Face Value

by Lia Matera

  And the discharge of tension was enough to sink me into deep sleep, my first in days.

  I was in the shower the next morning when Mike Hover called.

  I stood wrapped in towels, listening to his message on my machine. It began with a pause.

  “Um … I heard you’re looking for me, but I don’t know what— Do you need to talk? I’ll wait to hear from you. I’ve been distressed about those murders. I used every one of the women in my videos, did you know that? For morphing purposes. I keep feeling I’m responsible in some way. I don’t know how, but it’s a strong feeling, stronger since I’ve been back down here. I’d be interested in your opinion as a lawyer. Is it the kind of intuition one takes to the police? I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Back down here. He might keep a place in San Francisco, possibly a gift from a follower. Most of his devotees were still here. Maybe more important, cutting-edge computer products were developed and available here. Silicon Valley was probably his Mecca.

  But if he had a local address, why hadn’t Roy and Rhonda given it to me? I seemed to remember asking. Regardless, they’d have known I might need it.

  Six dancers and a boyfriend had been killed. Margaret had been calling in sick and not answering her phone or doorbell. Brother Mike was back.

  I sat down with a cup of coffee. I felt stupid. Things weren’t falling into place.

  Roy and Rhonda hadn’t given me a local address for Mike Hover. Why not? Because he didn’t have a place here, a place of his own? Because he was he staying with someone?

  It wouldn’t be Arabella. Until yesterday, she’d planned to sue him. Even if he’d once thought of her place as “his,” subsequent events would have changed his view.

  It wouldn’t be Margaret. She too had contemplated suing him. And she might be jealous of him, not likely to be hospitable now.

  Gretchen, on the other hand, had demonstrated a willingness to take care of him. She’d talked Margaret out of suing him. She’d arranged for me to be his lawyer.

  I phoned her office first. The receptionist snapped that Gretchen wasn’t in. Her exasperation might have been a by-product of working on Saturday. Either that or Gretchen had received an unusual number of calls that morning.

  I tried Information next. They listed neither a home phone number nor an address. The Parker Directory of California Attorneys predictably showed only a business listing. But I riffled its pages until I found the names of two of our law-school classmates. One was in her office that morning.

  She was surprised to hear from me. She was even more surprised by my request. She didn’t have Gretchen’s address and number in her Rolodex, she told me. But she gave me the name of someone who did.

  Within ten minutes, I had the information I wanted.

  I left Sandy a message bringing him up to date.

  I tried repeatedly to reach Gretchen. In the meantime, I reordered my living room. It was less of a chore than I’d imagined.

  By the time I was done cleaning, I’d given up on telephoning.

  29

  Like Margaret, Gretchen lived in my old neighborhood. I stood before her small-from-the-outside, shared-wall stone house. On either side were miniature Queen Annes. The street was lined with broad-leafed trees. The air was fresh with menthol from the Presidio’s eucalyptuses.

  I rang her bell, noticing it was the only one on the panel: a real house, not an apartment. But then, she’d made partner. I’d have invested in a house if I’d made partner. Maybe that would have made working with Steve Sayres bearable.

  When I didn’t get an answer, I rang again, clinging to the possibility that she was home and Brother Mike was with her.

  I put my finger on the buzzer, and I kept it there. I’d been through too much to be ignored. Whatever the basis for Mike’s “feeling,” I had a right to hear it.

  My persistence finally paid off. I saw an upstairs curtain shift slightly. Someone had been there watching. A few moments later, the door opened, just a crack.

  Gretchen, widening the gap a few more inches, looked pale and tense. She wore a green jersey outfit that might have been pajamas or might have been a warm-up suit. She was barefoot, and her strawberry hair lacked its moussed discipline. It fell over her forehead like a Beatle cut.

  She stared at me. That’s all. She didn’t say anything.

  “Mike Hover’s here, isn’t he?”

