The Interior

  In the last paragraph David saw something that made him sit upright. “Family considerations aside, Mr. Knight’s concerns may have lessened lately,” Pearl Jenner wrote. “Just two days ago, Keith Baxter, an attorney at Phillips, MacKenzie & Stout, the law firm which represents Tartan Incorporated, was killed in a traffic accident. Baxter had been the target of a recent federal inquiry into alleged violations of the U.S. Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, which occurred during the Knight sale negotiations. Until now Henry Knight has refused to comment on the inquiry, but speaking by phone yesterday, he said, ‘I always believed that these allegations were unfounded. Now the government will have no choice but to drop their charges. I want to add that Keith Baxter was a fine young man and his death comes as a shock to my family and me. Our sympathies go out to the Baxters. To honor his memory we will continue to move ahead with the sale. I know Keith would have wanted that.’” The article ended with a summary of Knight International’s annual gross revenues and net profits.

  David put the newspaper down and closed his eyes. Bribery was practically a way of life in China, with roots that could be traced back thousands of years. Keith must have slipped a bribe or two to some official, hoping to work out a conflict or smooth over some mistake in the paperwork. The practice might be customary in China, but it was beyond stupid here. No wonder Keith had reacted so strangely to David’s questions about what he was doing at the firm, suggesting that David had come as part of some federal investigation. If Keith had confided in him, David would have insisted that he go straight to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Considering Keith’s background—a lawyer with no priors—he might have gotten away with probation and a fine.

  The service was held at Westwood Village Mortuary. David signed the guest book and looked for a seat. Hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible, he and the two FBI agents who accompanied him slipped into pews toward the rear of the chapel. But really, how inconspicuous could they be? Even if the shooting hadn’t been in the news, even if David hadn’t been the real target of the murderer with Keith’s death as the consequence, David’s companions would have marked him for at least a few stares. It wasn’t their fault: FBI agents looked like FBI agents.

  Keith’s coffin lay on a raised platform at the front of the chapel. A few bouquets—some daisies, some roses, even one of those carnation things on an easel—surrounded it. A man walked to the podium and introduced himself as Reverend Roland Graft from Westwood Presbyterian. He opened with a few perfunctory remarks on the nature of death and the tragedy of a life taken so young and violently. However, the Reverend Graft had obviously never met Keith and quickly turned the microphone over to Miles Stout.

  The last time David had seen Miles was at the annual dinner for current and former assistant U.S. attorneys. He hadn’t changed, he never did. His Scandinavian background was prominent in his features. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, tan, athletic-looking despite his almost sixty years. It was said that he still played tennis every day before going in to the office. He spent his vacations skiing in Vail or white-water rafting down some river no one had ever heard of in some remote area of the globe.

  At the podium Miles appeared to take a moment to gather his thoughts. Probably half the people in the chapel knew this was mere theatrics. Miles was brilliant on his feet whether in court or as an after-dinner speaker.

  “What can I say about Keith?” Miles asked in the buttery-smooth tones that so captivated juries. “How do I sum up a life?” He let the questions hang in the air unanswered, then dropped his voice. “Keith came to the firm still wet behind the ears, but he was a quick study. I learned to trust his judgment and admire his insights.”

  It was classic Miles Stout: sincerity combined with hackneyed images, false regret, and just a slight bending of the facts. Miles, knowing his audience and recognizing that they would be seeing right through him, continued.

  “But again, how do we remember a man? With platitudes? No. With empty sentiments? Never. Today I want to remember the good times. Sure, they all involve the firm, but that’s the kind of man Keith was. Perhaps through my stories, you will remember some of your own.”

  He paused, let a gentle smile come to the corners of his mouth, then said, “Just last week Keith and I were working on the acquisition of Knight International by Tartan Incorporated. Our team had been up for two nights straight. We’d been eating pizza and Chinese takeout till we were all longing for a home-cooked meal. I called down to the office…”

  David allowed his mind to drift. He hadn’t been at the firm for the Tartan-Knight negotiations, but he didn’t need to be to know that Miles hadn’t been working twenty-four hours a day and eating food brought in from the nearest fast-food restaurant. Miles said it himself. “I called down to the office.” He was the billing partner. It didn’t matter if he went out to dinner with Mary Elizabeth, his high school sweetheart and wife of thirty-five years, to dine on linguini with black truffles so long as he brought in the work. And he did, big-time.

  Miles was a legend of sorts in the Los Angeles legal community. Like Keith, he’d been raised on a farm somewhere in the Midwest. He’d gotten a scholarship to Michigan, then had been accepted to Harvard Law School. Upon graduation he clerked for a judge, then went directly to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. When he was ready to leave, Phillips & MacKenzie offered Miles a position as partner. Ten years later, after he threatened to leave and take his substantial client list with him, the partnership voted to add his name to the firm’s, turning it into Phillips, MacKenzie & Stout. Despite his good fortune, Miles never forgot his roots, which was why he often had parties on days that the Wolverines played and probably why he mentored Keith, who’d come from such a similar background.

