Death Rattle

by Alex Gilly

  “Yes. He was a decent bloke then. Although knowing what I know now, he was probably fucking all the other waitresses, too.”

  Mona remembered Maws’s leer in his office. “I understand that this house is in your name—”

  “Too right!”

  “—and that the court decided that Mr. Maws has to pay the mortgage on the house, in addition to a substantial alimony.”

  “You know a lot, don’t you?”

  “I assume it’s the money he receives from the BSCA that allows him to afford all that?”

  Katrina took another sip of coconut water. “Frankly, I don’t care where he gets the money as long as he pays it. But yes, the prison contract is his big earner.”

  After a pause, Katrina said, “You know he was spending a lot of money before we got divorced, right? Not just after?”

  “Do you know what for?”

  “I do, unfortunately.”

  Mona must’ve looked puzzled because Katrina elaborated, “He was spending hundreds of dollars a week on hookers. He is what people here call a ‘sex addict’ and what people back home call a ‘dirty dog.’ You want to know how I found out? He gave me herpes.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that,” said Mona.

  “Not as sorry as I was. My gynecologist told me that herpes means creep in Ancient Greek. My gynecologist has a dark sense of humor.”

  “And all the money he was spending back then, where was he getting it? Before he made the deal with the BSCA, I mean,” asked Mona.

  “He was taking it from the restaurant. We were making decent money back then. Not like now, but still, we were doing well. But we kept running out of cash. I was doing the books by then, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. Now I know. I still don’t know how he found the time to do it. Do you know how time-consuming it is running a restaurant? Anyway. When he got the catering deal, that’s when the big money started flooding in. And that’s when he really let loose.”

  “What can you remember about the deal?” asked Mona.

  “I was pregnant with our first child. One day in the middle of my first trimester, Ed comes home from a boozy lunch and says we’re selling the restaurant and setting up a catering operation. I said that didn’t seem like a wise idea. We had worked hard to get the restaurant to where it was, and it was finally going well. But he was adamant. He told me that we would make ten times what we were making with the restaurant. ‘We’ll be in a different league,’ he said. He said he’d worked out all the details already. I had morning sickness all day long, I had trouble thinking straight, so I didn’t put up much resistance. But I was worried. He had this look about him. A weird spark.”

  She finished her coconut water and poured herself another before continuing, “Turned out, he was right. We sold the restaurant, he set up the catering business, and right from the start, we started making buckets of money. I mean, an absolute fortune. Within a year, we left our little apartment in Santa Monica and bought this house. Ed wanted to live near where he grew up, near his parents. And he wanted Archie—our son—to go to the same school he went to, Saint Ignatius, which is just down the road.”

  “Were you involved with the new business?” asked Mona.

  “No. Archie was born, and I was busy looking after him. And then Vanessa, our daughter, came along, so that was it for my career. You have children?”

  Mona shook her head.

  “Well, I had no idea what was happening at the company, and I didn’t really have the headspace to know, I was so busy with the kids,” continued Katrina. “All I knew was that Ed was bringing home truckloads of money. I guess I figured, well, this is what’s supposed to happen in America, right? People make loads of money fast? I suppose I could’ve tried to find out more, but why would I? I was busy with the kids, I had a beautiful house, my life was perfect. Then one day, my gynecologist told me I had herpes.” She shook her head.

  Mona asked, “Katrina, in January of 2016, your ex-husband starting making frequent trips to Tijuana. Do you know why?”

  “Yes. That’s when he started the catering business. He said he had to go to Mexico to see his ‘suppliers.’” She put air quotes around suppliers.

  “His last trip was in August of last year. Do you know why he stopped going?” Mona held her breath. Was there a link with Carmen?

  “Yes. Because one of his ‘suppliers’ gave him herpes.” Katrina laughed cynically. “Do you know what bareback means? In Mexico, Ed was paying women extra for unprotected sex. Apparently, hookers here insist on condoms, and that just wasn’t good enough for Ed. That’s how he got herpes. I got diagnosed in August last year. When he found out I had it—and that he’d given it to me—he stopped going. At least, he said he did. I don’t know. I kicked him out of the house straightaway. We were divorced within a year.”

