Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  He got behind the wheel and we drove away.

  “We’re not calling the cops?” I said stupidly.

  “Faraday wants to talk to us first. He’s at the office.”

  In my state of numb shock, that made a strange kind of sense.

  Twenty minutes later, Faraday met us in the parking structure.

  He handed me a large plastic bag.

  “Both of you, take off your shoes and put them in here,” he said. “And, Tyler, give me that throwaway phone you used to call me.”

  We did as he asked. Faraday tied the bag into a knot, holding it away from his body like dog poop, and said he’d dispose of it. Then he reached into a satchel and retrieved a pair of tennis shoes, which he dropped into Tyler’s lap.

  “My gym shoes,” he said. “A little grungy, sorry.”

  Next, he handed me a box. Inside were cheap pumps from a discount shoe outlet down the street.

  “Hope they fit,” he grunted. “I had Samantha run down and buy them.”

  “That’s two new pairs of shoes you owe me,” I told him, remembering my ruined pumps from when I’d scaled the fence.

  Once we were shod, and up in Faraday’s office, he was all business.

  “Tell me exactly what happened. Don’t leave out any details. You know how I hate to get broadsided. In order to draw up the best strategy possible, you need to tell me the entire story.”

  With a surreal jolt, I realized that Faraday was using his standard client spiel on us.

  He’d embarked on the most difficult damage control operation in our profession—keeping the client completely out of the news.

  “It was self-defense,” I protested. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We can get into that later, Silver,” Faraday said. “Right now, I need the facts.”

  Tyler and I looked at each other. “You first,” he said.

  I launched into a recap of everything that had happened since Luke Paxton showed up at my door.

  Faraday seemed especially interested in what Luke had said on the dunes and his motive for wanting to kill me. He made me repeat it twice, urging me to recall Luke’s exact words. When I told him that Luke had admitted to strangling Emily Mortimer during sex but denied killing Randall Downs, Faraday gave a snort of disgust.

  “A clever defense attorney might be able to convince a jury that Emily’s death was manslaughter, but Randall Downs was pure premeditated murder. Maybe even ‘lying in wait,’ which carries the death penalty.” My boss nodded. “Yup, I can see why Luke Paxton would deny he’d killed his brother-in-law.”

  “Are we going to tell the police we’ve solved Emily Mortimer’s murder?”

  Faraday gave me a pitying look. “How could we do that when neither of you heard the confession? You weren’t there. Luke Paxton drove out to the beach alone and committed suicide.”

  For a moment, I digested this, worrying it like a dog with a bone, looking for things that didn’t make sense. And anything that might tie Tyler and me to his death.

  “But what if the police catch Jake Slattery and charge him with a murder he didn’t commit?”

  “There’s no hard evidence. Everything’s circumstantial. And we’ll deal with that if it happens,” Faraday said blandly.

  He turned to Tyler. “Your turn.”

  “As I’ve mentioned repeatedly”—he glared at Faraday—“I’ve been concerned about Maggie’s safety for some time now.”

  Tyler turned to me. “After someone lured you out in the middle of the night and tried to kill you, I asked Fletch for some software so I could use your phone to GPS your movements. When the program showed you leaving Cypress Park this evening and heading toward Playa del Rey, I followed.”

  “Why didn’t you call me, Tyler?” Faraday said silkily. “We might have been able to defuse the situation.”

  “I’m sorry. I was so focused on Maggie’s safety that I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “And you didn’t think to call the police either?”

  “For all I knew there was a perfectly legitimate reason Maggie was there. I wanted to assess the situation before doing anything rash.” Tyler looked up. “Isn’t that what you always say, sir?”

  But Faraday was staring at the far wall and drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “And you wiped down the gun and the car.”

  “Just like I was taught.”

  Faraday winced and changed the subject.

  “Maggie, are you sure no one saw Luke at your house? Or saw you leave together?”

