The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  She had the feeling he was trying to maneuver her into his car for the ride. The restaurant was so close, she imagined him thinking, what problem could she have with that? But she did have one. “Fine,” she said, “Six-thirty. See you there.”

  Five

  Rick Sargosian was more attentive at dinner than he’d been at lunch the day before. Clearly, he’d taken a fancy to Nicole, and she didn’t like it.

  When she told him about Robert’s fixation, he said, “You’re a beautiful woman. This can’t be the first time you’ve gotten unwanted attention.”

  “No,” she admitted, “it’s not. But I’ve never had anyone stalk me. I thought Robert was a nice guy. But he wasn’t—he was some kind of perv. This whole business is creeping me out.”

  Nicole wasn’t a great beauty, she knew. She’d always thought of herself as “pretty enough.” And she was good at making the best of what she had—highlights to brighten up her mouse-brown hair, time and care with her makeup, clothes that made the most of her figure.

  But there was more going on—pheromones or something. Because, even when there was a truly gorgeous woman around, men were drawn to her. In high school, she’d had plenty of dates. But she’d also been pursued by boys whose attention she didn’t want, and she had a hard time discouraging them.

  And there was the matter of her dimples. The slightest smile made them appear, and they had an odd effect on people. Those dimples made people jump to the conclusion that she was sweet, that she liked them. Would-be boyfriends seemed to interpret her smile as an indication that she thought they were special, even when nothing could be farther from the truth.

  Her sister had teased her about being a nerd magnet. And it was true. Compounding the problem was her reluctance to hurt anyone’s feelings. For a while, she tried different strategies: agreeing to meet for a Coke after school, then failing to show up. Next time, the boy would appear at the door of her classroom so she couldn’t escape. Once she’d accepted the offer of a ride home from a would-be suitor, then invited five of her friends along, directing him to her house first so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him. That made the boy a little angry, but not to the point that he stopped calling and asking for a date. Finally, she figured out that it was easier on everyone to simply say she already had a boyfriend, even if it wasn’t true. This usually worked.

  She’d told Rick she had a boyfriend, and he didn’t care. He’d edged around the booth so he was sitting close to her. She scooted over to put some distance between them. He winked at her, as if her moving away was a little game they were playing. That wink really annoyed her. “Rick,” she said. “I have two words for you to consider: sexual harassment. I thought I made it clear that I’m involved with someone else and am not interested in you except as a coworker and a friend. I accepted your dinner invitation because I need advice.”

  “Whatever you say, Nicole,” he said. “We aim to please.” He winked again. “OK, here’s my advice. Don’t discuss this with anyone. Above all, do not talk to the police or the press.” He said this last sentence slowly, as if he were talking to a child. “Once you make a statement to a reporter, you lose control. There’s no telling how he will use it or twist it around to get himself a more sensational story. Talk to no one. That’s the most important rule here. Your attorney will do all the talking for you. Meanwhile, I’ll call over to the D.A.’s office—I still know some people there—and see what I can find out. This Miller guy is just probably making noise to scare you because he thinks he can squeeze information out of you.”

  As she sipped her chardonnay, she began to feel less anxious. Sargosian had also relaxed, seeming to realize he was getting nowhere being aggressive, and the rest of the meal passed fairly pleasantly. They had just enough common interests to keep the conversation afloat for as long as it took to eat—movies, TV, and, of course, office gossip.

  Afterward, when they retrieved their respective cars, Sargosian insisted on following her home, “Just in case.” She took this to mean in case the press was waiting at her place. After she got in her car, she wondered if he might be thinking she’d change her mind and invite him in.

  She slowed as she turned the corner onto her street. In front of her building was a contingent of reporters and cameramen as well as a couple of TV news vans. Several vehicles were blocking the entrance to her underground parking. She drove past them, Sargosian close behind, and turned into the alley, heading for the building’s guest parking. But that was no good either. Four men with cameras were stationed there. My god, she thought, they were acting like it was the biggest story in Los Angeles, and how could it be? She drove a block or two away and pulled out her phone to call Stephanie and ask if she could spend the night again. In her rearview mirror she watched Sargosian get out of his car. He walked up to her window, and she lowered it.

  “Look, you can spend the night at my place. I’m not far from here. I have a perfectly nice guest room, and I promise not to bother you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m calling my sister. I’ll stay there.”

  He raised his hand, as if taking a pledge. “The guest room has a lock on the door. Scout’s honor.” She laughed, and he smiled, too, as if he’d won his point.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. She closed her window and turned back to her phone. Sargosian stood there a moment. Then, somewhat deflated, he trudged back to his car. She almost felt sorry for him––almost. She understood there was one sure way to get rid of him: All she had to do was give him what he wanted. Then she’d be the old cow—as the theory went. He’d immediately lose interest and start looking for a new cow.

  It occurred to her that he was like the paparazzi, only they were more constant. As long as the story had some life in it, she could count on them to be there.

