Dead File (4 page)
Rodger switched off the camera and picked up the pace. Carter Rose skipped the baggage-claim area—his chauffeur would probably pick up his luggage, Maxi figured.
For better vantage, the media gang pushed en masse in front of Rose and the two detectives, camerapersons still shooting as their subjects piled into an unmarked car. One of the detectives took the driver’s seat, the other climbed into the backseat with the man of the hour. Their car slid quickly away from the curb and into traffic.
As the newsies scattered, Maxi whispered to Rodger, “What the hell was
that
about?”
“
What
that?” Rodger asked.
“Carter Rose giving me an exclusive. Even calling me by name, which will be great in the piece.”
Harbaugh shot a quick look at Maxi’s sculpted features, her glowing cheeks flushed from running, her full lips glimmering in smoky pink lipstick, the bright green eyes, blond hair shining in the lights, her long, trim body in the fitted gray silk suit, the spiky black heels, purse swinging from her shoulder, microphone in hand, her air of supreme competence overlaid with a look of vulnerability, like she really did need a man to slay dragons for her.
“Because he’s a guy,” was all he said.
“Oh,
please,
Rodg. He just found out that his wife is dead, maybe murdered, he’s spent the entire night on an airplane from China—not that he said anything to me, really, but I’m sure the last thing he wanted to do was talk to the press. So, why?”
Harbaugh gave her a crooked smile and a palms-up shrug, not easy with a thirty-pound minicam on his shoulder. Clearly, he believed what he’d said, that it was a “guy” thing.
Maxi knew different. Carter Rose had an agenda, and she had a feeling she was going to find out what it was.
G
reat get!” producer Wendy Harris called from the open door of the edit bay, where Maxi was recutting her morning piece for the Four O’clock News.
“Huh?” Maxi said.
“Your little exclusive with Carter Rose, of course, what else? What
planet
are you on, Maxi?”
“I’m walking and talking and doing, but I am actually asleep,” Maxi responded. She’d been up and working for twelve hours, and still had three more hours to go before the Six O’clock newscast that she co-anchored with Rob Reordan. Between now and then, she had to do live reports on the set for the Four and the Five.
“Nobody else had him talking,” Wendy went on. “Not at the airport, not at Parker Center, not all day.”
“He gave me a dozen words and I’ve romanced them every which way since Sunday—I oughtta be ashamed.”
Wendy cocked her head, calculating. “Thirty-seven words,” she said after a moment. “I know them by heart—I’ve cut ’em up and danced ’em around for every tease and every show since you fed in at six this morning.”
Maxi chuckled. “Since Carter Rose is my new best friend,” she said, “what do you think my chances are of getting a real interview with him?”
“Nada. I’ve already called, and you gotta know that every media gang in the country is trying to get to him, but he has the palace guard up now. You caught him on some kind of groggy whim this morning. By now I’m sure he’s wide awake and talking to his lawyers.”
“Mmmm … I don’t think this guy operates on whims, groggy or otherwise. He strikes me as way too cool.”
“Maybe, but I’m betting we still can’t score. Wanna give him a try yourself? Couldn’t hurt.”
“Got numbers?”
“Sure … his private at the office, his assistant, his home, his car phone, his cell, his mistress—”
“His
mistress?
Who—”
“Just kidding,” Wendy sang with a grin. “Wanted to see if you were paying attention.”
“Barely. I’m on autopilot. Would you leave the numbers on my desk? I’ll give it a shot—nothing to lose.”
“By the way, did you know that a few of our competition are so desperate on this one that they called here to get a statement from
you,
since you actually talked with the man this morning. Wanted your reaction, et cetera. We respectfully declined on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” Maxi deadpanned. Then, as an afterthought, she turned from the edit-room monitors and looked squarely at Wendy. “
We
would never resort to something that shabby, would we?”
“Sure we would,” her producer tossed off. “If we had nothing else to go with.”
“What a business,” Maxi muttered with an edge of distaste.
“You
love
it.”
“Ya, but … jeeesh, what a business.”
Wendy went out into the newsroom, and Maxi turned her attention back to Jack Worth, her editor. She planned to cut a version of her Carter Rose story for the Four, another version for the Five, and run the entire piece on her Six O’clock News. Then go home, feed Yukon, do her forty-five minutes on the treadmill, and collapse.
