To Catch the Moon (3 page)

Matters hadn’t improved when he’d gotten a
taste of how combative she could be. Penrose was big on plea
bargaining—he was big on everything that meant less work—but Alicia
was not. Sure, four out of five cases you did have to plea-bargain,
but some just stuck in your craw: You knew the guy was guilty, you
knew you’d be committing a sin against God and country to let him
off. So she wouldn’t, even though Penrose badgered her to, even
though he told her she was “clogging up the system.” To Penrose,
the “justice” in “justice system” got lost somewhere in his
postelection high.

“Penrose get here?” Andy Shikegawa, a
mid-forties Japanese-American and, in Alicia’s opinion, wildly
competent criminalist, entered the room from the rear. Where the
library—and Gaines’ body—were located. “I thought I heard his
voice.”

“He just went upstairs.”

Shikegawa regarded her through small
wire-framed glasses. “You can probably go, Alicia. We’re pretty
much under control here.”

“No,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

“I don’t want you to ...” He paused. “I don’t
know, get your hopes up.”

She was silent. Was it so obvious?

“Penrose won’t let this one get away,”
Shikegawa went on. “Especially not to you.”

“But I’m here. I got you, and everybody else,
in here.” She couldn’t help but protest. “Plus he hasn’t handled a
case in years. And he has a conflict of interest.”

“Because he knew Gaines? That’s hardly a
conflict.”

“Because the Hudson family is one of his
biggest donors.” But that wasn’t necessarily a conflict either,
though she didn’t like to admit it. And it sure would be
Penrose-like to lay claim to a case, for the first time in years,
because it was high-profile.

Damn him.
The ball of worry in her
stomach churned as she felt herself careen from nervous to angry.
She’d really be pissed if Penrose grabbed this case out from
underneath her.

Shikegawa cocked his chin at the ceiling.
“You know, maybe we should get the missus out of here before we
move the body.”

Alicia’s heart rate ramped back up. “Are we
at that point?”

“Niebaum says probably another hour.”

They regarded each other silently. Then,
“Should we widen the cordon around the property?” she asked.

“The cameras would still get the shot. I
think the best thing is to tent the gurney.”

“That’ll raise a lot of questions.”

“What choice do we have?”

She hesitated. “So it’s still...”

“It’s still in him.” Shikegawa pinched the
bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. “It’s not coming out
till the autopsy.”

That shut them both up. Through the huge
front windows they could see the glare of TV camera lights as
reporters lined up in front of the property to do live shots for
the local 5:30 PM news shows. She couldn’t even imagine the
commotion that would ensue when they rolled Gaines’ body out,
tented in a gurney.

“So”—she couldn’t help it; she was damn
curious—“what kind of evidence have you been able to get?”

“I have to say, a lot.” Shikegawa started
ticking off on his fingers. “The murder weapon, of course, with
prints on it. Very clear bloody handprint on the wall, plus most of
a footprint. More fingerprints all over the place.”

“So if you can match the prints ...”

“Which I’m betting we can...”

They looked at each other. She waited until
Shikegawa finished his thought. “Then this could be a
slam-dunk.”

*

Milo bided time in a cubicle in WBS’s
newsroom, the backdrop for
Evening
’s anchor set but
decidedly unglamorous at 9:07 on a Saturday night. He wouldn’t be
sprung till ten, by which time the
WBS Evening News
would
have aired in all continental U.S. television markets and there
would be no more opportunity to update the Gaines story. He’d
already updated twice, for the feeds at seven and eight, despite
how little fresh information had come in on the Reuters, UPI, and
AP wires. WBS execs clearly were going to milk this story for all
it was worth. After all, how often did a telegenic young candidate
who married into one of the country’s highest-profile families get
murdered in his home?

Milo was still stunned. Still, on some level,
disbelieving.

And profoundly exhausted, as if Daniel
Gaines’ death had drained the lifeblood out of him.

He sank back in his chair, sipping lukewarm
water from a Styrofoam cup and suffering one of those painful
moments when he wondered what the hell he was doing with his life.
Nothing like another man’s death to beg that question. Sure, it was
a glamorous gig being one of TV’s most popular newsmen. But Milo
was sufficiently self-aware to know it wasn’t ability alone that
had vaulted him to that position. He knew his movie-star looks not
only worked wonders on female viewers but also cowed the often
short, pale, brainy news management. On top of that Milo benefited
from the exotic allure of being the youngest son of Greece’s
longtime ambassador to the United States.

