patter of soothing words. The gun turns out to be a little five-shot.38 Smith & Wesson revolver, just what a panicked doctor would buy to protect his home. It’s not very accurate past twenty feet. I kick it out of reach.
I put a hand on Claire’s shoulder and she wilts under the touch, sinking down on the edge of the planter murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
The locals take over. It’s not my jurisdiction. They handcuff the suspect and take her into custody. They administer CPR and call the paramedics, who arrive with a lieutenant from the homicide division of the sheriff’s department. We exchange cards and he asks that I report to the Malibu station to make a statement.
I watch from the outside, through a big hole taken out of the door by the bullets, as the paramedics cut away the blood-soaked blouse covered with shards of glass and put patches on the victim’s chest in order to send the vital signs over the radio to a local ER. The beautiful face is relaxed, a normal blush going to pale, the eyes drowsily closed. One of the technicians pushes on the chest and air gurgles up through the blood. “Hemothorax,” he says. The homicide lieutenant wants to know the status of the victim in order to charge the suspect. The hospital radios back that there are no vital signs. There was a lot of damage. The actress probably died within minutes of the shots being fired. The charge is murder.
The last time I am aware of Magda Stockman she is on her knees on the wet concrete, with her head down and hands clasped, weeping, “Oh my God, Jay, oh my God, Jay,” and it’s odd that the grievous sobs should sound exactly like my mother’s. I haven’t heard her voice like that, out loud, in my ears, for fifteen years. When they say her famous client is dead, Magda Stockman’s forehead lowers very slowly to the ground and she stays that way for a long time, bowed down in a pose of mortification, until someone drags her to her feet.
I remember my mother crying and flush hot with fear.
It woke me up in my bed. I wandered out to the hallway and she told me to put a sweater over my pajamas because, as strange as it seemed, we were going to the Pier for ice cream. I remember there were wooden cutouts of Mary and her lamb on the wall over my bed and I even had a black woolly lamb with a music box inside that played the song.
I was clutching that lamb when I came out of the bedroom the second time, buttoned up in a sweater because I was a good and obedient little girl. There were voices and shouting in the backyard. I couldn’t find my mother so I went outside where my father and grandfather were arguing violently. My parents must have just driven in from Las Vegas, where they had gotten married, and Poppy must have been crazy with rage that this ignorant wetback dared to take his daughter, threatening him with the black policeman’s nightstick, jabbing it into the air.
I got between them. My father picked me up and I held on, my legs wrapped around his waist, while Poppy tried to pull me out of his arms. They were both shouting at the same time. I fell into the grass and a car passed in the alley, spraying the yard with strips of light. In the strobing headlights, I saw. It was not some foreman in a bean field, it was my grandfather who raised his nightstick and smacked my father across the temple and around the shoulders and neck again and again until blood streaked his temples, he suddenly convulsed and collapsed and lay still.
The engine roared, the loudest sound in the universe, as I scrambled into the car parked in front of the house where my mother had been waiting for me, squirming into her lap behind the big wheel, telling her what I had seen, perhaps, or maybe unable to utter a word, but whatever I said we did drive to the Pier that night, I remember how the sea wind cut through my sweater and how we sat on a bench and how, finally, she held me to her chest and cried. Whether she knew or suspected that her own father had killed her new husband, I’ll never know. I wonder how he disposed of the body but after all, he was a law enforcement officer, who better to conceal a crime? Maybe he dumped it up in Topanga Canyon, maybe he delivered it to the coroner’s office with a report about two drunks fighting in a Mexican bar, but Mother must have known that Miguel Sanchez left her because in some way he was defeated by Poppy’s rage and then she too succumbed to Poppy and lived her life in service to him until, apparently, it was meaningless to stay alive any longer, and whatever witness I might have borne to the incident I buried, for myself and, now I see, for her.
“Ana. I’m here.”
He is speaking very gently, maybe because he knows I am not at that moment on this earth. Slowly a high- pitched hum that has occluded my hearing subsides and the sounds of the waves come back, flat, regular, distant. I have been standing at the edge of the cliff.
“I was just leaving the office when you called it in. Kyle and I hauled ass out here.”
“Thank you.”
“We look out for our own.”
I don’t respond.
Mike Donnato puts his arms around me and I lean back against his chest, watching the long white line of the breaking surf against a charcoal sea.
“Are you okay?”
I shake my head no. Not okay.
“What can I do?” he asks.
I turn to him and we embrace fully, emotionally.
“I’m here for you,” he whispers.
I find his eyes in the dark. They are full of questions.
Finally I say, “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“There’s always a betrayal in it.”
I pull away and don’t look back. Thirty minutes later I am at the Malibu station, making my statement.
TWENTY-FIVE
SAC ROBERT CALLOWAY holds a news conference at our office to disclose the details of Jayne Mason’s death. He orchestrates it carefully, making sure the coroner himself is there and the L.A. County Sheriff and that they both take the proper tone of respect for the loss of an American icon. One of those doyennes of MGM musicals whose name I never remember — the one who’s eighty years old and still wears a pixie haircut — reads a statement announcing the creation of the Jayne Mason Fund for Gun Control. The press gets what it wants and treats Galloway well. He leaves the podium looking quite pleased.
Under the guise of being a law enforcement officer, Barbara Sullivan is able to attend the funeral — or at least claim a good spot alongside the security force with a clear view of the front steps of the Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church. She says the high point was seeing Sean Connery, but there were enough Hollywood celebrities in attendance to stoke the tabloids for months. As in major presidential events, the media held a lottery to determine which journalists would be admitted to the sanctuary. No cameras were allowed but, from the plethora of “insider” photographs of the rose-strewn coffin, grieving ex-husbands (including the used car king), children, and grandchildren, one may conclude that plenty of invited mourners were packing Instamatics inside those black Chanel bags.
Barbara returns from the funeral looking wan.
“I was a witness to history,” she declares, busying herself hanging up the jacket of her dark gray suit, checking phone messages, and finally pouring her famous cinnamon brew into two dark blue mugs with the FBI shield.
“No wise-ass remarks?”
In better times I would tell her that her attachment to Jayne Mason is pathological, but I haven’t the energy. I just shake my head.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I just feel like crying all the time.”
I shrug. Barbara’s blue eyes are kind. “It was a trauma.”
“That part didn’t bother me.”
