Web of Evil: A Novel of Suspense (2 page)

“Good,” Helga said. “And you’re staying at the Westwood on Wilshire?”

“That’s right,” Ali answered. “I’m booked there through Tuesday. Marcella has a wrongful dismissal deposition coming up on either Monday or Tuesday. I’m staying over for that as well.”

Marcella Johnson and Helga both worked for the same high-end legal firm, Weldon, Davis, and Reed, but the two women had wildly divergent styles and areas of expertise. Helga specialized in divorce cases. Marcella focused on employment issues. Ali counted herself fortunate to have not one but two dynamic attorneys on her team.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Helga said. “We’re in good shape on this and I’m pretty sure it’ll go through without a hitch. Still, though, until everything’s signed, sealed, and delivered, our agreement in principle could conceivably go south.”

“Paul won’t let that happen,” Ali said with a laugh. “Not with his shotgun wedding set for Saturday. If something goes wrong with his walking April Gaddis down the aisle, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You’re all right then?” Helga asked.

Everyone seemed to be concerned about how Ali was holding up through all this. Why didn’t anyone believe her when she said she was fine? She said it again, one more time and for the record.

“I’m fine, Helga. I wish people would stop worrying about me.”

“Getting a divorce is stressful,” Helga said.

“No,” Ali corrected. “Compared to being married to a jerk, getting a divorce is easy.”

“All right,” Helga said. “See you in court, ten
A.M.
sharp. Judge Alice Tennant is very old-fashioned. She doesn’t brook tardiness from anybody—attorneys or plaintiffs.”

“Ten sharp,” Ali repeated. “I’ll be there.”

Leaving Blythe, Ali turned up the volume on her MP3 player and sang along with the tunes from one musical comedy after another, from
A Connecticut Yankee
to
A Chorus Line.
As she drove, only a bare sliver of rising moon was visible in the rearview mirror behind her, but the nighttime sky was clear enough that even by starlight she could see the hulking forms of distant mountain ranges jutting up out of the silvery desert floor.

Crossing into California, Ali felt a strange disconnect. She had gone there years earlier with a new husband and a new job, following what had seemed then to be an American dream. Now, coming back to L.A. for the first time since that dream had exploded in her face, she realized that she was, literally, yesterday’s news. Her job and her connection to her prominent network-exec husband had made her part of the L.A. in crowd. This trip was the exact opposite. As an antidote, she turned up the music even louder.

Sometime around midnight, shortly after passing the exit to Twentynine Palms, Ali saw a whole phalanx of emergency vehicles surging eastbound and toward her on the freeway. Worried that debris from some unseen accident might litter the road ahead, Ali slowed, but then, one by one, the approaching vehicles veered off on what she knew to be the Highway 111 exit angling toward Palm Springs.

The emergency response was so massive that Ali found it worrisome. Wondering if maybe a plane had gone down, Ali turned off her original cast recording of
Camelot
and scanned through the radio dial until she found one of L.A.’s twenty-four-hour all-news channels. It was another ten minutes, after bits about Iraq and the latest riots in France, before the announcer cut in with a local news flash.

“The Riverside Sheriff’s Department is investigating a possible train/vehicle collision on the eastbound tracks approaching Palm Springs. Emergency vehicles have been dispatched to the area and a CALTrans spokesman is suggesting that the area be avoided until further notice.”

Relieved to hear that whatever was wrong didn’t involve a problem on the freeway, Ali punched the “resume” button on her cruise control and took the Cayenne back up to speed. Then she switched off the news and went back to listening to King Arthur’s bored and disaffected knights singing their rousing rendition of “Fie on Goodness.”

As she drove past the Highway 111 interchange, the emergency vehicles had mostly stopped, forming a long, unbroken string of flashing red and yellow lights that erased the starlight and cast an eerie pulsing glow on the surrounding desert.

Ali drove on, thinking about trains and cars and what happens when one crashes into the other. In her days as a newbie television reporter, Ali had seen plenty of incidents like that, ones where people seemingly determined to opt out of the gene pool had decided, for one incredibly stupid reason or another, to try to outrun a speeding train, leaving behind a trail of bloody carnage and shattered metal. Sometimes the incidents included groups of teenagers playing a deadly game of chicken. Others drove onto the tracks deliberately and with the full intention of ending it all. Regardless of their motivation, the people in the vehicles usually didn’t survive. Sometimes the engineers on the trains didn’t make it out alive, either. The ones who did often lived out their days with a lifelong burden of guilt.

