Alicia knew it. She didn’t know how he had done it but she knew that he had. Her pacing accelerated. “He knew I wouldn’t check on Owens with the FBI.” That was the only national database to check, but no prosecutor did for a misdemeanor charge. For a felony, sure. As it was, Alicia had taken the extra precaution of making sure Owens had no outstanding warrants from other states, which most prosecutors didn’t bother with for lesser crimes.
“Penrose wants to plea-bargain everything, remember?” Louella was saying. “That’s his modus operandi.”
“There’s more going on here than that.” Alicia sagged onto the couch next to Louella and let her head drop against the back cushion. “I feel so unbelievably stupid to let that buffoon get the better of me.”
It was too weird to be real. All afternoon, since that godawful press conference, Alicia had felt as if she were watching her life with someone else’s eyes, as if what was happening to her surely must be happening to some other poor sap. Yet it was she who had to clean out her desk, she who had to carry her cardboard box out of the district attorney’s office into the chilly January air. People she’d worked with for years darted back into their offices when she walked past, as if she were suffering a disease they could catch if they got too close.
Alicia shook her head. “When Veronica Hodges immediately settled on misdemeanor brandishing for Owens, without arguing with me for a second, that should have been an enormous red flag. That woman would dispute whether the sun rises in the east.” The phone rang again, for the umpteenth time. Alicia let the machine pick up. “Hodges knew what exposure she had. She knew she was getting away with something huge.”
For once Louella had no comeback.
Alicia went on. “What I don’t get is how Penrose could have known what Owens’ history was.”
“I don’t see how he could have. That’s the point.”
“The timing is just too suspicious.” Alicia stood up and resumed pacing, as though the couch were a jury box and she a prosecutor lining up arguments to persuade Louella to convict. “On New Year’s Day I show Joan Gaines proof positive that she lied to me about being back in Carmel the night her husband was murdered. The very next afternoon Kip insists on assigning me Owens, which turns out like this. Am I crazy or did Kip use Owens to get me off the Gaines case?”
Louella met her eyes, her face somber. “You’re not crazy but I just don’t see how Penrose could have known.”
“And nobody else heard him badger me to do a deal. ‘No reason to go balls-out on this one,’ he tells me. ‘Guy’s from a good family—it’s a first offense,’ he says. He actually told me that!”
“There’s no evidence he didn’t believe it.”
Not yet. But she knew—she’d always known—that Penrose would get her if he had the chance. Or if he could create the chance.
“You know, Alicia,” Louella went on, “maybe you should focus on how to fight this. There are steps you can take.”
“I could sue for wrongful termination. And you can be damn sure I will.” Her case would go before the County Board of Supervisors. If she could find a way to prove how Kip had manipulated her, she could get her job back. “But that’ll take forever. You know how slow the Board of Sups is.”
“I could loan you a little—”
“No.” Alicia held up her hands as if to stop the flow of Louella’s words. Jorge had offered money, too, but she wouldn’t take it from him, either. “I appreciate it, Louella, really I do, but I can’t take your money. I know you’re not exactly rolling in cash.”
Nobody who worked at the courthouse was, with the exception of Penrose, and that was because after his own stint as a prosecutor he’d done years in private practice. Alicia figured some of the judges were pretty well-off, too, but most everybody else lived paycheck to paycheck. She wouldn’t admit to Louella just how close to the edge she was herself. Her checking account was down to a hundred and twenty-three bucks. She’d confirmed the balance at an ATM on the way home from the courthouse. Now she had one more paycheck coming in, for the week she’d just worked; then that was it. That wouldn’t last long, not with the money she gave her mother every month to help with her mortgage and the cash her sister Carla kept needing.
The phone rang again. “I’ll get it this time,” she said, then headed for the kitchen.
It was Jerome Brown, Treebeard’s defense lawyer. “I don’t know what to say, Alicia, except I can’t believe this.”
“Then you’re in the same boat I am.”
“What happened?”