  §

  Nicole awoke in Stephanie’s office and reached for her iPad. Her only thought was to check tabloid websites, starting with XHN. This morning she was shocked to see that not only was the story still prominently displayed at the top of the page, but her picture was there, too. The photo—the one from the Christmas party that Robert had framed—was displayed next to another shot of Robert in uniform when he was about her age. The headline shouted, “Murdered Ex-Cop’s Girl Won’t Talk.” The National Enquirer site had a similar story with the addition of a short video from the day before that showed her rushing for the elevator with several reporters chasing her, shouting questions. The way she had her head averted made her look like someone about to be arrested and trying to avoid publicity. All she lacked was a jacket pulled up to hide her face. There was a small item next to this story about a big drug deal that had gone bad because of an LAPD crackdown the previous week. The Enquirer said the police refused to speculate whether this development was related to the “hero ex-cop’s murder.”

  The Times had much the same story, without the drug crackdown angle. Instead, it included the fact that Robert had recently designated Nicole the beneficiary of his life insurance policy. It also mentioned that Robert’s house had been searched and trashed, presumably by the murderer.

  The last paragraph read, “An inside source, who asked not to be named because he isn’t authorized to speak for the LAPD, said a cooperative witness has come forward. ‘We have hope this person will be able to help with the investigation.’” Nicole had a hunch this was a reference to her and that Detective Miller was the source. He’d leaked the information to put pressure on her.

  There was also a profile of Robert, which Nicole read with great interest. An enterprising reporter had located a couple of Robert’s ex-colleagues on the vice squad. One of them said he wasn’t a team player and tended to bend the rules. He described a case where Robert had ignored his partner’s advice to get a search warrant and had instead picked a lock. He’d found evidence that had led to the arrest of a major drug dealer. But the dealer had been freed, the cop said, because of that missing search warrant.

  Another retired colleague said, “I don’t like sp
eaking ill of the dead, but Blair was a loner, and he wasn’t well liked. It was his way or the highway. That was his M.O. If you got assigned to a case with him, and you didn’t like his methods, he’d disappear on you and do what he wanted. But you’ve got to hand it to him: He was one smart dude, and he got the job done.”

  Nicole left for work wearing the same outfit she’d worn the day before, now slightly rumpled: a short black skirt, a pale blue silk blouse, a cream-colored cardigan, and black heels. She was a little worried about her wardrobe situation. With the media tracking her, she dreaded the idea of going home to get more clothes. She couldn’t borrow anything from Stephanie because she was almost six inches taller than Nicole and two sizes larger. Image was important at work, and she couldn’t keep showing up in the same clothes.

  When she arrived at the office, she encountered an even larger media presence than the day before. This time several of the paparazzi had figured out where the garage entrance was, and she found them waiting there. She drove past the building, heading west to the underground parking of Century City’s shopping mall. Once there, she called Breanna. “I’m parked in Gelson’s lot,” she said. “Can you pick me up? I can’t deal with that mob in front of our building.” About ten minutes later, Breanna appeared in the corner of the lot reserved for the upscale market’s customers, the legions of affluent foodies who live in West L.A. and Beverly Hills. Nicole got in the back of Breanna’s Honda and scrunched down to hide from the cameras when they drove into the law firm’s garage.

  On her desk was a note with “From the desk of Rick Sargosian” at the top. Under the heading, he’d scrawled, Give me a call as soon as you get in.

  “I’ve found a defense attorney for you,” Sargosian said when she called him. “Sue Price. She’s a partner at Lombard, Price & Thompson. They’re a couple of blocks east of the county museum. She’s really good. I talked to her, and she’s expecting your call.” He gave her the attorney’s number.

  She thanked him and was about to hang up, when he said, “Don’t worry about the cost. This legal problem is directly related to your work; you found Blair’s body while carrying out your duties as office manager. Besides, he was sexually harassing you, and that relates to the workplace as well.”

  Nicole stopped listening for a moment. She hadn’t even thought of what a defense lawyer was going to cost, but she was grateful that this, at least, was one thing she wouldn’t have to think about.

  “So how about it?” Sargosian was saying.

  “Sorry?”

  “I asked if you’d like to have lunch?” he said. “You know— just friends.”

  She sighed. She didn’t need this right now. Yes, he’d been really nice to find her an attorney, and no, she still wasn’t interested. “Sorry, Rick. I’m busy.”

  “What about—”

  “Let’s talk later, OK? I want to see if I can get an appointment with this lawyer today. Thanks again for your help, Rick. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” She hung up before he could say any more. She immediately called the defense attorney’s number and spoke to a receptionist, who said Ms. Price would be available at 4:00 that afternoon. Nicole alerted Breanna that she was going to need a ride back to her car at 3:15.

  After they hung up, Nicole had an idea. What if she talked to the head of the XHN, the biggest tabloid in L.A., and asked him to call off the dogs? He was an attorney, and from what she’d heard, a perfectly decent human being. She looked up the tabloid’s “hot tip” phone number and put in a call. After a single ring, a woman said, “XHN tip line.”

  “This is Nicole Graves,” she said. “I wonder if I could talk to David Griffen.”

  “May I say what this is about?”

