The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole found the article interesting, although she considered the legal concept convoluted and somewhat wrongheaded. And she still couldn’t see herself actually accepting Robert’s money.

  Nicole and Josh hit heavy traffic on the drive east, and it took an hour and a half to get to the Derby. They were twenty minutes late. The hostess showed them through several rooms of the restaurant to a booth at the back.

  Albee was sitting there, nursing a beer. She’d envisioned him as a fit, energetic embodiment of an investigative reporter, like Bob Woodward, as played by Robert Redford in the movie classic, All the President’s Men. Albee was none of this, but a pudgy, middle-aged, balding man with lots of freckles and a slump. He looked anything but energetic.

  He seemed equally disappointed when he saw Nicole and Josh. Nicole had worn her teenage boy disguise, with a T-shirt, windbreaker, and sunglasses. Her hair was ponytailed inside the baseball cap. They both nodded at Albee and sat down. The hostess handed them menus, and a waitress hurried over to take their drink orders. They were silent until the servers had left.

  Then Albee turned to Josh, and said, “So, let me understand this. It’s just a set-up meeting, right? You had me drive all the way out here to make arrangements for the actual interview. Or is this a hoax?” He was clearly annoyed.

  Josh gestured to Nicole. Glancing around, to make sure no one was looking, she took off her glasses and baseball hat.

  “It’s you!” Albee exclaimed. “You’re actually here!”

  Already, Nicole had her cap and glasses back on. “Yes,” she said. “It’s me.”

  “And who is this?” Albee gestured at Josh.

  Josh seemed about to introduce himself, but Nicole reached over to give his thigh a squeeze. “Let’s just say he’s a friend. I have some information—”

  She stopped talking. The waitress had appeared with her order book. The three of them glanced quickly at their menus and placed their orders: Cobb salads for Nicole and Albee, a hamburger for Josh.

  As soon as the waitress was gone, Nicole continued, “I have information about the Robert Blair murder that will give you a huge scoop. It’s bound to upset some of L.A.’s most influential people. It might even ruin some of them. But first you have to promise that you won’t let word out that you’ve seen me until after the story appears. The people involved in this have a hit out on me. That’s not going to go away until they’re exposed. I’m hoping you can make it happen.”

  Albee’s eyes got very big. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll do my best.”

  “And you won’t tell anyone you’ve heard from me.”

  “I promise,” he said solemnly. “I always protect my sources. Always.” He’d taken out a notebook and started to write as Nicole explained how she’d copied Robert’s files and what they contained.

  She pulled the flash drives out of her pocket, placing them on the table and pushing them toward him. She explained that, besides information on Ernest Pizer and the chief, the drives contained lists of other people Blair had been blackmailing. Then she unfolded the list of contacts and put it down, too. “These are names and numbers of a couple of people who might be able to help corroborate the information from Robert’s computer.” She tapped the first name on her list, Ronald Reinhardt. “He’s a friend of mine with the English—um—law enforcement. He has contacts he thinks can find out about the L.A. police chief.”

  She looked up as a busboy appeared with their food. None of them spoke while it was placed on the table and the busboy refilled their drinks. When they were alone again, she went on, pointing to the second name on her list, Rick Sargosian. “This guy is a partner at Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo,” she said. “He sat in on an unusual event at the firm, a second property settlement between Pizer and his first wife, Angela. They’ve been divorced for at least twenty-five years. Pizer’s been married and divorced several times since, always with a prenup.”

  Nicole continued, “Originally, Angela received what a lot of people would consider a good amount of money, but she ran through it, and a couple of years ago she came back demanding another settlement. She got it. I don’t know exactly how much, but one thing I do know: She came into the firm screaming about how Pizer was a ‘crook’ and a ‘mobster.’ Blair told me about it. Pizer’s attorney, Jonathan Rice, and her own attorney ushered her into the conference room and closed the door.

  “Here’s the thing,” Nicole said. “I’ll bet she knows plenty and you might be able to get her to talk. She certainly hates Pizer, and he was willing to part with a good amount of money to shut her up. And this guy Rick?” she tapped the name. “He’ll know how to find her. Just tell him that Nicole says he owes her a favor. That should get his cooperation.”

  “I thought you said not to tell anyone I spoke to you.”

  “Yes, but Reinhardt can be trusted, and Rick would have to be really stupid to mention this to anyone. It’s going to scare him, but he’ll keep quiet. Now, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that if you verify the information about Pizer and the police chief, or even just one of them, you have a story. Is that right?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “We wouldn’t have to talk to all the people Blair was blackmailing. But the two big guys—if I can nail that down—would make one hell of a story.”

  “This is probably a stupid question,” she said, “but do you have any idea how long this will take?”

  Albee shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “It could be a week or two or even a month or longer. It could be a few days. I have to see what you’ve given me, talk to my editors, then call these two guys and see what they can tell me.”

  “Oh,” Nicole said. “Is there any way you can limit the number of people who know about this? Maybe you can go to the editor of the paper and work directly with him. I’ve heard that sometimes he’ll personally handle a really big story.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Albee said. “I can’t promise he’ll do that, but I probably can get him to assign a single editor I’ll work with. We can keep it quiet.”

