“Not anymore, no. I’m working on a film about Holloway, not about his murder.” I set my bag on his desk chair, the only clear space I could see, and leaned my backside against the edge of the desk beside him.
“Did you grow up in Gilstrap?”
“Sure. Graduated from Central High in the class between his sons, Trey and Harlan. My family goes to the same Lutheran church as Karen and the boys, so I’ve known them all my life.”
“How well did you know their father?”
“He wasn’t around all that much. I saw him at the Republican picnics every summer, and walked his precinct one year-it was a school assignment-but usually when he was in town he was giving speeches to the Lions or the Kiwanis or the various farm co-ops or some other big group. It’s not like he showed up at Little League practice, though he did go to some of the high school games when Trey was drawing a big crowd.”
“Did anyone around here ever explain why he left Congress?”
“Not really. There was plenty of gossip but no substantial information. I was a senior at UC Davis then, journalism major, of course. I tried to get an interview with him for the college paper, but his office sent a form letter. You know, the usual thanks-for-your-support-and-good-luck-to-you B.S.”
He found a notebook and a pen amid the rubble on the desk; I was wondering when he, the local reporter, was going to get around to asking questions of his own.
“You found Holloway, right?”
When I nodded, he asked for details and I gave him the usual demurrer: I saw him, I called 911, the end. He took notes as I spoke, and when I finished, kept his pen poised.
“You have a film to make,” he said. “And I have a paper to get out. But I’m getting precious little information from anyone. As soon as I heard something happened to Holloway, I called the LA County Sheriff’s press office for information, but got nothing from them except confirmation it was Holloway and time and place of death. ‘Ongoing investigation,’ they said. ‘Coroner hasn’t released cause of death,’ they said. Took me half of Saturday to find out who the investigating detectives are, but they basically told me to piss off.”
“They’re a charming pair,” I added. “You can quote me.”
He made a note as he continued with his tale of woe.
“The college public relations office referred me to the Sheriff’s press office. You’ll find a message from me on your campus phone. I was kinda hoping when I saw you coming in that you got the message and you were coming to tell me what you know.
“So far I have the official press release and local reaction for the story. I think Holloway’s community deserves more, Maggie, if only to put a stop to some of the more lurid gossip out there.”
“When does your paper run?”
“Wednesday. You going to help me?”
“That’s only fair,” I said, and did. I asked him to call me a reliable source and to leave my name out of the article, though everyone in town would know I was the source by the time the paper came out. Leaving out gory details, I told him why I went to the administration building and what I saw: Park Holloway had a head injury, and was hanged. The coroner was working on the autopsy as we spoke, and might have a preliminary cause of death to announce by late afternoon.
Just to be nice, I pulled out my electronic notebook and showed him the footage I had shot of the empty stairwell, the footage that was too dark for my film and that had sent me back later on Friday to try again. Bensen was excited to see the scene of the crime. I isolated a frame and sent it to the email address he recited for me as he walked over to his computer and opened his mailbox.
“Hah!” he exulted as the image came up. “That’s my front page. You give this to anyone else?”
“It’s your exclusive.”
He was writing that down when the front door was suddenly and forcefully yanked open, creating a sudden air gust that sent random bits of paper fluttering around the room. The young man who strode in was red in the face and shook with rage.
“You shut up, Marsh,” he ordered, jabbing a finger toward Bensen. “This busybody is poking around into stuff that is none of her damn business, understand? I don’t want you talking to her.”
“Hi, Harlan,” Bensen said, outwardly ignoring the man’s wrath, speaking calmly, staying exactly where he was when the door opened. “How’s it hanging?”
“I’m warning you.”
“Message received. Harlan, I want you to meet Maggie MacGowen.”
“Hello, Harlan.” I offered my hand, which he only glared at, and tried to sound as composed as Bensen had, even though I felt anything but. Harlan looked strung out, thin, unwell, not amenable to reason. I said, “I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And you stay away from my mother.” His finger veered from Bensen to jab at the air in front of me.
The door opened a second time, more gently this time. The young man who entered was a tan, fit version of Harlan. He looked as if he had been running.
“What are you doing here, Trey?” Harlan demanded, jaw clenched, seething with anger.
