Dead File (25 page)

She sat at her desk; Rob perched uncomfortably on her small couch. To ease his seeming tension, she started. “I hear you’re leaving, Rob—”

“Ungrateful assholes,” he piped up. “I put this fucking station on the map. Now they’re tossing me on the trash heap.”

“But you were negotiating, weren’t you?”

“Oh, sure, negotiating,” he spat out. “They wanted me to take forty cents on the dollar.”

“It’s still a lot of money, Rob. In this economy, anybody should be thrilled to get it. It’s still a lot more than
I
make,” she said with a chuckle.

“It’s not enough for me,” he put in morosely.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. I have debts. Alimony. Child support. College funds . . .”

“And a collection of vintage cars to support. And an expensive powerboat. And the airplane. Why not just scale down, Rob?”

“Can’t. And dammit, I
own
this fucking market—I’ll get another gig.”

“I’m sure you will. Have you talked to anyone?”

“Hitch is talking to Seven. And Thirteen. He’ll work something out.” Ed Hitchcock was the powerful talent agent for half the market’s news personalities.

“Well, I wish you all the best, Rob,” she said. “You deserve it.” And he did deserve it, she reflected, if for nothing other than his longevity. It was hard to get these jobs, but even harder to hang on to them, and Rob Reordan had been a local news fixture in a major market for half a century.

“Maxi,” he said then, “can you lend me some money?” The question slammed into her by surprise, cutting off her platitudes. She was speechless.

“It wouldn’t be for long,” he said. “Just till I land on my feet. And I’ll add twenty percent interest to the principal when I pay you back.”

“Uhh … how much money, Rob?” She couldn’t fathom how a person with his income over the years, over
decades,
could be living from paycheck to paycheck.

“A hundred thousand. And I’ll pay you back a hundred and twenty in six months.” When she remained silent, he said, “Or fifty thou, if that’s all you can do.”

She still had nothing to say. Who knew if he could get another lucrative anchor gig at his age? Twenty percent interest was terrific, but twenty percent of nothing was still nothing. She had no intention of lending him that kind of money. Or any at all. He’d never been a close friend; he was a colleague. They had a professional relationship.

But how to tell him? Especially sitting with him here in her office, his watery blue eyes looking tired, defeated. “I’ll talk to my business manager,” she said, and was annoyed with herself for not being up front with him.

“You’ll let me know?” he asked, a flood of pitiable, hopeful pleading in those eyes now. She was embarrassed for both of them.

“On Monday,” she said. “Everybody’s away for the holidays now.”

She didn’t want to look into his eyes. It wasn’t just about money and his woefully inept management of the millions he’d earned. She was looking at a man who had been beloved by his fans since before she was born. A man who’d had it all—power, money, status, celebrity, a legendary run in the business, everything—and now she was looking at the end of it. And for all his bravado, she could feel that he knew it too. If he actually was able to hook up at another station, it wouldn’t be for much money, and it wouldn’t be for long. He was pretty much out of options, and it was sad. And it was life. This man should be comfortable now, enjoying these years, but instead she saw in him just hurt and desperation.

Impulsively, she came out from behind her desk in the tiny office and gave him a hug. And watched him go out the door.

She idled in her office, feeling a little depressed and not quite sure why. There was nothing much to do today, really. She had no story assignment, either for the early block or for the Eleven; there was barely enough going on to keep the regular reporting staff busy. She would be co-anchoring the Six with Rob, but that was nearly eight hours away.

She thought about the Gillian Rose story and Penthe’s conversation with her yesterday about being with the woman the night before she died.
Late
on the night before she died. Maxi calculated that they would have been together a scant twelve hours before Gillian was found dead in her office.

Authorities had found no evidence of foul play, but they still hadn’t released the body. That meant they suspected something, even though they hadn’t been able to nail it down. Poison? Could Penthe have slipped some untraceable poison compound into Gillian’s drink? But why? To get the formula for himself? Then why would he poison her with a slow-acting substance? The man owned two thriving pharmaceutical companies—no question he had access to chemicals that would do the job on the spot. Why wouldn’t he use a poison that would fell her immediately so he could snatch the formula and run?

