I said, “At one point, the police department asked him to quit his part-time jobs. How did you manage financially?”
“I went back to work full-time and Wyatt started working morning watch so he could be home with the baby when I was gone. I sold Avon Products on the side-you know, to the ladies at work and in my church. Still, it wasn’t enough.
“Then Wyatt got into some business deal with some other officers-selling vitamins or something he told me. Just like me selling cosmetics from a catalog. I didn’t like his hours, but pretty soon, one way and another, money started coming in. At the time he got himself shot, we were doing okay.”
The memory of the burden, her loss, maybe all of it together, pulled down her initial buoyance. I leaned forward to bring her eyes up again for the camera. In a soft voice, I said, “Mrs. Johnson, let’s talk about the shooting. I have seen where it occurred-one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city. Do you have any idea why your husband was there?”
Slowly, sadly, she shook her head. “He was working morning watch, like I said, so he was used to being out all night. A lot of police are like that, out real late. Besides, it was difficult for him to go out during the day, because of the baby and all.
“It was his day off,” she said. “I thought maybe he was selling his vitamins to other officers, you know, at midwatch or after their shifts. That’s all I could think. He didn’t go out to bars or anything like that.” She grew defensive. “Wyatt was a family man.”
“Did he know Charles Conklin?”
“My husband was a Christian. The only way he would know a gentleman like that man was in his official capacity as an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Did you speak with the investigating officers?”
“Oh, yes. All of them. They all asked the same question you did, what was Wyatt doing down there. I told them the same as I told you.”
“Has the district attorney spoken to you about the shooting recently?”
“No. The only one has called me is the detective.”
“Mike Flint?”
“No, the other one. Detective Kelsey. He asked that same question. Did Wyatt ever say where he was going that night, who was he going to see? What did I know about it? I told him no, don’t know, and nothing. And that is the truth.”
“A few minutes ago, you said this vitamin business was profitable. Do you remember the name of the company or the other officers who were involved?”
Long, thoughtful pause. “No, I don’t. After Wyatt had passed, it took me some time before I could go through his things. He used to carry his samples in an old gun case, ‘cause he could lock it up. I was looking for the samples and thinking there should be order forms and records-like I had to keep when I sold products-but there was nothing. I was expecting a representative from the company to come asking for an accounting. I called his partner about it, but he didn’t know what I was talking about. In those days, I wasn’t thinking real clearly. The only reason I looked into it was because I was hoping there was maybe some money owing Wyatt. We sure could have used it.”
“You never heard from the vitamin company?” I asked.
“I had other things to worry about.”
I said, “Times were difficult for you and your son after the shooting?”
She nodded. “The police were real good to us. The Police Memorial Fund helped out with the burial expenses, helped me pay my bills until I could sell the house. They set up a scholarship so little Wyatt could go to college like his daddy wanted for him. Every now and then, one or the other of them would come by, make sure we was okay.
“When my boy was around fifteen or sixteen and I was having some trouble with him-didn’t get along with his stepfather-I could not have gotten through but ‘cept they take him under their wing, so to say. Talk sense to him, man to man. I have to say, the police take care of their own.”
“So I understand,” I said. The cant had a familiar ring. “Did your husband spend his off hours with other police?”
“Had to.”
“Why? Was there some pressure to socialize only with police?”
“Nothing like that. It was because of the hours he worked. That’s all.”
I made a note to get the names of his old pals. They might shed some illumination on dark comers here, talk about vitamin consumption if I was lucky.
Watching me askance, Beth said, “My mama would say a well-brought-up young lady should know better than to mention a certain subject, but I hope these microphones aren’t so touchy they pick up the sound of my stomach grumbling.”
I got the message and unclipped her microphone. “Thank you for your time. The producer wants the privilege of your company in the commissary.”
Beth went downstairs with an assistant producer, who promised me he would give her an insider’s tour. I went home.
The condo was deserted when I walked in around one o’clock that afternoon. Mike had left a message on the machine telling me that he was at the house in South Pasadena, with Bowser, and planned to pick up Casey from school at four. According to the clock on the bedroom wall, that gave me three hours of quiet to sleep. I thought about taking a bath first, but didn’t want to waste the time.
I traded my grungy clothes for one of Mike’s oversize tee shirts and folded down the bed. Before I climbed in, I dialed Mike’s pager and punched in 96, our code that everything was fine-on a push-button phone, yo is spelled 96. Unless he had something important to tell me, he wouldn’t call back.
I slept like a rock and woke up about halfway through Oprah, L.A. time. The first thing that occurred to me once I had figured out where I was, was that I had forgotten to eat all day. Half-awake, I shuffled out to the kitchen in Mike’s shirt. My hair felt stiff and gummy from the studio’s moussing. It stuck out in strange ways. There was night-gravel in the corners of my eyes.
I was marginally coherent enough to assemble a peanut butter and banana sandwich, pour a glass of milk, and find an unbruised apple in the crisper. I gathered this feast together, with the apple balanced on top of the glass, and headed back toward the bedroom with the intention of watching the rest of Oprah while I ate. But the doorbell detoured me.
The apple rolled off the top of the glass, making me stumble a step or two trying to retrieve it. I kicked it out from under an end table and picked it up. Between the glass, the sandwich, the apple, I didn’t have a hand for the door, so I clamped the sandwich between my teeth and turned the knob.
The woman on the doorstep was too beautiful to be an ordinary walking-around-in-public mortal. As tiny as she was, she still filled her exquisite linen suit with voluptuous curves. Everything about her bespoke a natural perfection, the lovely posture, her short, dark sculpted hair, the subtle use of makeup and jewelry, her expensive little pumps. When she said hello, her gaze was fixed on the sandwich hanging from my lips.
Beyond basic maintenance and good haircuts, I never really give much thought to my appearance. When I was a news anchor my face, figure, and hair were network property. I was regularly painted, back-combed, sprayed, tinted, recreated-I even let them talk me into having the hump on the bridge of my nose surgically edited so that I fit better within an industry standard for color, size, sex, voice, bones. When I went independent, I gave up as much artifice as I could. For most of my own projects, I wear a blue oxford cloth shirt and a nearly naked face. I prefer it.
A disdainful expression marred the perfection of the creature on my doorstep. Just once, I wished I had opted for the hair wash instead of the nap.
“Is Mike here?” Her voice was honey.
With a mouthful of peanut butter and banana, the best I could do was shake my head.