The Newsmakers Page 12
“Do you have a hotel?”
“We got a reservation at the Holiday Inn on Houston.”
That sounds depressing. Erica goes out to the nursing station and approaches a young male nurse who is writing on a clipboard.
“Can you recommend a nice nearby hotel?”
He looks up and smiles. “Everyone loves The Inn at Irving Place. It’s about three blocks west, small and very homey. A lot of patients’ families stay there. It’s not cheap though.”
Erica takes out her phone and calls the hotel. She manages to book the Bentons a room, requests fresh flowers, and tells the hotel to put it on her credit card. Then she calls the Holiday Inn and cancels the reservation there. She walks back into Mark’s room and tells the Bentons. Marie Benton’s eyes tear up with gratitude. Chuck Benton protests but Erica fibs and assures him GNN is paying, is happy to pay.
A doctor walks into the room. Clearly the Bentons have met him earlier. The doctor recognizes Erica and stands a little taller. “Mitch Kaminer. Nice to meet you.”
The Bentons and Erica watch as the doctor scans the chart hanging at the end of Mark’s bed.
“How is he doing?” Erica asks.
“No change. Which is good news at this point.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about his injuries?”
“With his family’s permission I can.”
Chuck Benton nods.
“Mark suffered a serious beating with blunt force trauma to the skull. There was swelling on the brain, and we removed a portion of his skull to alleviate the pressure. He also has a broken left arm, a broken right orbital bone, numerous cuts, and severe bruising. Right now his prognosis is uncertain.” The doctor hesitates and then says without much conviction, “But I’ve seen people recover from worse injuries.”
Poor dear Mark. Erica reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Keep fighting, my friend, keep fighting! You’ve got a lot of windsurfing left to do.”
The doctor leaves and Erica sits beside Mark’s parents, numb, until she loses track of time and all she hears is the hum and gurgle of the machines that are keeping him alive.
A black man of around forty enters the room—he’s wiry, kinetic, handsome, with a closed, wary face and eyes that have seen too much.
“Detective George Samuels,” he says without a smile.
Introductions are made. Samuels walks over beside the bed and looks at Mark. He doesn’t flinch.
“Can you tell us where and when Mark was mugged?” Erica asks.
“It happened on Charles Street in the West Village, a half block from his apartment, at approximately five thirty this morning. No witnesses have come forward. But this wasn’t a mugging. Muggers steal the wallet, the laptop, the cell phone, and then get the hell out of there. This guy—or guys—stuck around to administer . . . this. Which is assault with a deadly weapon, probably attempted murder.”
“But why my Mark? He never hurt anyone,” Marie Benton says. Then she starts crying.
Erica feels guilt rise up like a wave inside her. This happened because of her. She’s the one that pulled Mark into this story. It’s her fault he’s lying in this hospital bed fighting for his life. What if he dies?
“When we see this kind of overkill, it usually means that someone wants to send a message,” Detective Samuels says.
As Erica feels her short hairs stand up, she thinks, Message received.
CHAPTER 32
IT’S A SOLID WALL OF stainless steel, his kitchen. Kitchens are so messy otherwise. Food is so messy, a necessary inconvenience. Like sleep. Not that Nylan sleeps much. A couple of hours a night is all he’s ever needed, and he can function at warp speed with none at all. Sleep is boring. It has no momentum, no juice.
It’s a little before three in the morning, Nylan’s favorite time of day. He loves the feeling of being disassociated from the everyday rhythms that the masses live by. Poor things. What meaningless little lives they lead. He’s at the stainless-steel kitchen wall, which is at one end of his sixty-foot living room on the seventieth floor of One57. The room has floor-to-ceiling windows—he’s floating above the whole tapestry of glittering, glowing New York. The view bores him too. He touches a panel on the wall and an espresso maker appears; he presses a button and it hisses to life.
She’s even more intriguing and alluring than he’d expected. And so cunning and curious in her own stunted way. And so heartrendingly sincere. Even idealistic. Idealism is so touching. And so weak. Weakness enrages him.
But she’s so beautiful. Her face, her body, the proportions, the curves and swells. She’s a genetic masterpiece. And she’s his.
But how did she spring from such barren soil? From a trailer in Maine? From crude, stupid stock. Nylan has always felt people like that should be culled. Sterilized at least. They weaken the gene pool. But then, by some miracle, they bring an Erica Sparks into the world. He should send them a tower of gifts from Harry & David as a thank-you present. He laughs out loud at the thought.
Of course she’s made terrible mistakes. You can’t throw a guttersnipe into Yale without some growing pains. Like everyone else, she has a breaking point. And she broke. And she’ll break again. He smiles at the prospect.
Nylan doesn’t break. He never has. And his life hasn’t been easy; his childhood was traumatic too. Poor Nylan. His mother died when he was nine. Plowed her car into a tree. It changed everything, didn’t it? After all, he grew up so deeply privileged. How many boys have a house with thirty rooms to explore? That grand two-story staircase, the paneled library imported from an English castle with cherubs carved into the woodwork, the living room that seemed to stretch on forever, the nooks and crannies and hidden attics full of secret dreams and secret desires. His private kingdom. Until she arrived. He was eleven years old. His father sat him down and explained how lonely he’d been since Nylan’s mother died, how the house needed a woman to run it, how he needed a wife by his side, how he was sure Nylan was going to fall in love with Gwen just as he had.