He had learned, though, that there was a flip
side to being blessed from birth with both looks and money.
“Pretty-boy Pappas,”
Newsline
executive producer Robert
O’Malley called him, branding Milo from the get-go with the
lightweight stigma. O’Malley was head of the anti-Milo Pappas
faction at WBS and damn proud of it. He missed no opportunity to
remind anyone who would listen that Milo hadn’t exactly had to work
his way up and so didn’t deserve the fame and status he
enjoyed.

The phone at Milo’s elbow trilled, one
blinking red light demanding attention. “Pappas,” he answered.

“It’s Robert,” the caller said, and Milo’s
heart sank further.
Think of the devil
. “So much for the
profile, I’d say,” O’Malley went on.

Milo was silent. He’d never liked the idea of
a
Newsline
profile on Daniel Gaines, entirely because he
knew he’d be sucked into doing it. What a ratings grabber! Milo
Pappas reporting on the very man who’d replaced him in Joan’s
affections. And even without the love-triangle aspect, Milo knew
viewers would lap up the story of a dashing come-from-nowhere
politician with national potential and a famous wife. Forty years
later, Americans were still searching for another JFK. Briefly Milo
shut his eyes. Looked like they found one, tragedy and all...

“Change in plans,” O’Malley declared, and the
note of triumph in his voice put Milo on alert. “The consensus is
that we need you to get out to the Monterey Peninsula. Tomorrow
morning. To cover the investigation and the—”

“Wait a minute.” Like hell. He could smell
O’Malley’s machinations through the phone line. “Consensus? Among
whom?”

“Lovegrove, Giordano, Cohen.”

Damn.
Milo could practically hear
O’Malley’s smirk and knew how the detestable sot had spent his
Saturday night: working the phones, getting the news division’s
president, vice president, and domestic news producer all to agree
that one man and one man only could do justice to the Gaines story.
And this was a double win for O’Malley. Not only would he pump the
ratings for
Newsline
, he could enjoy reminding Milo of the
humiliation of getting dumped by Joan.

What a horrific time that had been. Milo
didn’t think he’d ever forget the tabloid headline: “Newsman Hunk
Ditched by Politico’s Daughter.” He’d become a news story himself,
of the most sordid kind, his indignity featured on everything from
the
National Enquirer
to
Entertainment Tonight
.

“Sorry,” Milo declared, though even as he
said it he knew he couldn’t refuse the assignment outright.
O’Malley could really make hay out of that. “No can do. I’m
anchoring
Evening
tomorrow night.”

“I’m sorry, too.” O’Malley even chuckled.
“But don’t worry about it. I’ve arranged for Jane Lerner to take
over for you.” Then he made his voice sound concerned. “I hope this
doesn’t upset your plans for Christmas.”

A muscle began to work in Milo’s jaw. “No,”
he lied, “not in the least.”

“Good.” O’Malley’s voice was smooth. “You’re
booked on a flight out of Kennedy at seven in the morning. And even
though these are tragic circumstances, this will give you a chance
to renew your acquaintance with the Gaines family.”

Softly, Milo hung up.
To hell with you,
O’Malley
. He’d been checkmated. This time.

*

At quarter to eight in the evening,
pathologist Ben Niebaum, MD, entered the Gaines’ living room to
declare that the body could be moved.

Alicia retreated from the window out of which
she’d been staring for the last long, painful hour. Again her heart
began racing. This must be like war, she thought, endless waiting
punctuated by unexpected nerve-racking moments.

“The gurney is tented.” Niebaum was nearing
sixty and had the look of a seaman: bearded and weathered and wise.
“Of course, given the situation we’re not able to use a body bag.
So beneath the tenting, the body is largely exposed.”

Alicia and Penrose, now joined by Shikegawa,
all nodded in silence.

“Is everybody out of the house but us?”
Shikegawa asked.

“No.” Penrose shook his head. “Mrs. Gaines is
still upstairs. Her mother will come and get her, but that will
still be some time. She’s chartering a plane out of Santa
Barbara.”