  David tuned back in to the eulogy as he heard Miles’s voice suddenly go mournful. “I want to end now with how I saw Keith on that last day. We were in the conference room. There were half-eaten sandwiches, Cokes, cold cups of coffee. Keith was taking me through the contract point by point. He was thorough. He didn’t stumble over a number or a clause. At one point he opened a file cabinet and pulled out some papers. He saw the mistakes. He saw the problems. He didn’t miss a thing. Because that’s the kind of lawyer…No! That’s the kind of man he was.”

  Miles looked over at the coffin. “Keith, we’re gonna miss you, buddy.” He turned back to the audience, murmured a barely audible thank-you, and walked back toward the condolence room, crossing paths with Keith’s sister, Anne Baxter Hooper, who said a few words. Then Reverend Graft thanked everyone for coming and invited the mourners to the Stouts’ home for refreshments.

  Twenty minutes later, David and the two agents turned north off Sunset and began climbing into the Brentwood hills, where grand mansions were hidden behind stone walls, wrought iron gates, or carefully trimmed hedges. A valet stand was set up at the entrance to the Stout property, but George flashed his credentials and the car was waved through.

  The Stout estate had been built at the turn of the century by an East Coast robber baron who’d come out to California for the winter season and decided to stay. He brought with him traditional ideas of living, but for his new home he had also asked the architect to include the very best ideals of Southern California living. The house—built in the Spanish style with cream-colored walls, extensive terraces, and a tiled roof—was gracious, large, and perfect for entertaining. Over the years the property had passed through many hands. When the Stouts purchased it in 1980, they decided to bring the property back to its former glory, first restoring, then embellishing its fine bones. Nowhere was this more evident than in the gardens.

  The landscaping had been designed on a semi-European scheme with “rooms” representing different countries and themes: a Japanese garden, a rose garden for viewing, a citrus orchard for Southern California, a tropical garden with bougainvillea, birds of paradise, and flowering silk floss and jacaranda trees. Colorful annuals bordered the driveway. Manicured lawns spread out lush and green. Hundred-year-old sycamores a
nd California oaks provided shade. David remembered that somewhere on the property there was a greenhouse filled with orchids and another hidden garden for cut flowers. In this way Mary Elizabeth Stout was able to have fresh flowers in every room virtually all year.

  Someone from the catering staff showed David and the agents through the living room and out onto the terrace. Heading down to the pool, David and the FBI agents were flanked by a series of terraces, each draped with flowers and vines. George and Eddie took up discreet positions at either end of the cabana, while David went straight for the bar. He ordered a beer and watched as the other guests came down the stairs. They were the predictable assortment of lawyers from different law firms and government entities, as well as a smattering of judges. David waved to Rob Butler from the U.S. Attorney’s Office and said hello to Kate Seigel from Taylor & Steinberg.

  No one seemed particularly upset. In fact, as they picked up drinks and mingled at the bar, they looked more like guests at a garden party than at a funeral. But what did David expect? If Keith had died a week ago, would he have reacted differently? Certainly he would have felt bad about a friend and colleague’s death, but he would have compartmentalized it and, like most of these people, come more out of duty than friendship. How strange, David thought, the way people avoided grief, avoided any unpleasant emotions, as if that would protect them from tragedy or make them invisible to evil.

  Phil Collingsworth, who’d been at the firm even longer than Miles Stout, clapped David on the back and said that the three of them should grab some time later to talk. David spoke with another partner, who, after Hulan left him years ago, had encouraged him to date, then marry Jean. The marriage had been a mistake, but when they’d divorced, Marjorie, like so many people and things, had gone into Jean’s half of the communal property. But now here was Marjorie, giving David a hug, saying how nice it was to see him after such a long time, and asking if he wouldn’t like to come over for dinner and see how big the kids had grown.

  It felt good to be back among friends, but there was a shadow over most of his conversations. No one mentioned the accusations surrounding Keith or David’s presence at Keith’s death, but he felt these subjects intruding into all of his encounters. Soon enough small talk evaporated into awkward silence. The little grouping would disperse and another one would form.

  At one point David found himself standing alone. He glanced around, caught a sympathetic nod from Agent Baldwin, and quickly looked away. His eyes came to rest on Keith’s sister, sitting with an older couple. The three of them looked exhausted and definitely out of place in the party atmosphere. David passed through the little eddies of people, reached Keith’s family, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

  At the older woman’s quick intake of breath, the man at her side put a protective arm around her shoulder. With his other hand he reached out and firmly gripped David’s. “Matt Baxter. I’m—I was—Keith’s dad. This is Keith’s mother, Marie. And this is Anne.” But these introductions seemed about all he could manage. David watched as Matt squeezed his wife’s shoulder, this time to strengthen himself.