  “One last thing.” Nicole pulled the new disposable phone out of her backpack and handed it to him. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like you to let me know how it’s going. Can you do that? Don’t use your office or cell phones.” She added her own name to the contact list with the number of her burner phone.

  “Sure,” Albee said. “I’ll call you every day or two, and if you don’t hear from me, you call me.”

  “I guess that’s it,” Nicole said.

  “Thanks for the story,” Albee said, “But I’m wondering: Why me? There are a lot of other reporters you could have gone to.”

  “I gave it to you because you were the only one who ever wrote anything nice about me.”

  He looked puzzled, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “When you interviewed my friends and my ex-husband? Every other story made me sound like a gold-digging tramp.”

  He laughed and actually flushed. “Well, I’m glad you were happy with it,” he said. “There was a lot of comment about it on the website. I think your public image has improved now that people think you’re dead.”

  “Well,” she said. “I’d sure like to think I’m going to outlive this mess I’m in. It would be great if you could get this story out soon.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  On the way home, Nicole was quiet. She felt let down, depressed by the thought of waiting days, maybe weeks, before her situation became tenable.

  After ten minutes of silence, Josh asked, “You okay?”

  “I guess. I’m just tired. Couldn’t sleep last night, and now all the air has gone out of me.”

  “That was one hell of a performance,” Josh said. “I mean the way you told that guy what the story was and how to handle it. You’d figured it out from every angle. You were pretty amazing.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about what to say to him for days. I hope he can pull it into a story, o
r I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  He put his hand on her leg. “You can stay with me as long as you need to,” he said. “Longer, if you want.”

  She put her hand over his and squeezed it. Then she lapsed into silence again, thinking of the long wait ahead.

  Twenty

  Once they were back at the house, Nicole decided to do something about her wardrobe. If she was going to stay at Josh’s for a while, she needed more than a single pair of jeans and a T-shirt. What better use for the money the firm had given her? She still had seven thousand dollars left and no more intention of giving them back than she did of ever working there again. Besides, once Albee’s story came out, the firm would face so much fallout, she doubted it would survive.

  Josh had to go to his office for a few hours, so she borrowed his credit card and got busy on her iPad, going straight to the Bloomingdale’s website. She treated herself to some high-end casual separates: a couple of pairs of designer jeans, some T-shirts and blouses, a cashmere cardigan, and an oversized, zip-front hoody. Then, getting into the spirit of things, she picked out some frilly bra and panty sets, a couple of stunning nightgowns and—most expensive of all—a gorgeous coral, orange, and white print robe of lightweight cashmere. She added slippers, boots, colorful running shoes, a dozen pairs of socks, and a small Kate Spade bag.

  When the total reached $3,200, she decided she was done. She was just filling in the payment and delivery information when she heard a distant ringing. It took a moment for her to realize it was her disposable phone. She got up from the table and rushed to the hall closet, where she’d left her backpack with the phone inside.

  It was Albee, and he sounded excited. “I talked to the editor. He’s really jazzed about this story. I’m going to work directly with him. We had to add three investigative reporters. But don’t worry. They’re real pros, used to keeping their work under wraps. You don’t have to worry about a leak.”

  Nicole felt let down. She’d hoped the story would be limited to Albee and a single editor. “Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure no one will find out I’m your source.”

  “No worries on that score,” he said. “But I do want to level with you: This is a big investigative story, and we can’t just run it. We have procedures. As you know, we have to verify the information you gave us. Then legal has to go over it, and we may have to go back and dig up more information. Before the story runs, we also have to ask the police chief, Pizer, and his lawyer for a response to what we’ve written about them.”

  “A response?” she said. “For heaven’s sake! They’ll deny everything! They’ll threaten to sue you!”

  “This is the process, Nicole,” he said. “That’s why we have to verify the information and have our lawyers take a careful look at the article before it appears. The truth, backed up with the proper documentation, protects us against libel. Even if the people we’ve written about deny everything, we can run it. We print their denials or say they refused to comment. Then we’re covered.”

  “You realize, don’t you, that my life is in danger?” Nicole said. “People want me dead because they’re afraid I’ll tell what I know. They have no idea I’ve already done that. At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll live long enough to see this in print.”

  “All you have to do is stay out of sight,” he said. “No one knows where you are. Even I don’t know. Believe me. It’s going to be okay. I’ll remind the team how urgent this is, and we’ll get it out as soon as we can.”

  “All right,” Nicole said, but she felt like crying. She hadn’t realized investigative reporters moved at such a glacial pace. If this was the way they worked, it was a miracle these stories ever appeared in the paper.

  “I’ve already set up an interview with Sargosian,” Albee went on. “He wants to meet late tomorrow night as far away from his office as possible—some dive in Carson. You were right about him. I had to call three times before his secretary would put me through. But when I finally got him on the line, and said you told me to call, he was falling all over himself to cooperate. Of course I had to promise not to mention his name in the paper. Thanks for putting me in touch with him and thanks for the story.”