“And the ambulance . . . ”

“Is here,” Alicia said. “We just need to get
the gurney down the driveway.” Again she went to peer out the
window. It was pitch-dark, windy and rainy. The red and yellow
lights of the waiting ambulance throbbed like a strobe,
illuminating in pulsating beats the face of a reporter here, a
sheriff’s deputy there. “There are even more press now. And people
who don’t look like media at all, just gawkers.” She turned to face
the group, her heart thumping with a strange foreboding. “Time to
tell Bucky we’re coming out?”

“Let’s roll,” Shikegawa said, and the poor
choice of words hung awkwardly in the air.

Alicia used her walkie-talkie to alert Bucky
and the half dozen sheriff’s deputies deployed outside to restrain
the crowd. Then the paramedics entered the living room, rolling the
gurney, its wheels noisy on the hardwood floor.

It was a weird-looking contraption,
especially in the middle of that starkly elegant room. A yellow
tarp hung like a shower curtain from metal bars that had been
rigged three feet above the gurney to conceal the body on all
sides.

They all stared. It was impossible not to.
The body of the man who most likely would have been the next
governor of California, and might well have made it all the way to
the White House, lay strapped inside, lifeless. What a tale it
could tell.

The paramedics rolled the gurney closer to
the front door, where Alicia positioned herself at the ready. She
took a deep breath.

“Count of three,” Niebaum said. “One, two,
three ...” and Alicia pulled open the front door, letting in a
blast of cold, rainy air and triggering a commotion among the
reporters, TV crews, and just plain curious pushing against the
sawhorses and crime tape. Camera lights flared, reporters and
photographers jostled, Alicia stepped aside, and the paramedics
rolled past, one on each side of the gurney, Penrose strutting like
a peacock just behind.

Alicia followed. The distance down the
driveway to the waiting ambulance wasn’t far, maybe thirty feet,
but it was sloped and rain-slick. Wet wind lashed at her face and
neck and quickly dampened her jeans, turtleneck, and jacket. The
reporters were in full frenzy now, each struggling for a better
position, shouting at one another to “Move!” and “Get left!” and
“Hey, you! Down with that camera!”

The gurney had nearly reached the ambulance’s
open rear doors when someone shouted, “Watch it—you’re in my shot!”
Suddenly the mass of humanity surged forward like a rogue wave,
sawhorses shoved aside like toy wagons.

The crowd pitched toward the ambulance, one
pulsing uncontrollable mass, and Alicia watched with horror as one
of the cameramen lost his balance and was shoved forcefully into
the paramedics. The gurney, its makeshift tarpaulin tent whipped by
the wind and the violent motion, rocked on its wheels while the
paramedics struggled frantically to keep it righted. Alicia herself
was stampeded by the mob and shoved back closer to the house,
nearly to the front door.

Then it happened, another surge of jostling
crews and reporters, and this time the paramedics couldn’t hold on
to the gurney. Alicia’s hands rose to her mouth—
No!
—as it
pitched violently to one side. Daniel Gaines’ stiff, cadaver-white,
half-naked corpse toppled onto the pavement and skidded a few feet
until it came to rest. With, for one and all to see, a primitive
homemade arrow piercing his blood-soaked chest.

God, her head pounded. Joan stared out the
closed French doors of her ocean-view suite at the Lodge at Pebble
Beach. It was an exclusive hotel, but still it was highly
inconvenient to have to move out of her own home. Of course, after
what had happened, she could hardly stay there.

Everything was so depressing. She sighed
heavily, feeling very put-upon. Even by the weather. Beyond the
French doors, Stillwater Cove was as steely gray as the late
afternoon sky. Further across the water was Carmel Point, where
somewhere in the mist her home stood cordoned off by crime tape.
Far away she could hear sea lions bark, and close to her suite on
the eighteenth green of the golf links a group of golfers bravoed
each other every time one of them sank a putt.

Pound. Pound
. The surf and her head.
She dropped her chin and massaged her temples, round and round,
increasing the pressure. No one understood how her headaches were
worse than everyone else’s. They were migraines, even if Dr. Finch
couldn’t diagnose them.