Dead File (3 page)

Yukon sat and lifted his chin, offering her the package. She hadn’t seen it at her door when she came in from work a while ago; the mail carrier on her route was known to take items that wouldn’t fit in her mailbox and tuck them down in the shrubbery next to her front door. Yukon, of course, missed nothing.

“Oh, boy,” she muttered, absently giving his neck a rub. The package looked suspicious. The size and shape of a big round loaf of bread, wrapped in scruffy, frayed brown paper and tied clumsily with string, it looked like a lot of the parcels she received from all manner of crazos out there who wanted to send “presents” to their favorite anchorwoman. Maxi routinely sent them down to the mail room to be X-rayed.

She took this one gingerly from Yukon’s mouth and held it at arm’s length. She didn’t like that it had come to her home; in this age of technology, there were many ways a nutcase could get someone’s home address, a growing danger.

Scrutinizing the label, she breathed with relief.
No wonder it looks dirty and beat-up,
she thought. The sender was her friend and colleague, reporter Richard Winningham, and the return address was somewhere in Pakistan. Richard was in the region on temporary assignment, but the prolonged war against terrorism was turning from “temporary” to “indefinite.”

She reached into her
WAKE UP WITH RICK DEES
coffee mug and pulled out a pair of scissors. And, yes, she still woke up every morning with KIIS-FM’s popular disc jockey—
listening
to him, that is, not sleeping with him. Maxi had been romantically unencumbered, as she liked to put it, since her marriage had ended in divorce more than a year ago. She and Richard Winningham were close, ever since he’d saved her life while she was covering the ill-fated story that nearly killed her. Between them there had been little sensual stirrings, small hints and flutters, but they’d never taken it to first base. Probably because both of them knew without saying it that an office romance was usually a bad idea. And now he was in the Middle East, sending her …
what?

While Yukon looked on, panting attentively, she snipped the string and pulled off the paper, and a note fluttered to the floor. She scooped it up before Yukon did—her dog thought everything was delicious. It was handwritten in pencil on rough orange paper:

Hi Max—

A gift from the marketplace in scenic Islamabad—a reminder of just how lucky we are. I miss the station, I miss my Audi TT, I even miss Capra, and I miss you.

RW

She pulled out folds of a purplish blue fabric.
Oh Lord,
she gasped. A bourkha. Yes, she did know how lucky she was. And how lucky
he
was, she thought with a shudder. Journalists worldwide had been sobered by the murder of
Wall Street Journal
correspondent Daniel Pearl. Richard could have turned down the war assignment, she knew. He hadn’t.

Her phone rang. It was her boss, Pete Capra—he never said hello. “Carter Rose gets in tomorrow,” he barked. “You and Harbaugh are at LAX for his arrival—East Orient Air, Flight 20, 5:32
A.M.
”

Maxi scribbled the information on a Post-it pad. She glanced at her watch: 8:15 P.M. “Guess I’d better go to bed
now,
” she said.

“Whatever.”

“You have a nice evening too,” she lilted, and put down the phone.

Capra’s style of dealing with news and newsies was a lot of guff. Maxi knew that deep within that lumpy bear body of his he actually did have a heart, but she couldn’t resist dishing up some of his own back at him now and then.

She sighed. She
could
go to bed now, but getting to sleep was a joke. Her schedule had been so erratic for so long that her body clock was on something like Venusian time—she could never get to sleep before two, three in the morning. But to be at the airport at five she’d have to get up at three. Fine, she thought. Good thing she
didn’t
have a love interest. No time for a relationship.

When she’d got back to the station after covering the Gillian Rose story that afternoon, she’d ducked into an edit bay to view the tape Rodger Harbaugh had shot before he was politely ordered to remove himself and his camera from the premises. Most subjects of news stories do not beat up on television journalists in the same way they do the paparazzi. They do it, but without the cursing and the fisticuffs; it’s in most of their interests to keep outwardly friendly relations with the legitimate press. Also, it looks bad when they’re caught on camera acting like arrogant bullies, and you can count on any station that gets good shots of a bona fide fight to play up that footage on the news, with ongoing teases featuring the incriminating pictures and an anchor voicing-over something like: “Prominent CEO turns violent in company parking lot—on the news at eleven.”

