Well, she told herself, she needed advancement more than Rocco Messina did, and it looked like she was going to get it on the back of a dead man. A famous dead man. So there you go. Sometimes a woman had to do what a woman had to do.
She looked around, tentatively venturing farther away from the front windows, wary of disturbing evidence. The house amazed her, and not in a positive way. It was named Dorado del Mar since houses in Carmel didn’t have addresses but names, a cute-ism that meant people had to trot to the post office every day to get their mail. But what a pretentious choice! Golden Treasure by the Sea? It irked her that white-bread Joan and Daniel Gaines had picked a Spanish name. Somehow it seemed they had no right. And the place looked more like a modern-art museum than a home. Alicia half expected to find a souvenir shop around one of its angular corners. It didn’t have much in it, and what it did have was glass or metal, nothing plump or soft or squishy. It was impossible to find anything you actually wanted to touch.
Though of course it was tremendously valuable. People said the cheapest properties on Scenic near the Point went for five million bucks, and those were the tiny board-and-batten cottages. From the mid-nineties, Carmel-by-the-Sea had become an odd place. Few of the founding writers, artists, and poets who had given Carmel its bohemian flavor were left. Now most of the properties were second homes. There were almost no kids, because nobody who had kids could afford to live there. Prices had been driven up by the rich Texans and dot-commers who snapped up the beachfront, then tore down the classic chalkstone bungalows to put up monstrosities like the one she was standing in now. She remembered reading how Joan and Daniel Gaines had railroaded the planning commission into granting them the permits to build, even though they were going to obstruct lots of people’s views.
Nice. But then again they didn’t have to be. The Hudson family was American aristocracy, like West Coast Kennedys. They could do pretty much whatever they wanted.
She returned to the window and peered outside. The Carmel police, with the aid of the county sheriff’s department, had cordoned off the property with sawhorses and yellow crime tape, keeping the huge number of reporters and TV crews thirty yards at bay. They huddled in the chilly air and except for the equipment looked like spectators for a late-season football game. But the only kickoff here would be of a media circus.
A commotion at the crowd’s edge caught her eye. A tall man, mid-fifties, good-looking in an aging Ivy League way, moved importantly along the sawhorses, greeting the reporters, shaking hands, no doubt remembering names like the politician Alicia knew he lived to be. His face wore a grave look, as if to convey that he was the man who would distill this tragedy to its essence when the right moment came. She shook her head in disgust. Now it would really start. One of the clowns had arrived.
Monterey County District Attorney Kip Penrose made a noisy show of promising to return soon with a statement, then let himself past the crime tape and in through the home’s front door, reeking of pomposity and sea air.
“Alicia.” His voice was clipped. He took off his trench coat, as usual avoiding her eyes. She knew Kip Penrose wanted as little as possible to do with his rebel prosecutor, even visually.
“Hello, Kip.”
“Where are we here?”
“Everything’s in order. Shikegawa and Johnson are making progress. Niebaum is going to be a while.”
Andy Shikegawa and Lucy Johnson were the two Department of Justice criminalists she’d called to the scene; Dr. Ben Niebaum was the pathologist. Bucky Sheridan, the veteran Carmel PD beat cop who’d answered the initial call, had rapidly been sidelined as higher authority arrived. Alicia thought he seemed grateful to be relegated to crime-tape duty.
They were nervous, all of them. The shadow of botched high-profile cases hung in the air like smoke from a distant fire. O. J. Simpson stood in one corner; Claus von Bulow in the other. Just do everything by the book, Alicia told herself, which was easier said than done when she wasn’t entirely sure what the book said. She’d successfully prosecuted two homicides but had never actually been at a “fresh” crime scene. Or seen a “body.”
Penrose folded his overcoat and laid it on the floor. Rule one: Don’t touch anything. “Who found him?” he asked.
“Gaines’ wife. She told Bucky she got home this morning about eleven from Santa Cruz, from some overnight party she always has the weekend before Christmas with old friends from Stanford.” Alicia paused. The next bit was weird. “She says she didn’t find him till the afternoon.”
Penrose skated right past that. “So it was Joan who called 911?”
Joan. On such familiar terms with her, wasn’t he, old Kip. “At two-thirty.” Alicia consulted her notes. “When Bucky got here ten minutes later she was standing in the street, pacing. He said she was kind of wild-eyed, kept messing with her hair, couldn’t talk straight. Hyperventilating.”
He frowned. “And Bucky calmed her down?”
That was hard to fathom. “Well, he talked to her for a few minutes, until she ran upstairs to the master bathroom.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still there.”
Penrose’s face took on a horrified expression. “Still?”
“Chill out, Kip.” She couldn’t hide her irritation. “She’s fine. I go up every once in a while to check on her through the door. She just wants to be left alone.”
He seemed mildly placated. “Daniel Gaines was a great man,” he declared quietly, then turned away, and Alicia was overcome by a wave of disgust, as un-PC as that might be while the man in question lay murdered in the next room.
Did no one else see Daniel Gaines for what he was? She’d read the newspaper articles; she’d seen the TV stories. And it seemed pretty clear to her that he was an opportunistic carpetbagger who married the daughter of a former governor and used the millions he’d raked in from his timber business to launch a gubernatorial campaign. Did any of that make him a great man? Hard to see how.
“Kip.” She decided to broach the hot topic right away. Take the bull by the horns, seize the moment, just do it. “We need to talk about who’s going to handle—“
His cell phone rang, cutting her off. He turned away and put on his official voice. “Penrose,” he announced, then his tone slid from cocksure to sycophantic. “Libby, I am so sorry. So very sorry ...”
Damn. Now he’d never get off the phone. Elizabeth “Libby” Storrow Hudson, Gaines’ mother-in-law and the widow of former governor Web Hudson, was one of Penrose’s biggest campaign donors, hence an enormous blip on his political radar screen. She was one of those aristocratic types: richer than God, white-haired, thin-lipped, permanently wearing a disapproving expression. A Boston Brahmin, people called her, though Alicia wasn’t sure what that meant. Quite a character, though. Alicia remembered reading that she’d even competed in the Olympic trials in her youth.
“You’re in Santa Barbara?” she heard Penrose say. “Ah, at the San Ysidro Ranch.”
A major destination for the rich and famous, Alicia knew, where JFK and Jackie had honeymooned in the fifties.
Penrose fell silent. Then, “One of my aides told me Joan is holding up all right and I was just about to confirm that for myself.”
One of my aides. Alicia rolled her eyes.
“Yes,” he went on, “let me put you through to her ...” and Penrose headed upstairs, cell phone in hand, his deputy D.A. forgotten, clearly caught up in his critical role of connecting mother and daughter at this tragic hour.
Alicia and Kip Penrose had a robust mutual dislike. She was a holdover from the prior D.A., and when Penrose had ridden in on his horse he’d promptly demoted every prosecutor who wasn’t a stalwart in his own party. She’d been among the first to fall, losing her post as a department head.
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, bu
t 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.
*
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.
To Catch the Moon Page 2