How to explain? “I didn’t know Owens’ history. Nothing showed up on the CLETS. And even though this was a misdemeanor charge I checked for outstanding warrants. But nothing showed up. I never would have plea-bargained if I’d known about the felony.”
“That’s what I heard you say on the news.”
She closed her eyes. She’d fed Jerome the same line she’d been feeding reporters all afternoon. It was true, but it hardly erased the allegation of incompetence. “Is this getting a lot of coverage?”
“Hard to say. We just saw you on the local news at five, and my wife said she heard it on the radio.”
Great. Her reputation was trashed. Even if she got reinstated it was this firing that people would remember. If she got rehired, that would run on page sixteen of the newspaper when this story had headlined page one. Good-bye, any chance at elective office.
“I suppose I should be happy about it,” Jerome was saying, “because it’ll help me defend Treebeard.” He paused. “After all, it’s one thing to go up against Rocco Messina and quite another to face Alicia Maldonado.”
For a second or two she couldn’t say anything. Then, “Thanks, Jerome.”
“If there’s anything I can do, I mean it, you let me know.”
“I will.” She lay down the receiver, then returned to the living room. Louella was rising from the couch in a series of awkward motions. “Damn.” She started kicking her feet, like a halfhearted Rockette. “My legs fell asleep. Have you noticed how that happens more often the older you get?”
Alicia halted in the middle of her living room and stared out her front window. In the asphalt parking lot of the ratty apartment building across the street, two men had their heads bent over some kind of business. It looked like a drug deal but for once Alicia didn’t much care. “You know what’s the craziest thing of all?”
Louella stopped kicking. “What?”
“That a few weeks ago all I was worried about was not getting the big case that would jump-start my career. Now I don’t even have a career to jump-start.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t say that.”
“Joan Gaines will get away with it now. Who’s going to stop her?”
“Alicia, it’s not even clear she did anything. And second of all, now is not the time to be worrying about Joan Gaines. You should be worrying about yourself.” Louella grabbed her backpack, dumped at the side of the couch, and slung it over her shoulder. “I hate to say this but I gotta go. Can you believe I’ve got a date tonight? Talk about timing. With Tom in Water Resources.”
“The one you turned down for New Year’s?”
“Yeah, but now it’s January tenth. So he’s looking more palatable.” Louella headed for the front door, then stopped and turned around. “Hey, you want to join us? Or should I cancel and you and me do something? We could—”
“No. Really.” Alicia pushed Louella out the door. “Go. I’m fine.”
A few more pushes, a few more lies about how really okay she was, and Alicia convinced Louella to go. She shut the door and leaned her forehead against it. The truth was, she wanted to be by herself. She wanted to wallow, and plan, and curse Penrose. And while those were activities that could be accomplished with a companion, there was a bitter consolation in doing them alone.
She was about to relatch the chain when the doorbell rang. She pulled the door open. On her stoop stood Milo Pappas.
*
“May I come in?” As a precaution Milo
lifted his right foot off the WELCOME doormat and inserted it into Alicia’s tiny shadowy foyer. She looked like she might slam the door in his face at any moment.
“What are you doing here? And how in hell did you get my address?”
“May I come in?” he repeated.
She didn’t answer, but after a moment she stepped back and allowed him to brush past her into the house. He turned to face her in the small front room, though she remained in the foyer, as if she expected to be ushering him out again very soon.
He had the same reaction he always did to Alicia Maldonado: she was a drop-dead beauty. Even in her decidedly unglamorous faded jeans and peasant blouse, she was stunning. Then he remembered he was taking a hiatus from such observations.
“People at the WBS station here know where you live,” he told her. Right after he’d left Joan, he’d hightailed it there and quizzed the reporter covering the Treebeard trial on why Deputy D.A. Maldonado had gotten fired. He’d used every bit of yank a star network correspondent had with a local reporter to pry Alicia’s address out of him. “Is the story true?”
