Dead File (20 page)

“Well, let’s go see it. Because we are latter-day Ya-Yas.”

Maxi thought about that hypothetical sweeps series idea as she rolled down Beverly Glen to Ventura Boulevard. And she thought about Richard. The problem with her particular relationship status was that she wanted to be with a man who was off limits, and wanting to be with him made her not open to a nice guy who might be available to her. A Catch-22 situation. Someday maybe she’d figure it out. Maybe she and Wendy should actually do that series. Maybe they’d learn something.

After the movie, Maxi and Wendy wandered over to City Walk, Universal Studios’ futuristic village all ablaze in hot pink, sunburst orange, lime green, purple, raspberry, and lemon neon—signs in motion, fountains spurting, music blaring. The place was teeming with Saturday nightlife: young people on dates, families with kids, gay couples strolling, singles looking to meet and greet. The two ducked into Dizzy’s for a glass of wine.

They spotted Doug Kriegel a few tables over, sipping ice cream sodas with his wife and two boys. Wendy yelled to them over the jukebox and the general din. All four Kriegels enthusiastically waved back.

“Now
that’s
a family,” Maxi said to Wendy.

“Yup. Jealous?”

“A little. I envy what he has. Doug is so centered.”

“So … someday,” Wendy pronounced with a great big “maybe” smile.

“Who knows? Who knows if I even really want that. Do you?”

“No. I don’t have time.”

“Oh, come on—”

“No, seriously,” Wendy protested. “I don’t mean that I don’t have time for some lovely evenings like they’re having,” she said with a nod toward the Kriegels. “What I don’t have time for is the aggravation. And Maxi, we both know that there’s
always
the aggravation.”

Maxi thought about Richard for a minute. She couldn’t even imagine him annoying her, or fighting with her. Would he? Would she get on his nerves? Would he bore her after a while? Not possible, she was sure of it. Ha. Beginnings were always pie in the sky.

Wendy was looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Don’t even
think
about it,” she said.

“About
what?
”

“You know what. Don’t even think about getting into a relationship with a certain good-looking stud reporter.”

“Wendy, how could you even—”

“How could I
not!
” Wendy interrupted. “You know I know you, Max—it’s a Ya-Ya thing. And I repeat: Don’t even
think
about it.”

“I’m not,” Maxi insisted, knowing that she was having a hard time thinking about anything else.

The Kriegels bopped over to their table on their way out of the restaurant. There were big hi’s, air kisses, and high fives tossed around. Doug’s wife Barbro was a Swedish beauty, graceful and serene, while the kids were two bundles of compressed energy.

“Maxi, let’s grab a bite on Monday night after the Six,” Doug said. “Barb’s taking the kids to her mom’s in San Francisco tomorrow for the rest of Christmas break, and I’ve got some interesting stuff for you on Rose International.”

“You’re on,” Maxi said.

“Musso’s?” Everybody knew that the legendary Musso & Frank on Hollywood Boulevard was Doug Kriegel’s favorite restaurant.

“Okay,” Maxi said. “I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty.”

“At your own risk,” Barbro said to Maxi with a twinkle, and the kids broke out in spasms of laughter. Dinner with Kriegel was always an adventure. His appetite was as gigantic as his hearty laugh, and he usually ended up eating his, yours, and some from the next table if he could get away with it.

“I’ll take care of him Monday night,” Maxi told Barbro and the kids. “But otherwise he’s on his own. Don’t stay away too long, you guys.”

“Petey will take care of Dad,” one of the boys piped up, and they both dissolved into laughter again. Petey was the family’s six-pound Maltese poodle.

“These kids are
so
Doug,” Wendy remarked with a big grin.

“Yup. My three boys,” Barbro said, laughing, her eyes full of pride and love. Maxi and Wendy watched the Kriegels as they headed for the door, Doug with his arm around Barbro, the two kids skipping in front.

“Someday?” Wendy said to Maxi.

“Sure. Someday.”

“Meantime, do not even
think
about Mr. New York Cool.”

“I swear to you, Wendy, I’m not,” Maxi said. She glanced down at her hand in her lap and crossed her fingers.

39

S
unday. God’s gift to the working girl. No wonder Sunday Trent’s mother named her after this glorious seventh day, Maxi mused. She lolled at the table in her tiny breakfast nook over grapefruit juice, English muffins and raspberry jam, a pot of coffee, the
Sunday Times,
and her dog stretched out on the rug at her feet.

