To Catch the Moon (43 page)

“How could
she
be calling a press
conference?” he boomed. “She doesn’t even work here anymore!”

A few beats of silence. “It is her, sir,”
Colleen then came back on to say. “It’s been confirmed.”

Kip fell back against the hard spine of his
desk chair. Alicia Maldonado called a press conference? He didn’t
like the sound of that, not one bit.

His manicurist cocked her chin at his right
hand. “Start again?” He barely understood a word she said, but she
charged only eight dollars a visit and came to his office. You
couldn’t beat that.

“Not yet,” he told her. Why in the world was
Alicia Maldonado staging a press conference right under his nose?
Possibilities sprang to mind, all of them highly disconcerting.
Then he had an idea.

He pressed his intercom button. “Colleen, is
Alicia actually on the courthouse steps?” Because if she was, he
could throw a wrench into this whole thing. She had no right to be
actually on the county property, using it as if she were a
government employee. She wasn’t anymore. He’d seen to that.

“No, sir,” Colleen said. “Actually she’s on
the sidewalk. Quite a group of media she’s drawn, too, sir.”

Kip frowned. The sidewalk was public
property. In other words, fair game. “Any sheriff’s deputies out
there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m told a few are keeping an eye
on things.”

Damn!
Maldonado wasn’t doing anything
actually wrong, so he couldn’t just stop her press conference from
happening. So what was he going to do?

Terrifying ideas crashed through his brain.
Had she figured out the truth behind Owens’ felony conviction? Was
that what she had assembled the media to announce? Kip had known
that was a risk, but it was one he’d been forced to take to keep
Joan Gaines happy.

Kip slammed his hand down on his desk.
Damn that Alicia Maldonado!
She was too smart for her own
good.

His manicurist’s voice piped up. “Start
again? Start again?”

“No! That’s it for today.” He’d just have to
live with five buffed nails and five unbuffed. That was the least
of his troubles. He pulled a ten out of his wallet, demanded a
dollar back, and sent her on her way.

After she was gone, he began pacing his
office. How was he going to find out what Maldonado was saying
before it hit the news? He didn’t want to stand out there and
listen, like some fool who had no idea what was going on. It was
highly upsetting how close to the truth that was.

Maybe the best thing to do was go home. He
could slip out through the back door, drive home, and watch the
news. Then he’d hear what Alicia Maldonado had said and how the
reporters assessed it. After that he could craft his own
response.

Kip stopped pacing, suddenly calmer. He’d
always been good at putting a positive spin on events. Really, when
it came down to it, that was how he’d gotten as far as he had. And
who was he up against? A woman. A Hispanic woman. Lost two
elections she should’ve won. Token all the way. He’d gotten the
better of her once, and he could do it again.

Kip ran to his desk, pressed the button on
his intercom, and tried to sound casual. “Colleen, I have a
late-afternoon dental appointment. Please send all my calls to
voice mail. I’ll see you Monday.”

Somehow he had a feeling she didn’t believe
him, but he couldn’t worry about that. He grabbed his trench coat
and briefcase, turned off his lights, and left, giving Colleen a
businesslike nod.

Kip kept up a fast pace. The real challenge
was not to get caught by a reporter between the D.A.’s office and
his Mercedes in the lot across Alisal Street. He’d already decided
that his best bet was to use the walkway from the west to the north
wing, then exit onto Church Street. From there he could hightail it
to the lot and hope to high heaven that no reporter noticed him,
though he did have to get dangerously close to them at one
point.

Out the D.A. office door. Across the red
tile. Upstairs and through a few corridors to the walkway. Through
the walkway. Downstairs, and to an exit.

Ah, fresh air. Kip crossed Church Street, his
pace never flagging. He felt dampness in his armpits and under his
suit and trench coat. By now his dress shirt was clinging to his
back. Thank God it wasn’t too far to the lot. The last danger spot
was crossing Alisal. He arrived at the corner of Church and Alisal
and glanced to his right. What he saw fifty yards away, right in
front of the courthouse as Colleen had described, made his heart
thump even more than his fast-paced escape: Alicia Maldonado in
front of a pretty big crowd of reporters. She seemed to have their
full attention. That was both good and bad.

