The Newsmakers Page 16

  “Moira, Hastings and Wilmot want me to stay behind the desk, stop field reporting. I feel like they want to muzzle me, use me almost as a figurehead. They ran focus groups on me without telling me. And there’s something very . . . bizarre about Nylan Hastings. The network has this secretive cyber department. He seems power crazed.”

  “Why would they want to muzzle a reporter as talented as you?”

  The question hangs there.

  “Talk soon,” Erica says as the cab pulls up to the hospital. As she rides up in the elevator, she thinks, Until my show debuts I’m still a field reporter—it may be time for another trip out to LA.

  CHAPTER 46

  ERICA WALKS INTO MARK’S ROOM at Beth Israel to find him asleep. He looks better—the bandage around his skull is smaller, his bruising is less livid, and he has come out of his coma. Erica gently touches his hand. His eyes slowly open. It takes him a few beats to register where he is. Then he focuses on Erica and a small smile forms. He looks beautiful in that moment.

  “Hey, buddy,” Erica says.

  Mark opens his mouth and struggles to speak. He finally chokes out a barely audible “H-hi there.”

  “You look so much better, my friend.” That sweet smile again. “How are you feeling?” He thinks about it for a moment and then nods. “Dr. Kaminer tells me you’re going to be moving to rehab in a couple of days. That’s great news. He said your progress is slow and steady, which is the best kind.”

  Mark looks as if he has suddenly remembered something. His brow furrows, he seems to grow agitated. He opens his mouth and struggles to speak, but he can’t form the words.

  “Mark, what is it?”

  He’s working so hard to talk, and the inability is frustrating him. He looks like he might start crying.

  “Take it easy, take it easy, my friend.” With his eyes he implores Erica to come closer. She leans down. “What is it? Do you want to tell me something about the ferry crash?”

  His eyes open wide and he nods his head. Again he opens his mouth but can’t find speech. Then finally he manages a few slurred words that sound like “nice till.” He repeats it, only this time it sounds like “nasal.” What sense does that make?

  Mark shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, marshals his strength, and slowly, unmistakably articulates, “Not ISIL.”

  “Not ISIL? The ferry crash wasn’t the work of ISIL?”

  Mark nods. Then he sighs, exhausted from saying the two words, closes his eyes, and falls back on the pillow.

  On the sidewalk outside the hospital Erica calls Detective George Samuels.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “Have you made any progress on the attack on Mark Benton?”

  “We have a person of interest. The surveillance camera at the Sheridan Square subway station recorded a man entering the station at 5:41 that morning, which is consistent with the time of the attack. He was wearing a cap that obscured his face, but he was definitely furtive and in a hurry, and he was carrying a computer case that matches Benton’s.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “We’re in the process of enlarging and enhancing the camera footage. When we can see his face more clearly, we’ll have an artist draw a full rendering and then we can start publicizing it and looking for a match in our databases.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I have a question for you. Do you know why anyone would want to attack Benton?”

  “He was helping me investigate the Staten Island ferry crash. He was tracing the source of the hackers who froze the ferry’s computers.”

  “The ferry investigation was over when he was attacked. ISIL claimed responsibility and we took out their capability.”

  “They claimed responsibility. It hasn’t been proven. Mark told me today that ISIL didn’t do it.”

  “What, does he have magic powers?”

  “No, but he understands hacking.”

  “So does my ten-year-old son.”

  “Mark Benton not only understands it, he can do it. There’s a big difference. Look, I’m handing you the motive and you’re giving me a hard time.”

  “Ms. Sparks, I’m paid to be skeptical.”

  “So am I. So let’s work together. Mark called me the night before he was attacked—he’d found something out and he didn’t want to tell me on the phone. He asked me to meet him at Starbucks the next morning. He didn’t show up. Put it together. And call me Erica.”

  There’s a pause. “It’s certainly the strongest theory we’ve got. This was definitely not a random attack. So it was carried out, or at least ordered, by whoever did sabotage the ferry. Does Benton have any theories on who that might be?”

  “He has more information. But speech is very difficult for him. He’s getting a little stronger every day. Listen, is there any chance we could get a police guard stationed outside his room?”

  “As of now, this is just a mugging. There’s no way the department is going to pay for a guard. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

  “Let me know if you learn anything. And please light a fire under the folks who are enhancing the subway footage.”

  Erica hangs up and steps off the curb to hail a cab. The traffic is fierce but flowing, there are surges of people on the sidewalks, in the crosswalks, there is music and honking and yelling, the smell of asphalt and exhaust and tacos from a nearby food truck—the city feels like one great wave racing toward the future, and she’s riding the wave—riding it toward the truth.

  CHAPTER 47

  ERICA RETURNS TO HER OFFICE to find a bouquet of red roses on her desk. The card reads: You just keep blooming—Your GNN family.

  Erica fingers one of the roses and leans down to smell it—suddenly a huge water bug crawls out from the petals and onto her hand. “Yuck!” She shakes it to the floor, where it scuttles away. Then another bug appears on the flowers, and then a third—it’s crawling with them. Erica grabs the vase and runs down to the ladies’ room, where she dumps the whole thing in the toilet. The blood-red roses are surrounded by a swarm of flailing water bugs. Erica flushes the toilet and watches the petals and bugs swirl round and round and then get sucked down into the pipes. Nothing remains but the bare, thorny stems. She shudders.