  “It was dusk. Our street is steep and winding, with bad visibility. And he parked a ways down—I can see why now—at the bottom of a hillside lot.”

  “Did you have any electronic contact with Luke Paxton today? An e-mail or text or phone exchange?”

  “No. He just showed up. I thought it was strange he knew my address, but he acted so distraught that I never asked.”

  Faraday turned his large, intelligent eyes on both of us.

  “Luke Paxton recently broke up with a girlfriend. I understand he’s been suffering from depression. Perhaps it all grew to be too much, and he decided to end things. So he went down to the ocean, a place he loved, and shot himself.”

  “It wasn’t exactly on the beach,” I pointed out.

  Faraday sighed. “Okay. There were too many people on the beach for his taste. It’s Labor Day weekend. People go down there for barbecues and stay half the night. He wanted to be alone. So he found a desolate place within sight of the coast he loved.”

  Faraday looked around. “The story needs some work, but it’s a start.

  “Okay, you two, get out of here. Tyler, give the car to Viken and have him give it a good wash and vacuum. Neither of you was at the beach tonight. You both stayed home. Separately,” he said, in a tone that made me realize that he’d missed absolutely nothing about our failed little affair.

  “Then what?” I said haltingly.

  “We wait for the police to find the body. Someone is bound to report it. They’ll contact the Paxtons, who will call me. And our official damage control operation will swing into gear. I’ll handle it myself if it breaks early. You two need your beauty sleep.”

  “Is this the end of Senator Paxton’s career?” Tyler asked.

  Faraday frowned. “That’s not for us to say. If the police rule Luke’s death a suicide, it might sway public opinion back to the senator. He’s ripe for it, after the worst two weeks of his life. Of course there will be questions. People will try to connect the dots. But they won’t be able to, if you do your jobs and stick with your stories.”

  “So we should go home and go to sleep like nothing happened?”

  “That’s right. And don’t forget we’ve got the Hollywood-Graystone Hotel opening tomorrow night. We have to raise a glass to Magnus Rex for paying our mortgages this month. I want everyone there by seven p.m. Party starts at eight. Dress sharp.”

  I groaned. “I don’t think I’m up for . . .”

  “You don’t have to actually do anything, Silver, just stand around and look pretty. We want to convey that it’s business as usual. And make sure you try the mini-crab cakes. The chef came from Water Grill, they’re delicious.”

  42

  But as it turned out, the phone rang at nine a.m. It was Anabelle calling, completely hysterical, asking if I could come over.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, struggling up from narcotic, nightmare-plagued sleep. Then memory kicked in and I was wide awake.

  Crying, she told me that Luke’s body had been discovered in the condemned airport land above Dockweiler Beach. Palisades del Rey.

  “What?”

  It took her three tries to get the words out because she kept bursting into sobs. I felt bad for making her do it, but I had no choice. I wasn’t supposed to know.

  I told Anabelle I’d be there as soon as I could, then texted Faraday, giving him the “news” and telling him I was heading for the Paxton house. Then I took another shower
to scrub away my sins. I’d showered as soon as I got home the previous night, but the Lady Macbeth taint clung to me as if I’d done it myself.

  * * *

  Outside Villa Marbella, the media vans nearly blocked the street. I punched in the security code and waited for the wrought-iron gate to swing open.

  The acid-green lawn was almost fluorescent. The morning was in full swing, bees buzzing drowsily, flowers open to the sun, ruby hummingbirds darting past on vibrating wings.

  Anabelle opened the door. Her skin was sallow and her eyes swollen and ringed in red. She held a handkerchief under her nose and squinted at the merciless sun.

  “Will it never end?” she whispered, pulling me into the house’s cool, shaded depths.

  We moved toward the kitchen, passing Henry’s study. He looked up as we walked by, and I tried not to show my shock. He’d aged ten years overnight. There were violet pouches under his eyes and deep creases on either side of his mouth.

  “Hullo, Maggie,” he said. He tried to say more, but his lips trembled and nothing came.