She’d loosely structured her Sunday. Relax, feed Yukon, jog, relax, go to the dog park, shop for groceries, relax, work on sweeps series, relax, heat up the chicken, spinach, and carrots combo she would pick up at Rosti’s for dinner, watch
The Sopranos
and
Six Feet Under
on HBO, relax, shower, and fall into bed with her novel. Perfect.

For a few seconds she pondered how a man could fit into the equation, then dismissed the thought. And wondered if she would always be torn over that particular lifestyle-choice conundrum. No—she just needed a little more distance from her last marriage. Didn’t she?

The dog park at Mulholland and Laurel Canyon was crowded, as was usual by Sunday midmorning. Yukon stood impatiently while Maxi unhooked his leash; then he dashed out onto the flats to terrify a pair of sweet, long-eared cocker spaniels. After their hasty, shocked retreat to between the legs of a young man who was reclining on the grass under a lush willow tree, obviously their owner, Yuke gave the two a doggie “Just kidding” smirk and wandered back over to Maxi.

“You’re five years old,” she scolded him. “Grow up.”

Yukon gave her his “innocent” eyes and sat himself down to survey the scene. Figure out what mischief he could get into next.

“Just like a man,” Maxi muttered to him. “Territorial, smug, put-upon innocent, a big show-off.”

She put a hand on Yukon’s upright back, and chastised herself for characterizing men again. But her beloved pet did have all those crazy-making male traits, for sure. Had to be a gender thing.

“Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em, can’t shoot ’em,” she said out loud. Then looked up to see a plumpish woman with a big English sheepdog peering curiously at her. At both her
and
her dog, actually.

Maxi smiled sweetly at them, with the intention of conveying to the pair not to worry, it was perfectly normal to talk out loud to your dog.

“Come on, you nut ball, let’s get it on with the Frisbee,” she said to Yukon then, getting up and heading onto the green, the disk in her hand and her pup trotting lovingly at her heels. Just like a man. They could be so damn annoying and at the same time so wonderfully lovable.

She tossed the Frisbee out to an open space and Yuke sailed over to leap up and retrieve it. And bring it back to her, enormously proud of himself. And wait at her feet for her pat of approval.
Soooo
like the man he was.

Maxi was about to toss the thing again when she saw another dog bounding purposefully toward Yukon.
Look out,
she told herself. He must have pissed off a dog his own size this time. Then she recognized the sleek golden retriever, wavy, strawberry-blond coat gleaming in the sun, and the pooch’s owner, who was running behind him: Sylvie Tran from Channel Six, the weekend anchor who wrote children’s books.

“Hey, you two,” Sylvie called.

“Hi, Syl,” Maxi responded. “What’s happening?”

Both women stopped for a beat to watch their dogs interact. Yukon and Goda had met several times before, always at the dog park on Sunday mornings. First they kind of growled, circling each other; then they closed in and did a little friendly nose-to-nose. Then they bolted out a few feet from their mistresses to cavort together.

Sylvie responded to Maxi’s “What’s happening?” in typical newsese. “The Arizona fires are still going—four hundred and sixty-three homes burned to the ground, can you believe? I’m sure we’ll lead the March with that.” The Sunday newscast always expanded to fill the time after whatever sporting event the station was carrying, and because it would often go on for longer than two hours, staffers referred to the show as “the March of Death.”

“Look, our guys are making nice,” Maxi said, her eyes on their two pups playing on the grass. At the dog park it was never a good idea to take your eyes off your pet for even a second. That’s when the doggie war of the century was sure to break out.

“My editor told me she saw a copy of Wendy’s manuscript,” Sylvie said, watching the dogs frolic. “She says it was submitted under a different name. Did Wendy decide to use a pseudonym, keep her book separate from the business? I’d thought of doing that at first, but with the books I write, my news connection actually lends some credibility.”

Sylvie’s children’s books featured animals that had been in the news, like a dolphin who regularly swims with a kids’ swim class in San Diego, a Lassie dog who saved her family from a fire in Denver, a whale that got beached off Puget Sound, then with the help of the whole village, made it back to the ocean with a big smile on his face.

Maxi looked perplexed. “Funny, Wendy didn’t mention that
DBD
was already being marketed. I thought she was still working on it.”