  A moment passed before anyone spoke, then Anne, her eyes welling with tears, looked up at David. “You’re the person who was with Keith when…”

  “That’s right,” David finished for her. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  David dragged a lawn chair over to Anne and her folks. As soon as he sat down he smelled an overpowering and sickeningly sweet scent that reminded him of death.

  “Can you tell us about Keith on that last night?” Anne asked.

  David had been so wrapped up in his guilt that he hadn’t considered that Keith’s family would ask him this question if given the opportunity. What should he say? That Keith had drunk too much? That he’d been worried about work? These weren’t words that would bring solace. Instead David answered in half-truths.

  “We had a bottle of wine. We ate fish. He was in a good humor. He teased me about coming back to the firm,” David said.

  Keith’s folks nodded and smiled sadly.

  “But did he say anything?” Anne pressed.

  Was she asking about Pearl Jenner’s allegations in the Times? She couldn’t be.

  “At the time nothing seemed that important,” he said, trying to keep the conversation light. “We were just friends catching up on what we’d been doing. He asked about some trials that I’d had. It was just lawyer talk…”

  “I don’t know how you could say that,” Anne said, not bothering to disguise her sarcasm.

  “Anne,” Matt implored his daughter, but she ignored him.

  “I talked to him that day too, you know.” Her voice had shifted into something hard and edgy. Her eyes stayed steady on David as she waited for him to respond. How much did Anne know? Was she, like David, worried about her brother’s reputation? All he knew was that he didn’t want to talk about these things in front of Keith’s parents.

  “My brother was in anguish. His girlfriend had just died…” Anne began to cry.

  His girlfriend? Keith hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Could David have misread the evening? No, not if what the Times said was true.

  “We haven’t thanked you for calling that night,” Keith’s mother said. “It meant a lot to us that it was a friend and not the police. I don’t think I could have taken that.”

  “If the situation had been reversed, I’m sure Keith would have done the same for me.”

  “Do you think so?” Anne asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “What I mean is, do you think the situation could have been reversed?”

  “Anne,” Matt Baxter gently pleaded with his daughter.

  Anne took an angry swipe at her tears, then turned impatiently to her father. “What is it, Dad? Do you want me to forget that my brother died because of this man? Well, I’m not going to forget that. I don’t think anyone here—except for maybe you and Mom—is going to forget that.”

  Hearing those words, David felt his gut tighten. Was this how people would think of him from now on?

  “Excuse me.”

  They all looked up to see Special Agent Eddie Wiley, sounding extremely official. “Mr. Stark, I need for you to step this way.”

  David rose. He kept eye contact with Anne but spoke to her parents. “Again, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.” He tipped his head, broke away from Anne’s hard gaze, and followed Eddie into the cabana.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No thanks required. You looked like you needed rescuing.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “You’re going to have to learn how to deal with shit like that.” When David regarded him in puzzlement, Eddie explained, “With people asking questions that they really don’t want the answers to.”

  “And?”

  “Shine them on.”

  David frowned. “Could I do that? Could you?”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “Maybe yours…”

  Eddie didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. They both knew how many deaths the Rising Phoenix had brought to David’s job. “Eddie, can you do something for me?”

  “You know I can.”

  “I want to meet alone with Keith’s sister.”

  “What? In the fucking greenhouse or something? I don’t think so.”

  “I have to explain to her about that night.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I want…” David took a step toward the cabana’s French doors, but Eddie moved to block his way.

  “Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying? You can’t let guilt run you, man.” Eddie lowered his voice. “Believe me, I know.”

  For the second time in about as many minutes David was in a standoff. And, for the second time, he was rescued by a familiar voice.

  “Ah, David, there you are,” Miles called out from the French doors. “I’ve been looking for you. Phil and I want you to take a walk with u
s.” He cocked his head to Eddie. “Is that all right with you? We’ll stay on the property. I’ll tell you what. We’ll even stay down here on the lower terrace. Just give me a few minutes of privacy with my former colleague.”

  Eddie stood his ground a moment longer, then stepped aside. David and Miles threaded their way through the crowd and walked out along the terrace.

  “It’s been a rough few days,” Miles said. “How are you holding up?”

  David stared down into the canyon below him, where sumac and other scrub brush served as a counterpoint to the luxury and refinement of the Stout grounds.

  Since David didn’t seem willing to answer, Miles said, “It was a bad break. You need to know that none of us blames you.”

  David snorted. “I think Keith’s sister does.”

  “What does she know? She wasn’t there.” Miles closed his eyes and tilted his face up to the sun. “Why did you and Keith get together anyway?”