“Do you mean did I do the plea bargain? Yes. Did I know the guy’s history? No, or I never would’ve done a deal.”
That was basically what she’d said on the sound bite the reporter showed him. That seemed to be her only excuse and it struck him as a weak one. He knew what that was like. “Did Penrose rig this to get rid of you?” he asked her.
Bingo. He could tell from her startled intake of breath that he’d hit pay dirt. Ever since he eavesdropped on her argument with Penrose, he’d known there was serious antipathy between the D.A. and his deputy. Then in the videotape of that afternoon’s press conference, he watched Penrose do a piss-poor job of masking his glee at being “forced” to fire her. Being the target of a so-called superior’s ire was a phenomenon Milo well understood. And sympathized with.
She said nothing, so he pressed on. “Is there anything you can do about it?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what?”
She advanced a few paces into the front room and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were defiant. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m trying to help.” Though even as he said it he knew he was hardly in a position to offer career advice.
“I don’t need your help. And as I recall we haven’t exactly been on the same side lately.”
We could be now, he wanted to tell her. Instead he pointed to the couch. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Go ahead.”
But she remained standing and offered no refreshment, which made him feel about as welcome as a door-to-door salesman hawking undesirable wares. He looked around the room, full of the sort of furniture he’d thrown out after college. The rust-colored Navajo throw rugs were pretty, though, as were the posters. “You’re a big Kahlo fan,” he said.
There was a flicker of surprise in her eyes, probably that he even knew who Frida Kahlo was. Maybe he should mention that his parents had an original in their home on Thessaloniki.
“She was a real fighter,” Alicia said.
“I always preferred her to Rivera.” But that didn’t warm her up, either, though he suspected she shared his opinion. They stared at each other for a few seconds longer, then Milo again broke the silence. “I’m not your enemy.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you are. The last time I saw you ...” She stopped.
“I was sleeping with the enemy? Well, I’m not anymore.”
He dropped his eyes and concentrated on the rug, which covered scarred, uneven hardwood flooring. It had taken him a while to cool down from his run-in with Joan. He still couldn’t believe the bile that had fallen from her lips. It was as if the mask had come off and he’d seen that what lay beneath was rotten and corrupt.
“For the record,” he said, “Joan and I dated years ago. She broke it off. It was tabloid fodder at the time, pretty unpleasant stuff.”
He raised his eyes. Alicia’s expression was unreadable. Maybe she was one of those rare Americans who didn’t pore over the gossip columns. Good for her.
“I certainly didn’t intend for anything to happen between us,” he went on.
Her voice was cool. “Funny. It seemed to anyway.”
“It sure as hell did. And I was a total idiot, I can tell you that.”
Alicia looked away. Milo had the idea she’d become one iota less suspicious. He watched her walk to a side table and wipe nonexistent dust off the broad striped leaf of a potted ficus. Funny. Joan was supposed to be the thoroughbred, yet Alicia Maldonado seemed made of nobler stuff. Here she stood in her very small, very plain house—in a neighborhood Joan wouldn’t be caught dead in—and still she had a certain regalness about her.
“I have a proposition for you,” he told her.
She looked away from the plant and arched her brow. “Why do I feel like I’ve heard that one from you before?”
“A business partnership. It’s strictly on the up-and-up.”
“That’d be a real change.”
“I never once lied to you, Alicia. I may have withheld a thing or two but I never told you anything but the truth.”
“What are you withholding now?”
What, indeed? Nothing he could think of. In fact, at the moment he was playing it unusually straight. Maybe this was the new and improved Milo Pappas in action.
He rose from the couch and approached her. She retreated a step and crossed her arms over her chest, as if to put another barrier between them. He met her eyes. “I think Joan knows more about Daniel’s death than she’s letting on. A lot more.”
Clearly that took her by surprise. Her mouth dropped open and she drew an unsteady breath. Then her eyes narrowed. “So one night you sleep with her and the next you think she had something to do with her husband’s murder? Some lover you are.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve seen a different side to Joan.”