“Well, this has to be Wendy’s book. About short people. When she asked me about agents, I recommended Robin Ruell, so I figured Robin must have submitted it to publishers.”

“How did your editor see it? She just handles children’s books, right?”

“Yes, but I’d mentioned Wendy’s book to her back then because I thought it was such a fun idea—Harriet is five-two. So when a colleague showed her a copy of the manuscript, she remembered it. She told me it was going to be auctioned, and she hoped her company would get it. I was going to congratulate Wendy.”

Maxi held her cell phone to her ear as she steered her clunky old Chevy Blazer while Yukon, his head out the window, balanced on the passenger seat beside her. They were tooling over the ruts and potholes on Laurel Canyon on their way to Rosti’s to pick up dinner.

“Wendy, I just ran into Sylvie Tran at the dog park. She told me her publisher had a copy of your manuscript. Said her editor mentioned that people were buzzing about it, it was coming up for bid—”

“Not possible,” Wendy cut in. “We’re not even finished with it. If we’d submitted it to publishers, believe me, Max, you’d be the first to know.”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but this sure
sounds
like your book, Wen. Sylvie said it was aimed at short people. How to look and feel tall. Her editor even said they were kidding on the square about getting a foreword by Randy Newman.”

“God, if somebody beat me out with this idea, I’ll kill myself,” Wendy anguished.

“Uh-uh. That the exact same project would surface at the exact time? Too much of a coincidence.”

“Then … what?” Wendy stammered.

“Who’s got access to your home computer files?”

Silence. They both knew the answer.

“I’ll call Robin as soon as New York opens for business. At six in the morning,” Wendy said soberly. “She’ll find out what’s going on.”

40

T
en to nine on Monday morning. Maxi had just come into the newsroom; Wendy was already at her desk.

“Find out anything?” Maxi asked as she pulled up her usual chair next to Wendy’s.

“Not yet. Robin knew nothing about it. She’s looking into it.”

“So, meantime—”

“So yes, of course I changed all my passwords,” Wendy said, anticipating Maxi’s question. “I just hope I didn’t shut the damn barn door too late.”

“Are you working the Eleven tonight?”

“No. Neither are you, Max. Pete has you on the football expansion team conference live on the Noon, then on recuts for the early block. Sports will mix it for the Eleven.”

“Then I’d better get downtown—that one’s going to be a mob scene.”

“Yeah. You know, I’m sick about this, Maxi.”

“Don’t be. If this really is what we’re both thinking, nobody could possibly get away with it,” she said. But she could see by the look on Wendy’s face that her friend wasn’t convinced. And neither was she.

Maxi maneuvered in the jostle-fest with the rest of the newsies at Staples Center. Her cameraman, Bart Jackson, was shooting a group of the city’s wealthy, pin-striped, businessmen–sports moguls up onstage, as well as the noisy crowd of regular Joes on the floor of the massive amphitheater. The usual media crush was dwarfed by the milling Angelinos; seems everybody in L.A. wanted a professional football franchise for the city, and a lot of folks, mostly men, had taken the morning off and come to the giant arena to make their feelings known.

While jockeying to line up his live shot, the sports anchor for Channel Thirteen, Bob Avila, jammed the heel of his steel-tipped cowboy boot hard and square on Maxi’s foot. Avila was an overweight, overwrought, overbearing guy whose arrogance clung to him like an aura. When Maxi whimpered in pain, he looked at her with just the slightest disdain and said, “Hey, Poole, how come they sent a chick out on a guy story? You could get hurt.”

And how come you’re such a sexist asshole?
is what she thought. “Hi, Bob,” is what she said.

Maxi had long since learned that it was a whole lot easier not to cultivate enemies among the L.A. news gang—you were going to run into these same people for years. Like most women in the business, even though their numbers were almost equal to the men’s now, her MO was to just suck it up. Thankfully, the Bob Avilas of television news made up a small minority. Maxi put their swinish attitudes down to some kind of basic insecurity. Most of the men she worked alongside were respectful and professional.

She got her shots and voiced her story from Staples Center, live on the News at Noon. Then she labeled her tape and dropped it in her tote, thanked her cameraman, pushed through the crowd back to the parking structure, found her car, and navigated the downtown freeways on her way back to the station. Her day had just begun.