“It was his day off,” she said. “I thought maybe he was selling his vitamins to other officers, you know, at midwatch or after their shifts. That’s all I could think. He didn’t go out to bars or anything like that.” She grew defensive. “Wyatt was a family man.”
“Did he know Charles Conklin?”
“My husband was a Christian. The only way he would know a gentleman like that man was in his official capacity as an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Did you speak with the investigating officers?”
“Oh, yes. All of them. They all asked the same question you did, what was Wyatt doing down there. I told them the same as I told you.”
“Has the district attorney spoken to you about the shooting recently?”
“No. The only one has called me is the detective.”
“Mike Flint?”
“No, the other one. Detective Kelsey. He asked that same question. Did Wyatt ever say where he was going that night, who was he going to see? What did I know about it? I told him no, don’t know, and nothing. And that is the truth.”
“A few minutes ago, you said this vitamin business was profitable. Do you remember the name of the company or the other officers who were involved?”
Long, thoughtful pause. “No, I don’t. After Wyatt had passed, it took me some time before I could go through his things. He used to carry his samples in an old gun case, ‘cause he could lock it up. I was looking for the samples and thinking there should be order forms and records—like I had to keep when I sold products—but there was nothing. I was expecting a representative from the company to come asking for an accounting. I called his partner about it, but he didn’t know what I was talking about. In those days, I wasn’t thinking real clearly. The only reason I looked into it was because I was hoping there was maybe some money owing Wyatt. We sure could have used it.”
“You never heard from the vitamin company?” I asked.
“I had other things to worry about.”
I said, “Times were difficult for you and your son after the shooting?”
She nodded. “The police were real good to us. The Police Memorial Fund helped out with the burial expenses, helped me pay my bills until I could sell the house. They set up a scholarship so little Wyatt could go to college like his daddy wanted for him. Every now and then, one or the other of them would come by, make sure we was okay.
“When my boy was around fifteen or sixteen and I was having some trouble with him—didn’t get along with his stepfather—I could not have gotten through but ‘cept they take him under their wing, so to say. Talk sense to him, man to man. I have to say, the police take care of their own.”
“So I understand,” I said. The cant had a familiar ring. “Did your husband spend his off hours with other police?”
“Had to.”
“Why? Was there some pressure to socialize only with police?”
“Nothing like that. It was because of the hours he worked. That’s all.”
I made a note to get the names of his old pals. They might shed some illumination on dark comers here, talk about vitamin consumption if I was lucky.
Watching me askance, Beth said, “My mama would say a well-brought-up young lady should know better than to mention a certain subject, but I hope these microphones aren’t so touchy they pick up the sound of my stomach grumbling.”
I got the message and unclipped her microphone. “Thank you for your time. The producer wants the privilege of your company in the commissary.”
Beth went downstairs with an assistant producer, who promised me he would give her an insider’s tour. I went home.
The condo was deserted when I walked in around one o’clock that afternoon. Mike had left a message on the machine telling me that he was at the house in South Pasadena, with Bowser, and planned to pick up Casey from school at four. According to the clock on the bedroom wall, that gave me three hours of quiet to sleep. I thought about taking a bath first, but didn’t want to waste the time.
I traded my grungy clothes for one of Mike’s oversize tee shirts and folded down the bed. Before I climbed in, I dialed Mike’s pager and punched in 96, our code that everything was fine—on a push-button phone, yo is spelled 96. Unless he had something important to tell me, he wouldn’t call back.
I slept like a rock and woke up about halfway through Oprah, L.A. time. The first thing that occurred to me once I had figured out where I was, was that I had forgotten to eat all day. Half-awake, I shuffled out to the kitchen in Mike’s shirt. My hair felt stiff and gummy from the studio’s moussing. It stuck out in strange ways. There was night-gravel in the corners of my eyes.
I was marginally coherent enough to assemble a peanut butter and banana sandwich, pour a glass of milk, and find an unbruised apple in the crisper. I gathered this feast together, with the apple balanced on top of the glass, and headed back toward the bedroom with the intention of watching the rest of Oprah while I ate. But the doorbell detoured me.
The apple rolled off the top of the glass, making me stumble a step or two trying to retrieve it. I kicked it out from under an end table and picked it up. Between the glass, the sandwich, the apple, I didn’t have a hand for the door, so I clamped the sandwich between my teeth and turned the knob.
The woman on the doorstep was too beautiful to be an ordinary walking-around-in-public mortal. As tiny as she was, she still filled her exquisite linen suit with voluptuous curves. Everything about her bespoke a natural perfection, the lovely posture, her short, dark sculpted hair, the subtle use of makeup and jewelry, her expensive little pumps. When she said hello, her gaze was fixed on the sandwich hanging from my lips.
Beyond basic maintenance and good haircuts, I never really give much thought to my appearance. When I was a news anchor my face, figure, and hair were network property. I was regularly painted, back-combed, sprayed, tinted, recreated—I even let them talk me into having the hump on the bridge of my nose surgically edited so that I fit better within an industry standard for color, size, sex, voice, bones. When I went independent, I gave up as much artifice as I could. For most of my own projects, I wear a blue oxford cloth shirt and a nearly naked face. I prefer it.
