Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I said, thinking back to my lovesick mooning. How they must have laughed at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell us the truth about you?” Anabelle retorted.

  “I thought you wouldn’t want to be friends anymore if you knew.”

  Anabelle nodded sadly. “I guess I could say the same thing about me.”

  Dear Lord. How much of the truth should I tell her now?

  I had to tell her. I couldn’t tell her.

  Did she really not know?

  Swallowing hard, I said, “You know I had coffee with Raven, right?”

  “Yes,” she said warily.

  “Raven told me she’s the one who broke up with Luke, back in high school.”

  “That’s not true,” Anabelle said, a touch too fast.

  “She told me why,” I lied.

  “Raven was a fabulist,” said Anabelle. “Even when we were at Corvallis, she wasn’t very tethered to reality.”

  “She seemed plenty grounded the other day.”

  “She’s fooled a lot of people.”

  “She says she broke up with Luke because he choked her during sex,” I said.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Anabelle was crying, the tears streaking saltily down her face.

  I continued, “And I got to wondering. If Luke tried to strangle Raven when they were teenagers . . . is it possible he knew Emily Mortimer?”

  “No!” Anabelle said in a piercing cry. “It’s not true. They never met.”

  “Think about it: Your dad the senator gets invited to parties and fund-raisers and dinners. Maybe Luke the up-and-coming prosecutor went along with him to one event. He and Emily met. They liked each other, but because of who your dad is, they decided to keep their affair secret.”

  Anabelle said, “Emily was sleeping with Uncle Simon. But she had a boyfriend, that guy the police are all looking for, Jake Slattery.”

  “Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to keep her relationship with Luke a secret?”

  Anabelle looked at me in pure fury. “You don’t know that. He didn’t tell you.”

  Ah, but he had.

  “And there’s another thing,” I said. “Randall was inquiring into Emily’s murder. Did you tell Luke about the mug shot of Ivan you saw on your husband’s computer?”

  Anabelle gave a reluctant nod.

  “The next day, someone killed Randall in front of his house. You think that was a coincidence?”

  Anabelle’s hair did a macabre dance as she shook her head.

  “Luke didn’t kill him. He was up in Palo Alto taking a deposition the night Randall was murdered. He came back the next morning.”

  “Did you check his alibi?”

  She gave me a hollow look and her body seemed to collapse in upon itself. “They’re both dead. What difference would it make?”

  And then I made my decision. Let her have this one thing. It would rob her fragile eggshell mind of the last defenses if she had to confront Luke’s final betrayal.

  I scooted closer and put my arm around her. “I’m just grasping at straws,” I said. “I’m sorry, Anabelle.”

  She looked up at me through her tears.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “But about Randall? You should know: I was getting ready to file for divorce.”

  I looked at her, flabbergasted. “But I thought you were totally in love. You told me that wonderful story about how he saved your life.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “He did. And I was. Maybe I’ll always love him. But for Lincoln’s sake, I had to leave before he hurt us both. Mom and Dad and I had even met with Lambert and gotten the name of a good divorce lawyer. But I hadn’t told him yet. I was afraid Randall would fight it and come after me, or threaten Dad with embarrassing disclosures.”

  Anabelle stared at her hands.

  “So now what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do what we Paxtons always do. Let someone else pick up the slack. We stick together. That’s what you don’t understand. We’re a family.”

  43

  All too soon, I had to go home and get dressed for the Hollywood-Graystone party. I called Faraday on the way. For once, he sounded exhausted. He said one tabloid paper had asked whether a Kennedy-like curse hovered over the Paxton family.

  When I started to tell him about my visit with Anabelle, Faraday cut me off and said in a firm voice that we’d discuss it after the Magnus Rex event.

  No talking on notoriously insecure cell phones, I muttered to myself.

  I knew I was slipping. My mind was starting to disintegrate. How long could I continue to function?

  Then Faraday hit me with some upsetting news: The police wanted to interview me.

