Face Value

by Lia Matera

  “Want to know what else is funny?”

  “What?”

  “She doesn’t act like she is.”

  “Yes, she does. She gazes at you.”

  He shook his head. “She gazes at twentysomething studs with big muscles and weird hair.”

  We rode the fifteen floors in silence.

  Before the doors reopened, he added, “So quit being gracious. You ain’t gettin’ off that easy.”

  27

  We were in Sandy’s car, a new Mazda, sporty but not the kind that looks like a hockey puck. It was sleek without calling attention to itself. He could park with minimal worry in most neighborhoods. He was smart about those things. I liked that. He shifted gears smoothly and didn’t slide backward on hills. Trivial stuff, but it pleased me.

  We zipped past the clock tower of the Ferry Building. I assumed he was taking me to the Marina, where there were plenty of bars, even some nice quiet ones tourists had yet to discover.

  I settled into the bucket seat and enjoyed the ride. Twilight in San Francisco has it all: golden light skating over the bay and flashing off glass, the flicker of street lamps, the menthol rush of eucalyptus in the wind, fog combing treetops. The lawns of Marina Park were a brilliant emerald, dotted with people loitering, loosening their ties, pulling rainbow caps over dreadlocks, jogging behind three-wheel strollers. I considered Steve Sayres’s anger.

  “You want to know what I think, Sandy?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If it has to do with my earlier investigation of your client.” He glanced at me. “Because I can’t talk about that.”

  “Then listen.” I wouldn’t have asked for confirmation regardless. “Margaret told me she got involved with Brother Mike because one of her debtors was involved with him. That means one of Graystone’s debtors. And, as you know, Graystone Federal is Steve’s client.”

  He took a sharp left onto Steiner, past embellished stucco houses set like jewels into tiny landscaped grounds. He didn’t comment.

  “So Graystone is having problems with its debtor. And, what, the debtor’s giving assets away to Brother Mike? The same old triangle—creditor, debtor, recreational other?”

  Sandy drove on.

  “Deadbeat client gives away assets Graystone wants to go after—an island, for instance.” I paused. “And Sayres steps in to try to get the asset back. He hires you to investigate, to find a way to void the gift to Hover. I heard the man who gave away the island went bankrupt afterward. I’ll bet we have a match.”

  “So … you say you talked to Arabella today?”

  “Go ahead, change the subject.” I was sure I was right. “Yes, I did talk to Arabella. She’s in some pain, but she seems okay. She’s furious with Mike Hover for exploiting her. She says all he cares about is having his own film to manipulate—no copyright problems. She thinks he used her to get the group hot so he could film them.”

  “And play with the film? Sounds pretty cold. Is that your impression of him?”

  I’d been pondering that. “Actually, yes. He’s got a way of engaging your attention and focusing on who he thinks you are. I can see why people find that seductive. But there’s something distracted about it. He compares what he does with his devotees to water witching. He views it as an unconscious thing he’s able to accomplish.”

  “So Mike Hover can do this thing, this spiritual trick, and it gets him devotees. But you don’t think he’s into having devotees for its own sake. Or for their sake?”

  “Maybe. To be fair, I only spent a day with him.” And I’d found his “witching” of me infuriating. “But I didn’t see him come alive until he put his hands on a computer. Even if he didn’t start out making the videos just for the footage, once he began reimaging them, maybe that became the payoff.”

  “And that makes Arabella feel used? Same lady works at The Back Door?”

  “Yes. She distinguishes between what she does for a living and what she does for love.”

  Sandy nodded. “Well, I’m with her on that one. She say anything about the murders?”

  “No. She asked me if I knew how the women …” God, I had to learn their names. Gretchen was right, they were individuals. “How they were killed. The way she asked me, it was so urgent. Fearful, even. It must be terrible, knowing she’d have been with them. Why don’t the police give her some information? Maybe it would trigger a recollection.”

  “Assuming she didn’t get herself beat up as an alibi.” A sidelong glance. “If Homicide thought she was being straight, they wouldn’t hold back. I think they’re hoping she’ll trip up, say something she shouldn’t know.”

  I replayed a mental tape of our conversation. “She didn’t with me. And she does have a hell of an alibi: She got admitted to the hospital before the murders.”

  He slowed the car. “Number one, they’re not sure exactly when the murders happened. If it was right after the ticket guy left, she might have had time. Either way, she could have hired someone. I think the cops are smart to play it this way.”

  Sandy parked the car in front of a relatively modest house. I assumed we were as close to the bar of his choice as he thought we were likely to get. Parking in the Marina always means a bit of a hike.

  I reached for my door handle. Vodka over ice would be the smoothest thing in the world right now.

  He turned to me, making no motion to get out of the car. “Laura?”

  I stopped. His voice had a hear-me-out quality.

  “This is Megan Carter’s place.” He pointed behind him at a two-story stucco with four mailboxes beside the door.

  “The woman who threw the blood on me.”

  “Yuh. And maybe trashed your place.”

  “I was beginning to taste my drink. You know that?”

  “Next stop, the Balboa. I promise.”

