“Whore,” I said.
“Ratings,” he said.
He trotted off to join the mob swarming around Jennifer and Conklin. As I walked away, I heard Jack’s distinctive voice, “Congratulations, Mr. Conklin. How does it feel to be a free man?”
Chapter 33
Los Angeles (WP)
Police investigating the shocking, violent death of Roderick J. O’Leary, director of the re-election campaign for District Attorney Baron Marovich, late Sunday night in the exclusive Hancock Park section of the city, have uncovered evidence that suggests the shooting may have been a tragic accident.
Documentary filmmaker Maggie MacGowen, who fired the fatal shot, may have been startled by O’Leary, who was known to her, and mistaken him for a stalker. Police records show that during the past week MacGowen had complained that a man identified as George Schwartz had been stalking and harassing her. On several occasions she photographed Schwartz in her proximity, hoping to discourage him. After a minor collision, when Schwartz rear-ended her vehicle, MacGowen had him arrested by South Pasadena police.
Police arrest records identify Schwartz as a county worker currently on personal-necessity leave for undisclosed reasons. He was described by co-workers as a quiet man who lives alone. Schwartz was not available for comment.
According to sources, MacGowen was driving a friend to her home on Hudson Street near the Wilshire Country Club late Sunday night. A witness reported that O’Leary, who was armed, opened the door of MacGowens parked car, perhaps frightening her. MacGowen drew her own weapon and shot O’Leary, fatally wounding him. O’Leary died at the scene before paramedics arrived. No charges have been filed.
In recent years, there has been an increase in the number of violent attacks on celebrities by obsessed fans. It is not known when Schwartz first became interested in MacGowen, or whether they were acquainted. Through a spokesman, MacGowen said only, “It would not be appropriate at this time for me to comment.”
There was more, most of it looked to be a recap of Roddy’s career in politics, but I didn’t bother to read it. I threw the paper into the nearest trashcan. Then I went right back and retrieved it. The outline of the article had a familiar ring. For damn sure, no one from any news medium had contacted me about the shooting. And Marovich got scant mention.
A black stretch limo swept away from the curb in front of the courthouse, carrying Conklin and his defense team to a victory party at the Biltmore Hotel. It was half-past four, coming up on happy hour, I thought. I also thought I wanted to see just how happy people were going to be at the Biltmore party.
The hotel was only five blocks from the courts, straight down Grand Avenue. I walked it. It was rush hour. Traffic was so heavy I had to do a little window shopping now and then to keep from beating the limo to the hotel.
Inside the hotel, I followed a train of news people up the massive central stairs to the ballroom. My party invitation was the camera I took from my bag and an extension cord I had picked up off the floor.
In the ballroom, there were more news people than civilian guests. But then, I wondered-and not without some bitterness-how many friends would a man have when he’d been in jail as long as Conklin? And when his offspring were themselves in jail, well, who was left to help you celebrate except his Dr. Frankenstein and the news whores? Me among them.
There was a sumptuous buffet set up along one side. My always ravenous colleagues had queued up for mini soft tacos and sizzling fajitas. Thirsty after my walk, I bypassed the food and headed for the bar.
James Shabazz and Etta were there. James, carrying a fruit kabob in one hand and a soda water in the other, kept me company while I waited in line. “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss MacGowen.”
“I hate to miss a party. This looks like a good one.”
“The man has something to celebrate.”
“Indeed.” I ordered a scotch on the rocks, changed my mind and had a glass of wine. “You know Pinkie better probably than anyone here. How long do you think he can stay out of the slam this time?”
“How long?” James gazed across the room to where Conklin was holding forth in front of a rank of cameras. The innocent man had an arm around Jennifer’s slim waist. She was smiling, making a show of listening to him, but her body language betrayed her revulsion. “How long depends on how closely they watch over him. My estimate is, they’ll him clean long enough to get through his suit against the police department. After that? He’ll stay clean until his money is gone.”
“He’s friendly with you?”
“Seems to be.”
“How would you feel about setting up an interview for me?”
“For what purpose?”
“The film. I’ve taped his son and mother-in-law, about half his neighborhood, it seems. I think he deserves equal time.”
James studied me for an uncomfortable moment before he decided. He raised his soda water to me. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Baron Marovich came in without entourage. Almost by stealth, he walked up to Conklin, shook his hand, mugged with him for the cameras for less than a minute. I watched him bow his head to whisper something to Jennifer, I saw her blanch. She recovered her poise quickly when someone called her name, turned her attention again to the barrage of questions.
“Will Mr. Conklin file suit against the city? Where does he plan to live? What is the first thing he plans to do as a free man?”
The way Conklin kept eyeing Jennifer, I thought the answer to that last question was damned obvious.
With no more fuss than the waiters who moved through the crowd clearing away dirty dishes, Marovich cleared himself away through the service doors.
I gulped my drink, gave James’s arm a squeeze, and slipped out the same way.
I caught up with Marovich waiting for the freight elevator in a back hallway. When he saw me, he laughed in a sad, resigned sort of way. The hair was still perfect, but he looked exhausted, pale eyes nearly transparent, deep dark circles below them.
“You,” he said. “Everywhere I look-you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
“I need a drink,” he sighed. “What do you say?”
“Fine, as long as it’s in a public place and we drink out of the same bottle.”
Like Jennifer, he blanched. “I had nothing to do with doping Guido Patrini. I know you’ll have some difficulty believing me at this point, but I had nothing to do with the Kelsey situation.”
“Situation?” I asked.
“Drinks first,” he said.
We went down to the elegant lobby bar.
While the waiter waited, Marovich asked me, “Do you like champagne?”
“For celebrations.”
“Then, it’s champagne.”
I said, “You can’t expect me to celebrate what just happened in court.”
“No,” he said. “This is my very own party.”
We had icy Dom Perignon in crystal flutes, and tiny canapes. The background music was vintage Ray Charles. The setting was perfect for an auspicious occasion. And clearly, this was an occasion. I just didn’t know what it was about. Marovich watched the bubbles rise in his glass and then he tipped its rim to mine.
“What are we celebrating?” I asked.
“The end.”
“But it isn’t over. Lawsuit, book deal, movie rights-it’s just beginning.”
“Not for me.” He pulled a folded sheet from his inside pocket and handed it to me. “My office issued this statement at five o’clock this afternoon.”
My watch said ten after.
The single sheet was heavy bond, the district attorney’s letterhead. Over Marovich’s signature, I read, “I have worked for the city and county of Los Angeles for the last eighteen years, fortunate all that time to be able to perform work that I love.