Dead File (28 page)
As she’d expected, traffic was still light, the drive across town unimpeded. Moving westbound on Sunset, she thought about the Rose story. If Goodman Penthe was the key, then who shot Sandie Schaeffer, and why? She was anxious to hear for herself what Sandie had to say, now that she was talking.
She felt that she had established a good rapport with the Schaeffers. And in fact, she genuinely liked the father, and she was rooting for Sandie. Now, with the patient’s stepped-up progress, she hoped she could get Bill Schaeffer to agree to let her videotape his daughter for the news at some point.
“Hi, B.J.,” Maxi said to the nurse, who’d answered the door with a broad smile.
“Maxi Poole,” she said. “We’re expecting you. Come on in.”
“I brought the picture you asked for,” Maxi said, handing B.J. an envelope. It was an eight-by-ten color photo of the Channel Six news team. “Everybody signed it,” Maxi said. “Well, everybody except Rob Reordan.”
“Oh, too bad,” B.J. said, taking the envelope out of Maxi’s hand and leading her to Sandie’s room. “I’ve been watching Rob Reordan since I was in high school.”
“You and the rest of Southern California. He’s leaving the station. Going somewhere else.”
“He’s
leaving
Channel Six?” B.J. exclaimed, her eyes wide. “He
is
Channel Six! Where’s he going?”
“We don’t know yet.”
B.J. wouldn’t let it go. “
Why
is he going?” she demanded to know.
“Guess he thinks it’s time for a change.” She remembered that she had to tell Rob tonight that she couldn’t lend him any money. She wondered if anybody would.
B.J. pulled the photo out of the envelope. “Oh, this is terrific,” she exclaimed. “I’m going to frame it. Want some tea?”
“Tea would be great.”
They reached the door to Sandie’s room. Sandie was propped up in her hospital bed, her eyes locked on an afternoon soap on television. The leopard-skin makeup bag was still on the side table, along with lunch remains: a half-eaten sandwich on a plate and a glass of what could be lemonade. As Maxi entered the bedroom, Sandie turned to look at her, formed the beginning of a smile, and said, “Hello, Maxi.” She had makeup on, and lipstick. A huge difference in two days—her father hadn’t overstated.
“Hi, Sandie,” Maxi returned, dropping into one of the flowered chairs by the bed. “You look wonderful.”
“I feel good,” Sandie said, and she picked up the remote off the side table and punched the button to turn down the volume on the TV. Major strides, Maxi thought.
“Your dad told me how well you’re doing—”
“Gillian is dead,” Sandie said, still looking at the muted television screen, her eyes clouding over.
“Um … you remember that?”
“Bill told me.” Evidently she called her father Bill. “I watch the news.”
“Yes, Gillian is dead,” Maxi said, not sure if she should edit her remarks to Sandie, and if that were appropriate, having no idea what the rules were. She wished Schaeffer were here. But B.J. was in the room, bustling about, tidying up, treating Maxi like company. She was Sandie’s nurse, after all, and she hadn’t offered any objections to Maxi’s comments. Her father always spoke to Sandie as if she were fully functional. Maxi decided that she would, too.
“You’re the one who found Gillian,” she ventured.
“I’m going walking tomorrow morning,” Sandie said.
“Oh. That’s wonderful.”
“Bill’s taking me to the beach.”
“She walked some this morning,” B.J. offered cheerfully.
“And yesterday too, just around here. She gets tired fast. But her legs need using.”
B.J. was Southern. A transplant from New Orleans twenty years ago, she had lost the accent but not the idiom. “Tomorrow’s her first big trip,” she went on. “First time in the car. It’ll do her good. Right, dear?” she directed at Sandie.
“Right, dear,” the patient said, with another smile.
B.J. gave Maxi a pointed see-how-great-she’s-doing look and whooshed out the door to get tea.
“Sandie,” Maxi said, leveling her gaze into the patient’s slate-blue eyes then. “Who shot you?”
“Carter.”
“Carter Rose shot you?”
“Kendyl.”
“It was Kendyl?”
“Kendyl’s gloves.”
“Gloves?” Maxi echoed.
“Rubber gloves.”
Rubber gloves. Latex gloves? The way of the world today, Dr. Riker had said. Was the assailant wearing latex gloves? “Did you see gloves, Sandie?”
“Kendyl’s ring.”
“Who shot you?” Maxi asked her again.
“Going to walk on the beach.”
