chapter sixteen
The morning after my exile from the streets of north St. Louis, I completed another five-mile run and worked out with weights. In the evening, I went to dinner and a movie with two co-workers. I was home by eleven for my early morning flight out of Lambert.
Frantic pounding on my door woke me three hours later. I had a flashback to Detectives Baker and LeMaster and the horror of Kris's murder last year. Through the peephole I spotted a slender-as-a-thread person with big hair smoking a cigarette and hugging herself as if she were cold or, more likely, stressed.
I opened the door for Debbie and she immediately began pacing the length of my living room, puffing away, head down, lost in thought. She wore a classic full-length black evening dress and a pearl necklace. She carried her high heels in one hand. Her face was red and puffy, her make-up streaked from crying.
“Sorry if I woke you. I have to talk to somebody.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t know you smoked.”
At two in the morning I am a master of insight.
She shrugged. “It’s another way to keep my weight down for the camera, sucking over fifty legal carcinogens into my lungs.” A pause, then: “For my so-called career.” Shaking, she turned to me and said, “I’m such a fool. You were right all along.”
“You're no fool. Come on, sit before you fall down. Let me get you some water with lemon.”
She shook her head. “Grey Goose, if you have it. Or a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini, straight up and chilled. You can throw that lemon wedge in or, better yet, some big fat salty olives.” Her large green eyes a tad out of focus, she smiled crookedly and said, “Yum!”
“How much have you had?”
“Not enough.”
When I returned with drinks, she slowly rocked back and forth in a chair, looking for an ashtray. I handed her a small plate since I don’t own one.
“I don’t have vodka. This is Tanqueray, straight up, freezer-chilled, with two bleu cheese stuffed olives. I also brought water with lemon.”
“Thanks.” She took the martini and sipped like a dainty bird at first. When it met her approval, she took a healthy pull.
“He invited me to an ultra-exclusive soiree tonight at the Buckingham in Clayton. He said it was his way to thank the station for our coverage of the counterfeiting story.” She took another swig and laughed.
First a nibble of prime rib, now gin and olives. What’s next, a pie-eating contest?
“Maynard?”
She nodded. “The little rat bastard Fallon orchestrated the entire evening. A stretch limo dropped me off and the chauffeur told me a penthouse suite had been reserved for me if I wished to stay the night. Security escorted me to one of the posh corporate banquet rooms on the second floor. I danced, drank, and flirted; worked the room sniffing stories. Since this began, I’ve been invited to yacht parties, this year’s Super Bowl, and private island resorts in Hawaii and the Caribbean. Big-time money. Big-time players. A really big shoe!” she said, giggling at her own impression of Ed Sullivan.
“Since what began?” I asked.
She paused to take a gulp and gin splashed on her dress. “I … uh … haven’t been exactly ... upfront with you. Before the party at the Haller estate, Fallon promised me exclusives to all breaking events in the case.”
“Why? What was in it for him?” I asked, having a pretty good idea.
“Same thing I said,” she said, slurring her s’s. She hiccupped and added, “He said I’d find out later. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? So I agreed.
“Anyway, it was late and I had a Goose buzz, so I took the offer of the suite. Fallon and a security man escorted me to the penthouse. Maynard reserves the entire eighteenth floor of the Buckingham for his major events. When the elevator doors opened, Fallon rode back down alone but not before he said to enjoy myself and flashed that warped little smile of his. He knew. The hunky security guy walked me to my suite and I saw one of the big business fat cats from the party enter the next room with his hand on the ass of a stunningly hot babe young enough to be his granddaughter. A waiter followed wheeling a room service cart with champagne into their suite.”
I wondered about the accuracy of her story, given her state. “What happened next?”
“The suite was gorgeous and big as a house. Panoramic view of the Arch and downtown. Marble columns, fireplaces. Fully-stocked fridge, wet bar, all-night room service. Mirrors above a giant circular bed, green Italian marble walk-in shower and four-seat Jacuzzi—”
“Cut to the chase already. I’m not going to buy the place.”
She put a finger to her lips as if to shush me, lost her balance, and nearly fell off the chair. “It’s my story, and I’m going to tell it my way. I almost sold my soul for it, so let me be.”
I closed my heavy eyelids briefly and let her continue.
“Beyond the master bedroom was a dark-paneled room that housed a fax, copier, and several flat screen televisions mounted to the wall, tuned to the latest stock market trends and news.”
She chugged the dregs of her martini. “I’m gonna need another one of these babies to get through the rest.”
“Here you go,” I said. She didn’t notice that I’d handed her the water tumbler. “Then what happened?”
“I'd just showered and was naked when I heard the snick of a key card open the door to my suite. I held a robe to my chest as Maynard walked in, suit coat off. He was smiling. He began to unbutton his shirt. He expected me to be there, waiting. He put the Do-Not-Disturb sign on the outer knob, closed the door, and finished unbuttoning his shirt.”
She made a face at her glass. “This one’s not as good as the first.”
“They never are. Go on.”
She shrugged. “He said he was happy to see I’d made myself comfortable and asked how I liked the suite.” She took another drink and said, “Then he tossed his shirt onto a high-back chair. The guy is really ripped. Wow.”