  “Did you call Reinhardt?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t pick up. I had to leave a message. I’m hoping he’ll get back to me soon.”

  “Thanks for the call, Greg,” she said.

  After Nicole hung up, she stood in the entry hall, her stomach churning with anxiety. She forced herself to go back and finalize her online purchases––at least that was something concrete she could accomplish. Then she called Reinhardt and was put directly through to voicemail. This gave her pause. She hoped he hadn’t gone back to England and disappeared into another assignment. She left the number of her disposable phone and asked him to call her as soon as possible.

  The next morning, when Josh went out to get the paper, he brought in a huge stack of boxes, her purchases from the day before, which she’d arranged for overnight delivery. After breakfast, Josh went into his study to work, and Nicole brought the packages up to the bedroom so she could try on her new clothes in front of the mirror.

  Her phone rang, and this time it was Reinhardt.

  “I got your message,” he said. “I just landed at Heathrow.”

  “Were you called back to work?”

  “No,” he said. “I decided seeing L.A. by myself wouldn’t be much fun, so I’m back in London.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Did you call the Times reporter?”

  “I handed it over to my contact,” he said. “He’s looking into the matter. He’ll be in touch with the reporter. He said it would just take a day or two to get the information.”

  “Good,” she said. “I really appreciate your help.”

  After a long moment’s silence, she realized there was nothing left to say.

  “Goodbye, Ronald,” she said, “and thanks for everything.”

  “Goodbye, Nicole. Good luck.”

  There was a click, and he was gone.

  The next four days passed slowly. After all she’d been through, handing off the investigation to someone else left her feeling helpless and depressed. She was itching to be part of the action. Instead, she was not only confined to the house, but completely out of the loop, with no idea what was happening.

  While Josh was at his office for a meeting, Nicole wandered aimlessly around the house, hardly knowing what to do with herself. She tried getting back into the novel she’d been reading but was unable to focus. When she found herself reading the same page over and over, she closed the book and put it back on the shelf. She went into Josh’s office and sat down at his computer. Even though it made her feel guilty, she took another look at his email. With a start, she noticed that Elle had sent another message the day before. Josh had already opened it and she could tell, from the icon next to the message, that he’d sent a reply. Elle’s message was short: “Call me,” it said. “Please.”

  Josh’s reply was also short. “Don’t hold your breath,” it said. “I’ve met someone else.” After reading it, Nicole flushed with pleasure and, for a few minutes, forgot her worries.

  She gave up trying to do anything that required concentration. She watched daytime TV, something she’d never done before, at least not as an adult. She also called her sister, sometimes several times a day, and they chatted. When Josh was free, they talked and played cards, as well as old games he’d squirreled away in a closet: Scrabble (at which she beat him), Monopoly (at which he beat her), and Operation (which was a draw).

  They took up running after dinner, when it was dark. She pulled her hoodie up to avoid being recognized. And they spent a good amount of time upstairs in bed. Those runs and Josh’s companionship kept Nicole from going stir crazy. But underlying her thoughts was the constant worry about Albee’s story, when it would appear, and whether it would have the effect she was hopi
ng for. Another concern had begun to eat at her: Even if the police chief and Pizer were exposed, would the hit man be called off? And how could she be sure?

  The tabloids had pretty much gone silent about Robert Blair since the police had identified the man they claimed was responsible for the murder. Never mind that he was the wrong man. For all intents and purposes, the case was closed. And, since the supposed killer was dead, there wasn’t even a trial for the media to speculate about.

  The Times ran a brief story about the investigation into Earl Murray’s death. The Inyo County sheriff had released a statement that the evidence—fingerprints and gunpowder residue—wasn’t consistent with suicide. Nicole read the story several times.

  The article didn’t go into detail, but she was pretty sure why the coroner would have doubts. Earl hadn’t been shot at close range, as he would have in a suicide. She’d been four or five feet away when she shot him, so there wouldn’t be gunpowder residue where the bullet entered his head. Furthermore, she’d wiped the gun clean before placing it in his hand. That would be another red flag. The coroner would expect to see the gun covered with fingerprints, since it was Earl’s service weapon, and he would have handled it daily. Since he had used his second gun to shoot the man who knocked at the door, Earl would have gunpowder residue on his hand. But investigators would wonder why he’d used two different guns. This evidence would confuse anyone. Even if Inyo County law enforcement had suspicions, she doubted they’d ever be able to figure out what really happened.

  Nicole’s disappearance had dropped out of the Times altogether. The tabloids were still running briefs, tracking the number of days she’d been missing, but this had shifted toward the bottom of their websites. XHN had taken down the reader discussion topic “Missing Nicole,” which had served the purpose of accepting news tips and reports from readers who claimed to have seen her. Apparently the tabloids, the paparazzi, and their readers had lost interest. Headlines now focused on an old comedian, long retired, who was accused of child molestation, and a couple of divorcing movie stars in the throes of a bitter child-custody dispute.