.

  I wanted to believe that the Paxton family had nothing to do with Randall Downs’s murder. Here was a theory that might exonerate them completely.

  On impulse, I called the LAPD and asked to speak to Lionel Comstock.

  The operator rang through. Maybe the cops were all back at headquarters holding a wake, because I got lucky. After waiting on hold for several minutes, he came on.

  I identified myself, apologized for disturbing him, and said I had just one question for him.

  “What do you want now?” Comstock asked.

  “Was Randall Downs doing consulting for a TV show about cops that was in development? It was something like Rookie? I couldn’t find any mention of it online.”

  Comstock hesitated. “Why don’t you ask your good friend, Anabelle Paxton Downs.”

  “She doesn’t have any details and it will take days to go through Randall’s papers and electronic files. Any information you have would be helpful.”

  There was a long pause. I could feel him weighing whether to continue. I held my breath.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. And please don’t call me again. Good-bye.”

  32

  The maze glowed with fluorescent lights, lined with empty desks and cubicles. My breath came ragged as I ran. The thing was gaining on me, shrieking in triumph. I felt its hot breath as it closed in.

  With a moan I threw off the covers and sat up, my heart pounding. I was covered in sweat. I was safe in bed. But the shrieking was real.

  With a curse, I reached for the phone. The clock radio read 3:40 a.m.

  “Sorry to wake you, Maggie,” said the voice in my ear.

  Familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  I glanced down. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “This is Thomas Blair. There’s been a development on the Paxton case and the East Coast media are going nuts. I’d like you to come in.”

  It was the middle of the night in L.A., but already morning in Washington. I wanted to ask what was going on but knew Blair wouldn’t discuss it over the phone. His voice was muffled by street noise.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “In the car, driving in. See you soon.”

  I rubbed my eyes, wide awake now.

  In fifteen minutes, I was backing my car out of the garage.

  Blair’s middle-of-the-night calls were legendary. This was my first, and in some perverse way, I felt I’d just been initiated into an exclusive fraternity. I wondered if Faraday and Tyler were getting rousted out of bed with similar calls.

  The hilly street was hushed and eerie. The lights gave off a ghostly glow. At this deep hour of night, I felt like a trespasser in my own neighborhood. My headlights illuminated a family of raccoons on a porch railing. They froze and stared, their eyes glittering red.

  At the bottom of the hill, I waited for the light to turn green and wondered what new challenge we’d face today.

  Had the police found a smoking gun linking the senator or his brother to Emily’s murder? Was the senator stepping down? Were there calls for his impeachment? Could members of Congress even get impeached?

  A car cruised into the intersection. Even through closed windows, I heard the hip-hop music blasting. A window rolled down. I heard a series of pops, like a car backfiring. My car gave several jerks and the windshield exploded. The car sped past, then screeched around and did a U-turn and headed back toward me.

  Instinct took over. Ducking, covered in tiny bits of glass, I floored the gas pedal, but my car clunked forward in slow motion, juddering the way it did with a flat tire. Except that this felt like four flat tires.

  The car drew closer. The driver wore sunglasses and a baseball cap, and his long, wavy gray hair hung down either side of his face like a witch.

  Flinging open the driver’s side door, I ran. There was a public staircase about fifty yards away, its entrance shrouded by bushes, that went up the hill to my house. Sometimes I used it as a shortcut when I walked around the neighborhood. I made for it now, running on the balls of my high-heeled shoes.

  It was dark on the sidewalk and I ran alongside the shrubbery that lined the road, glad for the cover. When the opening came, I ducked inside and started huffing up the steep stairs.

  Below me, I heard more pops, then a car screeching to a stop. The sound of running feet. Did my pursuer know about the staircase? Had he seen me turn onto it? Would he follow?

  Up ahead, a chain-link fence came into view. The staircase was blocked. There were orange construction cones and a white sawhorse. The city was doing some kind of work. On either side of me were walled-off residential properties. I was trapped.

  Should
I scream? That would tell my pursuer where to find me. I looked around. There wasn’t enough cover to hide. Only tall skinny palms and cypresses and strange Dr. Seussian trees with long arched petals. I’d have to climb the fence.

  Sticking the toes of my shoes in the spaces in the chain link, I pulled myself up. The metal rattled from my weight. Any second, he’d be upon me, catching me like a treed possum. I wanted to glance over my shoulder, but every second counted.

  Below me on the street, the footsteps slowed. Bushes rustled as my pursuer pushed aside branches like I’d done. I straddled the top of the twelve-foot fence, the wire ends shredding my pants. I pulled free, kicking off my shoes.

  I jumped.

  Pain shot up my legs as I landed on concrete. I staggered and ran, the bushes closing in on either side to provide cover. I heard a stifled shout, huffing and running, then the jangle of steel as my pursuer came up against the fence I’d just scaled.

  The top of the staircase loomed out of the dark. I was almost there. Above me was another street and a second hillside I could climb to get home. As I ran, I strained for the rattle that would tell me my pursuer was climbing the fence. Could I get out of sight before he caught up?

  I hit the top step and glanced over my shoulder. A shrouded figure came momentarily into view. It looked like he was grabbing the fence, or trying to fit something through. A gun? I ran, and he was swallowed into the night.

  I was on the street now. There were several houses here, but they were dark. I just wanted to get home, slam the door, slide home the dead bolt, and be safe again.

  I forced myself to ignore the pebbles and harsh asphalt that dug into the soles of my feet, pushing myself on, gulping in deep breaths of air. At the empty field, I cut across the hillside, in the open once more, feeling exposed and vulnerable. My lungs burned. My breath came ragged. With one last burst of speed I scaled the hill and found myself on my own street. I pricked my ears for pursuit, for a car that would cruise slowly up the hill in the dark. Nothing. I ran the last hundred yards to my house, ducked around the side and onto the back porch, and reached under the eave for the spare key.