A disdainful expression marred the perfection of the creature on my doorstep. Just once, I wished I had opted for the hair wash instead of the nap.
“Is Mike here?” Her voice was honey.
With a mouthful of peanut butter and banana, the best I could do was shake my head.
“When do you expect him?”
I set all of the food on the closest end table and tried to work the bite of sandwich off the roof of my mouth so I could swallow. I washed the biggest mass down with milk. Sounding like a boxer who forgot to take out his mouth guard, I said, “Want to leave him a message?”
She smiled the way clean people smile at panhandlers when she asked, “Who are you?”
“The maid. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Flint.”
I thought she was too young to be Mike’s mother. And far too good-looking; his mother had been dead for three years. That left two possibilities. I said, “Mrs. Flint number one, or Mrs. Flint number two?”
She said, “I’m number two,” and laughed when she heard the way that sounded.
“You’re Charlene,” I said. Here was the source of all the gray carpeting. “I don’t expect Mike for another hour. Would you like to come in and wait?”
“If you don’t mind. I should have called, but I found myself on a job not far from here and thought, hell, no time like the present. If it weren’t so damn hot, I would go sit by the pool and wait.”
I stepped back to let her in. “No time like the present for what?”
“I heard Mike is planning to move. I thought I should make arrangements about picking up my things.” She seemed a bit wistful as she looked around the living room, and not very happy as she watched the wet ring grow around the milk glass on the table. “Do you know where he’s moving?”
“He’ll tell you about it.” I closed the door behind her. “Look, I have some serious housekeeping to do before Mike gets home. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. I’m sure you know where the kitchen is. Help yourself to a drink or something. I’ll be a few minutes.”
“Fine.” She ran her hand slowly, possessively, over the back of the gray-tweed sofa. “Needs recovering.”
I said, “Excuse me,” picked up my sandwich, and left her. If she absconded with the furniture, I wouldn’t mind.
A shower, hair wash, quick blow-dry, some blush and mascara, fresh white denim shorts from The Gap, and a sleeveless shirt knotted at my waist, the black leather thongs I bought in Italy several years ago, and I was ready for a second face-off with Charlene.
She was sitting straight-backed on an ottoman in the middle of the room, holding a glass of white wine. Her slim ankles were crossed, her toes pointed. I am not jealous by nature, and I have no interest in cat fights. But, as I said, she was small. All it would have taken was one good shove.
As I walked into the room, she gave me a wide-eyed appraisal. “I knew you weren’t the maid, but…?”
I offered my freshly lotioned hand. “I’m Maggie MacGowen.”
“I should have called,” she said again. She was embarrassed. Or maybe she wasn’t so cocky once our hairdos reached parity; I will match haircuts with the best of them.
I heard the back door. Bowser bounded into the living room first, panting, his heavy fur littered with leaves, his nose brown from digging in fresh earth. He gave me a token hello nudge on his way past and headed straight for Charlene, she of the pastel linen suit. She did her best to get out of his way, but Bowser is good at his work. He sampled her crotch and lapped his tongue across her mouth in one fluid sweep.
I said, “Sit, young man.” Instantly, as always, he obeyed and dropped back onto his broad haunches. He stayed, but he kept his eyes on Charlene.
Casey, Michael, and Mike had all stopped for cold drinks on their way through the kitchen. They came into the living room like an electric surge, the three of them laughing and talking at once. Casey still wore dance clothes. The men were in filthy work garb, covered with dust and paint chips that left a trail on the gray carpet.
Mike saw Charlene first. He registered only mild surprise. Exactly the right reaction, from my point of view.
“Char,” he said, acknowledging her with a lift of his chin. I got his sweaty arm draped around my shoulders. “So, you two have met?”
“Yes.” Her smooth exterior couldn’t cover the apparent rush of strong emotion that passed through her when Mike walked in. It wasn’t peanut butter that caught in her throat.
Michael, uncharacteristically awkward, pointedly stayed back, beside me. He said only, “Hello.”
“You’ve grown so tall, Michael,” Charlene said, smiling at him in the formal way adults smile at very young children. “You’re as tall as Daddy now. Maybe taller.”
Michael’s only response was to turn a furious red. I reached through that uncomfortable silence for Casey’s hand. “Charlene, this is my daughter, Casey.”
The exchanged hellos and a handshake as light as the collision of two falling leaves.
Casey backed up toward Michael. She gave his shoulder a thump to get his attention. “You want the first shower?”
“Go ahead,” Michael said, watching Charlene. “I’ll use Maggie and Dad’s bathroom.”
On their way out, I overheard a whispered, “stepmother.” Casey turned her head to make an amended appraisal of Charlene before she went through the hall door with Michael.
“What an attractive pair,” Charlene said. “Casey is lovely.”
Mike said, “What brings you out to the Valley?”
“A decorating job. I heard your name on the news. Are you all right?”
“Sure. It’s nothing.”
“Same old departmental bull, right?” Her laugh was unconvincing. “Mike knows so many ways to find trouble.”