  “He was,” she admitted. “He went out early this morning, and he’s not back yet.” Her eyelids opened wider, then wider still, as if to telegraph some thought to me.

  “He left me a message, Gretchen. I’d like to talk to him, find out what he meant.”

  “I’ll tell him to call you.”

  “He’s been here a day or two?”

  “Since yesterday.” She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” Maybe he’d discussed his “feeling” with Gretchen.

  She shook her head slightly, again glancing back without turning her head. “I can’t talk now.”

  Someone was there with her.

  “Are you—?” I stopped. Why ask if she was in trouble? Why ask if someone was there with her? She would say no, either way.

  “I could come back, Gretchen.” I put my hand on the doorknob. I opened my eyes unnaturally wide, as she had done.

  She looked at my hand on the knob. “Yes.” After a pause: “Because this isn’t a good time.”

  “Okay.” I turned and walked away. I didn’t hear the door close until I was at the bottom of the steps. I walked on down the block and around the corner.

  I stood there awhile. My impression was that I’d made a deal with Gretchen to return and let myself in. I reviewed the conversation. Was that what Gretchen had intended?

  And if so, was it a good idea?

  Earlier in the week, I’d almost walked into a bullet. I’d walked into a theater full of dead women. I needed to be more careful.

  I looked up the leafy residential block, trying to get my bearings. It was my old stamping ground. Where was the nearest telephone?

  I began walking toward the Presidio. The big house servicing the golf course would surely have a phone.

  I hurried. The three-block walk took me by my old apartment. I noticed wooden blinds in the windows. I wondered what else the new tenant had done with the place. I supposed she had more time to decorate than I’d had.

  I passed the stone fence leading into the Presidio. Irresolute fog meandered over the greens. Carts with bright surreys faded into it.

  The clubhouse entrance was blocked by handsome seniors in Izod shirts and plaid pants. A polite “Excuse me” got me past them.

  I found a phone in the airy lounge. I reached Sandy’s answering machine. I knew he’d check his messages frequently. He’d be expecting to hear from me again.

  “Hi, Sandy. If you’ve been checking your machine, you know I planned to go to Gretchen Miller’s house. Well, she acted strange when she answered her door. I think she’s in trouble. I think she left her door unlocked, expecting me to let myself in. I’m going back to do that. You’ve got her address from my last message. I’ll meet you there, or I’ll call you again.”

  I hung up. Should I do more? Should I phone the police?

  I stood with the receiver in my hand, replaying my conversation with Gretchen. I wasn’t sure. She might be ill, she might be feeling antisocial. She hadn’t actually asked for help. I might be wrong.

  I didn’t have cause to call the police. But I wanted someone other than Sandy to know where I was. Sandy might not get the message.

  I phoned Hyerdahl’s office. Pat Frankel answered.

  “Pat, hi. This is Laura Di Palma. This is going to sound a little weird.”

  “Good! If I have to work on the weekend, I at least want some spicy—”

  “I’ve been try
ing to get through to Sandy—remember him?—my detective. But I haven’t been able to. Could you …” How could I avoid sounding paranoid? “Could you do me a favor and jot down an address? It’s where I’ll be. I need him to meet me there. If he comes by my office, maybe you could give it to him.”

  “All right.” She sounded surprised.

  I recited Gretchen’s address. I wondered how much more I should say.

  “Um … Laura, are you okay and all that? I mean, I’ve been worried about you. Is this Megan Carter’s address?”

  “No. It’s Gretchen Miller’s.”

  “Do I know Gretchen Miller?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The name’s familiar. I know I’ve heard it.”

  “She works for Millet, Wray and Weissel.”

  “Oh, wow. She’s the one who did the porn film.”

  I was stunned. “How did you know about that?”