  Bernstein emerged from another room. He said, “The Blair people are on the phone, sir.” His face grew puzzled as he saw me. “And another one has just arrived.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m here today as Anabelle’s friend.”

  “Right.” Bernstein turned back to the senator. “Well, sir, the Blair people on the phone would like a word, if you’re up to it. Shall I tell them we’ll call back?”

  For a moment, Henry’s eyes showed dull bewilderment. Then he reached for a framed photo on his desk. I’d noticed it before, taking pride of place. It was a fading Kodachrome of Henry and Luke, bronzed and wearing board trunks, on Will Rogers Beach just down the hill. The sun was setting over the glassy sea. Henry was young and virile, his arm draped around his handsome teenaged son’s shoulders, both of them grinning for the camera.

  Henry Paxton made a strange, whistling sound through his teeth. For a moment, his fingers stroked the frame. Then he placed the photo facedown and punched in the phone.

  * * *

  “Where’s Miranda?” I said, after we sat down in the kitchen with coffee.

  Anabelle said her mom was upstairs, lying down. The maid had the day off. Somewhere far away, a phone jangled.

  Anabelle cursed. “I thought I turned them all off,” she said, running out. She came back a moment later. “There. Peace.”

  “I’m so sorry for your family’s loss,” I said. “When did they find him?”

  “Around seven. A bird-watcher looking through the dunes with binoculars spotted the body.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “He had a gun. They think it matches the bullets. It was windy last night; there’s always an offshore breeze, so it covered up any footprints. They’ll be sifting the sand for clues, though, you can count on that.”

  “So they don’t think it was . . . foul play?”

  “I don’t know. I keep asking myself, why Palisades del Rey? What would Luke have been doing out there, where we used to . . . where I . . . remember how I took you there, once?”

  “Yeah. It was creepy then and it’s creepy now.”

  She gave me a wary look. “You’ve been there recently?”

  I shrugged disinterestedly. “I use Vista del Mar to get to Manhattan Beach when the freeway’s backed up. Several of our pro athlete clients live there.”

  But she was watching my face. And damn her, she knew me so well. She used to read me like a book. I hoped I’d grown some covers since high school.

  “Anabelle?” I said, desperate to distract her.

  “What?”

  Feeling like a horrible hypocrite—because I could never admit I’d been three feet away when her brother was killed—I said, “Are you finally going to tell me about Ivan? Because there’s a piece missing to this story, and I think you’ve got it.”

  The name still made her blanch. She buried her face in her hands, and when she spoke, her voice was muffled.

  “What difference does it make anymore? He’s gone. It can’t hurt him.”

  “Can’t hurt who?”

  “Luke,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Anabelle stared out the window, seeing something far in the past.

  “When I was getting high, I’d run into Ivan. When I was desperate enough, I even bought drugs from him.”

  “So Randall and his cop antennae were right.”

  Anabelle nodded reluctantly. “But I found it hard to believe he’d strangled his girlfriend. He wasn’t that type.”

  “Really? I read that he used to beat her up a lot.”

  Anabelle looked incredulous. “She used to beat him up. She was one crazy girl.”

  “What does any of this have to do with Luke?”

  “Luke blamed himself for what happened to me in Playa that night. He swore he’d find the guys who set me up and take care of them. I told him to forget it. I just wanted to blot it out.” She gave me a sad smile. “For a long time, I succeeded. But when I read that Ivan’s girlfriend had been strangled, I decided to Google the Barracuda. And I learned he’d been murdered. And then I remembered Luke’s vow and I got scared. So I told Randall I was going to the gym and I drove to Luke’s house and confronted him.”

  I thought my head might blow off. “And?”

  “He admitted it.”

  “Luke admitted that he’d killed Ivan’s girlfriend?”

  “The Barracuda too.” Anabelle shuddered. “He was proud of it. He said, ‘I told you I’d take care of them for you and I did.’ Like I should thank him.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why would Luke kill Ivan’s girlfriend?”

