Dead File (31 page)
Other reports showed all his wives, his children, his vintage cars, his cigarette powerboat, his Piper Cub. All of them aired footage from his long, illustrious career. And they all played glowing sound bites from family, friends, colleagues, and luminaries—the governor, the mayor, local pols, movie stars, heads of business, a couple of kids at schools he’d visited—all of them Rob Reordan fans.
Nobody had the real story. And nobody ever would. Maxi actually felt some guilt about Rob, though her rational mind knew that it was misplaced. She consoled herself, knowing there was one thing that she, Wendy, and Pete could do for him: They would forever keep the secret that he was facing arrest, scandal, a possible trial, no chance of ever getting another job, and the ruination of his stellar lifelong reputation. Detective Henders had assured Capra not just that the book was closed, but in fact it was never opened. There’d been no arrest, no charges, no case. Rob Reordan died with all of Los Angeles adoring him.
Details in the new lead in the Rose International story got buried: Carter Rose being arrested for conspiracy in the attack on Sandie Schaeffer, Kendyl Scott turning State’s evidence against him—a bizarre twist. This had to be a big crack in the Gillian Rose case, she thought. Rose was out on bail but the police would be all over him now, looking for a connection to the death of his wife.
Maxi pulled herself out of bed feeling sluggish, world weary, and sad. Something else was bothering her, something hovering around the periphery of her consciousness, pushed away by the long, emotional night of covering her colleague’s suicide.
She brushed her teeth, pulled on some sweats, socks, and running shoes, and thought about it some more.
Yukon was panting by her bedroom door. Count on him to be cheerful, always. She bent down and ruffled the fur around his neck; then they padded into the kitchen to get the guy some breakfast. They took a brisk walk up Beverly Glen, and around the corner onto Mulholland Drive, down Nicada, back to the Glen, and home.
On their walk, she’d remembered what was bothering her: something Sandie Schaeffer had said. She dropped into the desk chair in her study, picked up the phone, and dialed Pete Capra’s home number in Tarzana.
“Capra,” he answered brusquely, even at home.
“Hi. It’s Maxi. How’re you holding up?”
“Whaddaya gonna do?” he said mournfully.
“I wish I knew. If only I hadn’t gone into Wendy’s computer—”
“Hold on,” Pete shouted. “Don’t go there. Do
not
beat yourself up, Maxi. This wasn’t your fault. Or Wendy’s.”
“Or yours,” she said, knowing he needed to hear that.
“Crazy fucker,” Capra muttered. “You know, maybe he was just done. Guy had a helluva life up till now and maybe the rest of it wasn’t looking so good to him. Maybe he just didn’t want to go down that road.”
“Yeah. Listen, Pete, is there any way I can get into the dead file? Today, I mean?”
“It’s Saturday, Max. Take a damn break, will ya?”
“Something’s bothering me.”
“
Everything’s
bothering
me,
for Chrissakes. Kris is dragging my tired ass to the Rose Bowl swap meet. I’d rather take a beating.”
“Oh … well, you have to come in on the Ventura Freeway to get to the Rose Bowl, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So how about you meet me at the station, which is right on your way, and open up the dead file for me.”
“Do you ever quit? Even a bus stops.”
“This is important, boss,” she said.
Maybe,
she added to herself.
S
aturday in the newsroom. Quieter than the weekdays. Capra had come and gone after an inordinate amount, even for him, of whining—that he, as he so elegantly put it, had to haul ass into this dump on a Saturday morning just to open up the frigging dead file for an overwrought, PMS-riddled reporter.
Whatever,
Maxi thought but didn’t say. She was going to
have
to continue that talk with him about sexual harassment, perceived or otherwise, and how one day, at the wrong time and in the wrong circumstance, it could get him into a mess of serious trouble.
Ensconced in an edit bay with one of the weekend editors, she sat viewing the tape Capra had pulled out of the dead file for her. Apart from the video and still shots made by the forensic team, she was positive that this was the only commercial tape ever shot of the body of Gillian Rose. She knew that she was the only reporter who’d been able to get inside the Rose building that day, and it had been by subterfuge, at that. Her cameraman and his camera had been summarily tossed out. So they had this exclusive footage, but it was virtually useless. The station had never aired any part of this tape, couldn’t use it; it had gone directly into the dead file the day it was logged in and there it had stayed, except for the couple of times she had taken it out for viewing.
