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prospect
     of working indefinitely to finish paying off his debts, while Janet Orson supported his continuing high lifestyle.
    Maxi knew she was kidding herself, or at least kidding Wendy, when she’d said that Jack was worth more to her alivethan dead. Not true, as the criminal investigators would plainly see. Money with the late Jack Nathanson’s name on it, albeit
     in invisible ink, had already begun surfacing from hidden accounts, money that was pounced upon by his legion of creditors,
     which creditors in turn signed off on their claims to the assets of Maxine Poole. Since the murder, Maxi’s business manager
     had been receiving notices letting her off her dead ex-husband’s financial hook. Jack Nathanson was definitely worth more
     to Maxi Poole dead.
    What to do? First of all, she determined to stop waffling on covering the story, and jump on it. True, under these circumstances
     it was inappropriate for her to cover this murder, but only
she
knew that. Unless her bosses found out and flashed her a red light, she’d get into it. She’d let everyone see that she was
     actively looking for the truth in the Jack Nathanson murder case.
    The red light came sooner than she’d expected.

7
    T ake us through your day, this past Saturday, October twelfth, the day Jack Nathanson was shot and killed in your home,” said
     Jonathan Johnson, the tall, quietly authoritative black detective who played “good cop” on the Cabello–Johnson L.A. County
     Sheriff’s Homicide team. It was the day after the funeral, the day after Debra’s high-profile arrest. Johnson, his partner
     Mike Cabello, Debra Angelo, and her attorney Marvin Samuels sat in a small office at the Malibu sheriff’s station on Pacific
     Coast Highway.
    “Well,” began a subdued Debra, dressed in a loose-fitting light cotton dress, her bare feet in sandals, her hair tied back
     in a ponytail, “Gia got up early, as usual. Bessie supervised her wash-up; then she made breakfast—bacon and eggs for Gia,
     she loves eggs, and I don’t think they’re harmful for a growing—”
    “When did
you
get up?” interrupted Mike Cabello.
    “Before eight. Gia shook me because breakfast was ready. There’s no sleeping in when my daughter is with me—”
    “Then what?” Cabello, again.
    “Then we had breakfast, of course. I had toast and fruit. I don’t eat eggs—oh, before that I brushed my teeth and went potty,
     do you need to know that, too?”
    Samuels shot her a look. He had specifically instructed her not to be flip, but even though apprehensive, she couldn’t resist
     getting in an occasional little needle, disguised as “just a bit the dumb broad.”
    Cabello ignored the question. “What’s the nanny’s name?” he asked.
    “Mrs. Burke. Bessie Burke. Elizabeth, actually.”
    “What did you do after breakfast?” asked Jon Johnson.
    “I took Gia to her psychologist. Her appointment is at ten o’clock on Saturdays. With Dr. Robert Jamieson at UCLA. Gia has
     been lagging terribly behind in school, she’s even been kept back a grade, second grade—”
    “Where did you go from there?” asked Cabello.
    “Well, let me see…. We got gasoline. In Westwood. Then we drove back to the beach, and we stopped at the grocery store, the
     one right near Big Rock. Anderson’s Market. I bought bananas, lettuce, tomatoes, bottled water—”
    “Then you went home?” Cabello cut in.
    “Yes.”
    “What time did you get there?”
    “I guess about noon.”
    “Then what did you do, Ms. Angelo?” asked Johnson.
    “I looked at some snapshots of Gia—oh, I forgot to tell you, we stopped at Malibu Photo to pick up some pictures I’d had developed—”
    “So you looked at the photos—what else?” demanded Cabello.
    “I asked Mrs. Burke to pack Gia’s bag; her father was coming at two. We talked about lunch—Gia wanted a chicken sandwich,
     with avocado. I checked my answering machine, hung out in the den awhile and watched Gia play her Team