Revenant Rising

by M. M. Mayle

Nate holds up a hand to stem the torrent of information. “Slow down. Please. I need a minute to take this all in.”

  He’s caught between grimace and grin because he’s seeing himself as the country squire of folklore fame returned home to learn that the dog has died from eating burnt horseflesh after a funeral candle set fire to the house, and a spark from that fire ignited the barn and subsequently destroyed the livestock.

  “No problem. I should’ve realized that’s a major load of new business to be hit with all at once and used a different approach. But I have a fix for that. Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

  Amanda disappears into the reception area. She isn’t gone long enough for him to begin assessing anything she’s told him so far, and when she returns it’s her he’s assessing. Reassessing that is, because he’s giving her the second glance he ordinarily wouldn’t waste on a non-contender—one without minimum height and weight requirements. She looks to be a little over five feet tall in heels, so that puts her close to a foot off the mark. However, her weight is in suitable proportion and nicely distributed. She’s neither bosomy nor thick in the leg, as are so many short women. Although her flattering wraparound dress is a cheap knockoff, it shows that she does have fashion sense and knows what suits her. Red hair never held any particular attraction for him, but hers is more blonde than orangey, and its casual curliness sets it apart in an almost acceptable way.

  If Amanda is aware of his reappraisal, she’s not showing it as she distributes an armload of newspapers, a thick loose-leaf binder, and a few loose pages on the desk. “Take your time going over this stuff. Any questions, just give a shout, I’ll be at my desk.” She withdraws from the room, leaving the door open a crack.

  Five minutes with the accumulation of tabloids is enough to spot the trend Amanda alluded to. The loose-leaf binder requires closer inspection. To the casual observer the contents might seem to be nothing but a scrap-book, the assembled trivia of an overzealous Colin Elliot fan with anal tendencies; to a more attuned observer, the entries could be seen as those of a detail-minded individual conversant with the benefits of charting, graphing and cross-referencing. But all he sees is a commissioned project, one calculated to enhance whoever ordered it done. That impression lingers long after he finishes examining actual content and must be advertising itself in some way when he recalls Amanda to Laurel’s office.

  “Okay, I can tell by your expression you want to know the same thing Laurel did after she looked over this material, and that is, why did I take on this task and who am I working for.”

  There’s no point in playing dumb, asking another seemingly unrelated question. She’s got him cold. And she knows it.

  She resumes the seat opposite his before she speaks again. “You could almost say I’m working for you because it was your absence and the lack of an official publicist for Colin that decided me to take this on.”

  Which could be another way of saying she was already pledged to the David Sebastian campaign and saw the opportunity to make the incumbent look bad. He watches her cross her legs, notices how small her feet are, how delicate her ankles are. And how self-assuredly she’s able to confront him.

  “Oh what the fuck,” he prefaces, “I’ve been in L.A. the past three days.” The rest of the admission comes easy, like the proverbial bursting of a dam. She’s a picture of studied composure throughout the lengthy spillover. Even when shown the only shred of evidence supporting his stubborn belief that more is going on than meets the eye.

  Wordlessly, she hands back the charred remains of the obscene photograph. He feels compelled to speak for her as he returns the photograph to an inside pocket. “Tragic . . . heartbreaking, really, that Aurora sank so low.”

  Amanda nods solemn agreement then finds voice to let him know that’s not the only thing they agree on. “It was while I was going through all this media trash that I got to thinking that what Cliff Grant and Gibby Lester had most in common, beyond being pond scum, was their respective abuse of Aurora Elliot—Grant, for attempting to record her every bad move, and Lester, for enabling her bad moves. Then, from that, it wasn’t much of a stretch to think both these jerks were offed by the same guy, as a sort of retro-championing of Aurora’s lost cause. But that would be ridiculous. I mean, who but Colin Elliot ever saw anything good in her? And there’s no way Colin would . . . well, you know.”