“At least this time it’s got nothing to do with me,” she breathed aloud as she headed west toward Banning and Beaumont and the sprawling city of Los Angeles glowing far in the distance. “And thank God I don’t have to report on it, either.”

H
elga called the next morning at eight. “So you know where you’re going?” she asked.

Ali had lived in California for years. She knew her way around Beverly Hills. “The West District Courthouse, right?”

“Close, but no cigar,” Helga said. “Your husband wanted this divorce in a hell of a hurry. In California, if you don’t want to wait in line for court time, you can hire a private judge. I told him fine, as long as I got to choose the judge, which I did. Judge Alice Tennant’s court is a few blocks away from there in what used to be a private residence.”

“I didn’t know there was any such thing as a private judge,” Ali muttered.

“You do now,” Helga returned.

Helga had referred to Alice Tennant’s courtroom as a private residence, but the term hadn’t done the place justice.
Mansion’s more like it,
Ali thought an hour and a half later when she pulled up in front of the two-story porticoed edifice with lions guarding either side of a gated entrance complete with a circular drive. Helga was waiting on the front porch, pacing back and forth in front of a pair of Art Deco doors radiant with what looked like genuine Tiffany stained glass. Beyond the glass doors was a marbled foyer, its old-fashioned elegant ambience marred by the mundane and thoroughly modern presence of a wand-holding uniformed security guard and a metal detector.

They were directed into an ornate room that had probably once served as a formal dining room. A magnificent, hand-carved sideboard at the far end was covered with a silver coffee service, plates, cups, saucers, and silverware, and a collection of breakfast pastries that would have put most self-respecting hotel buffets to shame. The display came complete with a uniformed butler who handled the pouring.

Ali was sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and nibbling on a deliciously flaky croissant when Paul’s attorney, Ted Grantham, came rushing into the room.

“Paul’s still not here?” Grantham demanded of Helga.

“Not so far,” Helga returned with a tight smile.

Ted Grantham was someone Ali knew slightly. He had been a guest at their Robert Lane home on several occasions, and he was a regular attendee at Paul’s daylong Super Bowl extravaganzas. Now, though, Ted barely acknowledged her. Refusing offers of coffee, he paced back and forth in the entryway, making one brief cell phone call after another. By five to ten, when Paul had yet to arrive, Ted was downright frantic.

“So where’s his bad boy?” Helga muttered under her breath. “Hope he’s not planning on keeping the judge waiting.”

But it turned out that was exactly what Paul seemed to have in mind. At three minutes after ten, a bailiff summoned all three of them into the judge’s chambers.

Judge Alice Tennant was seated behind an immense partner desk that reminded Ali of one she’d seen in an antiques shop in the idyllic Cotswold town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Dwarfed by the desk, Judge Tennant was a sixty-something with flaming red hair and a temper to match.

“My time’s very valuable, and you know I don’t like being kept waiting, Mr. Grantham,” she snapped as they filed into the room. “So where exactly is your client? Was he aware that he was expected here at ten this morning?”

“Yes, of course he knew,” Grantham said hurriedly. “I’ve been trying to reach him all morning. He isn’t answering any of his phones. The calls keep going straight to voice mail, and he hasn’t called me back, either.”

“I was given to understand there was some urgency about our doing this today,” Judge Tennant observed. “About Mr. Grayson wanting to have his divorce finalized in a timely fashion.”

Grantham looked uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said. “There is something of a deadline.”

“Because?”

Grantham glanced briefly in Ali’s direction before he answered. “Well,” he said reluctantly. “Actually, Mr. Grayson is due to be married tomorrow.”

“I presume that would be to someone other than the wife who happens to be here right at the moment?” Judge Tennant asked. Her sharp blue eyes focused fully on the squirming attorney, whose forehead, by then, had popped out in a very unlawyerly sweat.

“Yes,” Grantham muttered. “That would be correct. To someone else. I’m sure I’ll be able to locate my client in the next little while. If you could find a spot for us in this afternoon’s calendar—”

Alice Tennant’s reply was brisk. “There is no afternoon calendar. As it happens, I’m leaving town right after lunch,” she said with a cold smile. “You’ll have to check with my clerk to see if it’s possible to reschedule for sometime next week—if that’s all right with you, Ms. Reynolds. I understand you’ve driven all the way over from Arizona.”