  “Just say I’m the lead story on XHN today, and I want to talk to him.”

  There were a few clicks on the line. Then a man’s voice said, “This is David. Is this really Nicole Graves?”

  “It is.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I need some advice,” she said. “The paparazzi are making my life impossible. They’re stationed outside my workplace and outside my home. I’ve had to move somewhere else, and it’s an ordeal getting to work every day. I know you’re just one news agency, but you’re the most influential in L.A. I’m wondering if you can tell me what to do to get them to ease up.”

  He was silent a moment before he answered. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I can ask the shooters”—she noticed he didn’t call them paparazzi or even photographers—“not to be so aggressive. But this is a very competitive business, and it attracts a certain kind of person. They probably won’t listen. Again, I apologize. I know how hellish it is to get caught up in a sensational story. But I can assure you this is only temporary. Once the next big story hits, you’ll be old news, and they’ll leave you alone. Meanwhile, can I talk you into giving us an interview? We’ll let you look at it before it runs.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “My lawyer has advised me not to discuss the case with anyone.”

  “I understand,” he said. “But if you change your mind, would you give me a call?”

  She sighed. “Sure. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  After they hung up, she buried herself in work. This morning five new investigation requests had been sent to her. One of them was for “babysitting” a witness. This involved looking after someone, usually very young or old, who had limited life skills and needed help with basic needs like finding a place to stay, stocking food in the refrigerator, or buying clothes appropriate for the courtroom. Sometimes the individual needed medical attention or social services—the investigator was responsible for handling these things as well—while waiting to appear in court as a litigant, a witness, or the accused. In other instances, a person needed to be kept out of trouble until the current case was concluded.

  Nicole, herself, had picked up this duty several times, taking care of young women. Once she’d been sent to France to look after a client’s underage daughter who’d somehow managed to end up in Paris without a passport. How the girl had pulled this off was beyond Nicole’s imagination. She seemed barely able to take care of herself. The job, which at first sounded glamorous, turned into a headache because the girl was spoiled, seemed to truly hate her parents, and refused to leave Paris. After straightening out the passport problem, Nicole managed to persuade the girl to return home. She’d sulked on the long flight. But they were flying first class, so Nicole read a book and enjoyed the ride. As for the women in the other cases, who generally did not have wealthy parents waiting for them, she wondered what became of them when the trial or hearing was over and they were cut loose to fend for themselves.

  Two of the new requests involved tracking down the assets of individuals or corporations who were being sued—tracing money through shell corporations—to make sure the suit was brought against someone who could actually pay if the case was settled favorably. Another request was to locate a witness who’d disappeared after agreeing to testify.

  Only one case was earmarked for “in-house” handling. This was a minor investigation that Di Angelo had requested. The case involved a corporate CEO’s son who was accused of raping a young woman in his frat house at USC, where they both were students. Nicole was supposed to look up the victim to see if there was anything in her past the firm could use to discredit her.

  She started by looking on Instagram and Facebook in case the girl had posted slutty pictures of herself, or anything that might make her look bad. Nicole found nothing of the sort. The girl’s Facebook page, which she hadn’t bothered to make private, showed a long list of her friends. Nicole made note of those identified as “close friends.” She’d contact some of them and see what she could find out. God, she thought, how she hated this kind of research, looking for ways to smear the victim of a violent crime.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She emailed the four other requests to the outside P.I. agency.

  Nico
le got up from her desk and looked out the window. While the crowd in front had thinned a bit, it was still big enough to keep her from going out for lunch. She was their prisoner. She called the building’s coffee shop and asked them to deliver a tuna sandwich and a Coke.

  A few minutes later, someone knocked on her open office door. She turned, expecting her lunch. Instead, it was a young man—clean-cut and baby-faced—holding a huge vase of red roses. There must have been four dozen buds, just beginning to open.

  Nicole stood up and directed him to her credenza, where Reinhardt’s flowers had been consigned.

  “What’s the big occasion?” the man said. “Should I be wishing you a happy birthday?”

  “It’s not my birthday,” she said, reaching for her purse to get out a tip.

  “Say,” the man said, as if just recognizing her. “Aren’t you the one whose picture was in the paper today?”

  “No,” she said. “You have me confused with somebody else.” She handed him a five-dollar bill.

  He took it, and then said, “Actually, I’m not the delivery boy. I gave him something to let me bring the flowers up. I’m with Fox News. The way the media is portraying you is making you look bad. People need to hear your side of the story. All you have to do is talk to an interviewer for a half hour. You can let the public see who you are and tell them what really happened.”

  “I have nothing to say. Please leave,” she said.

  “Listen. You’re missing a great opportunity. If you’ll grant Fox an exclusive interview, we’ll show it to you before it’s aired, so you can make sure there’s nothing to embarrass you. No other news outlet would do that.”

  “I’m not granting any interviews,” she said. Then, louder, “You have to go, or I’m calling security.”

  He still didn’t move. “This is being tried in the court of public opinion,” he went on. “All people know about you is what they’re seeing in the tabloids.”