“It’s even worse up here. The town’s so small, none of us can manage to avoid the press. Do you have a way to get in touch with Guy? We’re here for him if he needs us. We don’t want him to lose his footing in the stress of the situation.”
“Let me see if I can find a way to get through. I guess this is his fifteen minutes of fame, though frankly, I can’t understand why the story’s generating so much attention. Why should anyone give a fat rat’s . . . aa. . . ah . . . ear? He doesn’t even have the money yet and who knows if he’ll ever see one red cent.”
I could almost see Peter’s grin. “Everyone wants to believe in something. For most people, a big windfall would literally be the answer to all their prayers.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “At any rate, if I reach him, I’ll have him give you a call.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
After we hung up, I flipped on the TV set and tuned in to KEST. The evening news wouldn’t air for an hour, but the station often ran quick promos for the show coming up. I suffered through six commercials and caught the clip I’d suspected would be there. The blond anchorwoman smiled at the camera, saying, “Not all news is bad news. Sometimes even the darkest cloud has a silver lining. After nearly twenty years of poverty, a Marcella maintenance man has just learned he’ll be inheriting five million dollars. We’ll have that story for you at five.” Behind her, the camera showed a glimpse of a haggard-looking Guy Malek, staring impassively from the car window as Donovan’s BMW swung through the gates of the Malek estate. I felt a pang of guilt, wishing I’d talked him out of coming down. Given his bleak expression, the homecoming wasn’t a success. I picked up the phone again and tried the Maleks’ number. The line was busy.
I called the number every ten minutes for an hour. The Maleks had probably taken the phone off the hook, or maybe their message tape was full. In either event, who knew when I’d get through to him.
I debated with myself briefly and then drove over to the house. The gate was now closed and there were six vehicles parked along the berm. Reporters loitered; some leaning against their car fenders, two chatting together in the middle of the road. Both men were smoking and held big Styrofoam coffee cups. Three camera units had been set up on tripods and it looked as if the troops were prepared to stay. The late afternoon sun slanted between the eucalyptus trees across from the Malek property, dividing the pavement into alternating sections of light and shadow.
I parked behind the last car and went on foot as far as the call box near the front gate. All activity behind me ceased and I could feel the attention focus on my back. No one answered my ring. Like the others, I was going to have to hang around out here, hoping to catch sight of one of the Maleks exiting or entering the grounds. I tried one more time, but my ringing was greeted with dead silence from inside the house.
I returned to my car and turned the, key in the ignition. Already, a dark-haired woman reporter was ambling in my direction. She was probably in her forties, with oversized sunglasses and bright red lips. As I watched, she fumbled in her shoulder bag and pulled out a cigarette. She was tall and slender, decked out in slacks and a short cropped cotton sweater. I marveled she could bear it with the heat sitting where it was. Gold earrings. Gold bracelets. A daunting pair of four inch heels. For my taste, walking in high heels is like trying to learn to ice-skate. The human ankle does not take readily to such requirements. I admired her balance, though I realized when she reached me that in bare feet she’d probably be shorter than I. She made a circling motion, asking me to roll down my car window.
“Hi. How are you?” she said. She held up the cigarette. “You have a light for this?”
“Sorry. I don’t smoke. Why don’t you ask one of them?”
She turned, her gaze sliding back to the two men standing in the road. Her voice was husky and her tone was dismissive. “Oh, them. That’s the boys’ club,” she remarked. “Those two won’t even give you the time of day unless you have something to trade.” Her eyes flicked back to me. “What about you? You don’t look like a reporter. What are you, family friend? An old sweetheart?”
I had to admire the placid way she eased right into it, casual, unconcerned. She was probably wetting her pants, hoping I’d provide a little tidbit so she could scoop her competition. I started rolling up my window. Quickly, she raised her handbag and turned it sideways, inserting it into the space so the window wouldn’t close all the way. There was now a seven-inch gap where her leather bag was wedged.
“No offense,” she said, “but I’m curious. Aren’t you that private investigator we’ve heard so much about?”
I turned the key in the ignition. “Please remove your bag.” I cranked the window down about an inch, hoping she’d pull the bag free so I could be on my way.
“Don’t be in such a hurry. What’s the rush? The public has a right to know these things. I’m going to get the information anyway so why not make sure it’s accurate? I heard the kid spent a lot of time in jail. Was that here or up north?”
I cranked the window up a notch and put the car in gear. I pushed my foot down lightly on the gas pedal and eased away from the berm. She held on to the bag by its strap, walking beside the car, continuing the conversation. I guess she was accustomed to having the driver at her mercy once she used the old handbag trick. I increased my speed sufficiently to force her into a trot. She yanked the strap, yelling “Hey!” as I began to accelerate. I couldn’t have been driving more than two miles an hour, but that’s a tough pace to maintain when you’re wearing heels that high. I inched my foot down on the gas. She released the bag and stopped where she was, watching with consternation as I pulled away. I passed the two guys in the road who seemed to enjoy the rude comment she was yelling after me. I couldn’t hear the words, but I got the drift. In the rearview mirror, I saw her flip me the bird.
She removed a high heel and flung it at my rear window. I heard a mild thump on impact and saw the shoe bounce off behind me as I picked up speed. The long strap of the handbag dangled and flapped against the car door. About a hundred yards down the road, I paused long enough to roll down my window and give the bag a shove. I left it there in the road, curled like a possum, and drove to my apartment.
There were two newspapers on the sidewalk when I got home. I picked up both and left one on Henry’s back doorstep before I let myself in. I turned on some lights and poured myself a glass of wine, then sat at the kitchen counter and spread the paper out in front of me. The story was in the second section and the tone was odd. I’d expected a fairy-tale version of Guy’s life to date, his estrangement from the family and his subsequent spiritual transformation. Instead, Jeff Katzenbach had patched together, in excruciating detail, an inventory of all the sins from Guy’s youth: countless episodes of reckless driving, vandalism, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault and battery. Some charges dated back to his juvenile record and should have been purged or remained sealed by the courts. Where had Katzenbach gotten his information? Some of it, of course, was a matter of public record, but I’d wondered how he’d known to look. He’d obviously been tipped off by Max Outhwaite’s reference to Guy’s earlier scrapes. I thought back uneasily to the file of news clippings Bader Malek had kept. Was there any way he could have seen that? This would have been a second leak of sorts. The first was the fact of Guy’s return; the second, this detailed criminal history. I noticed Katzenbach had couched his revelations in typical journalistic fudging. The word alleged appeared about six times, along with confidential sources, informants close to the family, former associates, and friends o f the Maleks who asked to remain anonymous. Far from celebrating Guy’s good fortune, the public was going to end up resenting his sudden wealth. Reading between the lines, you could tell Katzenbach considered Guy Malek an undeserving scoundrel. Somehow his current church affiliation looked self-serving and insincere, the convenient refuge of a culprit hoping to make himself look good in the eyes of the parole board.