Maxi roared out of the parking lot at the Hall of Justice and maneuvered her black Corvette up the Hollywood Freeway, across Barham Boulevard, and down into Burbank, ignoring the tears streaking over her cheeks. She pulled into her parking spot on the station’s midway and slumped over the wheel. Why Carlotta? she raged inwardly. She was the last person on earth who deserved this.
There I go, she thought, looking for justice again. Jack used to call her an injustice collector. Twelve years in the news business, reporting the most brutal, inhumane, gut-wrenching acts of violence known to humankind, and she was no more reconciled to it now than on the day she started. Looking into the rearview mirror, she wiped her eyes and put on her sunglasses. Never let them see you sweat; definitely never let them see you cry.
Upstairs in her office, she logged on to her computer to check the wires—she wanted to see what they had on Carlotta’s murder. Interrupted by a rap on the door, she looked up as producer Wendy Harris opened it and thrust her head inside. “Heads up, Max—Pete alert!” she whispered, and she was gone.
“Just what I need,” Maxi groaned, as Pete Capra loomed large outside the glass and barged through her door.
“What kinda game are you playing, Maxi?” he roared, stomping inside. “Cabello says you’re pumping his partner and him for information, saying you’re working on the Nathanson murder.”
“’Pumping’ is a little strong, Pete,” Maxi said. “Look, I just found out about Carlotta Ricco, Jack’s housekeeper, and she was very close to me. Can this wait?”
“No, this can’t wait.” Shoving stacks of files aside on Maxi’s small couch, he sat down. “Cabello told me,” Pete said, leveling his gaze at her, “that you have not been ruled out as a suspect in the case. A murder suspect, Maxi! What the hell is going on?”
“I didn’t do it, boss,” she said.
Ignoring that, he growled, “Why do they consider you a suspect, Maxi? This station has a right to know.”
“You’ll have to ask them,” she answered quietly.
“Listen, Maxine,” he said, getting up and putting his two hands on her desk and looking down at her. “There’s a clause in your contract that says offending public decency is grounds for termination. I think murder just might offend some people, don’t you? Look,” he added, softening, “has it occurred to you that I might be able to help?”
Maxi regarded him wearily. “Okay, Pete,” she said. “Help me with Carlotta. Find out what really happened over there, or what they think happened—they won’t give me any information.” Pete could see now that she’d been crying.
“Okay, I’ll call Cabello and see what I can get,” he said. “But after that, you’re going to talk to me.”
Maxi sighed audibly as she watched Pete’s large frame rumble out of her office. She picked up the phone and asked Information for Arizona State University in Tempe. The switchboard put her through to the dean of students, who assured her that he would track down Ronald Ricco and have him return her call.
Maxi scanned the Associated Press wires. The story was slugged NATHANSON DOMESTIC:
Mrs. Carlotta Ricco, who had been employed as a housekeeper for the late Academy Award-winning actor Jack Nathanson for 21 years, was found stabbed to death this morning in the Nathanson home in what appears to be a burglary. The mansion in Beverly Hills was ransacked, and cash, jewelry and personal belongings of Nathanson’s widow, talent agent Janet Orson, were stolen…
The report went on to detail the crime scene, recap the recent Nathanson murder, profile the actor’s life and career, list his films, delineate Janet Orson’s career and personal life, characterize Nathanson’s previous wives with thumbnail sketches, and identify and describe his known survivors, beginning with his only child, Gia Nathanson. Poor Carlotta, Maxi thought. She’s the lead, but she only gets an inch in a three-page story.
She picked up the phone and called Debra. “You heard about Carlotta?” she asked her.
“Yes, it’s all over the news—it’s dreadful. That woman was a saint.”
“They’re calling it burglary. Pete Capra is trying to find out if they think there’s more to it,” Maxi told her.
