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?”
“What off-the-record information? She never said a damn thing to me that I used in my pieces!”
“Save it.” O’Malley shook his head, a look of disgust twisting his features. “Lovegrove’s warning had no effect on you, did it? If you had one brain cell in that pretty head of yours, you would’ve kept yourself zipped at least until the Gaines story was finished.”
Milo clenched his fists to keep himself from punching O’Malley’s smug, superior face. “You set me up, O’Malley. You were the one who forced me into covering Gaines’ murder in the first place because you knew my history with Joan would be a ratings grabber.”
O’Malley just laughed, a wicked, triumphant sound. “I make no apologies for wanting to spike the numbers, Pappas. But I sure as hell didn’t tell you to hump the widow. You came up with that idea all on your own.” Then he leaned closer and dropped his voice to a confidential tone. “You know what’s really rich? The widow said you were screwing not only her but some prosecutor on her husband’s case. You never learn, Pappas, do you.”
That last wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. At the moment Milo couldn’t dispute it.
“Come on, hand over your press pass and ID.”
This time Milo relinquished them, mouthing words he wasn’t sure he believed. “You can expect me to challenge this legally,” he heard himself say.
O’Malley laughed again. “It’s airtight. We have given you so many warnings and documented every one. Your ass is cooked. All you’ll get out of filing suit are legal fees.”
For once Milo thought O’Malley had spoken the truth.
“If you ever get another network job, which I doubt,” O’Malley went on, “I suggest you leave your cock at home.”
“You’re an asshole, O’Malley.”
“Maybe so.” He leaned closer. “But I’m an asshole who’s the executive producer of Newsline. Who are you?” Then he turned and walked away, slowly, casually. Milo watched him go.
He’d lost. He’d proved all his detractors right. Everybody who’d ever called him Pretty-boy Pappas had hit the target. Now they would crow and he would cry, and it was his own damn fault.
His. And Joan’s.
Chapter 23
It was almost ten Saturday morning when Alicia’s doorbell rang. The five hours she’d already been awake had been an eternity of waiting. She flung the door open to find Louella and Department of Justice criminalist Andy Shikegawa on her stoop. She waved both of them into her front room.
“You got it?” she asked—needlessly, because Shikegawa’s presence told her they had.
Louella turned around and brandished a white envelope in her hand. “Hot off the press.”
“Can I see it?” Alicia took the search warrant with cold fingers. There it was, in legalistic black and white: permission to search Joan Gaines’ house on Scenic for evidence relating to the murder of Daniel Gaines.
Not that the property hadn’t been searched before. It had been, thoroughly, when Gaines’ body was discovered. But perhaps some clue had been missed? Or was present now but hadn’t been before? Those were long shots but all Alicia could hope for.
This search warrant was her last chance. For while she could argue that Joan Gaines had killed her husband, all that backed her up was circumstantial evidence. She needed something real, something tangible, something undeniable, to link the lovely widow to her husband’s murder. Otherwise Treebeard would go down.
She handed the search warrant back to Louella. “Did Frankel put up much of a fight?”
Shikegawa laughed. “Let’s just say the good judge proved the old adage wrong.”
They’d all heard it—and repeated it—a million times. What do you call an attorney with an IQ of fifty? Your Honor.
“Not that Frankel’s convinced beyond a reasonable doubt,” Louella added, “but she found all the new information about Headwaters and Web Hudson’s living trust pretty compelling.”
“And you convinced her to let me go with you?”
Shikegawa piped up. “That took a little more doing.” Alicia was fired, after all, which made it highly unorthodox for her to be able to participate in the search. “But we made it clear that you were the one who came up with everything new.”
“And, of course, she’s known you for years,” Louella added. “I also told her that Penrose had been discouraging you from pursuing Joan Gaines as a suspect. What came out in your press conference yesterday sure didn’t hurt.”
Shikegawa clapped Alicia on the arm. “You looked good on the news.”
She rolled her eyes, though privately she agreed she’d done well. She was embarrassed that in the evening she’d pulled a Penrose herself: surfing among the local newscasts to find her own appearances, and taping a few for posterity.
Not that her own interlude of Penrose-like behavior made her any more sympathetic toward old Kip. As far as she was concerned he deserved whatever he got, and from the early noises people were making, that might be quite a comedown.
“I got to hand it to you, Alicia,” Louella said. “Now you’ve even got me thinking Joan Gaines might have offed her husband.” She turned and spied the roses, still in their position of honor on the coffee table, then bent to sniff them. “These are gorgeous. That is really sweet of Jorge.” She stood back up, her expression puzzled. “Did I miss your birthday?”
“No.” Alicia did not want to get into this.
Louella gave Alicia a penetrating stare, then turned to Shikegawa. “Andy, why don’t you go on ahead? Alicia and I will meet you there.”