“Mom called, said she saw you drive by.” Trey Holloway held out his open palm. “You want to give me the truck keys?”
“Go to hell.”
“You get picked up one more time on that suspended license and you’re going straight to jail. Don’t expect me and Mom to bail you out this time. Hand me the keys and I’ll drive you home. Now.”
“I said-”
“I heard what you said, Harlan. Now give me the keys. Jackie can only cover my class for the rest of this period, so I don’t have time to screw around with you.”
Harlan glared at each of us in turn, let out a long hot huff, and then gave his brother the keys.
“Let’s go,” Trey said, moving toward the door.
“I’ll walk home,” Harlan said, defiantly.
“You’ll get in the truck and I’ll drive you. The frame of mind you’re in, I don’t want you getting into mischief. Let’s go.”
Trey opened the door and gestured for his brother to go through. Harlan hesitated just to make a point, but he went. Before he followed his brother out, Trey gave us each a nod.
“Ma’am, Marsh. I apologize for the intrusion.” And he was gone.
We waited in the sudden quiet, heard truck doors close, the engine start, and the truck drive away.
As the air settled after them, Bensen sighed and turned to me.
“There’s a story I would like to write some day,” he said. “The brothers Holloway.”
“Yes?”
“Everyone says that Congressman Holloway was the smartest kid ever to graduate from Central High. Until Trey came along.”
“He’s really intelligent?” I said, hoping he would continue.
“Yes. And he’s about the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Gets that from Karen. He could have been anything he wanted, but here he is, teaching at his old high school. His mother keeps telling him he doesn’t have to stay in Gilstrap, but as long as she’s alive and Harlan needs managing, he won’t go anywhere.”
“Why does Harlan need managing?”
“Something’s wrong with the way he’s wired.”
I checked my watch. “I have a plane to catch,” I said.
He asked a few more questions, we exchanged cards, and said good-bye.
I drove out of town, headed for the airport. As soon as I reached the Interstate, a silver Ram pickup appeared in my rearview mirror and stayed there until I entered the rental car lot at the Sacramento airport. Before I got out of the car, I texted the truck’s license plate to Roger and told him I had been followed. He would know what to do with the information.
I was in the boarding lounge waiting for my flight to be announced when Max finally called.
“Lana is a cold, hard bitch,” was his greeting.
“Not going well, then?”
“We’re finished. I knew when I walked in this morning what we would end up with. I just had to go through the dance with her and the network bun boys.”
He ran through the terms: budget, deadline, network support, ownership rights, and many pages of the usual boilerplate.
“Did they actually sign?”
“They did,” he said. “And I initialed on your behalf as your agent. Meet me at the Pacific Dining Car on Wilshire and Twenty-seventh in Santa Monica for dinner and we’ll get this puppy signed and couriered back to Lana tonight.”
I told him where I was and we figured that I could meet him by six.
“What about Guido and Fergie?” I asked. “Don’t they need to sign contracts as well?”
“We had to make some concessions, kiddo,” he said. “So here’s the deaclass="underline" you are not a network employee on this one, you’re an independent contractor, a production company leasing network facilities. You can hire whoever you want, and using your old independent production company banner, you will pay them. The network takes no responsibility for them, and you even get to negotiate with their unions all by yourself.”
“That stinks,” I said.
“Welcome to the new economy, honey. The good news for you is that they asked for first rights of refusal on your next project. If they pick it up, the numbers go up exponentially. And we both know they won’t be able to refuse the next project because the topic is too compelling.”
“We know what the next project will be?”
“We do,” he said. “It’s Isabelle.”
He was right, but I didn’t feel ready to work on a film about my biological mother, a murder victim. When he told me how much we would be paid I felt a little better. Business concluded, I offered him Jean-Paul’s Philharmonic tickets. He was delighted. He said he would call Mom right away and work out details; Thursday was Mahler night.
The phone was still in my hand when it rang again. Caller ID said it was a private caller, but I answered instead of letting it go to message, something I rarely do.
I waited for the caller to speak first.
“Is this Maggie MacGowen?” A female voice, nothing distinctive about it.
“Who is calling, please?”
Without saying another word, she hung up.