“Of course,” Ali said quickly. “Next week will be fine. I want to stay on until this is sorted out.”

“Excellent,” Judge Tennant said.

“Perhaps you could see your way clear to hand this off to another judge—” Grantham began.

Helga started to object, but Judge Tennant silenced both attorneys with a single wave of her hand. “I was contracted to deal with this case,” she said severely. “I have no intention of handing it off to anyone. Once the next court date is set, I trust you’ll notify your client that he will be present on the appointed day and at the appointed hour. Please remind him that I may be a private judge, but I can nonetheless cite him for contempt of court. Is that clear, Mr. Grantham?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grantham replied contritely. “Quite clear.”

“Just for the record,” she added. “If I hear that any kind of marriage ceremony is performed tomorrow without your client being properly divorced from Ms. Reynolds beforehand, I’ll see to it that he’s charged with bigamy, which happens to be a criminal offense. Is that also clear?”

“Yes,” Grantham said. “Very.”

“All right then. See my clerk.”

Ali couldn’t help feeling a bit giddy at the idea that Paul’s absence at the hearing had left Twink’s lavish plans for her wedding day in utter shambles. Hurrying out into the corridor to wait while Helga Myerhoff and Ted Grantham dealt with the court clerk, she almost collided with a man rushing toward her from the security checkpoint.

“Ali!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me the hearing’s finished already.”

Ali recognized the new arrival as Jake Maxwell, one of Paul’s fellow network execs. She was surprised to see him there; surprised to think he’d squander some of his precious time on Paul’s legal issues. Jake and his ditzy wife, Roseanne, weren’t high on Ali’s list of social acquaintances any more than Ted Grantham was.

“Hi, Jake,” she said. “We’re done for today. What brings you here?”

At least he had the good grace to look sheepish. “You know, moral support and all that.”

“Well, you missed on that one,” Ali said. “Paul didn’t show.”

Helga emerged from the courtroom wearing a grim smile. “Thursday morning. Ten
A.M.
again.” Then, looking at Jake, she added derisively, “Oh, Mr. Maxwell, you must be Mr. Grayson’s cheering section. I’m afraid the match has been rescheduled for next week—same time, same station. See you then.” Dismissing Jake, Helga turned back to Ali. “Is that all right with you?”

“Thursday is fine,” Ali said. “I can stay that long if I have to.”

Ted Grantham entered the hallway. Jake quickly gravitated in his direction.

“Why isn’t Paul here?” he asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Grantham replied heatedly. “He blew off our court appearance, and now the judge is pissed at me.”

“Did you check with April?”

“Of course I checked with April. She has no idea where Paul is. He never came home last night.”

The glass doors closed behind the two men, taking the rest of the conversation outside with them.

“So he didn’t come home last night,” Helga observed. “Not good. Not good.”

“It sounds amazingly familiar to me,” Ali said.

“Well,” Helga said, “if Paul Grayson knows what’s good for him, he’ll cancel his wedding and make the cancellation a media event all its own.”

“Why? The bigamy thing? Would Judge Tennant really put him in jail for going through with the wedding?”

“Absolutely,” Helga replied. “Alice Tennant takes a dim view of those kinds of marital shenanigans. Her ex, Jack, did the same thing, you see. Got married while the divorce decree was still warm to the touch—the same day, in fact. It’s lucky for Paul—and for Ted Grantham, too—that we’ve already hammered out a property settlement.”

Ali was astounded. “Why on earth did Paul agree to use her as a judge?”

“Because he was in a hurry,” Helga answered. “Like I told you, I got to choose.”

Just then, the glass entry doors swung open and a very tall black woman, clad in sweats and tennis shoes, entered the building. She paused briefly while going through the security checkpoint then came trotting down the hall toward Ali and Helga.

“Am I too late?” the newcomer asked breathlessly, smothering Ali in a bone-crushing hug. “Sorry. I went to the courthouse and looked everywhere for the right courtroom before someone finally pointed me in this direction. Is it over already?”

“Not
over
over,” Ali replied. “But it’s over for today.”

“Who’s this?” Helga wanted to know.

“My cheering section,” Ali replied with a smile. “My friend Sister Anne. And Sister Anne, this is my attorney, Helga Myerhoff.”