The scene was as she remembered it: Gillian Rose lying lifeless on the carpet next to her desk. Crime-scene personnel with grim expressions processing the scene. She asked the editor to rewind the tape and slo-mo it forward from the beginning. When it came up on a wide shot that included Gillian’s desk, she said, “Stop here, please,” then asked for the picture to be enhanced. Just the desktop, she told her editor.
The picture enlarged, and in the foreground on the mostly clear desktop, close to the right front corner of the black slate surface, she saw what looked to be a crystal bowl.
“Can you enhance just that object?” Maxi asked, using the back of her ballpoint pen to point to the bowl on screen.
The editor drew an electronic dotted line around the object she’d pointed to, and as it zoomed larger, they could make out enough of the wording of the three lines of lettering engraved close to the lip of the bowl to piece together what it said: LOS ANGELES CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, BUSINESSWOMAN OF THE YEAR, and the name GILLIAN ROSE.
So there
was
a crystal award. On Gillian’s desk. But it
hadn’t
gotten broken when Gillian fell to the floor. It was intact as Gillian’s body lay prone beside her desk. Was the broken crystal piece just part of a scenario that Sandie had dreamed up? She’d said she remembered when Gillian received that award. And she’d have seen it there on her boss’s desk every day for about a week. Trapped in a world of denial, her mind blocking out a period of horrific events, plagued by elusive memories she couldn’t access, could Sandie’s imagination create such a happening? Since her mind wasn’t able to own the actual events, had she imagined Gillian’s brilliant accomplishments as symbolized in a crystal award, then fantasized that it was shattered that day, as was the woman’s life?
Wait a minute. Now who’s fantasizing?
Maxi chided herself. She checked her Palm Pilot for a number, picked up the phone in the edit room, and put in a call to the Schaeffer house.
B.J. answered.
“Yes,” she said to Maxi’s request, “do stop by to see Sandie on your way home. My patient is dying to know the inside scoop on Carter Rose being arrested. With poor Rob Reordan’s suicide, that story seemed to fall through the cracks,” B.J. said.
Driving across town on Sunset, Maxi thought about Sandie Schaeffer’s physical and mental condition. Doctors had removed a bullet that had lodged in the frontal area of her skull, dangerously close to the soft cerebral cortex of the brain. Fortunately, it had missed her brain stem and any of the major vessels in the brain. That she had escaped permanent brain damage was pure good luck, her doctors said. As for the emotional and traumatic damage, that was not so easy to get your arms around, as Sandie’s father had put it. That aspect of her injuries remained a wait-and-see situation.
Maxi still felt that Sandie was the key to unlocking the baffling Rose company riddle, but now she wondered just how reliable the woman’s memories actually were. She flipped on the tape recorder inside her purse again and rang the Schaeffers’ doorbell.
This time Sandie came to the door. She was wearing tailored gray slacks and a short yellow sweater, and was in full, light makeup. Hair combed. Looking ready to go shopping, or to work, or whatever the day might bring on.
“Hi, Maxi. Come on in. Hey, I’m feeling good. Don’t I look it?” the woman chimed.
“You look it and sound it,” Maxi said, marveling at her vitality. “Where’s B.J.?” she asked.
“Dad let her have nights off. I really am functioning on all cylinders now,” Sandie said brightly. “Except for the gap. I think my head is programmed like that Nixon tape with the legendary gap. Call me Rose Mary Woods. By the way, they never did retrieve that one, did they?” she lamented with a half smile.
“Maybe you don’t need to get those memories back, Sandie,” Maxi offered. Though she profoundly hoped she would.
The two women walked into the living room and Maxi sat on one of the couches. Sandie went over to the triple bank of windows and adjusted the blinds, filtering out the late-afternoon sunlight. When she came back to the middle of the room, she dropped down on the opposite couch. Maxi’s tape recorder would not pick up clearly across this much space, she knew, but it didn’t matter; she felt, now, that she couldn’t really depend on what Sandie remembered of those traumatic events anyway. This patient seemed completely healthy except for the time lapse of unwanted memories.