  “What’s it going to accomplish, knocking at her door?” I hoped he wasn’t going to lay any man’s-gotta-do-what-a-man’s-gotta-do bullshit on me. “We’re not going to change her politics, you know that. And I’m tired. I’m pissed at her. I’ve got nothing to say to her except ‘Fuck you.’“ And I want that vodka.

  “You see her now, and you’ll know one way or the other whether you need to worry about her. For all you know, pouring blood on you is her new mission in life. Also find out if the blood was screened for AIDS. Plus, I’m along in case she gets weird.”

  I sighed. “I was hoping you’d give me some macho reason, so I could contemptuously dismiss it.”

  The front door was behind an ornate grille. We pressed a button labeled “No. 4 Carter.” My hope of imminent relaxation fled when an intercom speaker rasped, “Who is it, please?”

  Sandy gestured to me.

  “Laura Di Palma.” I almost added, Fuck you. “I want to talk to you about whether the blood you threw was HIV-screened.”

  Sandy nodded his approval. Easy enough for people to stay behind locked doors if they thought you were irrationally upset.

  Still, it must have been a full minute before she said, “All right.”

  When a buzz indicated the door had been unlocked, Sandy pushed it open. In addition to the electronically locked grille and front door, stickers on barred windows in the entryway proclaimed the house to be silent-alarm wired. Since the downstairs doors were labeled 1 and 2, we climbed to the next flight. Megan Carter stood inside her partially open door, her face as grim and hopeless as a prisoner’s.

  She was obviously displeased to see I had a companion. But she stood aside and let us enter her apartment.

  It was a studio, painted pale lemon, its wood floors waxed, and its windows draped with yellow-and-blue-striped curtains. The kitchen-area counters were tiled blue. Megan Carter’s landlord obviously had taste—and charged a hefty rent to exercise it.

  By contrast, Carter’s furniture was cheap a
nd sparse, with fruit crate end tables, flimsy directors’ chairs and a futon on an unvarnished frame. There was nothing on the walls, not a photograph or a print or a mirror. Most women in their forties had amassed more goods. I wondered if she’d left her household treasures elsewhere, maybe left a domestic partner with them.

  Her posture was of rigid challenge. “How did you find me? Did Pat tell you who I was?”

  In a T-shirt and leggings she looked fragilely thin. Her face was pale and drawn. She kept her distance from Sandy.

  “My friend”—I nodded toward him—“is a private investigator.”

  She seemed to shrink into herself when she addressed him. “How did you find me?”

  “Only one group in town throws blood of raped women. Pretty simple from there.” His tone was cool but not hostile; not what it might have been if she hadn’t looked afraid of him.

  “What do you want?” She addressed me now. “You’ve seen his videos—you know he promotes violence against women.” A husky tremolo seized her voice. “We don’t advocate censorship, that’s a media lie. We ask people to speak out in some way, in whatever way they’re comfortable. Many of us choose civil disobedience.”

  “What you did wasn’t civil disobedience. It was assault. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Now you know how it feels.”

  “How what feels? Rape? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know whether I’ve been raped. You don’t know anything about my motives for handling this case.”

  Her lips pinched and her nostrils flared. “You’re the one who doesn’t know anything: You don’t know what it’s like to grow up abused and get into the pornography industry because it’s more of the same. Or what it’s like to live in the street. Or what it’s like to finally get a break and get a job that lets you feel decent. To start a relationship and a family, and then have all that—everything you’ve worked for and care about—go up in smoke.”

  “I didn’t cause your problems.”

  “Can you say the same about Michael Hover?”

  “Yes.”

  “People always assume we’re coming from a position of innocence. They assume we’re trying to protect our own little puritan sweetness. But we’re not. We come from a position of experience, of inside knowledge.” She turned, paced the few steps into her kitchen area, then turned and paced back. “I’m a good person. I raised two boys—it’s not that I hate men, believe me. I always enjoyed my boys and their friends.” Gloom settled over her features. “Oh, I’d hear the remarks they made. I was aware of the damage being done to them. The way they talked about women—exactly the way television presents them, as T and A. I sat down to watch football with them one afternoon, and I got so discouraged. These were nice boys raised by smart women, and still they were brainwashed. That’s how powerful media images are. It reminded me of when I was in high school, going to James Bond movies with my dates and walking out afterward so depressed. All these impossibly beautiful women with nothing on their minds but lust. Having to act like that to be popular. Having to act like Pussy Galore. And what did I get for it?”

  Sandy and I exchanged glances.

  “I am a good person.” She blinked rapidly, focusing on me. “I hear what you’re saying about the blood. It’s not easy for me to do things like that. But someone’s got to shock people out of their complicity. If I shocked you into understanding who your client is …”

  “I have my own perceptions about who he is. And you can’t assault me into changing my mind.”

  She looked a little rattled. “You’re talking like a lawyer arguing a case. I’m talking about the reality of what happens to women because of Brother Mike. Can’t you see that?”

  “People make their own choices. It’s maternalistic of you to try to force your—”

  “Choice? They don’t have a choice. They’ve given that power away to him. Don’t you see? He wins their devotion and then persuades them into sexual behavior that’s alien to them, repugnant to them.” Her eyes grew bright with tears. “Haven’t you seen the videos? People are being obviously raped.” I wondered if she meant Gretchen. “For his profit. How can you defend that?”