  She slipped into a moment of reflection.

  “You know, he wasn’t always like he is now. When he was getting the Dining Room off the ground, he worked really hard to make it work. I think to prove to his father he could do it. His parents are conservative people. Catholics. His dad was an engineer. Anyway … the money changed him. For one thing, he started working less. For another, he became showy. Like he was trying to make an impression on people, especially his father. I think that’s why we bought this house. We never needed six bedrooms, you know. Even Michael thought it was over the top. Have you spoken to Michael yet?”

  “Michael?”

  “Michael Marvin? The CEO of BSCA? He was the one who came to Ed with the catering contract. Michael’s the one you should talk to. He and Ed are old friends. In fact, they were at Saint Ignatius together.”

  Mona asked in what she hoped was a composed tone if Katrina had an address or phone number for Michael Marvin. The sweaty blonde put down her coconut water and reached for her iPhone. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “I’m not sure I should,” she said. “Michael’s the school’s most generous donor. I don’t want to get him into trouble. Also, to be quite frank, I depend on AmeriCo, you know. For my income.”

  “I appreciate your candor. I’ll be frank, too; your ex-husband has some awkward questions to answer—especially if it turns out that Marvin doesn’t know about the transfer. But this isn’t about protecting Edward Maws or even Michael Marvin. This is about what happened to Carmen Vega.”

  Katrina Wakefield pondered this. Mona could almost see her weighing her self-interest against her desire to hurt Ed Maws. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can give you Michael’s number. But I can introduce you to him.”

  “That would be fine, too,” said Mona.

  “Are you free tomorrow night? Saint Ignatius is having its annual fund-raiser, and Michael will be there. He’s chairman of the school board. I can seat you next to him, if you like, at table 1, right by the stage. I’m on the organizing committee.”

  “I would like nothing better,” said Mona.

  Katrina smiled, obviously pleased with the compromise she had devised. “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mona got up to leave. A thought occurred to her. “Will your ex-husband be there?” she asked.

  Katrina’s face clouded over. “Yes, unfortunately. But don’t worry, he’s on table 28. By the toilets.”

  * * *

  Mona sat in her RAV outside Katrina Wakefield’s Tudor mansion in Yorba Linda and processed what she had learned over the last four days: on Tuesday, she had spotted a suspiciously large payment made by the Border Security Corporation of America to its catering company, AmeriCo; on Wednesday, she had intuited that the boss of the catering company, Edward Maws, had something to hide; on Thursday, she had learned that Maws required a great deal of money to meet his divorce obligations, as well as the imperious demands of his sex addiction; today, Friday, she had learned that Maws had gone to school with the CEO of AmeriCo.

  Katrina Wakefield had said that Marvin had brought Maws the contract. Mona remembered the picture of Marv
in she had seen in the LA Times, with his white teeth and puffer jacket. Maws was a small-time restaurateur. Marvin was CEO of a multibillion-dollar company and had been nominated by the president to be secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. What did Maws have that Marvin could possibly want?

  Mona knew what she should do next. She should take everything she had to the attorney general. What she should do, she thought, is drive straight downtown and see Marius Littlemore, an old friend from law school, now a prosecutor in the AG’s office. She should tell Marius about the 5.8 million, about the lack of a legitimate tender process for the catering contract, and about the fact that Maws and Marvin were at school together. That’s what she should do. Let Marius do his job and investigate the suspicious payment, while she did hers and prosecuted her wrongful death case.

  It would be a huge story—the president’s nominee for secretary of Homeland Security accused of corruption. The LA Times would run op-eds.