  As Erica walks back down the hall, fighting to slow her heart rate, she thinks, Someone wants me off balance and on edge. Makes me easier to control. Then she feels anger rising like a tonic in her veins. You’re not going to stop me.

  Back in her office, Erica calls down to building maintenance and reports the rose stems, casually, joking. “It was an only-in-New-York moment.”

  Then she gets a call from Greg. “Any chance of dinner tonight?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “My place? At seven?”

  Erica has a moment of wondering whether she’s ready to be alone with Greg in his apartment. She trusts him—but she’s not sure that she trusts herself. It’s been a long time since she’s been with a man and Greg is so kind and she craves being held, touched, shutting off her overactive mind and imagination and letting go.

  Oh, Erica, grow up. You sound like some lovestruck coed who’s taken one too many poetry classes. You and Greg are both adults. You can handle a simple dinner.

  “Your place at seven sounds perfect.” Erica hangs up and immediately wonders what she should wear.

  Paul Elliot, the network’s lead producer of promos and teasers, knocks on her open door, carrying a laptop. “I’ve got a rough cut of the first promo for The Erica Sparks Effect.”

  Elliot plays the thirty-second spot. It opens with the foota
ge of Kay Barrish collapsing and Erica giving her CPR, cuts to the ferry crash, and then goes to a series of quick cuts of Erica reporting various other stories. As pulsing music plays underneath, the breathless male announcer says: “The New York Times calls her ‘the most exciting new face in network news.’ The Washington Post says, ‘Sparks is setting new standards of excellence.’ And Huffington Post raves that ‘Sparks leaps off the screen with a rare combination of charm and smarts.’ Don’t miss The Erica Sparks Effect, debuting on June 15 on GNN.”

  Erica puts her imaginary helmet on—the one that keeps her head from swelling. “Nice work, Paul.”

  “I got a call from Nylan this morning—he put a rush on it. It’s going to start airing tonight. He also wants a camera to trail you at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner—he wants footage of you with the movie stars.”

  Paul leaves, and Erica calls Nancy Huffman. “Do you have a couple of minutes you could spare?”

  Erica steps into her large walk-in closet and checks out the clothes. They’re arranged by piece and by color—rows of dresses, separates, shelves of sweaters and pullovers, racks of shoes, a dresser filled with scarves and hose and topped by an array of purses and accessories, a jewelry box filled with bracelets, necklaces, and her clip-on earrings. There’s also a red-leather ottoman. It may not be Real Housewives ostentatious, but it’s all pretty drool-worthy. Looking at it, Erica feels some guilt—she knows how many girls and women in the world would be thrilled with a tiny fraction of her bounty.

  Nancy appears, looking divine in the world’s crispest white shirt worn over loden-green leggings and black sandal heels. How does she make it look so effortless?

  “Fashion panic. What should I wear to a sorta-maybe but not-too romantic dinner?”

  “Erica, you’d look great in a potato sack. Cinched with the right belt, of course.”

  “You pick the belt and I’ll find the sack.”

  “Is this restaurant or home?”

  “Home.”

  “His or yours?”

  “His.”

  “Okay, you’re on his turf, so you want to up the armor quotient just a tad. I’d recommend slacks . . .” She walks into the closet and pulls a pair of fitted black slacks that have just a hint of shimmer. “Silk blouse . . .” She pulls a Caribbean-blue blouse. “Last pedi?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Good.” She pulls a pair of metallic-silver sandals. Then she opens the jewelry box and chooses a pair of simple sterling circle earrings with a single blue topaz in the center. She holds the ensemble up for Erica—everything just works. And Erica’s confidence about the evening soars.

  “Will you marry me?” Erica says.

  “Let me check with my husband.”

  “One more thing, Nancy. I’d like you to design a dress for me to wear to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.”

  Nancy stops cold for a moment. “Seriously?”

  Erica nods.

  “I’d be delighted and honored. Are you going with Greg?”

  “Nylan.”

  “Oh.” Nancy’s eyebrows go up, something shifts in her face.

  Erica steps into the closet and gestures for Nancy to join her. She lowers her voice, “What is it?”

  Nancy also lowers her voice. “Nothing.”

  “Nancy, I saw that look.”

  “Discretion is the better part of holding on to my job.”

  “You have my word nothing you say will leave this room.”

  Nancy moves around a few pieces, generally fusses with the clothes in a make-work way, and asks with feigned nonchalance, “Have you seen the women Nylan dates?”

  “I know they’re young and beautiful.”

  Nancy pulls a dress and hands it to Erica. “Hold this up.” Erica does and Nancy steps back in scrutiny. “Some of them are in our business. And others rent by the hour.” Nancy shakes her head at the dress, takes it from Erica, and tosses it onto the ottoman. “I think we can winnow that one.” She pulls a pair of shoes with clear Lucite high heels. “Tack-y. These shoes are positively”—she looks Erica in the eye—“predatory.” She tosses them on top of the dress and pulls a teal cardigan. “I actually bought this for Sue Williams.”