  “Why?” I said, feeling panicky.

  “They’re talking to everyone who knew Luke,” Faraday said soothingly. “I told them you were tied up with clients today but set it up for eleven tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”

  The unspoken questions reverberated in my ear. Would I hold up under questioning? Would I stick to the script? Could he count on me?

  “I guess so. I don’t have any particular insights for them.”

  “Then that’s exactly what you tell them,” Faraday said, his voice full and triumphant. “I’ll see you soon.”

  After we hung up, I rehearsed what I’d done the previous night: I’d slept all day, showered, put some dinner in the microwave, and crawled into bed with a good book. But the police wouldn’t ask me about last night. They had no reason to suspect I’d been out at Palisades del Rey with Luke.

  And I had to keep it that way or else the whole damn house of cards would collapse. I flashed to Anabelle in her parents’ kitchen today, trying to put up a brave front. If she could, then I could.

  * * *

  After showering, I slipped on a flowery dress and strappy sandals and selected Annick Goutal’s Eau du Sud, a peppery, lemony Mediterranean concoction, perfect for a summer night. Mom was due back anytime from Catalina.

  To my surprise, I found I missed her. Part of it was wanting to tell her I was sorry I’d lost my temper, and that she could always count on me, which would make me feel better. But I’d also grown used to having her around, cranky and misguided as she was. The last two days had almost undone me. Somehow I’d lost my true north, veered off the path. She could help me find it again. Leaving her a Welcome Home note saying that I’d be back by eleven, I left for the party.

  Driving along the Sunset Strip, I pulled down the mirror and tried different faces, looking for one that matched my party frock. The wide boulevard was ablaze with neon lights and sports cars. Traffic inched along, allowing me to study the oil-painted billboards of young, svelte, impossibly beautiful people hawking vodka and jeans and new movies. I even liked the superbillboards on the sides of buildings whose moving images looped arty commercials. It made me feel like I was in Tokyo or Hong Kong or inside the world of Blade Runner, whose sci-fi noir had captured L.A. like no other.

  The Hollywood-Graystone was a regal hotel whose Art Deco curves, sumptuous ocean liner lobby, and Tinseltown glamour drew well-heeled tourists and cutting-edge jet-setters from around the globe. From now on, it would also draw the macabre fans of Magnus Rex.

  I handed my car off to the valet, put the ticket in my woven straw pursette, and strolled into the hotel, whose air-conditioned chill was fragrant with orange blossom.

  Faraday was already there, resplendent in a tux. Tyler was looking somber in a seersucker suit. A bevy of starlets frolicked at the edge of an azure, underwater-lit pool while black-clad waiters circled discreetly, offering drinks and hors d’oeuvres. In one corner, Elmore Leonard held court, telling ribald stories. In another I saw members of Oasis, Guns N’ Roses, an American Idol judge, and several reality TV show contestants.

  I circled the room, giving Tyler a wide berth, fearing that the careful façade I’d constructed might shatter if I got too close. But no matter where I went, he hovered at the
edge of my vision. Whom was he protecting me from now? Did he want me to break down in hysterics in the middle of the party?

  I needed to chill.

  Grabbing a glass of champagne and some eel sushi from a passing waiter, I drifted to the palm-fronded entrance of the hotel.

  Every few seconds, a strobe flash went off as some new starlet or musician or celebrity stepped out of a limo. The explosions unnerved me and I jumped sky high, sloshing my drink, but slowly I got used to it.

  As the crowd inside grew more dense, I strolled out back to the pool, where the desert air enveloped me in its hot, dry embrace.

  The tiny bubbles waltzed into my bloodstream. I drank another flute of champagne. Hotel personnel were handing out tickets for tours of the haunted room. They began to lead groups upstairs with flashlights. On a makeshift stage, a tribute band played Magnus Rex’s greatest hits. Long banners of raw linen with Warholian silk-screened images of the dead rock star hung from the stamped tin ceiling.