“Stick to the facts, oh ripped one.”
She made a face at me, not understanding. Then the lightbulb clicked. “Very funny. I asked him what he thought he was doing in my room. He walked to the wet bar and poured himself three fingers of Glenfiddich; he wasn’t I-don’t-have-a-fucking-clue-what-I’m-doing drunk, but he was drunk. I looked for those skin blotches you talked about and saw none. He walked up close and said, ‘Do you want to keep reporting traffic accidents, house fires, Midwest puppy mills, and meth lab busts the rest of your career?’ I shook my head, terrified, dying to get dressed. He grinned and said, ‘This is politics. How far do you want to go?’ I stood there not knowing what to say. Then I asked what was going on in the suite next door and he said, ‘Keeping key constituents happy.’”
She took a sip of water and exhaled deeply. “He walked closer as I backed away, the terry cloth robe the only thing between us. I was scared shitless. I reminded him he just announced he wasn’t running for the senate and he answered, ‘After I clear this case, I may feel differently. I can throw my hat in the ring late. With my name recognition I’d win in a landslide.’”
“Did he put his hands on you?”
“No. He didn’t solicit sex or speak directly about having sex. Everything was implied, but he expected to fuck me. That was his quid pro quo. I told him I was getting sick and backed into the bathroom and got dressed. I demanded he call security to drive me home. He apologized for Paul’s ‘honest mistake’ with the suites but didn’t offer another. While he phoned security, I heard him going through my purse before he let me leave.”
“Probably checking for a tape recorder or microphone,” I said.
“As I left, I heard him dial a number on his cell and whisper, ‘Je suis encore dans une blonde humeur. Envoyer la tall Russe.’”
“Sorry, I didn’t take French.”
She smiled, albeit crookedly. “Well I did. My high school French finally paid off. He said, ‘I’m still in a blonde mood. Send up the tall Russian.’”
“Did he threaten you in any way? Did he terminate your arrangement?”
She waved her now empty glass in my face, wanting more. “To the contrary, he acted like nothing had happened. He was cool as the gin you’re about to pour. He said he wants me there when he announces his candidacy.”
This time I made a stiff drink for me and water for her, wondering about her story. “Do you have any proof other than your word against his?”
She shook her head and her eyes had difficulty focusing. The rocking resumed. Hiccups caused her thin body to jerk.
“I’m such an idiot,” she said, slurring her words. “And to think I was furious at you for using me to get close to him.” She slapped the back of my shoulder like we were long-lost pals and said, “Iconic, isn’t it?”
“Iconic, indeed. A limo drove you home. How’d you get here?”
“I drove the silver Jeep, you silly man. Hi ho, Silver!” she said, a la the Lone Ranger and promptly fell off the chair.
“No more driving and no more booze for you.”
Even though my townhouse had three bedrooms, the second housed my office and the third my library. I hid her car keys, carried her into the master bedroom, and placed her on my king-sized bed. As I did, she opened her eyes and ran a hand through my hair.
“God, you’re gorgeous. Can I tell you a secret? I’ve always had a thing for you.” She fumbled to undo the buttons on my shirt and when that failed she slid the straps of the black evening dress off her alabaster shoulders, revealing pert, firm breasts with large nipples. “Fuck me, fuck me now,” she said into my ear.
“I think you’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
“I want you inside me,” she moaned, softer.
“I think we’d both regret it in the morning,” I answered as I covered her slender legs with a blanket and placed the lemon water on the night table.
That seemed to sober her. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you? Admit it,” she said, hurt bleeding into her voice. When I didn’t answer, she said, “God damn you,” softly as she turned her head away.
Flushed with anger, I thought: You narcissistic little.…
“I’m going to let that slide because you’re drunk. Good night,” I said and turned off the light but kept the ceiling fan running. Besides, I’d used her plenty this week.
She stared with unfocused eyes in the direction of the revolving blades. “No mirrors. Tha’s good, you silly man, you. No more booze for you. And no sex,” she said as she hiccupped again, rolled on her side, curled into a tight ball, and closed her eyes.
I turned the night light on for her in the master bath while my erection and I retreated to the couch. The younger me would have acted differently.
That was the first time I’d gotten close to a woman in a year. Kris had an inner je ne sais quoi that enhanced her physical beauty and made her the total package. Someone like her is a rare find.
Several times during the night I heard the bed springs squeak followed by the padding of elfin feet as she went to vomit. I held her hair back as she emptied her stomach. The last time, I found her with a finger down her throat as she sat on the white ceramic tile, hugging the porcelain throne. When she finished, I cleaned her face with a cold washrag and had her take small sips of water.
She seemed steadier. “How long have you been purging?”
She brushed tousled hair from her face. “Since I moved from the production booth to in front of the camera,” she exhaled and added, “Two years now, give or take.”
“Do you want to stop?”
She sat with her legs folded under her bottom next to the toilet. She said nothing, looking pale and gaunt, and then she began to cry. I held her until she’d calmed enough to answer. “I don’t want to live this way. No job is worth this.”