  Amanda describes the same basic thought processes he’s put himself through for the past seventy-two hours, causing him to now flash back to the Michigan accident scene and something Big Bill, the beer-bellied Native American rescuer, said about Aurora Elliot while attempting to free Colin from the wreckage. In effect, Bill branded Aurora—Audrey, as she was known to the locals—as having been indefensible even before she hit the glitter trail, and further stated that among the handful of townspeople who never wanted to see her for what she was, few if any of those diehards were left by the time she died.

  “Have you mentioned your feelings about this to Laurel or anyone else?” he says.

  “No. She has enough on her mind, and to anyone else I’d appear as opportunistic as one of these tabloids.”

  “Then why did you confide in me?”

  “We’re back to playing ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine,’ aren’t we?”

  “That’s two,” he says.

  “Two what?”

  “Gotchas.”

  “I wasn’t keeping score.”

  Like hell. He almost smiles as she smoothly segues to the subject of the latest Colin Elliot-related murder. “That’s what I surmised,” he says after she amplifies on the most credible account in the morning papers. “An individual dose of that goddamned headache powder Colin insists on using—and sharing, I might add—is way too easy to mistake for something else. Christ, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve implored him to use tablets or capsules. But no, he has to have the fucking caffeine that comes in the mix, and to that I say, take a Bayer’s and a cup of coffee! Sorry, I shouldn’t be venting on you.”

  “Completely understandable, don’t worry about it.”

  He fidgets a little and clears his throat. “What’s your take on the coke found at the scene of this new killing?”

  “My first reaction? That some sort of message was being sent, like with a gangland murder when the victim’s genitals are . . . amputated and stuffed into his mouth because he said too much. But who’s gonna deliver a gag order by means of a wad of cocaine estimated to have a street value of twenty thousand dollars? I mean, who could even afford to make that kind of retort or renouncement or whatever, except a hotheaded rock star?”

  “Undoubtedly what the police were thinking and probably hoping when they named Colin chief suspect. How’d that go down, anyway?”

  “Once Laurel heard about it, she summoned David, Stan Mason, the head of criminal division, and me. As she later put it, a reverse kangaroo court was held right there at Static Studios when detectives showed up to question Colin. No formal charges were brought, but the press naturally made it seem as though that was the case.”

  “I’m curious to know what role you played.”

  “Oh, just messenger. I supplied a copy of the tape I made of Laurel’s TV appearance, and the brass could’ve stayed in bed because that definitively settled the issue of where Colin was when this Sid Kaplan creep was murdered. The cops kept that tape, but I got another one from the TV station—the one there on the desk. Would you like to see it?”

  “I would, please.”

  “Okay, but before I start it I’m curious to know . . . Are you gonna go to the police with that dirty picture and your suspicions?”

  “I think not. First of all, I’d be incriminating myself for having removed evidence from a crime scene. Second of all, I’d be setting myself up as a probable crackpot with an overactive imagination. I won’t approach Colin, either. He doesn’t need further proof of Aurora’s descent into debauchery, and he’s already chafing at what he considers my excessive caretaking. As with
the warnings about using powdered aspirin, if I tell him to watch his back, he’ll do the opposite.”

  “You think he has reason to watch his back?”

  “Don’t you? Isn’t that where we’re headed with this?”

  “I guess I didn’t want to say so in so many words.”

  Amanda crosses the room, plugs the videotape into a combination VCR-monitor and fusses with the sound level and the tracking. When she returns to her chair, he can feel her watching him as the tape unwinds to reveal a close-up of Laurel Chandler’s earnest countenance as she asks an unseen audience for quiet. The wider shot that follows includes Colin standing close beside her and a background unmistakable as the Fifth Avenue entrance to The Plaza Hotel.

  Also unmistakable is Colin’s expression. A developmentally challenged aardvark could see that Colin’s interest in Laurel is way more than physical. Respect, approval, pride, trust, unabashed adoration—you name it—are contained in the gaze he has trained on her. Equally obvious is the immutable fact that this lawyer, and David Sebastian by association, is the front-runner for Colin’s professional loyalty.