  “Sue Williams?”

  Nancy holds the cardigan up in front of Erica, saying breezily, “She was the top-rated anchor at the Phoenix CBS affiliate. One of Nylan’s first hires before GNN went on the air. Then they went to Davos together. Sue never came back to the network . . . Some men don’t take rejection well. All wrong for your skin tone,” she announces, tossing the sweater on the reject pile.

  “All wrong.”

  “A woman in your position has to be so careful about what she wears,” Nancy says.

  “I don’t want to end up on the ‘What Was She Thinking?’ list.”

  CHAPTER 48

  GREG LIVES IN A GRACEFUL prewar building on the corner of Eighty-Second and Riverside Drive. Erica is curious to see what his apartment is like, how it’s furnished, what it says about him. When she enters the ornate lobby, the doorman smiles in recognition and says, “Mr. Underwood is in 1014.”

  Greg answers the door wearing cargo pants, a black pullover, and beat-up sneakers. His green eyes light up in a welcoming smile and Erica feels this pull toward him.

  “Welcome to my thank-you-Nylan-Hastings abode.”

  He ushers her into the foyer, and she hands him a dozen irises.

  “Twenty-first-century gender roles are pretty confusing, but if they include men getting flowers, I’m all for it. Let me grab a vase.”

  Greg disappears into the galley kitchen and Erica walks into the living room. The room has great bones—a box ceiling and a fireplace flanked by built-in bookshelves—and is filled with comfortable furniture, framed prints, and photos. Windows face a small balcony and the river below.

  “I picked up some awesome Italian grapefruit soda. Can I interest you in a glass?” Greg calls from the kitchen.

  “Sure. And did you just use the word awesome?”

  “Tragic, huh?” he says, walking in and handing Erica the drink.

  “This is delicious.”

  He picks a tray up off a side table. “Tuna tartare?”

  She takes one. “Wow, a lot of horseradish.”

  “You like?”

  “Delicious. Please tell me you didn’t make this.”

  “I love to cook.”

  He loves to cook.

  They sit on sofas on either side of the coffee table.

  “So, you had an exciting day,” Greg says. “You’re getting the coveted nine p.m. slot. And I heard some numbers. Welcome to the one percent.”

  “I’ll believe it when I spend it.” Erica puts down her drink. “Greg, Nylan wants me behind a desk pretty much all the time. That’s not where I want to be.”

  “I know it isn’t. My advice: Let’s get your show up and running. If the ratings are as good as we hope they’re going to be, you can . . . well, demand may be too strong a word . . . but you can suggest that you cover certain stories personally, out in the field. I’ll back you up. At that point it will be very difficult for Nylan to say no.”

  What would she do without Greg’s savvy? “You’re right, of course. I think I was anticipating problems. Not a great attitude.” She wants to discuss some of her qualms about Nylan himself—his grandiosity, his cold eyes, his suggestive looks, his rabid fervor, the nagging fear he generates in her, the sick little stunt with the flowers—but wonders if it would be indiscreet. After all, Nylan signs Greg’s ch
ecks. She focuses on what matters most to her. “I want to stay front and center on the Barrish murder, even if that means spending more time in LA.”

  “Have there been any new developments?”

  “I’m waiting for the results of the forensics on the car. I think this was clearly a murder for hire. And the people doing the hiring have to be pretty far up the food chain.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Yanez was obviously the last link. A pawn who sold his life for 10K. There are layers between him and whoever ordered the murder. It could be a terrorist organization with sophisticated operations in this country. Or a political rival who is really ruthless. Or a foreign leader. I wouldn’t put it past Putin. I suppose it could be some homegrown American crazy like Timothy McVeigh or Cliven Bundy, but those guys are pretty basic at the end of the day. They have the motive—hatred of the government—but not the smarts or the means to pull off something like this.”

  Greg is looking at her but he’s only half listening. Erica knows that look. She’s been getting it—and ignoring it—pretty much since she hit puberty. When he sees her note it, he rubs his hands together to cover his raw desire. “You do know that the crime may never get solved.”

  “Not from want of trying,” Erica says.

  “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. I made chicken Provençal.”

  “Sounds yummy.”

  There’s a loaded pause, and that look comes back into his eyes. “Would you like to see the view?”

  “Yes, I would . . .”

  They go out to the balcony. It’s a beautiful spring night with a silver moon cresting the endless sky—and down below, the river glows like phosphorescence and the city glitters like a billion jewels. And Erica is above it all and, yes, her dreams are coming true. Is she dreaming now?

  Greg stands behind her, wraps his arms around her, and kisses the back of her neck, and his lips are warm and soft and rough and tender and insistent. His hands run down her arms and waist and hips, and he gently turns her body and his eyes are pools of kindness and promise, and then they kiss and her chest is rising and falling with each breath, rising and falling into his arms, his lips, and she runs her hand down his cheek and she wants him, she wants this . . . and there’s nothing but their kisses and the night . . .