Katie Anderson, the nurse in charge of 5-South at St. Joseph’s Medical Center in Burbank, figuratively looked the other way as visitors entered room 518. Hospital rules mandated that no more than two people could be at a patient’s bedside at one time, but she couldn’t keep people from streaming in to see Maxi Poole, the Channel Six reporter. Maxi was one of her favorites on the news. Katie had ordered extra chairs brought into the private room. They seemed to be a pretty well behaved group, she noted, as she walked past 518 and glanced inside to make sure they weren’t getting into party mode.
“Pete waved us down and flagged the house,” Mike Cabello was saying, “and we shimmied over the wall and saw the Cole woman just about to do a guillotine number on the crime dog, here,” he said, cocking his head at Richard, who was sitting on a chair at the foot of Maxi’s bed.
“It was quite marvelous the way you were able to shoot that dreadful cross right out of her hand,” Maxi’s mother, Brigitte, said to Mike Cabello. “You did that so you could take her alive, isn’t that right? So she’ll have to stand trial, and it’ll clear the name of that poor young actress, Meg Davis.”
Cabello beamed at the commendation. Jon Johnson jumped in. “Ma’am”—he addressed Maxi’s mother—“it’s only in the movies that lawmen aim for the legs, or the hand, or the gun. Actually, we’re trained in life-threatening situations to aim for the largest area of the suspect’s body. My partner’s just a bad shot.” Mike cuffed him hard on the shoulder.
“Just trying to keep you humble so I can live with you, buddy,” Jon protested.
“How did you two manage to get there in time?” Maxi asked the detectives. She was propped up on her own extra-large down pillows from home. Her mother had brought them, along with a couple of pretty nightgowns and a robe, some personal articles and books, and her comfy sheepskin slippers.
Pete Capra related how Cabello had asked him for an industry check on Zahna Cole yesterday afternoon because of the suspicious way she’d set up an interview with Janet Orson. At the same time, he said, Richard was in the newsroom running down Maxi’s lead on the Dracula costume, talking to merchants who’d recently sold them. “And I was up to my ass in alligators,” he said, “so I asked Richard—”
“Pete, you’re not in the newsroom,” Richard interrupted. “Please excuse his language, Mrs. Poole—we can’t take him anywhere.” Richard went on to explain about the costume shop selling a Dracula outfit to Zahna Cole.
“Nobody was terribly concerned about this woman until you didn’t show up for the Six O’clock, Maxi, and we tried to track you down. I checked with Sotheby’s then, and found out that the woman in the sketches was Zahna Cole,” Richard said. “Between Pete and your crisscross list we knocked down her address, and we jumped out there.”
“Jumped out there?” Pete echoed. “If you ever get the urge to ride a roller coaster, just have Winningham drive you around town in one of our rickety news vans. Same sensation.”
Richard went on: “Anyway, while I drove, Pete was calling everybody in town—the cops, the sheriffs, nine-one-one, the highway patrol; I think he also ordered pizza,” he said with a grin, looking sideways at Pete. “And he reached Mike and Jon at KBIS, and told them to get over to Zahna Cole’s house ASAP.”
“Yeah.” Pete laughed, pointing at Richard. “If anyone needs backup, it’s this guy and me.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Capra,” Richard piped up. “You’re the one who couldn’t make it over the fence.”
“I planned it that way,” Pete offered as an alibi. “I stayed outside to wave Mike and Jon down, be sure they got to the right place. Good thing, huh?”
“As it turns out, yes,” Richard conceded, “but thirty pounds less and you could have helped me overpower the she-devil.”
“Yeah, Pete!” chimed Wendy Harris, who was committed to vigorous daily workouts. “At least thirty pounds.”
“Okay, Winn, I concede you’re the big hero here,” Pete tossed out good-naturedly, eager to change the subject from the state of his physique. “You were wounded,” he said with mock concern. “In the Brooks Brothers jacket!” Everybody laughed.
“Hey, that was an Armani,” Richard groused. “Cost me a week’s pay. Is the station going to buy me a new one?”
Pete’s turn to laugh. “Check your contract, crime dog,” he shot back. “Channel Six doesn’t provide wardrobe for newsies.”
“I’ll buy you an Armani jacket,” Maxi’s dad put in. “I’ll buy you six of them, with pants to go with them!” Maxwell Poole was very grateful to Richard for saving his daughter’s life.
He and Brigitte had got the call from Pete Capra at their home in Manhattan at about 8:40 the night before, telling them that Maxi had just been brought into the ER at St. Joseph’s—the two managed to make the ten o’clock red-eye to Los Angeles. On the drive to JFK, Max put in a call to Dr. Rick Gold in Los Angeles, an old family friend and Maxi’s doctor in California. Rick met them in the hospital lobby, and they went up to Maxi’s room. It was after one in the morning; Maxi was sleeping fitfully. Brigitte sat down on the bed, put her hand on her daughter’s forehead, and kissed her gently. Maxi’s eyes fluttered open, and in the dim illumination of the night-light she saw her mother bending over her, and her father standing by her side.
“Mom, Dad, you’re here,” she’d said weakly. Then, “Oh my God, am I dying?”