  Anabelle smiled crookedly. “That was so like Luke. He’d destroy what you loved best.”

  “What?”

  She twirled a strand of hair.

  “When I was five, I had a doll I loved more than anything in the world. Her name was Calista and I’d make clothes for her and tell her stories and tuck her into bed next to me each night. And one day when Luke was angry at something I’d done, Calista disappeared. Mom said I must have left her somewhere, but Luke walked around with a funny little smile while I cried and tore the house upside down. We couldn’t find her. Then a few weeks later Luke and I were playing ‘buried treasure’ in the sandbox and my toe touched something hard. It was Calista’s head. I couldn’t stop screaming and the nanny had to give me a sedative.”

  “So Luke killed what Ivan loved?”

  Anabelle nodded. “It must have been icing on Luke’s cake when Ivan got arrested for his girlfriend’s murder.”

  “Then why didn’t Luke kill someone the Barracuda loved?”

  Even sixteen years later, Anabelle still flinched. “That pig didn’t love anyone but himself.”

  “Did your parents know?”

  Anabelle shook her head. “They would have thought I was crazy. And I wasn’t sure myself. What if it was just some revenge fantasy Luke had dreamed up?”

  But what if it wasn’t?

  “Did you tell Randall?”

  Anabelle pulled herself up. “We Paxtons keep things in the family. Besides, Luke was planning to run for Dad’s seat down the line.”

  “How could Luke run for office if he had a juvenile record?”

  “Dad and Lambert got that expunged. His record was wiped clean.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I remember the first time I saw your brother,” I said. “He’d just come back from boarding school. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful in all my life.”

  “You thought he was at boarding school?” Through her tears, Anabelle tittered.

  I thought she might be growing hysterical. First her husband, then her brother.

  “That’s what you told me,” I said, my voice rising. “What else was I supposed to think?”

  “Please don’t be angry, Maggie. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Then please stop talking in riddles
.”

  “Luke wasn’t at a normal boarding school. It was a place for disturbed adolescents. A locked facility. He couldn’t leave. Mom enrolled him under her maiden name.”

  “Now you’re really freaking me out.”

  “It was either that or a work camp. Whatever they call those places for juvenile delinquents. Dad called in some favors and Lambert worked a deal.”

  Anabelle sighed. “Poor Dad. He was always rescuing one of us. As soon as Luke straightened out, I’d do something. It was like we passed the baton. And maybe Luke had a special chip on his shoulder because . . .”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What?”

  “I found that box Mom took from the guest room. I know all her hiding places from when I used to steal stuff to pawn.”

  “Did you find a gun?”

  Anabelle shook her head. “Nothing like that. It was all photos and letters. There was a photo of that old boyfriend Mom almost married, and he looked just like Luke. So then I thought about the whirlwind courtship Mom and Dad had always told us about. And I began to wonder if they had to get married, because Mom was pregnant. By the other guy. The one who’d jilted her.”

  Which would explain why the killer’s DNA didn’t resemble Senator Paxton’s. Luke wasn’t his son.

  “Did Luke know?”

  “No. But maybe deep down he wondered. He was always pushing Dad, testing the limits of his love.”

  She smiled sadly. “But Dad always came through. He’d do anything for us.”

  “What about Miranda?”

  “Mom had totally checked out by the time we were teenagers. Vodka tonics and her freaky mannequins and her tennis serve. That’s all she cared about.”

  “What did Luke do to get sent to that school?” I whispered.

  “Trespassing. Assault. Drugs. He hated Maine. Begged my parents to bring him home. Finally Lambert was able to arrange a court hearing and the judge sprung him.”

  Anabelle’s mouth twitched. “Judge Reiner. His wife plays tennis with Mom.”

  She turned to me. “I loved my brother. But I hated him too. He was nothing but trouble. When he came back home, I warned him to stay away from you. I threatened to tell you everything if he didn’t behave himself.”