Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  With shaking hands, I let myself in, relocked the door, and pulled all the curtains shut. I ran to the front door to make sure it too was locked and that the living room drapes were closed. Then I stood there, catching my breath. My heart thumped madly. My feet throbbed with a dozen scrapes and cuts.

  “Mom?” I called softly.

  My mother was still sound asleep, the note I’d written still tacked up on the refrigerator.

  I stood in the dark, pondering my next step. The Felix the Cat kitchen clock read four twenty-seven.

  I called Faraday.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hi, Maggie. What’s up?”

  Suddenly, I couldn’t say anything.

  “Has something happened with Paxton?” Faraday said, his voice sharp and pointed.

  “I thought so. Did Thomas Blair call you at three forty this morning to tell you to come into the office?” I asked in an increasingly shaky voice, already knowing the answer.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you awake?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Faraday. But someone just tried to kill me.”

  I recounted it, and the whole time all I could think of was that the damned federal investigator had warned me and I hadn’t listened.

  “I’m going to call nine one one,” I concluded.

  “Hold on a minute. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Let me think this over.”

  I waited.

  “I want to run it by Blair first,” Faraday said.

  Anger flashed through me. “You want to ask him for permission to report the fact that someone tried to kill me?”

  “No, Maggie.” His voice was patient. “I want to make absolutely sure Blair didn’t call you and this isn’t some freak coincidence. Hold on.”

  Soon he was back.

  “It wasn’t Blair.”

  The speed with which Faraday handled this made me understand why reporters on deadline loved working with the Blair Company. Day or night, they delivered.

  “Someone set you up. They knew Blair, they knew you were working on the Paxton case. And they were waiting at the bottom of the hill for you.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  My mother, hearing all the commotion, shuffled into the living room, clutching her robe and yawning, her face creased from sleep. With her shorn lamb’s head and her blinking eyes, she looked like an old baby who’d woken from a nightmare needing reassurance.

  Her eyes widened as she took in my appearance. “What’s wrong?”

  I put my hand over the receiver. “I’m okay, Mom. It’s just work.”

  Mom went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and I took the phone into my bedroom to continue our conversation in privacy.

  “We want you to talk to the police,” Faraday said. “Then deal with your car and come in. The cops will want to talk to us too, since someone impersonated Thomas to lure you out. But why? You don’t know anything that could get you killed.”

  His voice grew low and intimate. “Unless there’s something you haven’t told me?”

  Oh, Faraday! Where do I start? There’s so much. But you’re the last one I’d tell right now.

  “Nothing.”

  “You want off the Paxton case, Maggie?” Faraday asked. His voice was silky smooth again.

  He paused, and I sensed his supple mind considering whether I’d made up this attack in a dramatic attempt to get off the case.

  “Thomas doesn’t want your life endangered,” Faraday said.

  Here was the cold calculus of their equation. Publicity about a little cloak-and-dagger chase added sexy derring-do to the story. It hinted at black ops and Jane Bond intrigue, and might even attract new clients. But a dead employee?

  “It wouldn’t be very good crisis management if I got killed,” I said.

  “You want to go back to vetting nannies?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “The Paxtons want you on this case. And there’s a bonus if it goes well. When we added Simon Paxton as a client, Thomas Blair renegotiated the contract in a big way. And he passes that bounty on to us. . . . How’s your mother doing, by the way?” Faraday asked.

  “Fine,” I said stiffly.

  “I understand she’s been sick.”

  “Keep my mother out of it. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “I hope not. We all know how expensive medical care is these days.”

  I was so furious I couldn’t speak. Instead, I weighed the pros and cons. I was scared for my life. But I needed this job. For both my mother’s sake and mine. And that meant staying on the Paxton case.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m in.”

  33

  I took a long hot shower, then ate a breakfast of oatmeal, honey, yogurt, and fresh fruit made by Mom, who fussed and fretted over me. The police came and took everything down, growing annoyed when Mom told them she’d already called a garage to tow my car.

  While I’d been in the shower, she’d hiked down to see the damage. Three tires had been shot out and the windshield would have to be replaced, but amazingly my purse was still in the front seat. Further proof that this was no random robbery or drive-by.

  The police retrieved the phone number from the incoming “Thomas Blair” call but said they doubted it would lead anywhere.

  After they left, I hit Redial just to satisfy my own curiosity. The line rang and rang.

  “Anyone can get your phone number,” Mom said. “You’re in PR. You want to be found.”

  She was right. My contact numbers were on every press release I sent out. At Blair, we trumpeted our 24/7 accessibility. It was one of our selling points.

  For the first time, I began to see the downside. Anyone with my home number could use a reverse CrissCross directory to find out where I lived. They could stake me out, follow me to work, on errands. They could even break in.

  “Please keep the door locked when you’re home,” I told Mom.

  “This is L.A., darling. I always keep the door locked.”

  “The front windows too. And don’t open the door to strangers.”

  “I’m careful.”

  “I want you to be more careful. The guy who did this knows where we live. And you’re home all day by yourself.”

  “Earlyn is usually around. And that nice Mr. Viner around the corner works at home. I don’t understand why you won’t invite him to dinner. I told you I’d cook.”