Well, he didn’t. He didn’t fall in love with Gwen. He fell in hate with her. With her edicts and oozing smiles and swept-back hair, she treated him like he was an afterthought, an interloper in his own house. Ordering the maids not to clean his room. Telling him to stay upstairs when she threw one of her fancy parties. Stealing his father, who stopped taking him to the country club for golf and a club sandwich and a sneaked sip of his Scotch. Forgetting his birthday. She forgot his birthday! And then when he told her, she acted all innocent and contrite, but he could tell that she was lying and that she forgot it on purpose. That was the last straw.
And so he pushed her. Pushed her down that grand staircase that she loved so much—waiting until all the guests had arrived before appearing at the top, to oohs and aahs and laughter and a hundred tipsy, admiring “Gwen!”s tossed up her way. But there was no one in the vast entry hall that night and Father was away on business and he waited in the linen closet—one of four—with the door cracked, waited until he saw her leave her bedroom and walk down the long hallway on her way down to the bar for her nightcap of some girly-Gweny liqueur made from some stupid delicate flower that only grows in the Alps, and just as she set foot on the top step, he stepped out of the closet as quiet as a ghost—Rush! Rush! Rush up behind her and PUSH! PUSH HARD! SHOVE HER, SHOVE HER DOWN THE STEPS! And she tumbled, too shocked to even cry out, and fell over herself again and again and again, her head cracking, then cracking again.
And then she lay limp at the bottom. Like a little doll with its limbs akimbo and blood oozing from its ears. And he slipped back to his bedroom and spent the whole night shivering in triumph.
His father was never the same. Served him right.
Nylan takes his perfect little cup of espresso and heads down a long hallway, past his bedroom and library, deep into the bowels of the apartment, far from the glittering view, far from the world.
His safe room is dark, with several large club chairs facing a bank of screens. Nylan settles into one of the chairs. He takes a sip of his espresso, carefully places it on a small table, picks up a remote. The footage of Erica reporting from Battery Park comes on one screen. He watches as she makes her perfect intro and then all hell breaks loose as the ferry crashes. The tape is on a loop and it starts again. He clicks the remote and Erica’s interview with Kay Barrish comes on a second screen. She’s so composed, so charming, and then Barrish clutches her chest and falls to the floor, and Erica falls after her, gallantly performing CPR. That tape is also on a loop and starts again. He clicks again and Erica stepping into the elevator comes on a third screen. And then the elevator stops and a look of panic comes over Erica’s face, and then the elevator goes dark and she screams in the dark, “Help! Help me!” This footage is on a loop too. He clicks again and a fourth screen fills with Erica in her office, undressing. She slips out of a dull dress and now she’s standing there in nothing but her bra and panties, just her bra and panties covering her curves and swells, and she doesn’t know she’s being watched, that his eyes follow her everywhere, and her undressing plays on an endless loop . . .
And now the room, the world, is filled with Erica, and Nylan’s eyes move from screen to screen, his pulse quickening, his arousal growing—Erica charming, Erica undressing, Erica screaming, Erica undressing, Erica screaming . . . Scream, Erica, scream . . .
And he thrusts, lurches forward, and his elbow knocks over the espresso.
And he slumps back in the chair. Oh, Nylan, you’ve made a mess.
Silly boy.
CHAPTER 33
IT’S SIX A.M. THE FOLLOWING morning. Erica is walking to work, her armor—baseball cap and sunglasses—in place. Her phone rings. It’s Greg.
“Good morning.”
“I’ve got a bombshell, Erica. The LA County’s medical examiner just announced a press conference for seven their time. Kay Barrish’s autopsy revealed that she didn’t die of a heart attack. She was poisoned. Cyanide.”
Erica stops cold on the street, the morning rush surging around her. How could this be possible? “You mean she was murdered?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“How? When?”
“It must have been right before your interview.”
Erica’s wheels start racing, she replays the minutes before the interview in her mind. “In the food, it must have been in the food. But lots of people ate the food. Wait—there were those individual tamale pies.”
“I want you on-air ASAP.”
“Of course. Poor Kay. There was the caterer and that boy, that Mexican intern. But why would they murder Kay Barrish? I saw the boy hand her the tamale pie, right from the oven.”
“So did I. I’m sure the LA police are going to send a detective east to question us.”
“Greg, the coincidences here are unnerving me. The ferry crashes when I’m there, and now this. Do I attract disaster?”
“It’s disturbing, I understand. But the terrorists were planning that crash for a long time. And Kay Barrish had political enemies. There are a lot of people who didn’t want to see her in the White House. They saw an opportunity and took it. It has nothing to do with you.”
Greg is right. Isn’t he? “I’ll see you in a few,” she manages.