The phone rang; Worth snatched it up. “For you, Max,” the editor said, handing over the receiver. “It’s Wendy.”
“Hey girl, you don’t get enough of me?” Maxi quipped.
“You’re not gonna freaking
believe
this,” Wendy said. “Carter Rose has called a news conference for tomorrow—it just moved on the wires. And you’re on it—Capra put out the assignment sheet himself.”
“So the mountain is coming to Mohammed,” Maxi said.
I
n the news at the top of the hour—”
“Oh,
shut up,
” Maxi groaned at the clock-radio. After her sixteen-hour workday yesterday, 7
A.M.
came much too early.
“. . . three people killed in a head-on collision on the Santa Ana Freeway in the city of Norwalk—”
Maxi put a pillow over her head and held it there with one hand while groping for the snooze bar with the other. Couldn’t find the damn thing. She gave up, dropping her hand over the side of the bed. Until somebody started licking it.
“No, Yukon,
puh-leeeze,
give me a break. Five more minutes . . .”
No way. The boy wanted breakfast. Heaving a big sigh, she dropped the pillow on the floor, then dropped her feet to the carpet and sat up.
“. . . business news: On the big board, stock in Rose International, the giant health-products company based in Los Angeles, took a big hit this morning, opening at eighty-seven at the bell, now down to seventy-nine, and the trading day is still young … Wall Street reacting to the death yesterday of its co-founder and co-CEO, thirty-seven-year-old Gillian Rose, the wife of—
Maxi stared at the clock-radio. Whoa, a normal business reaction? she wondered. It wouldn’t seem so, certainly not if the company was healthy. Maybe Carter Rose would have something to say about the company’s stock dive at his news conference this morning; the press would be all over him about that. Rose had to have taken a hit in his own personal fortune, she considered. Then again, he no longer had a wife he had to split that fortune with.
Somebody was licking her ankle now. “Okay, Yuke, I give up.” She hauled herself off the bed. Had to take the guy for a walk. Then breakfast, then suit up, race to the office, check the wires, see what’s doing, then team up with her crew and drive back over to the Westside for the Carter Rose news conference.
Odd, she mused, that the man had called a major press conference at his Beverly Hills home instead of at the company headquarters downtown. Even if he was in a state of devastation over his wife’s death, she couldn’t imagine why he would want to let a gang of rowdy newspeople invade his personal space and trample all over his petunias. Oh, well, she’d find out soon enough—this morning’s parley was set for ten-thirty. Meantime, she would surf the Net to find out anything that had made it to cyberspace about the players, the policies, and the stock drop at Rose International.
Yukon followed her to the bathroom, sat on his haunches looking up at her while she brushed her teeth, then followed her back into the bedroom and watched while she pulled on jeans and a sweater and laced up her running shoes. Another reason why she couldn’t manage a time-consuming love relationship these days—her baby was a little vulnerable since their recent mutual life-threatening ordeal. Yukon couldn’t handle the competition right now.
“Come on, snow-boy, we’re outta here,” she said to him. He padded happily after her out the door.
R
odger Harbaugh was assigned as her cameraman on the Carter Rose news conference. That was a break. You could never count on having the shooter of your choice on any story—it depended on the vagaries of availability. But since this conclave was called last night, Capra had seen the wisdom in assigning Harbaugh with Maxi, for continuity, and he’d had the lead time to do it.
When they arrived at Rose’s white limestone mansion at the top of Carolwood Drive in Beverly Hills, the massive gilt and wrought-iron gates were open and an army of local and national media were already milling around on the immaculately groomed grounds. Harbaugh sussed out a spot, set down a folding two-step stool, and stood on it, making him a head higher than most of the gang staked out in front of him. He hoisted his minicam up on his shoulder and handed Maxi a wireless microphone. Palming it, she squirreled through the crowd up to the front of the ranks.
At 10:37 the massive, carved cherrywood front doors parted and Carter Rose stepped out onto the stone portico, followed by two detectives from the Beverly Hills Police Department, then two from the LAPD, since the Gillian Rose death happened in Los Angeles. Then, stepping out last, a big surprise to the journalists, was L.A.’s new chief of police.