“Fine.” Shikegawa moved toward the front door. “You called Carmel PD and the sheriff’s department, right?”
Louella nodded. “Bucky Sheridan’s on his way, and we’ll get two squad cars from the sheriff’s department to set up a cordon if we need it.”
“Good.” Shikegawa left.
Alicia ran to her bedroom to get her purse and overcoat, then headed for the door. “Ready?”
“Not so fast.” Louella grabbed Alicia’s arm. “You have such a guilty look on your face.” She cocked her chin at the roses. “Those aren’t from Jorge, are they?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Especially since she hadn’t heard word one from Milo since he’d left her at the Ritz-Carlton the prior morning. Though she’d called his cell. Twice. And left a message both times.
“Who are they from?”
“Forget it, Louella.” Though Alicia couldn’t. She was back to feeling like a fool. A genuine, certifiab
le idiot. With an arrow piercing her own heart.
Louella shook her head. She looked, and sounded, highly dubious. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Alicia was silent. She hoped exactly the same thing.
*
“Is it me or is it hot in here?” Kip Penrose crammed his index finger between his Adam’s apple and the collar of his dress shirt, then craned his neck, trying to give his windpipe some breathing room. Goddamn Saturday morning and he was dressed in a suit and tie and sitting in his office. Under TV lights that had to be making the ambient temperature ninety degrees.
"I'm fine,” reporter Jerry Rosenblum declared, and Kip could’ve kicked him. Sure, he was fine. He was asking the questions, not answering them, and he was behind the lights, not under them.
It hadn’t taken Kip long to decide he couldn’t go through another news cycle without presenting his side of the Alicia Maldonado firing story, weak though that might be. Nothing could be worse than seeing himself portrayed either as an incompetent buffoon who couldn’t remember whom he’d prosecuted in years past, or as a malicious bigot who would stop at nothing to get rid of a Latina on his staff. So this morning Kip was spinning the story his way, giving one-on-one interviews in his office with local reporters, a format he hoped would afford him more control than a press conference.
So far, that wasn’t the case.
“Let me ask you that question again,” Rosenblum said.
Kip stumbled a lot, which didn’t exactly build his confidence. Thank God he wasn’t doing this live.
Rosenblum consulted his reporter’s notebook. “How do you explain instructing Deputy D.A. Maldonado to do a plea bargain in the Owens case when you knew from prosecuting Owens yourself that he had a felony conviction?”
“Jerry”—Kip forced himself to smile pleasantly at the reporter—“here’s where the misinformation I was telling you about earlier comes in. I did not instruct Ms. Maldonado to do a plea bargain in the Owens case. She made that determination on her own.”
That was his story and he was sticking to it. He was following the politician’s creed: If the truth doesn’t work, lie. Even if the lie doesn’t work, repeat it. Because eventually everyone will get bored and move on.
Besides, he had plausible deniability. He had made sure to assign Alicia the case at Dudley’s. He’d also made sure that no one who mattered overheard him argue for a plea bargain.
Unfortunately Rosenblum’s face wore an expression of disbelief. “But Deputy D.A. Maldonado takes more cases to trial than any other prosecutor in this office. Every defense attorney I’ve talked to says she hates to bargain.”
“First of all,” Kip said, “she is no longer Deputy D.A. Maldonado. She has been fired from that position. And second,” he added, raising his voice above Rosenblum’s attempt to interrupt him, “there is no dispute whatsoever about whether Ms. Maldonado sought a plea bargain in this case. She did.”
“At your urging,” Rosenblum repeated.
“No!” Then Kip remembered himself, or rather remembered the camera, inches from his face, recording his every twitch. He took a deep breath. “I did not urge her to do so,” he declared.
Rosenblum again consulted his notebook. “When the Owens case crossed your desk, before you assigned it to Deputy D.A. Maldonado, didn’t you remember that you had won a felony conviction against him years before?”
Kip smiled. “Jerry, do you know how many cases cross my desk?” He made an expansive gesture, indicating, Many! Many! “I don’t take note of the defendant’s name, rank, and serial number. Moreover, do you know how many felony convictions I’ve won?”
Rosenblum shook his head.
“Too many to count,” Kip lied. Truth be told, about a dozen over the years he himself had been a prosecutor. He hadn’t exactly been a star in court. “And, I admit it, I couldn’t rattle off to you the names of all those felons.” Kip laughed. “Come on, Jerry! Could you tell me the names of everyone you’ve ever reported on?”
The guy didn’t even crack a smile. “No. But when I see one I recognize it.” Then he blindsided Kip with a question he wasn’t in the least prepared for. “What is your reaction to news that citizens are banding together to mount a recall initiative against you?”
Kip felt his jaw drop. “What? Well, I’ll sure as hell put a stop to that!”
Then he remembered himself. And the camera. But it was too late. Because by then he had a pretty good idea which sound bite would make the news that night.