Kip was forced to wait for the light to
change. The flow of cars was too heavy for him to dash across the
street, plus he might catch somebody’s eye if he tried. As he
waited he heard Alicia Maldonado’s words wafting his way, as if
carried by the wind.

His heart plummeted through his rib cage like
a bowling ball through thin air. It was as bad as he had
feared.

“—incontrovertible proof that D.A. Kip
Penrose knowingly withheld information about a felony conviction
that he himself won years ago in Massachusetts. This is a clear
attempt on the part of the district attorney to thwart the course
of justice, and to derail me, one of his own deputies, from its
pursuit.”

Finally the light in Kip’s direction turned
green. He leaped into the crosswalk, made it across Alisal quickly,
and stepped onto the opposite curb. At that moment something,
something perverse, made him glance behind him, and what a mistake
that was. Because wouldn’t you know it? He caught Alicia
Maldonado’s eye. She raised her eyebrows, clearly amazed to see
him. Then damn happy. She pointed in his direction, and all of a
sudden the reporters were turning their heads and staring at him,
too.

One of them, Jerry Rosenblum from the WBS
station, raised his hand in the air. “Hey!” he called. “Mr.
District Attorney! Please wait up!”

But Kip had no intention of waiting up. He
pointed at his watch, contorted his face into an expression of
Sorry, too busy to talk now!
and made for his Mercedes.

Oh, if only his Mercedes were close. Or if
only life were simple. For some of the reporters were running, and
some were already across Alisal—why did the light change for them
right on cue?—then some of them were across Church, and before he
knew it they were surrounding him, shouting questions at his face,
their cameras shooting videotape of his fleeing form, as if he were
a fugitive on the run.

“Why did you tell Deputy D.A. Maldonado to
plea-bargain the Owens case when you knew Theodore Owens had a
felony conviction?”

“Did you set Deputy D.A. Maldonado up for a
firing she didn’t deserve?”

“Do you have a bias against women prosecutors
in your office?”

“How will you explain firing Ms. Maldonado to
the Mexican-American Bar Association?”

He had answers to none of those questions. He
simply unlocked his Mercedes, got in, and drove away, knowing that
he had handed Alicia Maldonado one of her biggest victories
ever.

*

Milo stood six feet in front of Mac’s camera
in Old Town Pasadena, ready to go live. A lavalier microphone was
attached to his lapel, Southern California’s midafternoon sun baked
his shoulders, and his earpiece fed him the audio to the
WBS
Evening News
, emanating that very moment from the network’s
Manhattan studios. Tran stood a foot behind Mac, shoulder strap
holding up the audio box that rode on his hip, his eyes never
straying from the little knobs and dials that adjusted his
correspondent’s sound quality.

A small crowd of gawkers eyed the
proceedings, which were taking place in a town square where earlier
that day California Governor Brandon Steele had held a press
conference. As usual Milo enjoyed the onlookers’ attention, though
he couldn’t shake the unease he’d felt ever since that morning’s
run-in with Joan at the Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco.

In his earpiece he heard the director from
the control booth back in Manhattan. “Forty-five seconds back.” The
newscast was more than halfway through its first two-minute
commercial break. Milo would lead the “B” segment with his live
package on Governor Steele’s new antiterrorism program, which
sought massive federal reimbursement. It was a big story, partly
because California was an important state with lots of electoral
votes and partly because Steele was positioning himself as the
governor most willing to challenge the president on this issue.

Milo smiled to himself, guessing that
Steele’s campaign strategist, Ms. Molly Bracewell, was pushing her
candidate in this direction. She was one woman who would relish
facing down the current resident of the Oval Office if she thought
it would gain her man any ground with the voters.

But Molly Bracewell made Milo think of Joan,
and thinking of Joan made his smile fade.

She would seek revenge on him, he knew. For
not only had he dumped her, he had committed the even greater sin
of replacing her with a woman Joan regarded as beneath contempt.
But what would she do? What
could
she do? Bracewell’s words
raced across his brain, leaving dread in their wake.
She was a
total wild card. We were constantly worried she’d derail Daniel
somehow.