“No, darling.” Her mother smiled, dabbing at a couple of tears. “You’re going to be fine. Daddy and I just wanted to be here. Dr. Rick is with us.” She drew the doctor into Maxi’s view. “He’s been conferring with the staff here.”
“Hi, Maxi,” Dr. Gold said. “Everything’s fine. You’ll be good as new, I promise.” Maxi attempted a smile. If Dr. Gold said she was going to be okay, she could count on it.
“Daddy!” she said then, and held an unsteady hand out to her father.
He bent and kissed her protectively on the cheek. “I love you, little girl,” he murmured. Maxi drifted back to sleep.
Today, they’d found her heavily bandaged from her neck to her waist, but awake and alert, and eager to talk. She’d shuddered as she filled her parents in on the details she could remember of the previous day’s events. Brigitte was horrified. Max was proud of his girl, and tremendously relieved.
“Mom,” Maxi had whispered to her mother then, looking down at her bandaged body. “What am I going to look like? For the rest of my life I’ll have to wear turtlenecks, even on swimsuits.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” her mother said. “I’ve already had this discussion with Rick. He’s lining up the best plastic surgeon in the country, who happens to be right here in Beverly Hills. Rick says name any Hollywood beauty, and Dr. Frank Kamer has probably worked on her.”
Maxi sighed. She was lucky to have Brigitte and Max for parents. She was lucky to be alive. She was going to be released from the hospital tomorrow, and so was Yukon. They would both be hobbling around the house together, all bandaged up. But they would both recover fully, the experts said. Maxi wondered idly if she could get the plastic-surgeon-to-the-stars to fix Yukon up too. Guess not, she thought, smiling to herself. Dr. Sullivan had done a great job. Besides, Yukon had loads of hair to hide his scars.
She couldn’t wait to be home. Dr. Rick had said she could probably go back to work in a couple of weeks. And she’d be fine to fly east for Thanksgiving.
A nurse’s aide brought in another basket of flowers. She handed Maxi the card, along with a large, flat package. The flowers were from Alison Pollock, a huge arrangement of pink and purple cabbage roses. The card read simply: Maxi, thank heaven you re okay! The story had been all over the news that morning. Pete told Maxi that the switchboard at the station was swamped by viewers calling to find out how she was.
The aide took a small pair of scissors out of her pouch and helped Maxi open the package that had arrived. Maxi gasped. It was one of the sketches Remy Germain had made at the auction. It pictured Meg Davis purchasing the Black Sabbat cross from Gabby Modine, with Zahna Cole in profile standing prominently in the foreground. Signed by the artist, it was floated on a white matte board and set in a black acrylic frame. On a card accompanying the sketch, Remy had written: Maxi, there was no way you or I could have known. Your planets must be aligned perfectly. Your guardian angel must be on your shoulder. Here’s a memento for your trophy wall Call me—let s do lunch. xx RG
Maxi smiled. “An original Remy Germain—I’ll put this up in my office.” Remy Germain was a very interesting woman. Maxi had a feeling they were going to be friends.
There was a bustle out in the hall, and Debra Angelo swept into the room, carrying an enormous pink-cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit, chocolates, magazines, and, as Debra pointed out, three bottles of Amstel Light, Maxi’s favorite beer, embedded surreptitiously beneath a bunch of grapes, along with a jeweled bottle opener. Attached to the top of the basket was a silver box tied with black ribbon, from Theodore on Rodeo Drive.
“That’s a go-silk gown and robe, and some undies,” Debra said, indicating the box on top. “I didn’t know Brigitte was going to be here, so I brought you some survival gear.” She went over and hugged Max and Brigitte, and introduced herself to Pete, Wendy, and Richard.
“And, of course, we’ve had the pleasure,” she said, flashing a disparaging smile at Mike Cabello and Jon Johnson. “May I leave the frigging country now, gentlemen?” Maxi giggled.
“Well, actually, no,” Mike Cabello said with a big grin. He had jumped to his feet when Debra entered and helped her wrestle the giant basket to a side table. “You’ll get an official release from the sheriff’s department through your attorney,” he told her, “probably by the end of the week.”
“Really,” Debra said sweetly. “Well, try and find me, guys,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll be in Europe.”
Debra had decided, after everything broke, to take Gia to Italy the next morning for a short vacation. She would enroll her in a Malibu school in two weeks, but right now she felt they both sorely needed a change of scene. Her mother and dad were there, the Abruzzi was home, and it would nourish her soul. Walking over to the bed, she regarded Maxi critically. “Good Lord,” she said, lightly fingering Maxi’s bandages. “What the hell is under there?” She had heard accounts of Maxi’s jagged injuries on the morning news. “This looks like a job for Frank Kamer, miracle man!”
“Got it covered. Love your priorities, Deb,” Maxi said, laughing, and she meant it.
“I’m a satisfied customer—this is his nose,” Debra countered with a grin.
Cabello was still standing. “Jon and I have to go,” he said. “We have to get back to work.”
“No, Mike has to go buy a new suit,” his partner clarified. “He’s got a date with his ex-wife tomorrow night and he doesn’t have a thing to wear.” Cabello cuffed him again, and the two headed for the door.