She hit the side of her forehead with the heel of her palm.
Hello!
Because, dummy, the guards would have seen him leaving the building alone. Then they’d have found Gillian’s body. And the police wouldn’t have just questioned him, they’d have arrested him and charged him with murder.

So what would he gain by causing Gillian’s death the next day? Why would he want her out of the way when she was his ticket to some fabulous formula that they both seemed to believe would make them millions?

Maybe he didn’t need Gillian to get his hands on the formula. He was adamant about buying the floundering Rose company. Maybe he figured that, as the CEO of Rose, he could finesse the formula one way or another. After all, Gillian didn’t yet have the rights to it either, but she’d already done major testing and development on it. Maybe Penthe had figured that this small-time pharmacist in a wheelchair had to be a pushover. Penthe had seen the research documents with the name of the private laboratory doing the work clearly posted on the letterhead. As the owner of Rose International, getting control of the product looked easy—and without Gillian Rose in the picture, it would be all his.

Far-fetched? She decided to follow up on the notion anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t bother chasing down such a long shot if it weren’t a deadly dull news day. She picked up her phone and put in a call to the morgue, one of the few other businesses besides hers that stayed open on holidays. The business of death, she mused. It never took a day off. She gave the receptionist her name and asked for Charlie Strand.

“Yo, Max,” he said when he came on the line. “You working today?”

“Sure,” she said. “So are you.”

“Of course so am I. I’m low man in the pecking order. It’s just me and the stiffs. Happy New Year.”

“Don’t tell me it’s just you and the stiffs—there’re plenty of staff there today, right?”

“Right. I like to bitch. It clears my sinuses. What can I do ya for? Do you want my body?”

“No. I want to find out about poisons. Like how many untraceable poisons can kill you twelve hours later.”

“Who do you wanna kill? Your boss? Your New Year’s Eve date? You should have come with me, to this wild rave party up in the San Bernardino mountains—five hundred people, all wasted. What a blast. I am so hungover—”

“So, Charlie … can you put me on to someone who can answer some questions about poisons?”

“That would be our head toxicologist, Dr. Elizabeth Riker. Dr. Beth. Medical examiner, pathologist, poison expert, babe. And definitely not down here with the lowest in the pecking order—she’s off today.”

“When is she back?”

“Lemme check the schedule.” He paused for a beat, and Maxi could hear the click-clicking of his computer keys. “Hmph,” he said. “She’s in at three o’clock this morning. She’s got the three
A.M.
to noon shift. Maybe she’s not so high in the pecking order.”

“Maybe there
is
no pecking order,” Maxi said. “Maybe you imagine it.”

“There’s a pecking order everywhere. Isn’t there one at Channel Six?”

Of course there was, Maxi conceded to herself. “I don’t think about it,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Riker in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Charlie exhorted. “When are we having our New Year’s toast? So I can get my New Year’s kiss?”

Maxi laughed. Charlie never stopped. And she was sure he fed the same lines to a lot of women. Maybe even to Dr. Elizabeth Riker. And he was so adorable he could get away with it; what woman would bring Charlie up on sexual harassment charges? Too young, too cute, and definitely not to be taken seriously.

“Next week,” she said. “And thanks, Charlie.”

She hung up and wandered out into the newsroom. Laurel Baker was sitting at her desk and called her over.

“You missed a great party last night,” she said.

“I’m sure I did, but you have to forgive me. I just didn’t feel like going out.”

“On New Year’s Eve?”

“
Especially
on New Year’s Eve,” Maxi said. And Laurel let it drop.

“What’s new?” Maxi asked her then. Laurel always knew what was new, be it in the news, gossip, or office politics. But for half a beat she didn’t reply.

“Let me ask you something, Maxi,” she said then. “By any chance, did Rob ask you to loan him money?”

The question surprised Maxi. “Um … yes, he did,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he asked me, too, and he asked Roggin and Montoya.” John Roggin and Paulo Montoya were the station’s two sports anchors. “And God knows who else. Are you going to lend him money?”

“I told him I’d let him know by Monday,” Maxi hedged. “Are you going to?”

“Of course not,” Laurel said. “His ship is sinking.”