Alicia shook her head. “Boy, you are some kind of quick-change artist. And even if I did believe you, why are you telling me this now? What am I supposed to do about it? I’m off the case, remember? I’m out of the D.A.’s office. This is somebody else’s problem.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“How many times do I have to say this, Milo? I can’t be of any use to you anymore!”
“Not true. Not if you and I join forces.”
“What?” She laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“I need a killer story. You need vindication. If you and I prove that Joan had something to do with killing Daniel, we’ll both get what we want.”
She laughed again, though it was more of a scoffing sound. “The last thing I need is a man I can’t trust trying to get me to ... how did you put it?” She made big quotation marks in the air, her voice laden with sarcasm. “ ‘Join forces with you?’ What’s that a euphemism for? Feed you every piece of evidence the D.A.’s office has compiled? Forget it. For all I know you could be working with Joan. You could be an accomplice to murder. I don’t know what your agenda is but I know I want nothing to do with it.” She stalked to her front door.
“Hold on just a minute.” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended. “Now you’re accusing me of killing Gaines?”
She said nothing. She was an unreadable presence in the shadows of the foyer.
“For your information, I found out he had been murdered when I was in New York. It came over the wires while I was anchoring the evening news. You want to see a tape of me subbing for Jack Evans on December twenty-first? I can get it for you.”
Her voice was soft but icily suggestive. “You don’t have to be physically present to be involved in a murder.”
Cool it, he told himself, though it was a challenge. All these accusations of Milo Pappas doing wrong, ratcheting ever higher into allegations of murder. There was truth to some of them but not one whit of truth to this one, the worst of all.
“Let me tell you something
, Alicia.” He couldn’t stop from advancing toward her. “I had nothing to do with that man’s death. From the day Joan dumped me, I didn’t see her again until I covered her husband’s funeral. You are way off base if you think I had anything to do with it. And I’ve got to tell you, it pretty seriously pisses me off that you would think I did.”
He forced himself to back off and return to the front room. His heart was thumping as if he were once again at Georgetown running the stadium steps. She said nothing and remained in the foyer.
He wondered if this whole thing was worth the trouble. This woman could be a real pain in the ass. He’d probably be better off just doing a pro forma job covering Treebeard’s trial and trying to resuscitate his reputation with a different story altogether.
But he didn’t really want to let it go. That was what separated the real journalists from the impostors, he told himself. Not letting go.
Part of him knew he didn’t want to let her go, either. Not yet. He wanted a connection, however tenuous.
He turned to face her one more time. “Look, you believe Joan killed Daniel. You may or may not be right, but how are you going to prove it on your own? You have a better chance working with me.”
“Oh, so now you’re a PI as well as a journalist? You must have a lot of free time on your hands, buddy.” She pulled open her door. In blew a blast of frigid air, redolent of exhaust from the nonstop flow of cars. “You’re leaving now.”
He didn’t move. “There’s no conflict of interest anymore. I’m still covering the story but you’re no longer in the D.A.’s office. You get total vindication if you prove Joan was the murderer.”
“You’re really big on this ‘vindication’ thing. Somehow it makes me wonder if you want it more than I do.” She opened the door wider. “Out.”
Fine. He’d had all he could take for the moment. He moved forward but paused at the door to stare down at her. “Think about it,” he said. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”
*
Joan was finding it very, very difficult to read spreadsheets with her eyes constantly filling with tears. Very, very difficult!
She gave up. She propped her elbows on Daniel’s eighteenth-century Hepplewhite writing desk, rested her forehead in her hands, and let the tears flow. She couldn’t believe that on this afternoon of all afternoons she had to be at Headwaters waiting for a 6 PM conference call with Frederick Whipple. His minions were swarming all over the building, poking their noses into files and asking questions of employees and all in all making great pests of themselves. It was necessary, she knew, but it was all just too much.
To Catch the Moon Page 26