  “Mom! Earlyn said he’s still pining over his wife. And I—”

  “Most widowers want to remarry again as soon as possible. You wait too long and someone else is going to snatch him up. Mark my words.”

  “Mr. Viner’s wife has been in the ground three months, Mom.”

  She considered this. “I guess you’re right. We’ll give it another month.”

  “We are not doing anything—except maybe buying another dead bolt.”

  Thankfully, that got her off the subject of poor Mr. Viner.

  “I’ve got my pepper spray,” Mom said.

  “I don’t want to scare you. Just be safe and be skeptical.”

  “Now you’re scaring me. Maybe I should cancel my Elderhostel trip?”

  “Please don’t. You’ve been so looking forward to it.”

  “I feel bad leaving you at a time like this. What else is a mother for?”

  “I’d feel worse if you stayed. I’ll be fine, honest.”

  She picked up a flame-orange Descoware skillet. “Just let them try anything. I’ll show them.” She tried to brandish the cast-iron skillet like a club. Her wrist buckled.

  “Put that down,” I told her. “You’re going to pull a tendon.”

  34

  Tyler was walking toward his car as I drove into the secured parking area. When he saw me, he changed direction and followed, waiting at a discreet distance while I parked.

  “Hi,” he said when I got out. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I
said, trying to walk past him.

  “Hey, what’s with the cold shoulder? Why are you avoiding me?”

  “I’m not avoiding you, I’m just busy.”

  “Like hell.” He leaned against a car, giving me a lazy smile. “Look, I know there’s a lot going on at work right now that you may not understand, but there are reasons for everything. Most of which I’m not at liberty to discuss. Was it something I said? If so, tell me how I can make it up to you.”

  I stopped and regarded him. A thought came.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. You’re tight with the cops, through your LAPD source Sinclair, right?”

  Tyler looked wary. “What about it?”

  “There’s another LAPD, a guy named Lionel Comstock. I’d like to ask him a few questions, but he won’t talk to me. Can you help?”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  I paused. Would this get back to Faraday and Blair? Would it raise alarm bells? Or would they just see it as me doing my job, collecting as much information as I could to draw up a better PR strategy for our client?

  I needed this, and there was no other way.

  “Comstock was a friend of Anabelle Paxton’s husband. They were partners back in the day. Randall Downs led a task force that put a vengeful drug lord away last year. I want to talk to him about that. The more we know about Downs’s work with the LAPD, the better PR campaign we can come up with.”

  Tyler grasped it immediately. He gave a knowing nod. “Several LAPD cops have been murdered recently in strange ambush situations. Maybe there’s a connection.”

  “Can you call your LAPD pal and get him to convince Lionel Comstock to talk to me? Like, today?”

  Tyler thought about it. “I can try. It’ll mean calling in a favor.”

  “He’s not going to talk to me any other way. He’s made that clear.”

  Tyler grinned. “Yeah, we’re even lower than the press.”

  “Thanks, Tyler.”

  “Is that the only reason you’re talking to me? What are you going to do for me in return?”

  “I’m going to win the Paxton case in the court of public opinion. That’s what I’m going to do for you. And for me. And for Blair. And then we’ll all get bonuses and everyone will live happily ever after.”

  As I walked away, I felt his eyes burning into my back and wondered if I’d just made a huge mistake. I didn’t trust him. But there was an inviting light in his eyes that still made me go all warm inside.

  * * *

  “Miss Silver,” said a heavily accented voice as I waited for the elevator.

  I started. It was Viken the mechanic.

  A car horn tooted as Tyler drove past.

  Viken turned and waved and Tyler waved back, then drove up the ramp and out of the building.

  “That was your friend, Mr. Tyler,” Viken said reproachfully. “You did not wave.”

  “Was that who it was? Gosh, I can’t see anything without my glasses.”

  “How is the MG doing?” Viken asked.

  “What?” I stared at him blankly, wondering if I’d misunderstood through his thick accent, until I remembered the ruse I’d come up with to check on Tyler’s car.

  I smiled. “Thanks for asking, Viken. I’ve been giving it some hard thought, and I think I might sell the MG instead of pouring more money into it.”

  Viken commiserated. “I have an old Aston Martin, so I know. Old cars can be a pit of money.”

  “Well . . .” I said, eager to get upstairs.

  “Not like Mr. Tyler’s BMW. Bavarian Motor Works. Precision instruments. I told him last night, why did you tell Miss Silver that I not fix your car right? And he explained that it was a misunderstanding. He said he will tell you that I am a capable mechanic. Then you bring me your MG. I will give you a good price.”

  “I promise I will if I keep it,” I said, relieved the elevator had arrived so I didn’t have to tell any more white lies.

  As I stepped inside, I thought of something more alarming.

  Thanks to Viken, Tyler now knew about my growing suspicions. And that I’d caught him in another lie. This made me uneasy. Viken and Tyler had spoken yesterday. Last night, Thomas Blair had grilled me in his penthouse suite. Then early this morning, someone had tried to kill me. Now I’d asked Tyler for help in setting up a meeting with Lionel Comstock. I felt like I was being drawn deeper into the web of a malevolent spider from which there could be no return.