Erica hangs up and stands there. She’s gained so much from tragedy. It almost feels as if she’s made a pact with the devil. Then she sees Kay’s face as she died, the terror in her eyes. She hears the screams from the ferry. And then Mark’s battered face. Evil. Evil did that. There’s evil in the world. Everywhere. But you knew that, you grew up with it.
Grow up. Grow up.
Erica feels light-headed, her throat tightens, she’s going to faint, she’s going to fall, fall on the sidewalk and crack her head open. She looks around wildly—there’s a church, a small redbrick church squeezed between two apartment houses. A sign reads: Church for All Nations. Erica ducks inside. The sanctuary is modest, with plain walls and wood trim. There are a couple of solitary worshipers in the pews, and it’s so quiet, hushed, the only sound is the gentle whoosh of the broom the elderly custodian is pushing down the aisle.
Erica slips into a back pew. The sanctuary smells clean and slightly woodsy with the comforting acrid tang of half-burned candles. And that gentle, rhythmic whoosh of the broom. She’s in a safe place, where good people aren’t mugged and poisoned, where kindness lights the way. She closes her eyes and feels that goodness within herself, her best self, and she knows that as long as she holds on to that she’ll be okay.
Slowly her breathing returns to normal, her head clears. Has she gained from some terrible coincidences? Yes, she has. But that only strengthens her resolve to pay back her good fortune, to make a difference. Is she in danger? Quite possibly. But danger demands courage. She has to find that courage.
All her life Erica has felt like she was running on quicksand, with nothing to save her but her own speed and strength and determination, and no one to pull her up should she start to sink. When she finally found faith—through acts of kindness both simple and profound by teachers and strangers and Archie Hallowell and Moira O’Donnell and fellow addicts she met in rehab—she found herself on firmer footing for the first time in her life. Her faith is her bridge over the quicksand.
The custodian comes up the aisle with his broom—its soft whoosh is the most soothing sound Erica has ever heard, and she smiles at him and he smiles back, and in that moment she finds the grace to go on.
CHAPTER 34
AS ERICA LEAVES THE CHURCH and rushes to work, her phone rings.
“This is Erica.”
“Nylan Hastings here.”
Erica stops, holds the phone close to her ear, and covers her other ear with her fingers. “Nylan.”
“I want you to come to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner with me,” he says. The dinner is the most glittering journalistic event of the year, drawing the biggest names in media and a flock of Hollywood stars. “Jimmy Fallon is the MC, Meryl, Brad, and Denzel are all confirmed.”
Erica feels slightly disoriented for a moment. Sure the dinner is a big deal, but what about Kay Barrish’s murder? And does he consider this a date of some kind? Because that’s out of the question. “Um, of course, Nylan, I’d love to come.”
“Spectacular. I can get Harry Winston to loan you some diamonds.”
“Nylan, you’ve heard about Kay Barrish?”
“Terrible.”
“And sad and horrifying and disturbing.”
“I want you to fly out there today. You own this story. Our ratings are going to go through the roof.”
“Lesli told me you’ve worked with that caterer, Lisa Golden, before?”
“I don’t work with caterers, Erica. I have people who handle that. Listen, I’ll arrange a few appointments with designers. Do you have any favorites? Jason Wu, Tom Ford, YSL? You just let me know. Even I’m putting on a suit. We’ll make a beautiful couple.”
“Nylan, I’m going to represent the network,” she says firmly.
“Touchy-touchy,” Nylan says. Then he laughs.
Erica is creeped out—and shocked. He doesn’t really care about journalism, about truth—they’re just a means to an end. And that end is ratings and parties—and power. And what about Kay Barrish herself, the woman, and the hopes she held for the nation?
&nb
sp; “Best for last: George Clooney is at our table.”
Erica hangs up and picks up her pace. To even mention designer clothes and movie stars in the same breath as the murder of Barrish. The man has ice water in his veins.
Still, she must admit, the Correspondents’ Dinner is a big deal. All her idols will be there: Diane Sawyer, Katie Couric, Barbara Walters. But swathed in diamonds? Not her style. She has been told, however, that sapphires do wonders for her eyes.
CHAPTER 35
MOIRA IS RENTING A SMALL Spanish-style house in Los Feliz. She greets Erica at the door and the two friends share a hug. It’s just after noon. Erica’s flight out of New York landed forty minutes ago and she had her driver take her right to Moira’s. A visit with her old friend, no matter how short, always centers her.
“I just got back from the station ten minutes ago, but I managed to whip up some amazing Vietnamese takeout.”
“Superwoman.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“My pod is picking me up here in half an hour. Lesli, my field producer, flew out with me.”
“We’re just two busy career gals.”
Their friendship is just so easy—no matter how long it’s been since they last saw each other, they immediately pick up where they left off. They walk into the charming house with its terra-cotta tile floors, arched doorways, and decorative tiles.
“LA agrees with you,” Erica says. Moira—tall, with beautiful café-au-lait skin and improbable amber-green eyes—looks terrific, toned and glowing. Her father is Irish-American and her mom is black, and they met at work—two Boston cops.
“I’ve become one of those annoying yoga freaks.”
“Namaste, baby.”
Erica follows Moira into the kitchen, where her friend spoons the Vietnamese food into dishes and carries them out to the dining room.