Rose looked uncomfortable. Facing the media had always been his wife’s role, and she had been a master at it. “Good morning,” he said, which was met with some low mutterings from the rarely gracious massed press.
Then he lobbed a bomb.
“I’ve called you here to tell you that someone broke into
this
house yesterday, by
these
front doors,” he said, turning to indicate the entrance to his home, “and would have tried to murder
me,
I’m sure, if I hadn’t stopped it.”
So that explained why he’d called his news conference here and not at the Rose building, Maxi noted.
To a gaggle of shouted questions Rose declined to give details, but he did say that it had happened in the afternoon, while he was in his bedroom trying to get some sleep after his all-night flight and the long morning session downtown with the detectives. He also told the press that he was going public with this to let his would-be assailant know that the police would be watching for him, and they would get him.
Rose went on to say that he had been issued a limited Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department permit to carry a concealed weapon, a permit given only to peace officers and to a very few citizens who demonstrated urgent need. He wanted this probable killer to know that he was carrying a gun now, he said, and that if he was threatened again, he’d use it.
“I’m convinced,” Rose concluded, “that my wife was murdered, and that the person who tried to attack me yesterday is the person who killed her.”
More shouted questions: “Was it someone you know?”
“What did he look like?”
“Was he armed?”
“Were you hurt?”
“How did he get through the doors?”
Rose put his two hands in front of him, palms forward, signifying that the news conference was over. He turned and headed back toward his front doors, which prompted the media horde to start gathering up equipment in preparation to leave. Then Rose abruptly turned back, caught the eye of Maxi Poole in the front lines of the throng, and beckoned her to join him on the steps.
Whoa, another little exclusive?
Maxi thought, moving to join him.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” Carter Rose whispered.
Maxi’s eyebrows shot up. In response to her unasked question, he answered, “Because you knew Gillian, Gillian liked you, and maybe you can help me.”
When still Maxi hesitated, he added, “And maybe I can help you.”
“I have to go back to work—” Maxi started.
“I know. And you anchor the Six O’clock News. Come back here after the show. My cook will make a light supper, and we can talk.”
“Who’s your cook?”
“Uh … her name is Angie,” Carter Rose said, and his look asked why Maxi would want to know.
“Is she here now?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Do you want something? A drink? A bottle of water to take with you?”
“Water would be great.”
As the media made its straggly exodus from the premises, Rose led Maxi back through exquisitely decorated rooms to a gleaming stainless-steel kitchen where a bright-faced middle-aged woman was busily chopping vegetables and a younger woman was polishing cookware.
“This is newscaster Maxi Poole,” Rose told them. “She’s coming back for dinner tonight, I hope.”
“You’ll be here?” Maxi asked Angie.
“Of course.” The woman smiled jovially, as if it were a silly question.
She doesn’t seem to be mourning Mrs. Rose, her employer,
Maxi observed to herself.
“Then can I ask, Angie, that you not use any oil in my food? I’m not supposed to have oil of any kind,” Maxi lied.
“I’ll make sure. What time should we serve?” she addressed her boss.
“I can be here by about seven-thirty,” Maxi offered.
“Then we’ll have dinner at eight,” Rose said.
“All right, then,” the cook confirmed brightly, turning back to her vegetables.
Carter Rose walked over to a bank of four stainless-steel Traulson refrigerators, opened a door, and took out a small bottle of Evian. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to Maxi. “So we’ll see you at seven-thirty?” Accepting the water, Maxi nodded.
Back in her car, she weighed the odd invitation. Dinner with the point man on this story would certainly give her an edge. Still, she didn’t know this man, and wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being in his home with him. But that cheerful cook, Angie, would be there, and most likely other household staff as well.
Maxi thought a bit now before taking chances. In surviving the recent incident that could have killed her, she’d learned a painful lesson. Entering a house to get an interview on a murder story, totally unsuspecting, she’d found herself alone with a deranged woman who’d slashed her from the top of her sternum to her waist. No, the wound was not critical. Yes, it had been skillfully repaired by a top team of surgeons. Yes, she was healing well. But every day she was aware of the numbness from severed nerve endings along the slowly fading scar line, reminding her how lucky she was to be alive.