  “Oh god, it’s major gossip. Millet, Wray found out yesterday. They’re having kittens over there. Stodgy old firm like that. I give her points, I really do. I was even thinking of renting—”

  I hung up. I felt relieved, even a little silly. No wonder Gretchen was behaving oddly, not answering her phone. She was hiding out, avoiding gossip and employer anger. She’d played chicken with her career, and she’d lost (or won, if Brother Mike was correct). I wondered if her golden parachute would be as substantial as mine had been. I wondered if the senior partner of Millet, Wray wanted her out as much as Doron White (influenced by Steve Sayres) had wanted me out.

  Well, I hoped she’d be wiser with her severance pay than I’d been with mine. I hoped she’d take care of herself instead of some boyfriend. Instead of some guru.

  I walked back to her house. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that Gretchen’s behavior had been sincerely antisocial, that our “bargain” had been projection on my part, that she simply wished to be left alone until her mood improved.

  At her door, I hesitated. If it was unlocked, if I went ahead inside, how would I explain my presence?

  I turned the handle. If I had incorrectly interpreted our conversation, I would be honest about it. And I’d ask her a few questions about Brother Mike.

  I pushed the door gently. It opened a crack. I positioned myself so that I could see into the wainscoted entry. I opened the door a little farther. I could see into adjoining rooms. They appeared unoccupied. I stepped quietly in, closing the door behind me.

  The house smelled of wax and new carpet. Under my feet, a flawless Aubusson padded dark oak. Above the wainscoting, cream wallpaper was dotted with tiny green flowers. The trim around the doors was a matching green. Windows were hung with reverse-pattern curtains. Antique tables displayed china washbowls.

  I wouldn’t have guessed Gretchen’s taste was so Old World. Maybe the deviance of her previous lifestyle had nurtured an appreciation for the traditional.

  It made me uncomfortable. I felt as if I were in a maiden aunt’s house, and I had to be careful not to make a mess.

  The carpet absorbed the sound of my footfalls. I crossed to the room on my left. It was a sitting room with an antique settee and a large oak secretary. Magazines were fanned over a malachite table.

  I continued down the hall. The next room was lined with books, floor to ceiling. Two leather wing chairs shared an ottoman. A pile of books tottered beside one. The topmost was titled Quantum Reality.

  At the end of the hall was an old-fashioned tiled kitchen. The sink was clear of dishes. A garbage pail showed take-out Chinese cartons.

  I backtracked to the stairs. An anchored runner muffled my ascent.

  I tried to quiet my breathing. If Gretchen was in, I would find her up here. I began rehearsing what I would say to her.

  The stairs ended at a short corridor. All the doors were open except one. I stopped and listened. I thought I heard a faint mewling, possibly a woman weeping. I almost turned around. Bad enough to intrude. Worse to break in while she was crying.

  I forced myself on. I stopped in front of the first room. A suitcase-sized metal oblong was mounted on a sturdy tripod. It faced a square foot or so of translucent plastic, possibly film, clamped into a vise grip. A few feet beyond that, another vise held a mirror. A second mirror was erected several feet away. Two video cameras lay beside a scatter of notebooks and pamphlets. One was titled Holography in Cyberspace.

  The next room was full of computer and video equipment, much of it in labeled cartons. Some I’d seen before at Brother Mike’s. Some was unfamiliar—rectangles studded with buttons and slots, metal gloves and helmets with wires and LCD readouts attached.

  One thing was certain: the guru had been staying here. From the look of it, he stayed here often.

  Two other minuscule rooms contained beds. One bed was disheveled, the floor around it littered with what looked like professional journals. The other was buried under frilly comforters and shams.

  I stared at it a long time. I stared because it was the only thing left to do before trying the remaining door. I didn’t know whether to knock on that door or simply enter. I couldn’t recapture the urgency that had persuaded me to break in.

  In the end, I almost knocked and announced myself.

  But I remembered the dead women in the theater. I forced myself to exercise caution rather than manners. I pushed the door slightly and slowly. I peered through the crack.

  I was so shocked by what I saw, I almost rushed in. But Sandy Arkelett, silver-taped to a chair, shook his head to warn me back.

