Her way had been to call up five reporters she knew- newshounds with whom she’d accumulated brownie points by trading “anonymous” info for discretion.
Patricia Glass at the Times and four TV field correspondents. No radio folk because they were of no use to her on this.
All five were interested and she faxed the cleanest photo she had of Marcella Douquette along with Lyle Leon’s mug shot. Spicing up the package with intimations of mysterious “crime cabals” and pleas not to “say too much.”
“A cabal, huh? Kind of like Manson?” said Leticia Gomez from Channel Five.
Burt Knutsen from On The Spot News made an almost identical comment.
The recent college grad who worked for ABC said, “Kabbalah like Madonna’s into?”
Petra hedged, didn’t deny. At this point, whatever got the photos on the air was good.
All four local news broadcasts aired them at eleven P.M., repeated it on today’s morning broadcast. Nothing in the Times, but that was a massive bureaucracy so maybe tomorrow.
At two P.M., Schoelkopf ordered her into his office.
She expected hell, got only lackluster purgatory. Schoelkopf leaning back in his Naugahyde desk chair, tossing out all the appropriately hostile utterances. But not with his usual vitriol, more of a formal recitation. Distracted, as if none of this really mattered.
She kind of missed the old way. Was he feeling all right?
When he paused to take a breath, she actually said, “Are you okay, sir?”
He sprang forward, glared, smoothed his gelled black hair. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look a little… fatigued.”
“I’m in training for the marathon, never felt better. Cut the bullshit, Connor. Stop trying to change the subject. The facts are you fucked up by not going through channels and wasted everyone’s time and quite probably fucked up a case.”
“I admit I was a little hasty, sir, but in terms of wasted- ”
“Wasted,” he reiterated. “HOMSPEC’s taking it off your hands.”
“First I’ve heard about that,” she lied. “Is- ”
He cut her off with a wave. His nails, usually manicured and buffed, were too long. His beige designer imitation suit was wrinkled and his shirt collar looked too large. Weight loss due to marathon training?
He definitely looked tired.
Then Petra noticed another discrepancy. The framed photo of him and his third wife vacationing in Mazatlan was gone from his desk. Empty space where the picture had sat.
Problems at home?
She said, “I’m sorry, sir- ”
Another wave. “Don’t fuck up again or there’ll be repercussions. There’s a limit to how far your status can carry you.”
“My status?”
Schoelkopf smirked. “Speaking of special treatment, what’s your pet genius doing?”
“His research.”
“Meaning?”
“He works on his doctoral dissertation and keeps out of trouble.”
Schoelkopf’s eyes hyphened. “No problems on that end?”
“None, sir. Why?”
“I don’t need a ‘why,’ Connor.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“Are you keeping a close eye on Alberto Einstein?”
“I didn’t know I was suppo- ”
“You’re on babysitting duty, Connor. Get it? Don’t fuck that up.” Schoelkopf adjusted himself in his chair. “So what did all your media hype accomplish?”
“We’ve had calls- ”
“Cut the crap.”
“Nothing yet, sir, but the calls are still- ”
To Petra’s astonishment, Schoelkopf nodded, said, “Who the hell knows, maybe something’ll actually happen because of your fuckup. If not, you just fucked up.”
By four P.M., she’d fielded thirty-five messages resulting from the broadcasts, all duds. At four thirty-two, Patricia Glass from the Times phoned and said, “You obviously don’t need us anymore.”
Petra said, “We need all the help we can get.”
“Then you should’ve waited,” snapped Glass. “I had the article all written up and ready to go. Then my editor saw it last night on Four and killed it. We don’t rehash old stories.”
Petra thought: Have you actually read your own paper? She said, “It’s not old, Patricia, the case is still unsolved.”
“Once the airheads get it, it’s old. Next time, let me know if you’re going to them. Don’t waste my time.”
“I’m sorry if it put you in a position, but- ”
“It did,” said Glass.
Click.
By five-thirty, twenty additional calls came in, five from alleged psychics, three from obvious psychotics, the rest from well-meaning citizens who had nothing to offer.
She’d messed up and gotten nothing in return.
She felt bad for a minute, then thought: In a world where fanatical idiots blow themselves up, big deal.
But she had trouble rationalizing it away. Feeling low, she was about to call the day to a close when her phone rang and Eric’s voice said, “I’m at Kennedy, scheduled for an eight o’clock back to L.A. If it’s on time, I should be in by eleven.”
“Back for good?” said Petra. “Or are you en route somewhere?”
“No other plans.”
“What happened to Morocco and Tunisia?”
“Canceled.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re okay to travel? With your leg?”
“I considered leaving the leg behind but decided to take it along.”
“Funny,” she said. Then she realized it was. Also, the first time he’d ever tried to joke with her. And she’d killed it. Lord…
She said, “I’ll pick you up. What airline?”
“I’ll catch a cab.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll pick you up. What airline?”
Eric hesitated.
“Want me to circle the airport?” she said.
“American.”
She hung up with her heart pounding- what was that all about?- filed what needed to be filed, shut down her computer, collected her stuff, and left the dectectives’ room.
Time to do something for herself before heading for LAX. A light dinner somewhere casual and quiet- that storefront Mongolian place on La Brea, the family that ran it always treated her like royalty. Followed by a soak in the tub, some of that girlie-stuff bath lotion one of her brothers had sent her for her birthday that she’d never used. Then, careful application of makeup- even mascara, which she detested because she could never apply it without getting grit in her eyes. A little blush- her cheekbones were still good. Her best feature, she’d always thought.
Nick had always made a big deal about her cheekbones during the first years of their marriage, when he was still noticing things.
Eric had never remarked upon them, or any other of her physical features. Never really complimented her except when they were making love and all sorts of utterances flew out of his mouth like little birds.
Afterward, sweat-coated and panting, they shared mutual silence…
She never complimented him either.
Would he notice the little touches? No matter, she’d feel the difference.
Mascara and blush and a change into something feminine and- dare she say it- sexy?
After a day like this, could she muster up sexy?
We’ll just have to see about that.
She took the stairs down to the rear exit, nearly bumped into Isaac in the stairwell. He’d just shoved the door open and was heading up.
The kid didn’t drive. Why was he entering through the parking lot?
Probably because that’s where she took him when they exited. He recovered from the surprise and said “Hi.” His back was erect, his shoulders high. Grinning at her with… bravado?
“Hi,” she said.
“I hoped I’d catch you,” he said. “You were working pretty late last night.”