In the dark of the edit room, Maxi had labeled the cassette GILLIAN ROSE: BODY, dated it, then marked it DF with a broad circle around the letters, assuring that the tape would be put in the dead file so it couldn’t accidentally get on the air. Any footage that was logged into the tape library, or put on the “Today” shelf, was fair game for writers, reporters, and editors to use in teases and cut pieces.

The dead file was a wall of locked cabinets back in the tape library where they stored any sensitive tape that couldn’t be aired but shouldn’t be erased, tape whose content was potentially valid but currently unsubstantiated, or too gory to show, or was deemed libelous, slanderous, or otherwise legally questionable but might be needed down the road if the story changed or in a possible lawsuit. In this case, they could not legally air tape that was shot on private property after a company spokesperson had specifically enjoined the journalists from continuing to shoot or airing what they had. The only pictures that could be shown with the Gillian Rose story that night had been shot outside the building.

Maxi had carefully reviewed her exclusive footage of the body of Gillian Rose lying on the floor in her penthouse office. Harbaugh had gotten close-ups of the deceased and wide shots of the police activity. Great pictures, but virtually useless. The tape could be aired only if Rose International, in the public interest, reversed the company’s previous order and gave written permission, which was highly unlikely. And even if that should happen, showing a dead body on the news was always questionable. So the tape would remain in the potentially volatile dead file, to which only top news management had access.

Staring at the shots, even in the extreme close-ups, Maxi could not detect anything out of the ordinary about Gillian’s eyes, and certainly not their color. What she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, must have been an illusion—perhaps the light was hitting Gillian’s eyes in a way that made them look dark brown. Not that it mattered much, she mused—dead is dead.

In any case, there was no way she would be getting much sleep tonight, she knew. The tape that would be playing on both her waking and dreaming mind-screen long into the small hours would feature the dead body of Gillian Rose.

5

M
axi glanced at the digital clock readout on the dash, then floored her thirteen-year-old black Corvette; she was southbound on the San Diego Freeway headed toward LAX, with no time to spare. What else was new? Couldn’t fall asleep nights; had trouble hauling herself out of bed in the mornings. After little better than three hours’ sleep she’d foundered through her morning ritual, given each of her tired eyes a shot of Visine, and managed to get herself into a slim gray business suit and heels. She had the makeup thing down, thank the Lord and Max Factor—she could put on a camera-ready face in exactly six minutes.

It was 4:42
A.M.
Very little traffic on the freeway at that hour. She had to get herself out to the airport, park her car in one of the high-tiered parking structures, and navigate across the congested eight-lane thoroughfare to the East Orient terminal, all much more time consuming now with heavily tightened security since 9/11. Then make the long walk down the busy concourse to the arrival gate and try to find her cameraman in the mass of media she knew would be milling about, there to meet Carter Rose’s flight.

She heard the siren before she saw the lights behind her. A California Highway Patrol motorcycle loomed in her rearview mirror. “Damn!” Maxi said aloud. She was nailed.

Pulling over onto the shoulder, she came to a stop and yanked on the emergency brake. Then, keeping her seatbelt fastened, she reached into the glove box for her registration and insurance card, then into her purse for her driver’s license, rolled down her window, then raised both arms up from the elbows so the officer could see them, her left hand holding the documents—all before the officer reached her window. She knew the drill: Make no sudden moves in his presence, no diving into a bag or compartment, give him no cause for alarm.

He
turned out to be a
she.

“Good morning,” said the trim, fresh-faced CHP officer at her driver’s-side window, the name
BRAXTON
shining on her brass nameplate.

“I hoped it would be, Officer Braxton,” Maxi said with a chagrined smile, handing the woman her papers.

“Do you know how fast you were going, Ms. Poole?” Braxton said without having glanced down at the documents in her hand. Reporter Maxi Poole was high profile in Southern California.

“Uh … I’m not sure,” Maxi answered. “I’m due at the airport on a story.”

“I clocked you at eighty-two miles an hour.”

“No! Really?” Maxi exclaimed with a sinking heart.

“I’ll be right back,” said Officer Braxton, who set off toward her motorcycle, taking Maxi’s documents with her.