*
Joan drove the dust-caked Jag up the driveway of her home and braked right there, not bothering to park it in the garage. Even pushing the automatic door opener seemed like too much trouble. It felt like all she’d done in the last forty-eight hours was drive, drive, drive: two hours up to San Francisco, then five hours each way back and forth between the Ritz-Carlton and Redcrest, and back again this morning to Carmel.
It better have been worth it.
When she walked into the house she was astounded to find her housekeeper sitting in front of the kitchen TV, eating a vile burrito-like concoction and watching a cartoon. Joan stalked over to the set and jabbed the power button. “Elvia, I don’t pay you to watch television!”
The woman’s face fell. “But it helps me learn English, missus.”
“Learn English on your own time.” Joan slammed her purse down on the granite counter. “Make me some coffee. I’m going to take a shower.” She headed upstairs.
“You’ve been getting calls, missus,” Elvia called after her, but Joan ignored her. She would shower first and deal with calls later.
She made the water scalding, as if heat could purge the frustrations of the last days. She showered quickly and didn’t linger over dressing, wondering as she selected an outfit where she might go to lunch that wouldn’t be crawling with weekend tourists.
She was at her dressing table finishing a light makeup when she heard a sudden commotion downstairs, near the front door. She frowned, her mascara wand suspended in midair, trying to make out what was going on.
She heard a man’s voice. It was raised, arguing with Elvia.
Then she recognized who it belonged to.
Oh, my God.
Footsteps on the stairs, then in the hallway outside the master suite. Joan sprang up from her dressing table just as Milo slammed open the door of her bedroom and burst inside, Elvia frantic at his heels.
“Missus, I tried to stop him!” Her face was twisted. “He pushed past me! He’s the man calling you all morning!”
“It’s all right, Elvia.” Joan was amazed how calm she sounded.
“It’s all right?” Milo laughed, an odd, forced sound. He couldn’t stand still, it seemed. He was moving constantly, pacing her creamy white carpet like a beast in a luxurious padded cage. “All right for who, Joan? Not for me!”
Elvia was wringing her hands. “Should I call the police?”
“Not yet, Elvia.” Joan realized her mascara was still clutched in her hand. She tried to appear casual as she set it back on the dressing table, though it was sticky from the sudden dampness on her palms.
Milo shook his head. “There’s no need for the police. You have nothing to fear from me, Joan, though apparently I have a great deal to fear from you.”
Her hand froze above the dressing table. Oh, Milo could claim benign intent all he wanted, but at this moment she feared him. And while there was every indication that Lovegrove had done what she wanted and fired Milo, the satisfaction she expected to feel was tinged with dread, as if her behavior might have repercussions she hadn’t predicted.
Now Elvia was wringing her hands. “What should I do, missus?”
“You may go downstairs, Elvia. In fact, we all will.”
She didn’t like Milo in her bedroom. Not this time. He was all coiled muscles, like a big cat stalking his prey. No longer did the power he seemed barely able to contain excite her. What might he do if it suddenly got away from him? She followed Elvia downstairs, Mi
lo so close behind she swore she could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Elvia hurried into the kitchen, looking behind her furtively just before she disappeared behind the swinging door. But Joan felt buoyed in the living room, splashed with sunshine streaming in through the huge windows overlooking the Pacific. She turned to face Milo. She would take the offensive, the best way to protect herself. “I’m assuming you’ve come to apologize?”
His eyes widened with obvious amazement. “Me apologize? Haven’t you got that wrong, Joan? Aren’t you the one who should be begging for forgiveness?”
“Whatever for?”
His voice shook the room from hardwood to ceiling. “For calling Richard Lovegrove and getting me fired!”
She laughed, proud that she could produce the sound. “You’re giving me an awful lot of credit. If you got fired, just look in the mirror to see who caused it.”
“I know exactly what you did, Joan.” His voice had transformed into a low growl. He advanced toward her. “Don’t play me for a fool.”
“Weeks ago you were worried you would lose your job. Remember that?” She retreated a step, his belligerence poking at the bubble of her confidence. Her voice was coming out shrieky now, but she couldn’t seem to control it. “You had problems at WBS long before you and I got back together.”
“We never got back together. We had one night, the biggest mistake of my life.” He was up close to her then, his eyes pinpoints of anger. His finger, raised in accusation, trembled menacingly close to her face. “Just tell me the truth and I’ll go. For once in your goddamn life, tell the truth, Joan.”
The doorbell rang.
“I had nothing to do with it,” she said, though her denial sounded pathetically unconvincing even to her own ears. Much more compelling was the pounding of her heart, which beat at such a swift betraying pace she was sure Milo too could hear it.
And who was at the door? Someone who could help her? Where was Elvia? Joan tried to step backward again, to get away from him, but found herself backed up against an armchair, unable to do anything but topple onto its cushions as he leaned over her.
To Catch the Moon Page 33