  That recognition effectively deafens Nate to the soundtrack; he hears only the warning bells going off in his head. Under Amanda’s watchful eye, he feigns rapt attention to the video and sees only himself being defrocked and shown the door. The tape ends and he thinks to ask if a transcription is available—at some point he will be expected to know the content. But when he opens his mouth, an altogether different request escapes. “Come with me to the bash for Rayce Vaughn on Thursday night.”

  “I have my own invitation, thank you.” Amanda doesn’t look all that startled, so he can’t be terribly out of context.

  “Does that mean you already have a date?”

  For whatever reason, this question gives her pause. She appears to be weighing possible responses the way she did throughout their subtle jockeying for position over lunch at the Sea Grill last week. One thing he doesn’t need right now is another reminder that she’s nowhere near the mindless bit of fluff he first took her for and that her loyalties, wherever they happen to lie, are unswerving.

  “You don’t owe me anything, you know. I haven’t provided you with any information you couldn’t have obtained elsewhere,” she says. “And I observe client privilege same as my boss, I won’t tell anyone what you’ve said to me today.”

  “For Chrissake, Amanda, I am not attempting to reward you. Or bribe you, just so that’s clear. Can’t you just agree to spend an evening with me?”

  “I’ll have to think about it. I’ll have to let you know. Later.” She busies herself rewinding the tape and gathering up her other exhibits.

  “Please do.” He’s out of practice for this kind of shit. “Today if possible.” This is too much like asking the head cheerleader to the prom and being left on hold while she entertains other offers. “I’ll be at home,” he says and leaves Amanda a number she’s probably already acquired on her own initiative.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Late morning, April 7, 1987

  Wrapped in a thick Philippe Hotel robe, Laurel finishes up in the bathroom by applying an extra skim of foundation to the shadows under her eyes and extra color to her cheeks and she still looks like she was up all night. In the bedroom, she slips out of the robe and into unexceptional underwear and pantyhose. From her limited wardrobe, she chooses an outfit at random; one’s pretty much the same as another.

  She’s selecting sensible pumps to complement a spinsterly suit and blouse when she realizes she’s brought nothing special enough for tomorrow night’s party at Tavern on the Green. She frowns at the oversight and the prospect of returning home for something appropriate. The prospect of shopping for something new holds little appeal until she remembers her paid-up dues and the rainy-day cash in her carryall. That puts a different face on the oversight and buoys her on her way.

  If she’s recognizable to anyone in the hotel lobby, they’re either too professional or too sophisticated to show it. The same holds true on the sidewalk outside the hotel when she sets off on foot for Rockefeller Center. Shunning Fifth Avenue, she cuts across 59th on the park side, where she observes that the media gypsies have abandoned their stronghold adjacent the Pulitzer Fountain. She might be amused by this example of how fast a story can lose its newsworthiness if she weren’t mindful of how fast a minor event can be inflated into a cause célèbre. She turns south on Sixth and covers the remaining distance to her office hyper-alert for minor events.

  At the office, a stranger—presumably an intern—is seated at Amanda’s desk fielding phone calls. Mid-answering spiel the intern points at the closed door to the inner office—presumably to indicate someone is inside—then holds a finger to her lips to indicate that person should not be disturbed.

  David again. Proprietary of office space and her again. Overseeing and after-the-fact mentoring again. Pimping again, if that’s what it turns out to be.

  The inner door opens onto near darkness. The blinds are closed, the drapes are drawn, and the only light is that leaking in from the reception area. Not David’s style at all. Could be Colin’s, though. Especially after an all-nighter.

  She switches on the overheads, prepared to let him know he’s no more entitled to squatter’s rights than David, and it turns out to be Amanda who’s camped out on the sofa—stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, with the back of one hand pressed to her forehead in a pose synonymous with Victorian fainting couches.

  “What’s wrong? Are you ill?” Laurel says.