  I swallowed my gasp, looked at him more carefully. He’d gotten my first message, perhaps. He’d come here to find me. And he’d ended up secured to an oak chair with what looked like yards of duct tape. His hair spilled over his forehead and his nose twitched as if he longed to scratch it.

  His eyes shifted back to something that was out of my line of sight. Probably to the person who’d done this to him.

  I’d noticed a telephone on the hall table. I didn’t wait to find out who else was in the room. I backtracked. I picked up the phone, my hand over the earpiece to muffle the dial tone. I could again hear crying from the bedroom. Was it Gretchen? Was she taped, too?

  I dialed 911.

  The woman stopped crying. Her words seemed superhumanly loud after all my tiptoeing and breath-catching.

  “What’s that?” the voice demanded. “I closed that door. Didn’t I close that door?”

  I pressed the receiver to my ear. Once the dispatcher answered, the 911 computer would display the number and address here. If I could stay on the line long enough for one busy operator to pick up the phone …

  At that moment, Margaret Lenin flew into the corridor.

  Her hair was stringy and straight; she obviously hadn’t taken time to curl it. Her face was streaked with tears. Mascara dappled her cheeks.

  She rushed at me, clubbing me with a hard object. I dropped the phone, shielding myself with my forearms. She caught me on the cheek once. I felt an explosion of pain, hoped she hadn’t splintered bone.

  After the first shock, I tried to do more than defend myself. I tried to overpower her.

  I heard Sandy shouting. I stopped when my brain finally made sense of his words: “Don’t fight, Laura.”

  It was all I could do to obey. I wanted to fight. My body was shaking with adrenaline. But Sandy knew the situation better than I did. I trusted him.

  I raised my hands in surrender.

  In the scuffle, the phone had been pulled from its jack. I didn’t know if I’d been on long enough for 911 to answer, long enough for the computer to display Gretchen’s address. At best, assistance might be a long time coming.

  “Margaret, please,” I panted. “I came to help you. Remember the night you called me? I said I wanted to help. I still do.”

  “I didn’t want you to pick me up. All you
did was keep saying you were going to pick me up.”

  “Why did you call me, then?”

  “You knew the situation. I didn’t know who else to call.” Looking suddenly guilty, she glanced at the object in her hand.

  What I had feared, what I had assumed was a gun, turned out to be a metal tape dispenser.

  Margaret? Had Margaret secured those women to their chairs? Or had she gone into the theater after they’d been bound, picking up the duct tape then?

  I wanted to believe Sandy was right about the Women’s Media Project. I envisioned them trooping into the theater like teachers to Babylon, trussing workers to their seats to force them to listen. (As if that could be persuasive. As if that could compete with “inspiration.”)

  Because I didn’t want to believe Margaret had gone there with a gun and a tape dispenser to kill six women. Premeditation didn’t explain her phone call to me.

  “Did you get that tape from the Women’s Media Project, Margaret? Did you walk in while they were making the women watch their show?”

  She pushed hair off her damp face. “The Media Project show? The slides of magazine ads and all that? I was involved in that years ago. I used to go around and give that lecture. A lot of us did, especially women who felt conflicted. A lot of the sex-positive people came out of the Media Project. We came to terms with our sexuality and understood what real radicalism means. Reclaiming erotica instead of fighting it.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

  “It’s complicated.” I tried to soothe her. “No matter how you feel about the issue in the abstract, it gets complicated when it comes to your own sexual feelings.”

  “Arabella and Gretchen and a lot of people feel our thinking has evolved since the anti-porn days, but I’m not so sure.” She straightened her spine, looking almost like the competent bank lawyer I’d once known. “I’m not so sure we didn’t just buy into using each other the way men used to use us. We couldn’t bear the portrayals of us, so we became that way. Do you know what I mean? All that we’re-so-hot-to-trot stuff. It used to be we knew it was a construct so men would feel okay about objectifying us. Now we’re supposed to really feel that way. As a political statement.”