“Burglary—oh, sure!” Debra spat out. “Maxi, has it occurred to you that maybe somebody wanted to get to Janet? I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and I’m terrified that there’s some nutcase out there. Maybe Meg Davis isn’t so harmless. From now on, I’m going to drive Gia to school and pick her up myself every day, and check behind my back. And you’d better do the same. I don’t have to tell you that Jack knew a lot of weird and unsavory people, and as you well know, Maxi, he had a way of pissing off the world.”
“Listen, Debra,” Maxi responded, “I’ll call you back as soon as I find out more about what happened to Carlotta, but meantime, try not to overreact, okay?”
“Overreact!” Debra fairly screamed. “Maxi, for God’s sake— look at what’s happened to my life in the last two weeks! I’m living in hell! Don’t overreact? How should I react? Would you like to write me some guidelines?”
“I’m sorry, Debra,” Maxi countered, trying to calm her down. “You’re right. Keep your doors locked, and be cautious. Give Gia a hug for me. I’ll call you back.” She hung up. Debra was in frantic mode, and Maxi didn’t blame her.
Both her other lines were ringing. The dean at Arizona State was calling to tell her that Ronald Ricco had gotten the news about his mother’s death, and he was on his way to his dorm now to pack and leave for California. And Pete was calling to tell her he wanted to see her. And Richard Winningham was tapping on the glass door to her office. She beckoned him inside. Winningham was a new hire; he had been a crime reporter for the ABC station in New York for fifteen years. Maxi had just a nodding acquaintance with him. She’d spoken to him only once, on his first day at the station earlier in the month when Pete brought him around to meet everyone.
“Hi, Richard,” she said, as he came into the office.
“Bad day, huh?” he remarked, lowering his lanky frame onto her rumpled couch. Well over six feet tall, and spare, Richard Winningham looked like a runner. He had tousled sandy hair that seemed to have a will of its own, 180 degrees from the usual television newsman hair-sprayed look. Handsome in a rugged way, it looked to Maxi as if he’d had his nose broken a time or two. And he had a small craggy scar over his left eyebrow.
Having observed him in the newsroom and on the air over the past couple of weeks, she had detected a definite New York–style “Don’t mess with me” attitude, but today, this close, she could see that his eyes were kind. Word on the company grapevine was that he had moved here alone, no family.
“Except for his movies, I don’t know anything about your ex-husband, or his housekeeper,” he said now, “but you must be on edge with all that’s going on, and I thought maybe I could help.”
In less distressing circumstances, Maxi might have taken this as a bit of personal interest, and were she not so devastated right now, she might even have welcomed it—which was heartening, since from the time she had started divorce proceedings against Jack Nathanson, she hadn’t felt a flicker of interest in any man; she was beginning to wonder if she ever would.
“Help how?” she asked.
“I was at the Benedict Canyon house this morning, and I’m going back to do live shots for the early shows,” he told her. “The Beverly Hills cops and the L.A. sheriffs are calling it a routine burglary, but I have a hunch they don’t really believe that, and for what it’s worth, it doesn’t smell like anything routine to me.” He paused.
“Meaning…?”
“Well, I’ve been around a lot of crime scenes, and this one has an element of, I don’t know, lunacy about it. I’m not sure what I’m talking about—all these kinds of things are insane, of course—but from our vantage they usually have their own crazy order to them, if you know what I mean. This one doesn’t. I’ll know more later, but meantime, I wondered if you have good security.”
“Um, I have the usual—”
“What usual?”
She didn’t know this man at all, and she wasn’t sure if she should be offended at his brusqueness or flattered by his concern. God, she thought, I’m really losing it. He’s an experienced crime reporter who’s just trying to be helpful to a colleague.
“Like a good alarm system, dead bolts on the doors—you know, the usual,” she said.
“Do you drive home the same route every night?” he pressed, and continued with a barrage of questions that made her wonder if she actually was cautious enough, not only for now, but even in ordinary circumstances, given her high-profile job. After making her promise to be more mindful of her safety, he offered to look around her house to see that it was as secure as it could be. As he got up to leave, Maxi thanked him. He had actually made her feel better.