“I like trouble about as much as the next guy,” he said. There was nothing friendly in his tone. “But even trouble has some rules. How’s what’s-his-name?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, dropping her eyes.
I chimed in, “Charlene wants to pick up her things before we move.”
“Like what things?” he said, cold steel.
“I’m sorry.” She set her glass down. “I’m really sorry, Mike. I should have called.” She looked around with sad longing in her gaze. “This is such a lovely room.”
“A real showplace,” Mike said. “Talk to Maggie if you want any of this custom-made junk. It doesn’t fit the new house very well. We’ll probably dump it at a garage sale.”
He kissed my cheek. “I need to get in line for a shower. Nice to see you, Char.” He left the room.
Chapter 21
“What rule did Charlene break?” I stretched a Band-Aid around a cut on Mike’s thumb.
“You don’t fuck your husband’s partner.”
“That’s a good rule,” I said. “How’d you cut your thumb?”
“Drapery hook. We got rid of all the drapes and pulled out the old carpet. House looks better already. Tomorrow, a couple of the guys are taking a few days off to help me strip the walls. We’ll start painting Saturday. What color?”
“Guess we should have asked Charlene’s expert advice while she was here.”
He curled his lip. “I want a home this time, not some fucking model house. I want furniture I can sit on, put my feet on, get potato chip crumbs all over without someone getting all pissed. And I want some color. I learned how to spell monochromatic, but I never learned how to like it.”
“In that case, I see very soft, neutral peach for the walls and off-white for all the moldings and wood we decide not to strip down to its natural color.”
He smiled. “You decided that in a hurry.”
“That’s how I see it,” I said.
“Come to the paint store with me and show me what you have in mind.”
“I don’t have to go with you.” I put the Band-Aid box back in the medicine chest. “Just drop your pants and show the paint man your naked behind. Most beautiful color in the world.”
“The things that come out of your mouth,” he said with a laugh. I caught him stealing a peek at his rear in the mirror.
“Nice to hear you laugh again,” I said.
Then from the nether regions of the house, I heard, “Mo-om.”
I went to the door and called back, “I’m in the bathroom, Casey.”
“Telephone.”
I had turned off the ringer on the bedroom phone when I took my nap. I picked up the receiver.
“Maggie? It’s Lana. Just want to keep you on top of things. To give you time for your new edits, we’re running your package tomorrow beginning at four. We’ll run trailers on the story during daytime programming, so it should get a lot of attention. I screened the first version for the producers of L.A. Hot, our midnight issues show. They’re really interested in an expanded format. Will you talk to them?”
“For tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Could be,” Lana said. “I think the topic says ‘late night.’ These guys also produce a Sunday morning interview show. They’re thinking about bringing you on because of the political campaign angle. Talk to them.”
“I’ll talk to them.” I wrote down the number she gave me, but I wasn’t ready to have my face attached to the story. Because of my connection to Mike, I was vulnerable. My research was good, the issues raised were legitimate ones. Still, I had to be careful.
While Mike dressed, I went to the kitchen to start dinner, stir-fried leftover pork and steamed rice. I was slicing zucchini when Michael came in, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt.
“Need some help?” he asked, picking up a peeled carrot on his way past me.
“I need some company. Sit down and talk to me.” He pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards.
“So?” I said. “Te
ll me about school. Have you met anyone?” He flushed slightly. “I have a date tomorrow night with someone I met in Asian Lit.”
“Ah, fate plays a hand. She’s nice?”
“She’s…” He paused. “She’s interesting.”
“And beautiful?”
He put his hands up on the back of the chair and rested his chin on them while he thought that over. Finally, he turned to me. “I prefer interesting. What did you think of Charlene?”
“She’s beautiful,” I said. “I think she has strong feelings for your father. And, I think Bowser was a lot happier to see her than you were.”
“I was that obvious?” He turned away to cover his chagrin. “She was actually sort of nice to me today.”
I peeled another carrot and began chopping it.
He said, “Char was always jealous of me and Dad, because we were so close. She made him choose between us.”
I said, “Exit Char.”
He raised his big gray eyes to me—Mike’s eyes. “You’ll like my mom, though.”
My face must have given me away.
“Trust me.” Michael laughed knowingly. “You’ll like her.”
“Uh huh,” I said, and segued to celery. “Meeting one ex-wife filled my quota.”
“You don’t have anything to be afraid of. For my dad, three times is the charm. No one has ever made him as happy as you do.”
I set my knife aside, feeling touched by the tenderness in his tone as much as by his words. “Thank you, Michael. I love you, too.”
He laughed. “Is that what I said?”
“Close enough.”
I kept my appointment with Linda Westman, the learning specialist, because it was easier to keep than to cancel on short notice. I had booked independent studio time and studio technicians, and would have to pay union scale whether we showed up or not.
My project had evolved a long way from its original focus, but what Linda had to say could still be useful. If not on this film, then maybe on something else.
Linda Westman was an easy interview. Whatever she might have been feeling, she looked calm and professional on camera. Dark brown hair with a comfortable amount of gray, expressive brown eyes, a well-tailored, teal blue suit made her photogenic.
Bad Intent Page 19