“Sandie, do you know who shot you? Did you see? Do you remember?”
“No.
No!
” Sandie shouted then as B.J. came back into the room with a tray—tea and cookies for Maxi, some crackers for Sandie.
“What’s wrong?” the nurse asked, concern etched on her face. She set the tray down on an end table next to Maxi’s chair and approached the bed. “Tell me, Sandie. What’s wrong, dear?”
No response. Sandie had let her head drop back on the pillow and closed her eyes. B.J. looked over at Maxi for an explanation.
“I don’t know,” Maxi offered. “She was talking, then she just shut down.”
“She’s been doing that,” B.J. said. “We’ll let her rest.”
Maxi leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea. She was glad the nurse didn’t ask her what she had been talking to Sandie about. She felt a small stab of guilt for asking her the big question. But she didn’t regret it.
B.J. settled into the other flowered chair, and she and Maxi chatted quietly. About Sandie’s splendid progress, about Bill Schaeffer’s wonderful dedication to his daughter, about today’s news, about how Maxi got her job at Channel Six, about B.J.’s growing-up years in Cajun country. After about twenty minutes, Maxi made moves to leave. Had to get back to the station, she said. She got up and gave B.J. a hug.
As she turned to whisper good-bye to the half-sleeping patient, Sandie opened her eyes just a little and murmured, “Come tomorrow.”
“Me?” Maxi asked, pointing a thumb at her own chest.
“Come tomorrow, Maxi.”
“I will,” she said. And to B.J., “Okay?”
Maxi swung her Corvette away from the Schaeffer driveway and headed east on Sunset, then south on the 405 and inbound on the Santa Monica Freeway toward downtown. Still not a lot of traffic at midafternoon on the day after New Year’s; if there had been, she wouldn’t have attempted this excursion downtown before rushing back to the station for the Six. She wanted to have a word with the warm and friendly Kendyl Scott, maybe toss out a veiled accusation, see how it flew. And she wanted to get a look at the woman’s ring.
A
livid Kendyl Scott couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Carter on his cell phone making fucking mash plans with what sounded like some Hawaiian bimbo.
He’d neglected to punch off the intercom after she’d updated him on his next day’s agenda a few minutes ago, and the system was still on speakerphone. She could have gone in and pushed the OFF button for him, but she’d decided to wait a bit, listen in a little. Not for too long, because he’d eventually figure it out, and he’d be angry that she’d let it go on knowing the sound was filtering into her outer office. If he came out in a dudgeon she’d say that she’d been in the rest room and wasn’t aware. Meantime, he’d made three calls in succession on his cell.
The first was to Goodman Penthe in Baltimore confirming their meeting in Los Angeles on Monday. Kendyl could have done that, but Carter had probably wanted to give Penthe the personal touch. The second was to his mother in New York, who was taking Gillian’s death very hard. And the third was to the woman.
Kendyl had been just casually listening to Carter’s low-pitched conversation, all the while poised to run into his office and punch off the intercom for him. Then her ears pricked up as she honed in on his side of the call. “Leilani, I can’t wait to see you. Did my driver pick you up at the airport okay? How’s your suite? Did my flowers arrive? I hope you packed the red lace negligee I gave you. Sweet Leilani, did you bring me a lei?” He’d chuckled at that. “Never mind, baby—have I got a lei for you! Tonight, darling.”
Her initial instinct was to march into his office and throw his damn ring at him, but that wasn’t her style. Kendyl had never been hotheaded. She was definitely cool. But now she was definitely done.
She looked down at the colossal yellow rock. It didn’t signify commitment; it represented hush money. In her heart, she’d known that—she just hadn’t wanted to believe it.
She believed it now. Finally. He had no intention of marrying her. And even if he did, he would never stop cheating. He cheated on Gillian, didn’t he? Had she really thought he would change? What a joke.
Angrily, she realized that the joke was on her. He was dangling her. Making her believe she was still in the tent. That she was the
only
woman in his tent. But the sonofabitch couldn’t wait to get into another woman’s red lace negligee.
Something in the deep reaches of her brain clicked off. For good, she knew. And surprisingly, she actually felt a wave of relief. Even strength. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and removed her purse, went into her closet and retrieved her suit jacket, and headed calmly for the door.
That’s when it opened.
“Hello, Ms. Scott.” The words sounded like a confrontation. It was that reporter, Maxi Poole.
“I was just leaving,” Kendyl said curtly.
