He shrugged. “My fault. That’s the danger of surprising people.”
“I was just so shocked. I couldn’t figure out why. If you’d just said nothing, I would have been on a plane to Florida, but you talked me into coming.”
“Did you actually like the clothes, or were you just trying to get rid of her?”
“Some of each. Give me a while to look at them after I pull myself together. Right now I kind of want to start over.” She stood up from the bed.
“Take your time,” he said. “Right now I’m going to pour myself a drink. You want one?”
“I’m off the pain medicine, so I guess I could. But aren’t you on duty until eight?” She followed him out to the living room.
“Not anymore. That’s why I want a drink.”
Her eyes followed him as he walked toward the kitchen cabinet where the bottles were kept. “So what you’re saying is that I’m going to want one too?”
“Yes.”
32
Gloria Hedlund held her handbag and briefcase on the sides of her body, as she had when leaving work for the past twenty-five years. She had still been getting work as a model when she started at Channel Ten, and she had kept up all the tricks — use the loads you have to carry as free weights for exercise, watch your posture, think about the wrinkles your face is making, never forget what sun and alcohol did to skin. You never had to have anything repaired if you didn’t damage it first.
Her modeling agents had taught her to make her body a temple, and she still worshipped at it. She was long past modeling anything, but it didn’t matter because the money would have been negligible compared with what she made now. But she still did dance exercises, still ran, and still worked out on the machines. On her days off she did the things that took time — swimming and riding a bike.
Even on nights like tonight she never neglected her skin. She followed the same regimen of cleansing, hydrating, and lubricating with lotion that she did on the early nights. The days like today were the ones that did the most damage. They made a person’s forehead hold those washboard wrinkles for extended periods of time, and she’d always had to fight that habit of pursing her mouth that made more wrinkles appear above her upper lip. She was about ten years older than she looked.
Today had been one of the hardest for personal reasons. She was hired twenty-five years ago as just another beauty contestant who would be sent out into the rare rainy weather in Los Angeles to behave as though standing around in the rain made sense. They used to send her to spots like Mulholland Drive or the Griffith Observatory or the beach, even though it was raining just as hard on the sidewalk outside the station. Each year when the ski slopes opened they sent her two hundred miles into the mountains so she could interview people stopped along the uphill highway to buy gas or put on tire chains. And when that happened she had always liked it, because at least she was talking to real people on camera.
Gloria Hedlund had outlasted the others of her era, and she had thrived. After the years of being part of “team coverage” she had gotten to be one of the occasional weekend anchors at the studio desk when the first-string news readers had their nights off. Then she spent another eight years as a weeknight anchor before she got to where she was now, not just a news reader, but a real journalist.
Lately she had begun looking professionally at Dick Stahl. When she first learned of him about five years ago, she sensed something about him she didn’t like. Was he a real person? He had started out as a soldier, then became an army explosives expert, then the head of the LAPD Bomb Squad, and finally the owner of a private security company. His bio had the clean smell of omission that life stories of public figures in Los Angeles sometimes had.
Even her first search of the newspaper archive had been very LA. Stahl had a clientele that included a lot of Hollywood people, a few high-profile defendants in court cases, the principals in nasty big-money divorces. There were photographs of him in the backgrounds at parties that huge real estate companies or banks held, and there was no question he was there working.
As far as Gloria could tell, Stahl had never been willing to speak to reporters. That alone had made her suspicious of him. He was an expert in the false politeness that cops used to ensure not that they would never give offense, but that they could never be accused of it. He was also sure of what he could do to get a press reporter, photographer, or television newsperson out of his way when he was leading a client somewhere. When she was doing her research about him she had seen it on unaired video. Some large male reporters tended to use their size and weight to keep a celebrity or a suspect blocked where he was for questions or pictures. Dick Stahl was not someone who made that easy. He simply kept going, never quite stopping, his hand on the client’s upper arm, always smiling.
She had watched footage of Stahl taking a client out past David Wainscott from Channel Seven a couple of years ago. David was very big and intimidating, and he had planted himself in the only path through a crowd, the space between a car and the curb. Stahl came along smiling and saying: “Excuse us please. Excuse us. Thank you. Thank you very much.” At the last moment, David Wainscott seemed to realize he had put himself in a position that should have been effective, but also made him very vulnerable, and Stahl wasn’t reacting the way Wainscott had expected. He wasn’t stopping.
There was nowhere for Wainscott to sidestep or even turn his body, because his feet were too long to let him pivot in the narrow space. He was going back or he was going down. The camera showed Wainscott wince in pain as Stahl stepped on his instep, and then David staggering backward and bumping into the reporters behind him, stepping on their feet and then falling backward onto two of them. Stahl never stopped, simply kept up his progress, stepped past Wainscott and around the car, put the client into the backseat, and slid in beside her. The door slammed and the car pulled ahead and picked up speed. A careful slow-motion examination of the footage showed nothing actionable. Stahl hadn’t hit, pushed, threatened, or even stopped smiling.
Her distaste for him five years ago wasn’t hatred. She just filed him in the back of her mind as one of the cops and former cops who knew how to avoid letting his client be trapped and forced to respond to uncomfortable questions. She made sure there was never any mention of his name on her airtime to give him free publicity, and went on.
As soon as Stahl had returned to her attention two months ago with his odd history and insider connections she began to keep track of him. She wasn’t after him. And as he helped rebuild the Bomb Squad and began to take apart bombs that she was assured would have killed anyone else, Channel Ten had to give him the adulation everyone else was giving him. But she kept watching and listening.
And when she realized what the rest of the story was, what he had been hiding, the information clarified everything for her. She had seen this kind of thing before. God, had she seen it.
This was just like what had happened in her first job after college. The news director at Charlotte was a handsome man about forty years old named James, who had once been a reporter at the network. When he hired her, things had seemed just fine. He worked with the reporters as a team leader. He occasionally took the evening news staff out before the show. After a while, sometimes it was after the show. But inevitably, there came a time when there were only four of them, and then one at a time, the others left. After a couple of drinks, he said he wanted her to date him. She had begun to walk the tightrope — not rejecting him outright, but not agreeing. She said she was too busy, and then she was too tired, and then she had plans. He never gave up, never missed a chance.