  “I may have problems with the basis of their consent. But they did consent.”

  She took a disconcerted step backward. “So you’ll just sit by— no, worse than that—use your advocacy skills to defend violence against women?” Her tone was of genuine wonderment.

  I glanced at Sandy. The meeting was going exactly as I’d have predicted. But he was right. Megan Carter was no longer a scary unknown. I no longer feared her.

  Sandy spoke. “Was the blood HIV-screened?”

  “It’s my blood,” she informed us. Standing there, pale arms wrapped around herself, she didn’t look as if she had any to spare. “I’m HIV-negative. They tested me after I got”—a few deep breaths— “attacked. I didn’t know if I wanted them to. I had to wait six months, and the whole time I felt I’d go insane if they tested me and I came out positive. I wondered how I’d feel about cradling my grandchildren. Did I really believe it wasn’t transmittable? My partner wouldn’t get into the hot tub with me, and I didn’t blame him, really. But it did surprise me that after so many years together, all it took was a few months of depression to kill our relationship.”

  “You were going to put me through that.” I couldn’t keep the bitter anger out of my voice. “If I hadn’t stood up, if it had hit me in the face, if I hadn’t had a private detective to track you down—” I wanted to hit her. “Six months to find out it wasn’t tainted blood.”

  “Did you see anybody using condoms on those videos?” she countered. “Those women could be getting infected as well as raped.”

  “And that gives you the right to spread the worry to me?” I finally said what I’d come to say: “Fuck you.”

  “I’m a good person,” she repeated. “I’m a soldier. You have to be, to do any good in the world.”

  “Sandy, goddamn it.” You got me into this.

  “Did you break into Laura’s apartment?”

  Carter scowled at the pristine oak floor.

  Sandy took a menacing stride toward her. “Did you break in—”

  “Perhaps someone else in the group,” she said tersely. “We’re foot soldiers, not privy to the full strategy.”

  Who was their general? I wondered.

  “We exist to make a point,” she continued. “We don’t harm people.”

  “Bullshit!” Sandy’s voice was sour with contempt. “You throw blood on them.”

  “We wanted to make her think. Just like we made Michael Hover …”

  “Made Michael Hover think? How? What are you talking about?” I took a step closer. “Did one of your people handcuff him?”

  She crimped her lips as a child would: You can’t make me tell.

  “You sent somebody to the island to pose as a devotee, is that right? That’s how you found out I represent Hover. One of your people either saw me or heard about me there.”

  Again no answer. But her eyes gleamed a triumphant, yes!

  “What would you have done to him if he hadn’t called out? If there hadn’t been someone in the hall to respond?”

  “We don’t harm people,” she repeated.

  “You were just going to leave him handcuffed?”

  She said nothing. If the object had been to render him powerless, his “humiliation” had been brief. After running into me, Rhonda had gone upstairs and found him, unlocking him with a handcuff key of her own.

  “Unlike him “—her hatred italicized the word— “we don’t engage in violence.”

  “I need that drink, Sandy.”

  He opened the front door, motioning me out with a jerk of the head.

  As I stepped through, I had a sudden curiosity about the case Megan Carter had been urging Pat to take. But I was almo
st free of the mire now. I felt too tired and sullied to want to jump back in.

  Out in the car, Sandy apologized. “I know it was a drag. But at least you know what her trip is. Now she’s said her piece, maybe they won’t hassle you again. Right?” He looked guilty, in need of my reassurance.

  “I understand why you took me there. And yes, I feel comfortable about going back home now, which is good. But I’m not in a grateful mood, Sandy. Let me be pissed off awhile longer.”

  “I had another reason for wanting to talk to Carter. I think the Women’s Media Project taped the women, Laura. I think they went to The Back Door to lecture them, give them that slide show your lawyer friend described. Force them to sit through it.”

  “You think the Media Project killed them?” They seemed more prone to make a “statement” and run. As angry as I was, I couldn’t see Carter committing murder. Or maybe that would undermine my newly regained feeling of security. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it.

  “That’s what bothers me. Taping the women to face the stage: to me, that sounds like Carter and her group. Taping up the faces, no. No. I can’t see them doing that. So either it’s a coincidence this group’s on the warpath, or someone found those women taped and went for it. Killed them for reasons of their own.”

  Margaret? Had Margaret found the women bound to their seats? Had she taped the faces of her “rivals”?

  Sandy stopped at a light. He watched me. “What do you know that I don’t, Laura?”

  If it happened that way, I’d withheld key information from the police. I could be viewed as an accessory after the fact.

  There was only one way to make sure Sandy couldn’t be accused of the same: “Nothing.”

  He shook his head. When the light changed, he laid scratch getting me to a bar.

  28

  I went back to my apartment that night. I had enough alcohol in me to ignore the mess. I’d deal with it in the morning. Sandy was right: Confronting Megan Carter had given my fear context. Carter had done me very little harm. Especially compared to the injury she nursed.