  So why was she still sitting in her car, hesitating? She felt like a teen standing on a bluff, looking down at the lake below. Her friends were yelling for her to jump, but the water was dark. She couldn’t tell if there were hidden rocks. On the face of it, there was no obvious connection between the $5.8 million and Carmen’s death. But what if there was? She knew that if she took what she knew to the attorney general and this thing blew up, in the furor that would follow, Carmen would be forgotten. The story would become about Marvin, about the hubris of the mighty and their inevitable fall. No one would care about a dead asylum-seeker who may or may not have been a Tijuana hooker. The earth is crammed with the bodies of forgotten murdered women. Mona had made a solemn vow to Carmen’s mother. She had to put the wrongful death suit first, to make sure that Carmen’s sister, Clara, lived the life that Carmen never would. She had to fight for Carmen first; only then could she go after Marvin.

  Mona decided on her course of action. She would not go to the attorney general today. Instead, she would write down everything she knew, and then she would file it away, ready to send to Marius all wrapped up in a nice red bow. Meanwhile, she would get on with her lawsuit. If it turned out that the payment to AmeriCo had something to do with Carmen’s case, then she would know that she had made the right decision. If it didn’t, if the two things weren’t connected, then she would go to Marius and show him what she’d found. But until she had the answers she wanted, she would obey her gut.

  Mona started her car and headed for Neiman Marcus. If she was going to attend a fund-raising ball at an elite private school, she needed something to wear.

  SIXTEEN

  ON Saturday evening, sitting in the passenger seat of Finn’s truck, wearing a green velvet gown, Mona looked out at the vast lawns of Saint Ignatius Loyola Academy in Yorba Linda, the grass gleaming in the setting sun, and could see why the school needed to raise money. The school looked like England. Only the occasional eucalyptus stood as reminders that they were actually in Southern California.

  “Imagine how much water they use to keep all this from turning brown,” she said to Finn, who was wearing a tuxedo. Finn nodded, but said nothing. He’d been low-spirited ever since Gomez had called with the terrible news of Leela’s death. Mona knew he hadn’t wanted to come tonight, and that he wsa doing so for her sake.

  According to the information sheet that Katrina Wakefield had sent Mona along with the tickets, the fund-raiser was taking place in the school’s great hall. They drove up a graveled drive to a vast building built in a Gothic Revival style that wouldn’t have been out of place at an Ivy League university, and pulled up under its portico. A young man in school uniform opened Mona’s door. Finn walked around the back of the truck and gave her his arm. Mona stepped out. Heads turned.

  They made their way up the stone steps. Mona stopped for a moment to read the quote scrolled in the stone over the doorway: Go forth and set the world on fire. They walked past a bust of a stern-looking man in clerical garb, whom Mona assumed was Saint Ignatius. Inside, people made a path. A complete stranger with champagne floating off her breath teetered up to Mona and said, “Oh my goodness, darling, you look ravishing!”

  Mona gave the woman the kind of imperturbable smile she’d seen celebrities give the fans crammed behind the velvet rope on Oscars night. She and Finn followed the flow of people down a wood-paneled corridor hung with scrolled honor rolls and photos of schoolboys standing in neat rows.

  Katrina Wakefield appeared in a long, midnight-blue gown so spectacular that for a moment Mona didn’t recognize her. She looked like a film star, from her bare shoulders to the trailing hem of her dress. She seemed happy to see them. Mona felt a twinge of guilt about what she was planning to do that night.

  “Come, I want to show you something,” said Katrina in a conspiratorial tone. She led them over to a framed photo on the wall. The photo was of nine adolescent boys in a racing shell—eight big ones holding oars, and one small one facing the other way. Katrina pointed at the first boy holding an oar.

  “That’s Michael,” she said.

  Mona saw a good-looking teenager with dark, wavy hair holding an oar and looking directly at the camera. He was wearing a crew singlet, which revealed big biceps. Everything about the young man radiated assertiveness, from his steady, intelligent gaze to his pulled-back shoulders and puffed-out chest. Even his hair looked imperious.

  “And that’s Ed,” said Katrina, pointing at another boy three seats farther toward the front of the boat.

  Mona recognized a much-younger Edward Maws. He was also wearing a crew singlet, and his muscles were, if anything, even bigger than Marvin’s. But there was a hesitancy in his face, a slump in his shoulders that belied the pumped-up brawn he was so obviously trying to project.

  “Do you know how long Marvin and your ex-husband crewed together?” asked Mona.