“I want to talk to you,” Maxi said. “I’ll walk with you.” The reporter turned and followed Kendyl out the door.
“I really don’t have time right now,” Kendyl tossed back at her. “You should make an appointment. Mr. Rose is in, if you came to see him.” Kendyl kept walking toward the penthouse elevator.
“I came to see
you,
” Maxi persisted. She jumped into the express elevator with Kendyl before the door closed.
Alone together in the small, descending car, the reporter had her full attention. Squaring off to face her, Maxi said, “Sandie Schaeffer spoke to me this morning. She remembers.”
Kendyl felt her stomach lurch, but she remained outwardly cool. “And what does that have to do with me?” she asked.
“Oh, I think you know,” Maxi said evenly. “Sandie saw your ring.”
Both women inadvertently looked down at Kendyl’s hands. She was wearing not one, but two, large, distinctively shaped rings. On her left hand, the yellow diamond. And on her right, her college ring with its heavy, round metal globe and dark blue stone.
Kendyl’s eyes remained on that one for a beat, and the realization hit her:
That’s
how Sandie had known it was her! On the hand that held the gun, under the latex glove, Sandie had recognized the shape of the sizable college ring she always wore.
The elevator door opened on the ground floor. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said to Maxi, then turned away and hurried across the lobby. Now she knew exactly what she had to do. And she would use Carter’s damned diamond ring to pay her lawyers’ bills.
M
axi and Wendy sat silently on the couch in Pete Capra’s locked office, staring up at the bank of monitors. It was six-forty, after the early block, and they were about to view the newsroom security tape Jim Murphy had sent up. Pete dropped the cassette into the VCR, then sat down behind his desk and hunkered forward, elbows on the cluttered surface, hands clasped together, waiting for the tape to roll.
The middle screen came to life, displaying a grainy, black-and-white picture of an empty room. Wendy’s office.
The three watched as the minutes stretched on, watched nothing happening in the semidarkened room, lit only by lights from the outer newsroom shining through the glass windows. Then the hint of a shadow moved across the floor. They realized it was the shadow of the office door opening out of camera range. There was no sound on the tape. On-screen, they watched a figure walk into the room and move to the desk, and sit down in Wendy’s chair in front of her computer terminal.
It was Rob Reordan.
All three reacted with shocked cries. Pete flew out of his chair and pounced on the playback machine, punched STOP, and rewound the tape. He yanked the cassette out of the machine and peered at the label. “Twelve/twenty-six,” he read aloud. “One
A.M.
to one-thirty
A.M.
” He shoved the tape back into the slot, punched PLAY, fast-forwarded through the first ten minutes of inactivity, then stood to the side of the monitor.
This time they watched the tape play through. Watched Rob Reordan clicking on computer keys, bending down to insert a floppy in the disk drive, glancing periodically at his watch, drinking from a bottle of water he’d put on the desk, clicking on the keyboard some more—for the next sixteen minutes and twenty-two seconds. Then he popped the diskette out of the drive, got up from the desk and slipped it into his coat pocket, picked up his water bottle, walked across the screen, and disappeared out of frame.
Pete reached over and punched STOP, then REWIND. Then leaned his elbow on top of the monitor system and silently faced the two women, his expression a mask of compressed rage. Very unlike Pete Capra, who wasn’t given to holding back fury. But this affected his station and everybody who worked for him. When this scandal got out, and of course it would, it would be national news: Veteran anchor steals book written by colleague and attempts to have it published. It was the kind of story that would be all over the local and network news, all over the wall-to-wall cable programs, all over the radio talk shows, all over the country. With pictures. And interviews.
“Stupid motherfucker,” was all Pete muttered, almost under his breath.
“I can’t believe this,” Maxi whispered, her hand to her mouth. “Didn’t anybody see him go into Wendy’s office?”
“One in the morning—everybody on nightside had probably left by then,” Wendy said.
“Besides,” Capra put in, “Reordan’s the five-hundred-pound canary. Nobody would ever question him.”
“But … how could he turn the book over so fast?” from Maxi.
Wendy had tears in her eyes. “Easy,” she said. “It was all laid out for him. Riff through it on the disk and change half the wording. Switch some chapters around, cut and paste. Maybe he hired somebody to do it for him, passed it off as his own work. Or got one of his kids to do it. Everybody knew we’d be finished with it soon and my agent would be sending it around. He had to beat me to it. And,” she finished mournfully, “he did.”