For what remained of the dawn, we talked about her childhood, her parents, her body image, treatment options, and doctors and therapists who specialize in eating disorders. Then her thoughts returned to what had transpired in the Buckingham penthouse.
“I screwed up. I allowed myself to get caught up in the Maynard mystique, the promise of the national spotlight. I thought I’d been accepted into an elite group. I’m so stupid.”
“No you’re not. You were recruited by a master manipulator.”
“I lost sight of my journalistic creed: to be objective, seek the truth, and provide a fair and comprehensive account of newsworthy events in the community. I’m supposed to act independently, serve the public trust with thoroughness and honesty, because an enlightened public is the forerunner of justice and democracy.” She looked up at me, tears shining in her eyes. “You probably think I’m lying, but I really believe in the creed.”
“I know. I’ve fallen from grace before,” I said, thinking of how I met Kris. “It means we’re human.”
She wasn’t done. “My job is to avoid conflicts of interest, remain free of associations that might compromise my integrity or damage my credibility. But I failed. I drank the Maynard Kool-Aid, deluding myself into thinking I could remain objective.”
You’re not alone. Some entire news channels sold out long ago.
I brushed back another stray bang. “That’s enough self-abuse. Do you always dump on yourself when you’re drunk?”
She smiled sadly and gave almost a faint chuckle. “Calorie guilt.”
Low self-esteem behind the professional façade.
“You’re right. New plan: I want to expose the bastard for what he is, but I don't know how.”
I thought of Maynard’s security entourage. She’s in over her head. It’s way too risky for her.
“Don’t even think about it. You’d be the disgruntled, former associate in a case of ‘He said, She said.’ He could turn the tables and claim you made advances toward him, accuse you of professional misconduct, say that you sacrificed integrity to advance your career. Other area reporters with more seniority, one recently, have been fired for similar behaviors. Maynard’s too well-connected.”
Her tiny frame sagged inward. “What am I supposed to do, nothing?”
“Journalists are supposed to avoid undercover or covert methods of information gathering, right?”
“Yes, unless traditional methods fail and the information is vital to the public knowledge or well-being.”
I smiled. “I’m not a journalist. I’ve done undercover work before. Are you privy to anything, past or future, we could possibly use against him?”
She sat thinking, then perked up. “You’d give me the exclusive, right?”
I nodded. “That’s the Debbie I know. Welcome back.”
Leaning her arms on the toilet seat, she said, “I had a hunch Fallon wasn’t giving me full access to Maynard’s schedule, so I copied his personal appointment calendar for this month and I was right, it didn’t match.” She fished a crumpled and torn piece of paper from her purse and handed it to me.
Hardly damning evidence, for I imagined there were times when even Fallon couldn’t reach the Golden Boy.
“It’s a start,” I said. “Lay low. If you want out, tell Maynard, but do not go back with the idea to dig up dirt on him. His security team will have you under the microscope. They’ll catch you and you’ll be up shit creek.”
“I know.”
I didn't know how far Maynard was willing to go to protect his turf, but I had an idea.
It was now eight a.m. and I served orange juice and toast, which she kept down. I had a plane to catch in two hours.
I thought about my night out, my dinner and movie with friends, and it seemed like it happened a week ago. So much for a break from the case.
The bell rang as I walked her to the front door.
Baker stood dressed in his trademark black, gold earring in his left lobe, bald head reflecting the early morning sun as he calmly looked at us.
She walked up to me, stood on tip-toes to peck me on the cheek, and said, “Thanks for last night. Call me.” Her black evening dress was wrinkled and her big hair was helter-skelter.
She eyeballed Baker from head to toe, leered, and said, “Mandingo. Woof!”
Baker laughed and said in his baritone voice, “Fuckin’ A, girl. Mandingo the porn star, not the slave.”
We watched her stagger to her Jeep like an extra in a zombie movie, holding her black stiletto heels in one hand.
“Damn, you not only grew ’em back, but anorexic Barbie could barely walk to her ride, Cool Breeze. My man!” He smiled, his gold front tooth gleaming.
“It’s not like that.”
“Shit,” Baker said skeptically.
I grabbed an overnight bag and said, “Maynard tried to fuck her after a party last night. When she refused, he called security for a hooker. Others were provided to major party contributors.”
His eyes widened. “He force her? We got any physical evidence? Eyewitnesses?”
I shook my head. “They were both drunk. No witnesses.” I didn’t mention the quasi-deal Maynard had forged with her earlier. “Any luck finding Quinn?”
“Nada. Old Irish still into the wind, or worse. You workin’ on The Voice?”
I nodded. “She also said Maynard plans to wrap up the trial quickly and is considering a late run for the senate.”
“He can’t control the speed of a major trial.”
“I know, and that’s scary. Maybe Lonnie’s right. There isn’t going to be a trial because Maynard has a more permanent solution in mind.”
His hands balled into fists. A vein beat visibly on his temple as he weighed possibilities.
“I have a plane to catch.”
“Don’t bail on us, Cool Breeze.”
“I’ll be back to see Lonnie first thing Monday, if he still wants to see me. The only witness we have is over seven hundred miles away.”