  “Oh, three or four years at least. They used to talk about it endlessly every time they got together. The way they talked, you’d think their time rowing that boat was the best time of their lives,” said Katrina.

  “They did win a lot of trophies,” she continued as though to make up for the note of resentment she’d let slip into her previous comment. “I think rowing in a crew creates a tight bond. It’s hard work.”

  Mona thought about that. “Did they continue crewing after school? In college?” she asked.

  “Michael did. He was especially good. In fact, he won a crew scholarship to Stanford.”

  “Did Maws go to Stanford, too?” said Mona.

  “Ed? God, no. He was just the muscle, I’m afraid. Michael has brawn as well as brains. That’s why he rowed in this position, in what they call stroke, which means he set the pace. All those other boys followed his lead.”

  Mona pointed to the small boy at the back, the only one facing forward, whose face was not visible.

  “What about this guy? He’s not holding an oar. What does he do?”

  Just then, Champagne Breath returned and accosted Katrina before she could reply. Mona and Finn gently edged away and continued into the great hall.

  They threaded their way through beautifully decorated tables toward the stage, checking the numbers written in calligraphy on cards perched atop bouquets of flowers at the center of each table. Just like Katrina Wakefield had told her, table 1 was right by the stage. Mona recognized Marvin from the photo of him arriving at Davos—the wavy hair, the snowfields tan. He was sitting with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, looking over what Mona assumed was the speech he was due to give.

  “That’s him,” she said. Finn gave Mona an encouraging press on the back. Then he reached into his inside pocket—Mona’s dress didn’t allow for pockets—and handed her an envelope. Seeing Marvin in the flesh dissolved any lingering pangs of conscience Mona felt toward Katrina Wakefield.

  “Michael Marvin?” she said.

  The man looked up over his reading glasses. He looked displeased at the interruption. There was a lull in the conversation. The other people at the table
all turned toward the beautiful woman in the green velvet gown.

  “Yes?” said Marvin.

  Mona dropped the envelope on his lap.

  “You’ve been served,” she said.

  SEVENTEEN

  “WOLFESON, White. Jesus,” said Joaquin. He hustled around the table in the conference room of the Juntos office in Boyle Heights and adjusted the spacing between the chairs. It was just before ten on Tuesday, the fourteenth of May. Ten days had passed since Mona had served Michael Marvin in front of three hundred people in evening wear. Eight had passed since Wolfeson, White had contacted Mona to say that the BSCA had appointed the firm to defend it against her suit.

  “How many people did they say?” said Joaquin.

  “They didn’t,” said Mona.

  A cloud passed over Joaquin’s face. “Maybe we won’t have enough chairs.”

  “I’ve got chairs in my office. So do you. We’ll bring them in if we need them.”

  She knew why he was anxious. At first, she had been anxious, too. Neither Mona nor Joaquin had ever encountered Wolfeson, White in court before, but they both knew the firm by its reputation for producing some of the most fearsome litigators in the country. The moment Joaquin had learned who was representing the BSCA, he had tried to persuade Mona to drop the case. He’d stood in the hallway of the poky, cheaply fitted-out Juntos office and moved his hands nonstop, running them through his hair, even clenching them into fists to emphasize how outmatched he felt they were against Wolfeson, White.

  “They’ll kill us in court. That’s if the case even makes it to court,” he said now in the conference room, speaking louder than Mona suspected he realized. “Because they’re going to do everything they can to keep it from going to court. You realize that, right?”

  Mona said she realized that. She wanted to say more, but Joaquin kept rolling. He was verging on manic.

  “Wolfeson, White. Jesus,” he said again. “Don’t they represent Exxon? They probably represent Exxon. And Halliburton. Or Monsanto. Or Big Tobacco. One of those. Maybe all of them. They’re gonna drown us, Mona. Like kittens in a sack. They’ll depose and delay. They’ll request endless documents. They’ll get teams of lawyers to do nothing but draft things that you’ll have to respond to. We’ll have to work insane hours to keep up, and even then it won’t be enough.”