“Before you leave,” Debra said to the detectives, “would you please explain to me how come my fingerprints were on the damn gun? Instead of Zahna Cole’s, or even Gia’s? Which is what got me in all the trouble to begin with, right?”
“Yes, we had a lengthy conversation with Ms. Cole about that, among other things,” Jon Johnson offered.
“Lengthy?” Mike jumped on the word. “It was lengthy, all right—like from seven o’clock last night after they stitched up her arm, till about five this morning. She confessed everything.”
“My mother would confess after ten hours in a room with you,” Jon remarked. “Anyway,” he said to Debra, “she said she wiped her prints off the gun with her shirt. That would have taken your daughter’s prints off it too, and left only yours on other parts of the gun, from loading and handling it.”
“Wonderful,” Debra said. “Can I sue you guys for false arrest? I’ll ask Marvin about that.”
“Nope. We were within our rights,” Cabello returned. “By the way,” he said, addressing Richard now, “where the hell did you learn how to pick locks like that? You were a second-story man before you got into television?”
“I did a series showing viewers how to protect their homes against crime,” Richard told him. “I used Wee Willy Wade as my expert. He showed how easy it is for a burglar to get into any lock. You fellas heard of him?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cabello said admiringly. “New York guy. He could get into anything. Ed Koch made an unpopular joke once—said he was gonna give Wee Willy a key to the city. Said he might as well; he could get in anywhere he wanted anyway.” Cabello chuckled. “Isn’t Wade doing time?”
“Three to five,” Richard said. “He writes to me. Nothing better to do, I guess. Anyway, Willy taught me how to pick locks.”
“We saw that series,” Brigitte said brightly. “It was excellent! I made Max put dead bolts on all the outside doors. We miss you in New York, Richard.”
Cabello and Johnson had moved to the door. They said their good-byes, Jon thanked Maxi for breaking their case, Mike shot a parting look at Debra in her skintight knit dress, and they left.
“He’s actually cute,” Debra said, grinning after Mike Cabello.
“Don’t even think about it, Deb,” Maxi warned. “He’s trying to get back with his ex-wife.”
“Fine, fine,” Debra said. “There are lots of other fish out there. There’s an absolutely gorgeous fish in my new film. Coincidentally, he plays the detective.”
“Great—you took the part!” Maxi beamed.
Maxi’s folks wanted to know about the movie. Debra explained how she had been offered the role last week, and she was dying to grab it, but while she was out on bail on murder charges she couldn’t negotiate any work, and the producer thought that she was holding out for more money, so he made a fabulous deal with her agent this morning. She would be starting the picture after she got back from Italy. It would be shot mostly here in the Los Angeles area, she told them.
“And what about Bessie?” Maxi asked. “Is she going to survive this?”
“Oh, Bessie will be fine,” Debra said. “Bessie is hardy British stock. She was doing what she thought was right for Gia. Misguided though it was, how can I fault her for that? I couldn’t replace Bessie in a million years.”
Pete Capra got up to leave. “The early block is going on the air—I have to go bash some heads,” he said, and he was out the door, with Wendy in tow. Richard and Maxi laughed. They knew he wasn’t kidding.
“I’m going too,” Debra said. “Gotta pack. When are you getting out of here, Max?”
“Tomorrow,” Maxi responded, looking over at Debra’s whopping basket of goodies. She laughed. “As usual, you overdid.”
“Oh, you’ll have fun with that stuff at home,” Debra tossed off. “You’ll find a great little edition of the Kama Sutra buried in there.” She smiled wickedly, glancing pointedly at Richard.
Brigitte laughed. She always got a kick out of Debra. Maxi looked up at her dad to see how he had taken that remark. He was usually an unmitigated prude where his daughter was concerned. Not bad, she observed, not too bad at all. He was actually smiling. Mom has done a great job of liberating Pop, she mused.
Max got up too. “We’ll walk out with you,” he said to Debra. “We’re going back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner. I’m taking Brigitte to Spago.”
“We left so fast I don’t have a thing to wear,” Brigitte lamented.
“I know, darling.” Max looked at her affectionately. “Only a suitcaseful. It’s amazing what your mother was able to pack in twelve minutes flat,” he said to Maxi.
“Still, I’m staying until Maxi can go back to work, so I’ll have to shop.”
“That’s the spirit, Brigitte!” Debra applauded, as they crowded around the hospital bed to kiss Maxi good-bye.
“We’ll pick you up in the morning,” Maxi’s father told her, “and your mother will get you settled in at home while I go get Yukon.”
Maxi felt very blessed. Richard was going to sit with her for a while, until she got tired. She felt as if the two of them had been through the Blitz together.
At the doorway, her father paused and turned to them. “Honey, invite Richard for Thanksgiving,” he said, completely astonishing both Maxi and her mother. “You know we have plenty of rooms to accommodate your sister and Bucky, the kids, and him,” he went on. “Because Richard and I have a date on the morning after Thanksgiving.”
“A date? Where?” Maxi asked him.
“On Madison Avenue,” he said, winking at Richard. “At Giorgio Armani.”