Damn, damn, damn, damn!
Maxi thought but didn’t say aloud. It was her own fault, of course. This was going to make her even later. The officer had recognized her—did that mean she’d cut her a break? Doubtful, Maxi knew. Once in a while an officer would let her slide with a warning. She hoped this would be one of those times.

No such luck. Braxton reappeared at her window with the ticket written up. “Would you sign this, please, Ms. Poole?” she asked.

“Sure,” Maxi said, resignedly taking the clipboard and pen offered. She signed and handed back the paper “confession.”

“Be careful,” Braxton said in parting. “Slow down, okay?”

Maxi sighed, and nodded, and rolled up her window. Two women doing their jobs. This meant a hefty fine, and another nine hours in traffic school spread out over three nights after work. And now she was really running late. And she didn’t dare go a mile over the speed limit; glancing in the rearview mirror as she eased back out onto the freeway, she saw that Braxton was right on her tail.

Interesting, Maxi had to admit to herself, a woman officer mounted on the powerful, intimidating-looking CHP bike. Usually female officers used patrol cars and male officers jockeyed the motorcycles, the macho machines. Even though put in a foul mood from her encounter with Braxton, she considered contacting her through her badge number on the ticket and doing a profile on her for the news.

She watched as Braxton peeled off ahead of her into traffic, and tried to dismiss the idea. That little grudging, nasty part of her that she strove to keep in check wanted no part of glorifying this pretty, perky person who’d ruined her morning. But she knew that later in the day she would have to argue with that part of herself and effort a story on Officer Braxton. Professionalism would out. And, she would make sure, so would her better self.

“Plane’s twenty minutes late,” Rodger Harbaugh said when she skidded to his side in the crush of media waiting at the East Orient gate.

“Lucked out again,” Maxi breathed.

“Nick of time,” Rodger threw out as they saw the first of the passengers pouring down the ramp and colliding with a wall of reporters ten deep. Not one of the journalists would budge an inch to let the passengers by; the tired travelers were forced to squeeze against the walls around the edges of the media horde, wheeling overnight bags behind them, lugging backpacks, and hefting shopping bags, laptops, totes, purses, diaper bags, coats, jackets, umbrellas, some maneuvering cranky children in front of them.

“Here he comes!” somebody yelled. Cameras started rolling, flashbulbs popping, as the handsome Carter Rose surfaced in the crowd, squinting against the lights. Like the biblical Red Sea the media parted, making way for him to walk down the middle. The clearing suddenly presented was the path of least resistance and he took it before realizing that the hubbub was for him. If other passengers entertained the hope of following this man down the right-of-way, they were soon disabused of that notion as reporters pushed to close in behind Carter Rose.

Eyes straight ahead, the subject of all the media tumult made slow progress, doggedly moving forward through the pack, blinking in the harsh lights aimed directly at his eyes, muttering a few “No comment”s at shouted questions.

Then, inexplicably, he paused, made a right-angle turn, and headed straight for Maxi Poole from Channel Six. Maxi shot a glance at Rodger, who kept rolling as a somber and exhausted-looking Carter Rose, briefcase in hand, topcoat over his arm, approached the Channel Six News camera. Maxi seized the opportunity, raised her handheld microphone to her mouth, and spoke first.

“Mr. Rose, what do you know about your wife’s death?” She thrust the mike under his chin.

“Hello, Maxi,” Rose said. “I don’t know anything except what the police told me.”

“What did the police tell you?”

“That they found her … yesterday, I think. I don’t even know what day this is. . . .” The man had been on an airplane for more than eleven hours.

“Where are you going now? To get some sleep?”

“No. I’m going to Parker Center. To talk to them,” he said, with a nod over his shoulder, indicating two men in street clothes. Maxi assumed they were LAPD detectives who’d met his flight. With that, Rose moved off, and Rodger and the rest of the shooters followed with their cameras.

As she ran with the pack behind Carter Rose, Maxi made mental notes on how she perceived him. Tired. Seemingly not nervous. But not distraught, either. Good-looking, certainly: fortyish, about six feet tall, a hint of stubble on even features, expensively styled but slightly mussed light brown hair, well-cut business suit, polished Italian loafers, manicured fingernails. No surprises.