  Suddenly I was exhausted. My limbs were lead. I hoped I wouldn’t crumple into a heap on the marble floor before I managed to get home. I said good-bye to Tyler and looked for Faraday but didn’t see him. Oh, well, I had put in my time.

  The world began to close in as I drove home, the shutter clicking tighter and tighter. The champagne had left me with a throbbing headache. The world outside seemed garishly lit but also more deeply shadowed.

  The Adderall was wearing off, leaving me with screaming nerves and a crashing tidal wave of exhaustion. I’d taken a whopping thirty milligrams this morning, then another fifteen milligrams at Anabelle’s to goose me through the evening, but my tolerance had grown too high. My body felt heavy and tired, my thoughts sluggish and gluey. Soon, I’d be a zombie.

  The porch light was on. A warm, welcoming yellow glow seeped from behind the closed living room curtains.

  “Welcome back,” I called, unlocking the front door.

  Silence greeted me.

  “Hi, Mom. How was your trip?”

  My words echoed and clanged dully inside my head as I walked into the kitchen.

  Someone had replaced my lightweight sandals with lead snowshoes. I set my purse down on the Formica table and blinked.

  Jack Faraday stood in my kitchen.

  “You’re home early,” he said.

  I’d last seen him at the Graystone, holding court, and my syrupy brain took a minute to process that he was no longer there. He must have slipped out of the crowded party without saying good-bye. He’d also changed and was now dressed completely in black.

  “What are you doing here? Mom?” I called. “Where’s my mother?”

  “Your mother’s fine. We were just visiting. Amazing woman, I can see where you get your spunk.”

  I made a sort of bleating sound deep in my throat and tried to dart away, but he was too fast and I was too sloppy.

  There was a gun in his hands, with a strange appendage on its muzzle.

  My synapses sizzled like a Fourth of July firecracker. Even though I’d never seen one before, I knew it was a silencer.

  “Stu blew it the other day when he managed to take out only your windshield,” Faraday said.

  Stu. The Plumber. Faraday’s black ops guy. The one he used for special projects.

  Faraday marched me to the study, where my mother sat, tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth.

  “Talk to your daughter,” he said, removing the gag.

  My mother coughed, spitting and retching.

  “Maggie,” came her wavery voice.

  My brain skipped a beat.

  “Mom! What has he done to you?”

  I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry for everything. This is all my fault.

  “Don’t worry about me, Maggie. Save yourself. Run . . .”

  “Shut up.” Faraday hit her across the mouth and her head flew back as she moaned.

  A moment earlier, I’d barely been able to move. Now I scanned the room for something to use as a weapon.

  “Don’t move,” my boss said calmly.

  He bent to retie my mother’s gag, the gun dangling carelessly from his hand. He knew I wouldn’t leave her.

  “How did you get in here?” I said.

  “Your mother invited me. I showed her my Blair ID.”

  I glanced at my mother’s eyes, which beetled in hatred toward Faraday. I’d warned her about trusting strangers, but I’d never warned her about colleagues.

  “She doesn’t know anything. Please untie her.”

  Faraday shook his head. “I can’t take that chance.”

  “What chance?”

  Faraday inspected me. He chuckled. “So you’ve finally developed a poker face.”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Maggie. I know Luke Paxton told you before Tyler blew his brains out.”

  “Told me what?”

  Most of my brain was in lockdown. But a tiny corner that still functioned now flashed to a recent memory. Of Anabelle complaining about Luke selling stocks in a down market. Why would anybody do such a thing unless he was desperate?

  Then I remembered bringing my boss coffee and finding him on the phone. And Luke’s voice on the other end, pleading.

  “You’ve got to do something.”

  Faraday had fobbed me off with that explanation about angry neighbors. But what if that wasn’t it at all? Luke had denied killing Randall Downs. Maybe that was true.

  Maybe Luke had hired Faraday to do it for him, because he was terrified his brother-in-law was getting too close to discovering that Luke had strangled Emily Mortimer.