At six foot seven, Sister Anne towered over both Ali and the diminutive Helga. She was dressed in blue-and-white UCLA insignia sweats and high-end Nikes and looked far more like the NCAA championship basketball player she had once been than the Sister of Charity she was now. Jamalla Kareem Williams had left college with a degree in business administration, plenty of basketball trophies, and a permanently damaged knee. Rather than going into business, she had become a nun. For years now, she had managed My Sister’s Closet, a Pasadena-based clothing recycling program that helped provide appropriate, low-cost attire for impoverished women hoping to get into the job market. That was where Ali had dropped off her newscaster duds when she had left town months earlier.

Sister Anne held out her hand in Helga’s direction. “Glad to meet you,” she said with a gap-toothed smile while her beaded cornrows clicked and clattered around her head.

“Sister Anne and I met years ago at a charity fund-raiser and just hit it off,” Ali explained. “In fact, if it weren’t for her, I probably wouldn’t know about you. Marcella Johnson was one of Sister Anne’s basketball teammates at UCLA. When I was looking at filing a wrongful dismissal suit against the station, Sister Anne pointed me at Marcella, and when I needed a divorce attorney, Marcella sent me to you.”

Sister Anne turned back to Ali. “What do you mean it’s not
over
over?”

“My not-quite-ex didn’t bother showing up for the hearing,” Ali told her. “The new court date is set for Thursday of next week.”

“Well, then,” Sister Anne said briskly. “Let’s go have some lunch.”

Helga begged off, so Ali and Sister Anne drove to Beverly Center and had lunch in a Mexican restaurant where one of Sister Anne’s recent clients from My Sister’s Closet had hired on as the hostess. Over a shared plate of fajitas, Ali reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope, which she handed to Sister Anne.

“What’s this?”

“Money,” Ali said. “It’s one thing to donate clothing, but this time I decided to give you something that would help pay the rent and keep the lights on.”

Sister Anne counted through the bills then looked up. “You can afford this?”

“Helga’s a very good attorney. I’m going to be fine.”

Smiling, Sister Anne slipped the envelope into a zippered pocket on her pants. “This couldn’t come at a better time,” she said. “We’ve been right on the edge of having to close the place down. You have no idea how much we needed this.”

The hostess, a young Hispanic woman dressed in a stylish black dress and sling-back high heels—clothing that had been someone else’s castoffs—smiled shyly at Sister Anne and Ali as she led a group of diners to a table.

“Glad I could help,” Ali said. And she was.

After lunch, feeling a strange sense of letdown, Ali returned to her hotel. First she called her mother, who was still at the Sugar Loaf.

“Well?” Edie Larson said. “Are you free as a bird now?”

“Not exactly,” Ali said, and then went on to explain the situation.

“My word,” Edie said. “If that doesn’t take the cake! After you had to drive all that way! It’s inexcusable for him to not show up like that. Did you try calling him?”

“No,” Ali admitted. “Under the circumstances, that didn’t seem like a good idea. His attorney called, though. From what he was saying, it sounded like Paul stayed out all night.”

“And he hasn’t even married the poor girl yet?” Edie demanded. “Seems like it’s a little early for him to be up to his old tricks.”

Ali didn’t exactly agree with the “poor girl” part. But the “old tricks” reference worked. “Yes,” Ali said. “It does seem early.”

“You stay there as long as necessary in order to get this all straightened out,” Edie said. “Everything here is under control. Chris stopped by last night before he headed for his seminar in Phoenix tomorrow. We invited him to come to dinner Sunday night when he gets home, so he won’t starve to death. As for Sam? She’s fine. She took to your father the way most strays do. In other words—love at first sight. What are you going to do with this extra time, hook up with some old friends?”

What old friends?
Ali wondered. Other than Sister Anne, she didn’t seem to have any real friends waiting for her. The ones she did have were people who were primarily friends of Paul’s. In the aftermath of her blowup with Paul and the abrupt ending to her television career, Ali had been surprised and hurt by the number of people who had simply vanished from her life the moment her face had disappeared from the evening news. It had been hard to accept that people she had considered close friends had been drawn by her celebrity rather than anything else. Coming to terms with the reality of those lost relationships still hurt, but Edie Larson didn’t need to know that.

“Already handled, Mom,” Ali said as airily as she could manage. “Not to worry.”