“You
are
operating on all cylinders, Sandie,” Maxi said. “I’d like you to go on the air with me and tell what you do remember, and what you don’t remember, and why. Show the world that you’re ready for it. And talk about your reaction to the arrest of Carter Rose in the attack on you.”
She didn’t expect Sandie’s quick and positive response. “Okay,” Sandie said. “Let’s do it.”
M
onday morning, in the living room of the Schaeffer house in Pacific Palisades. The lights were set and the camera ready to roll on Maxi’s interview with Sandie Schaeffer.
Maxi had spent a good chunk of the day before in the news-room, surrounded by the weekend staff preparing the Sunday so-called March of Death that was to air after the Saint Louis Rams’ playoff game. They’d expected a huge tune-in spilling over from the game, since a big chunk of Angelinos still rooted for the guys who used to be their L.A. Rams. While the hustle of the daily news prep went on around her, Maxi had prepped for today’s interview with Sandie Schaeffer.
Instead of going in to the station this morning, she’d driven directly from her house in Beverly Glen out to the Schaeffers’ bungalow near the beach. This was the exclusive Maxi had worked toward and waited for. Still, since Sandie’s father so adamantly opposed exposing his not-altogether-stable daughter to the glare of television news, she told Sandie several times that she didn’t have to do this, even as they were ready to start rolling tape. But Sandie was just as adamantly determined to do it. They’d settled on an agreement that if Sandie became uncomfortable at any time during the shoot, they would call a halt and never air it—a concession that Maxi had never before granted to an interview subject.
Bill Schaeffer had Benny filling in for him at the drugstore this morning so he could be on hand. Maxi had scored cameraman Rodger Harbaugh as crew, for which she was grateful. Sandie Schaeffer was in full makeup and dressed in a dark, lightweight wool business suit with a crisp white blouse, her look signaling that she was on top of her game.
The camera, set on a tripod, was focused on Sandie. Harbaugh would zoom in and out, from close to middle ground to wide, to give the static “talking head” shot some movement. Maxi cupped her hand to her eye and took a look at the image in the viewfinder: Sitting erect in the corner of the silk chenille-covered couch, Sandie looked healthy, radiant, and springtime pretty. Then Maxi took her own seat at the opposite end of the couch, a technique to ensure there’d be no chance that she’d obstruct the camera’s view of the interview subject from any angle or inadvertently get into Sandie’s frame with a head or hand movement of her own.
When the interview was finished, Maxi would do her reversals, voicing questions on camera that Sandie had already answered. In the editing process, those questions would be dropped in and followed by Sandie’s previous answers to each, a stock process in television news. Maxi would lay B-roll over the sound where it was appropriate, using extant footage of scenes from the Gillian Rose case and the attack on Sandie. When they were finished here, she would rush the tape back to the station, write her ins and outs, track her voice-over, edit it all together, and air the cut piece on the Six O’clock News.
The room was hushed, steeped in the routine tension that precedes the start of a news interview. Harbaugh checked the viewfinder, then said, “Rolling.”
“Sandie, how much do you remember about Gillian Rose’s death and the attack on you?” Maxi started.
“Nothing, really. I remember everything up until, I’m told, I discovered Gillian’s body, as well as everything since I came out of the coma,” she answered, strength and clarity in her tones.
“And nothing in between?”
“And nothing in between.”
Maxi went on with the interview, occasionally glancing over at Bill Schaeffer in his wheelchair, who looked progressively more relaxed. She verbally walked Sandie through what she remembered, what she had later learned about the events, and her feelings about all of it.
“And tell me about the crystal award that was on Gillian’s desk that day,” she said.
“Um … award?” Sandie asked, looking perplexed.
“The crystal bowl that the chamber of commerce had awarded her at their recent luncheon, the one you said she was so proud of. The crystal piece that you told me got broken when Gillian fell,” Maxi clarified.
“Gosh, I don’t remember anything about that,” Sandie said, then gave a sheepish smile and a little shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not a hundred percent yet. But I’m getting there.”
Sandie was charming in her confusion. Viewers would applaud her courage, Maxi knew. And her own theory about the crystal award must have been correct: The image of it shattered had been a fictitious analogy to Gillian’s death conjured up by Sandie’s still troubled mind, and now she didn’t remember it at all.