  That would explain Faraday grilling me about Luke’s exact words at Palisades del Rey. He feared Luke had told me and he was petrified, knowing that the cops were about to interview me.

  “You killed Randall Downs,” I said.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Faraday said. “My hands are clean. But honestly? That family should give me a medal. Senator Paxton often wished Randall Downs would go away. I guess God finally answered his prayer.”

  “Did he wish Emily Mortimer would go away too?”

  “That was an accident. Why should the senator’s career be derailed and his son’s life destroyed because of an accident?”

  “Luke killed her.”

  “Luke was a good kid. With a great future ahead of him.”

  “A future bought and paid for by Daddy Dearest.”

  “They had it all planned out, you know. In two years, Henry hoped to get nominated for vice president and Luke would run for his father’s Senate seat.”

  I shook my head. “There’s not a crisis management firm on earth that could pull off that kind of miracle.”

  “Plenty of American political dynasties weather scandals. The Kennedys. The Bushes. People have short memories.”

  “So Henry knew and he protected his son?”

  “It’s no different from how he helped his daughter avoid arrest when she was on drugs. And getting her rehab instead of jail when he couldn’t fix it anymore. What kind of favors do you think got called in there?”

  “You can’t compare that to murder,” I spluttered. “Anabelle hurt only herself.”

  I paused.

  “I promise I won’t tell the cops. And I’m a lot more useful to you alive. The Paxton account is a cash cow, they’ll be needing crisis management for years to come, and I’m your conduit into the family. Like you said, they love me and trust me.”

  “Clever girl,” Faraday said.

  “I’ve thought about cutting you in. We could split the money. Blair would never know.”

  “He’s not a part of this?”

  Faraday hesitated a moment. “No.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said. “You and me. Partners.”

  He seemed to consider it.

  “I won’t let you down. I’ll do anything.”

  An evil glint came into Faraday’s eyes.

  “You’re a girl after my own heart, Maggie, and that’s how I know you�
�re lying. You’d do anything to save your skin right now.”

  His legs moved apart, as if to brace himself for what came next.

  “You’re going to get caught,” I said. “The phone, the gun, the forensic evidence you leave behind.”

  Faraday pinched his wrist and I heard rubber snap. “These are gloves. The gun’s a throwdown. My car’s still with the valets, I drove here in a rental. It’s parked down the street and I took off the plates. I’ll change back into my tux and be back at the party in twenty minutes. No one will even know I was gone.”

  He tsked. “You really shouldn’t live in such a bad neighborhood, Maggie. Two women, all alone, vulnerable to burglaries and break-ins. You’re easy prey.”

  There was an explosion behind me. Faraday’s chest splattered with blood and he slumped to the floor.

  “But I’m not,” said Earlyn, advancing into the room, rifle trained on my boss.

  “I thought I heard a man’s voice when I came through the backyard hole looking for Bandit.

  “That no-good varmint,” Earlyn said, examining the body on the ground. “Have you seen her?”

  I opened my mouth to reply.

  Then I fainted.

  44

  I awoke in the hospital, tethered to tubes, Mom at my side, dabbing my temples. I sniffed.

  “You brought the good stuff,” I said.

  “You’re awake,” said Mom, pleased. “How do you feel?”

  “I must be okay, if I can smell Chanel Sycomore.”

  Cautiously, I flexed and moved different parts of my body. Everything was accounted for.

  I pressed my temples, trying to think. The smoky vetiver scent wafted through the room.

  “The last thing I remember is Earlyn shooting Jack Faraday,” I said.

  “You fainted,” Mom said. “Then Earlyn untied me and we called the police.”

  “How many hours have I been out?”

  “Hours? Try two days. The doctors said you were run-down and near collapse. And you’ve got the beginnings of an ulcer. They apparently see that a lot with Adderall abuse. The doc says the dosages you were taking were dangerous.”

  I’d barely been awake two minutes, and she already was lecturing me.