  * * *

  When I poked my head into Faraday’s office, he broke off a meeting with Samantha George.

  “Maggie! Glad to see you. You all right?”

  I nodded.

  “That must have been so creepy,” Sam said. She tossed her hair from side to side. “I would have died.”

  “You would have done exactly what Maggie did,” Faraday corrected her. “You would have thought on your feet and gotten out of there.”

  “How’d it go with the cops?” he asked, his voice cagey now, something shutting down behind his eyes.

  “They asked a lot of questions but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere.”

  “Well,” Faraday said, genial once more, “we’re happy you’re back safe and sound. Have a seat. Sam and I were just discussing the lead goat.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I really need to cut back on the Adderall.

  Sam grinned. “Mr. Blair has a theory that reporters are like pack animals. Someone breaks a story and everyone falls into line behind the lead goat. So we find the reporter who wants to be the maverick, who’s itching to stand out from the herd. Faraday calls him up, maybe takes him to lunch, and points out errors or omissions in the media coverage. Maybe even feeds him a new piece of information. And that reporter goes back to his office and writes a story that starts the backlash, or in our case, the rehabilitation. And soon other reporters swing around to follow the pack.”

  “So who’s our lead goat?” I asked.

  * * *

  With an hour to kill before my next telephone interview, I sipped coffee and searched online for more medical trials Mom might be eligible for, but a tendril of unease kept dislodging and floating through my head as I read the complicated medical protocols.

  Oliver Goldman.

  Faraday had grilled me about the federal investigator this morning, asking if I’d heard from the DOJ man again.

  “No!” I said, a little too quickly and emphatically for Faraday’s liking.

  My boss grew very still. “Are you sure?”

  “No sign of him.”

  “We believe that the government is trying to recruit someone from inside Blair or within the senator’s office.”

  “How would you know that? Do we have a plant in their office?”

  Faraday gave me an enigmatic look but didn’t answer.

  “Why do they think we’re doing something illegal?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” said Faraday.

  I thought back to last night’s attack, not twenty-four hours after Oliver Goldman visited me at home. Maybe I should have told Faraday the truth and said I’d shown him the door. What if my boss thought I was cooperating with the feds? Would that put me in danger? What exactly were Blair and the senator trying to hide? Or was it just Adderall-induced anxiety, making me see bogeymen everywhere? I felt like I was playing three-dimensional chess but couldn’t see the moves of my opponent.

  For now, I’d keep Goldman’s visit to myself.

  After Faraday dismissed me, I did a few medical searches, e-mailed Mom some promising sites to check out, and wrote her a note saying I hoped she could get enrolled in one of the trials.

  Then I thought about Oliver Goldman some more. He’d said the Justice Department was investigating Blair’s work for a major player in the banking scandal. Senator Paxton had mentioned a JTM Financial Services. Was there a connection?

  I typed in the name.

  Immediately, I was swamped by stories about JTM’s humble origins, explosive growth, and dramat
ic crash. There were allegations that directors had secretly sold their stock before admitting the firm was in trouble and had wined and dined auditors, regulators, market analysts, and anyone else who might investigate them. The company CEO was a sixty-two-year-old Greek American from Queens who’d worked his way up from a sales associate and expanded the firm in a dozen risky but profitable directions. He’d been profiled in Forbes and Fortune as a maverick genius, until the bubble burst and he was revealed as an emperor with no clothes.

  As I waded through reams of data, an old story from a PR wire caught my eye. Five years earlier, JTM officials had reassured Wall Street that their purchase of a small subprime mortgage company would allow them to compete in this booming sector of the market and become more profitable. The story quoted a JTM spokesman named Matthew Tyler.

  Tyler.

  I quickly searched for more JTM stories quoting Matthew Tyler. Nothing.

  I don’t know why Blair’s representation of the now-disgraced JTM Financial surprised me. I’d always known that corporate PR formed the backbone of our company. Firms constantly merged and reorganized and bought one another, and they needed savvy representation on Wall Street. That kind of PR didn’t get as much ink as celebrity scandals, but it made us a lot more money. Now the true scope of Blair’s activities swam into focus like never before.

  What was Tyler’s connection to JTM, and what, if anything, did it have to do with Emily Mortimer’s murder? No matter how I tried, I couldn’t connect the invisible dots. My theories were too far-fetched and preposterous. Blair was a huge PR firm; of course they had clients in every field. It didn’t mean anything.

  * * *

  Late afternoon found me at a coffeehouse in Altadena, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, sitting in a booth opposite Lionel Comstock. The LAPD cop wore wraparound sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his head. He didn’t even glance at the colorful paintings on the walls.

  “I got you a cappuccino,” I said, sliding it across.

  “Thanks,” he said but didn’t touch it.

  Comstock clearly didn’t want to be here and he liked me about as much as a dog does a mailman. But he’d shown up because Tyler had come through. He’d called up his LAPD source Tom Sinclair, the guy we’d met in the Koreatown alley that first night. And Sinclair had somehow convinced Comstock to meet with me. If money or favors had also changed hands, I didn’t want to know about it.