She picked up her notebook and was about to go over to Pete’s office when her phone rang again. It was Ronald Ricco calling from Tempe.
“I’m so sorry, Ron,” she said. “I loved Carlotta—”
“I know,” he said. “I’m coming in this afternoon. Do you know anything?”
“Not really, Ron, beyond what you’ve probably heard on the news, but we’re looking into it. Where are you staying?”
“I’ll make some calls when I get there, see if I can bunk with a friend,” he said.
Maxi knew he must be on a tight budget. “Stay with me,” she offered.
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you,” he said. Carlotta had taught him to be proud, but Maxi could hear the anguish in his voice. He had been the man of Carlotta’s little family ever since his father was killed in a construction accident when the boy was six years old. It wasn’t until he left for college that Carlotta gave up her apartment in West L.A. and became Jack’s live-in housekeeper. Maxi remembered that Ronald had been pleased with that move; ironically, he’d thought it would be safer for his mother than living alone.
“It’s no bother,” Maxi insisted. “I have a comfortable guest room, and I’d like to have you with me.” When he still hesitated, she said, “Ron, I want to do it for Carlotta, okay?”
“Okay, Maxi. I really appreciate—”
“You can get a cab to my house,” she said, cutting him off. She spelled out her address. “Or will you be renting a car?”
“Uh… yeah, I guess,” he replied uncertainly. Poor kid, Maxi thought; it hasn’t sunk in yet. She told him her extra key was hidden in a magnetic holder stuck underneath a drainpipe behind the house, and she gave him the alarm code. “Make yourself comfortable, use the phone, fix yourself some food—Ron, I want to help, okay? I’ll be home later tonight.”
She hung up and walked over to Pete’s office.
“Everything, Maxi,” Pete repeated. “You gotta tell me everything.”
“I told you everything,” Maxi insisted. “Jack was holding me up to pay off exorbitant bills that he’d run up while we were married, debts in the millions, and legally, he might have gotten away with it. So it looks like I had quite a bit to gain by his death, and of course the detectives know that.”
“Aren’t you forgetting to tell me something?” His bushy eyebrows shot up.
“Like what?”
“Like they know you were at the scene the exact minute your ex–old man was croaked,” Pete said.
Maxi felt her throat constrict. “I’ll tell you about that, Pete, if you promise you won’t tell Baker.” Lon Baker was the young news director who had recently been brought in to head up the news department, along with his even younger assistant, Chaz Crawford. Pete and Maxi had been at the station through several management teams, and this one seemed far more interested in cosmetics than in solid news coverage. Pete called them “the idiot” and “the underjerk.”
“No,” he said, “I won’t tell the idiot unless this gets dicey, but if it does, all bets are off.”
“Yes, I know that, but for now, if the rank and file hear about this”—she gestured outside his office toward the enormous newsroom teeming with writers, producers, camera crews, editorial assistants, graphic artists, researchers, and the rest—“you know somebody will drop a dime on the print press and it’ll be all over the papers. Then—”
“Right, then you’ll be off the air and maybe out of a job,” he finished. “Sorry, Max, but that’s out of my hands. Now spill it.”
Maxi told him about that Saturday, and Pete’s eyes widened. “Worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you come forward?”
“Because I didn’t think anyone saw me.”
“Jesus, Maxi, of all people, you know better than that.”
“You don’t know how you’re going to react until you’re in that kind of situation,” she offered, realizing the weakness of her position even as she uttered the words.
Pete let it go for now. “Mike Cabello told me he’s not convinced the Ricco woman’s murder was just a burglary.”
His words triggered icy fear in her. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.
“There’s not a lot to tell, but he swore me to secrecy—he specifically told me not to tell you. Winningham doesn’t even know, and he’s on the story.”
“I give you my word, Pete.” She was well aware that when confidentiality was breached, sources dried up, and sources were the lifeblood of the news business.
“Okay. All he’s saying is it feels wrong. He says he knows they’re missing something, and that something feels eerily… inhuman”