And maybe she had, in the worst way possible.
For a time Joan had loved Daniel; then she had stopped; then he had
died. Where did that leave Milo? He didn’t think Joan would try to
kill him, but that morning her eyes had held a vow that she would
hurt him if she could.

“Fifteen seconds back,” came in his ear.

Focus
. Milo nodded, raised his chin,
and stared into the lens. His heartbeat accelerated, as it always
did before going live. It wasn’t nervousness so much as high
alertness, the same adrenaline rush that fueled an athlete in the
seconds before a competition, or an actor about to step onto a
stage.

He was ready.

That is, until he saw Robert O’Malley stride
into his field of vision and halt a few steps behind and to the
right of Mac and Tran. Though Milo never looked away from the lens,
out of the corner of his eye he could see O’Malley cross his arms
over his chest. He could feel the heat of O’Malley’s stare.
O’Malley was in California. And he was going to watch the live shot
from that challenging, in-your-face position.

Milo heard Jack Evans’s voice in his
earpiece. “Today in California, Governor Brandon Steele—” In
seconds, Milo would be on. Through the thunder in his ears he
listened for his cue, though part of his frazzled brain asked
questions he couldn’t begin to answer.
What in hell is O’Malley
doing here? What does he want?

For it had to be enormous to draw O’Malley
across the country. O’Malley didn’t travel. He stayed put in New
York, like a king in his realm, the better to protect his territory
and massage the network relationships that kept him on his
throne.

But Milo had to push all thoughts of O’Malley
aside, for soon he would be live and would not give that bastard
the satisfaction of seeing him stumble. He focused on Evans’ voice,
now intro’ing Milo’s segment. “—
Newsline
correspondent Milo
Pappas joins us live from Pasadena with this report. Milo?”

He made his own delivery strong and sure.
“Jack, Governor Brandon Steele tossed down a gauntlet today, one
his campaign hopes the president soon will pick up.”

In his earpiece Milo heard his package roll.
He forced himself to practice his tag. He did not acknowledge
O’Malley in any way. Seventy seconds crawled past. Milo waited for
his own recorded voice to deliver his cue.

At which point he spoke. “Governor Steele has
a tough campaign year ahead of him. He enjoys the advantage of
incumbency, but along with that benefit comes the burden of a
record his many challengers can attack. Milo Pappas, WBS News,
Pasadena, California.”

For a few beats he didn’t move. He heard Jack
Evans thank him, which he acknowledged with a nod. Then he heard
the director again in his ear. “Thanks, Milo. Great job. See you
next time.”

Again Milo nodded, unable to find words to
respond to that good-bye. He pulled out his earpiece and removed
the mike from his lapel, handing both to Tran. Neither Mac nor Tran
would meet his eyes. There was nothing for it now but to face
O’Malley.

O’Malley cocked his head behind him, away
from Mac and Tran, away from the jostling crowd. “Come with me,” he
said.

It’s done
, Milo thought, walking
silently alongside his nemesis.
It’s over
. It was like being
led to execution, or slaughter. Man or beast, it was the same
result.

They stopped beside an oak tree. Pedestrians
sidestepped around them, going into and out of the small stores and
restaurants that lined the street.

“You’ve been fired,” O’Malley said.
“Effective immediately. That live shot was the last time you’ll
ever be on WBS air.” He pulled a business-size envelope out of an
interior pocket of his black leather jacket and handed it to
Milo.

It was a termination letter, replete with
what looked like all the requisite legalese. Moral turpitude was
mentioned somewhere, along with unheeded warnings and failure to
satisfy contractual obligations. It was signed by both Richard
Lovegrove and a senior counsel with WBS’s legal department.

“I’ve spoken with your agent,” O’Malley was
saying. “The contents of your office will be boxed and shipped to
your home. I’ll need your press pass and your WBS ID.”

Milo didn’t hand them over. Not that fast.
“What’s this all about?”

O’Malley looked surprised that he even asked.
“You want the short answer? Joan Gaines called Lovegrove this
morning. She told him you were diddling her and using her as a
source. What, Pappas, did you forget the difference between pillow
talk and off-the-record information?”