49

D
riving west on Wilshire to Kendyl’s apartment, Carter Rose chuckled without mirth. He actually did have a diamond ring, and it was in his pocket. A huge, eleven-carat pear-shaped D flawless canary yellow diamond flanked by tapered baguettes and set in platinum, which had been personally designed for Gillian by Gustav Kleinberg, exclusive jewelry designer for Harry Winston. It was supposed to be a surprise for their anniversary next month. Gillian had loved the many unique, important pieces of jewelry he had given her over the years, most of which she had chosen or designed herself because her taste was so specific. And impeccable. And she’d worn her lavish jewels with great panache. She was known for them. But this year, for this anniversary, their fifteenth, he’d wanted to surprise her with a special diamond ring. That was before he’d found out she was making plans to leave him.

Back when Carter and Gillian met at Berkeley, when she was a sophomore and he was a senior, they had no money at all, and when they married two years later, they had precious little. He couldn’t afford to buy her an engagement ring back then, and she didn’t ask for one. But over the years they’d made plenty of money, and he could afford to buy her all the jewelry she wanted, and did, but she’d never once mentioned that she’d like the engagement ring she never had. He would surprise her with the ring, he’d decided, as a kind of renewal of their vows, and it would be a ring that she’d love because, as usual, she would design it herself.

He had enlisted Sandie Schaeffer to make it happen. Sandie was close to Gillian, and she was happy to help him pull off his anniversary surprise. They’d cooked up a plan. Sandie told Gillian that a friend of hers was in the market for the perfect diamond ring, and that her fiancé had unlimited funds and wanted his future wife to have the absolute ultimate, a lavishly elegant engagement ring to last their lifetime together. And since Gillian was a jewelry maven, Sandie asked her to dash off on paper the ideal diamond ring, as if she were sketching it for herself.

Gillian had enjoyed the challenge. She came up with the beautiful ring design in India ink on graph paper, and Gustav Kleinberg had translated the rendering to platinum and diamonds. The piece, for which Carter had dropped half a million, was now in his office safe.

Kendyl had quizzed him about his several surreptitious meetings with Sandie Schaeffer behind closed doors. She’d suspected that he was sleeping with Sandie, he knew. The cold war between Kendyl and Sandie dipped to deep-freeze temperatures on Kendyl’s side, her discourtesy extending even to Sandie’s harmless invalid father, long disabled by childhood polio, who had complained to Gillian about Kendyl Scott’s rudeness on the phone to him.

Gillian was adamant at the time that he should fire Kendyl, that she was an embarrassment to the company. That turned out to be a big red flag for Carter: Gillian must know for sure that it wasn’t all business between himself and his comely personal assistant.

But why wouldn’t she know? Carter had thought at the time. Half the company knew, the verity of their longtime affair probably promulgated by Kendyl herself, who loved to brag. He could just hear her: “Promise you won’t tell anybody, but last night . . .” He’d just figured that Gillian didn’t really care, that they had an unspoken understanding about such things. Later he learned how wrong he was.

Carter didn’t respond to Gillian at the time. Nor did he fire Kendyl. And he wasn’t about to tell Kendyl that Gillian’s assistant Sandie was just helping him purchase a big-ticket diamond ring as an anniversary gift for his wife; Kendyl wouldn’t have appreciated that. Carter had just put his head in the sand and continued to walk that particular tightrope. Big mistake, he found out.

He hadn’t given a thought to the ring since Gillian’s death. Now Kendyl would get it after all. But with no symbolism attached, at least on his part. He had no intention of marrying Kendyl Scott, but he had to let her think he did. By the time the dust settled on this entire, horrendous episode in his life, it wouldn’t matter.

50

W
e’re in a zero-news zone, Wendy,” Maxi remarked to her producer, who sat huddled over her computer terminal as usual, her small, black-rimmed reading glasses suspended on the tip of her freckled nose.

“No kidding. New Year’s Day. Nothing shaking at all. I’m now looking into ten-year-old unsolved crimes that we might revisit for the early block.”

“How about the O.J. case—that one’s never been solved.”

“Yeah, right. You want to go over to the Griffith Park Observatory? I’ll set up an interview with the director—maybe he can talk to you about the space aliens who killed Ron and Nicole.”