  “No. I’m all right . . . I will be in a minute.” Amanda squints, sits up, and attempts to smooth first her hair, then her dress.

  “What’s happened? Don’t tell me something else has happened.”

  “The only thing that’s happened is Nate Isaacs.”

  “He sent you into a swoon?” Laurel sets down her bag and takes a seat on the arm of the sofa. “What did he do, attempt to interrogate you when he called to confirm my dinner meeting with him tonight?”

  “He was here. He came here to your office and I never did find out if he was looking for you or expecting to find Colin.”

  “What did he want, then?”

  “What he always wants—more than I’m willing to tell him. But I did tell him everything that went on while he was away. I mean, someone had to.”

  “Where was he while he was away?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Laurel sighs mounting impatience with the drama. “I suppose he badgered you again and planted more suspicions the way he did during your initial go-round?”

  “No, he didn’t have to badger me, and I have enough suspicions of my own.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing . . . never mind.”

  “Very well. I don’t have time for intrigues, and I’d rather focus on what’s going on with you. Do you realize you’re so pale I can count your freckles?”

  “You should talk. Like I can’t see the dark circles under your extra makeup.”

  “Touché.”

  “Okay, okay, you’ll find out sooner or later, so here’s the problem. I got through another Nate Isaacs ordeal without stuttering or peeing my pants, but when it was over, he asked me to be his date at the party for Rayce Vaughn and I couldn’t give him an answer.”

  “Why on earth is that a problem? Because you still think he’s trying to undermine your loyalties?”

  “Yes, but I can handle that part, I just proved I can. What I can’t handle is not having the right clothes or the right address. I mean, can you just see him picking me up in Flatbush, for lord’s sake, and me decked out in an old bridesmaid dress or worse?”

  Laurel laughs. Not unkindly. “If that’s all that’s bothering you . . . Listen, I have to shop for a dress this afternoon. Come along and we’ll find one for you, too. And have Nate call for you at my hotel. In fact, stay with me tomorrow night. You’ll be doing me a favor. I’d love to be able to say I alrea
dy have a roommate if someone should happen to volunteer for the position.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not sure I want to put myself in destiny’s way.”

  Laurel heaves another sigh, “So now it’s destiny I’m fighting off? Dammit, Amanda, how many times have I told you to stop matchmaking?”

  “That’s easy. The same number of times I’ve told you you’ve got no less than the Colin Elliot wrapped around your little finger and you’re too pigheaded to see it.”

  “Oh please. You’re starting to believe those tabloids you collect.”

  “Am not. I don’t need a tabloid to tell me what’s plain as day.”

  “Very well. Let’s get this over with. Right now. I am not so pigheaded I don’t see Colin Elliot’s interest in me. But what I see—and you fail to see—is that his interest won’t last beyond my ability to resist him.”

  “There! I knew it! You are attracted to him.”

  “Of course I am. Did I ever disagree when you proclaimed him a heart-throb or premium-grade hunk or whatever current expression you used? Have I ever pretended there’s not a great deal more to him than expected? Or denied what a really fine person he is?”

  Amanda skips the chance to issue an ‘I-told-you-so,’ and keeps smugness to a minimum when asking by what supposition it’s presumed that Colin Elliot operates on a catch-and-release basis.

  “Any discussion of that subject is moot. You already know I cannot and will not become romantically involved with him for the reason Nate Isaacs projected at the outset.”

  “You mean because of professional concerns.”

  “That’s a good-enough description. Yes, that’s all that needs to be said. Because of professional concerns.”

  “But you’d love to. Get involved, I mean. I was watching you last night when you took charge of establishing his alibi, and that wasn’t just lawyerly consideration I was looking at, it went way beyond that.”

  “All right, then. Of course I’d love to get involved with him. And when nothing came of it, I’d have to get over him and that is not something I’m willing to put myself through. I can’t do that again. I’ve never really subscribed to that old saw—‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ I just can’t buy that crap.”