The Newsmakers Read online

  When she’s checking her makeup, Lois Wittmer appears. Wittmer is the great female pioneer in television news—the first woman to have her own show, to anchor the evening news, to develop and exploit the celebrity interview. She occupies a unique place in the fiery pantheon of feminism. Although now, in her late seventies, she’s rarely seen on the small screen.

  “This is embarrassing, but you’re kind of my idol,” Erica says.

  “I never, ever get tired of hearing that,” Wittmer says with a lopsided smile—she’s clearly enjoyed a glass of wine or four. “I hear you’re getting your own show.”

  “Will you be a guest?”

  “Sure I will.”

  “Score!”

  They laugh and then Wittmer grows serious—in that slightly exaggerated way people do when they’re tipsy. She reaches out and gives Erica’s hand a squeeze. “I think you have a lot of talent, Erica Sparks. A lot of talent. But lemme tell ya, this is a fickle business. Don’t take a stinkin’ thing for granted. Not one stinkin’ thing. And remember—the SOBs who run the business will drop you on a dime if your ratings go south, or when you grow wrinkles, or just when they feel like it. On. A. Dime. Speaking of SOBs, that guy you work for, Nylon Haystacks or whatever the hell his name is.”

  “Nylan Hastings.”

  “Bingo! That guy gives me the creeps big-time. Isn’t it great how you guys are always one step ahead of the news? Like with that ferry crash—you just happened to be there. Then Kay Barrish, bless her heart, buys the farm in the middle of your interview. Awful coincidinky, if you ask me.”

  Erica isn’t sure what to make of this outburst. Is it the bitter ranting of a has-been? Or wisdom out of the mouth of a drunk? Before she can figure out how to respond, Jennifer Lawrence walks into the ladies’ room. She gives Erica a warm smile.

  Erica tries to dismiss Wittmer’s admonition. Nylan may not be perfect, he may be cold-blooded and more than a little sleazy, but he’s led Erica into a career, a world, a life beyond her imaginings. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Or she may end up sour and cynical, like her fallen idol, who has just wobbled out of the ladies’ room muttering to herself.

  As she makes her way back to her table, Erica’s prepaid rings.

  “George Samuels here. We’ve got a tentative match on the suspect seen entering the subway the morning Mark Benton was assaulted. His name is Anton Volodin. He’s twenty-four, a low-level member of the Russian Mafia.”

  “The Russian Mafia?”

  “Yes, they’ve been establishing a toehold in this country for the past decade. They’re mostly involved with drugs, prostitution, and extortion. And they’re ruthless.”

  “Why would they be after Mark?”

  “If and when we find Volodin, that will be our first question. And, Erica, Mark is moving to rehab tomorrow. His speech is a lot better. He keeps asking to see you.”

  “I’ll be down as soon as I get back to New York.”

  As Erica wends her way past tables ringing, singing with laughter, champagne, jewels, and insider whispers, it all grows muffled and falls away—as she realizes what she really cares about.

  CHAPTER 55

  ERICA CABS DOWN TO THE Rusk Rehabilitation Center on East Thirty-Eighth Street—it’s a nondescript, could-be-anywhere building, but she knows it’s one of the best rehabs in the world. She gets Mark’s room number and heads up to the fifth floor. The elevator doors open and she sees him making his way down the hallway on a walker with an aide by his side. The bandage on his head is much smaller, revealing his shaved skull. Erica is touched by his determination as he methodically places one foot in front of the other. Then he looks up and sees her—a beautiful smile breaks across his face, and Erica feels an intense wave of affection for her brave friend.

  “Look at you,” Erica says, going to him. Without thinking, she cups his face in her hands and kisses him on the forehead. “You’re up and about.”

  Mark struggles to speak and when he does, it’s slowly, but his voice is stronger, his enunciation clearer. “G-g-goo-d . . . mor-ning . . . E-e-ri-ca.”

  Erica feels her throat tighten but she fights off the sentiment—it’s not what anyone needs right now. “You sound so much better. Not quite ready for voice-over work, but getting there.”

  They make their way to his private room, where the aide helps him into bed. He sighs with relief.

  The aide leaves, and Erica and Mark are alone. He indicates the rolling bedside tray, and she maneuvers it in front of him. There’s an iPad on the tray. Mark slowly but steadily pecks out the letters: I NEED MY HOME COMPUTER.

  “Do you want me to get it for you?” Erica asks, and Mark nods. “Is it in your apartment?”

  Mark nods again. Then he types: 704 GREENWICH ST, # 7

  “I’ll need your keys.”

  Marks nods to his bedside table. Erica opens the top drawer and takes out his keys.

  “N-n-now,” Mark says, then he types: LAPTOP ON TABLE

  “Back in a flash.”

  Erica cabs downtown to Mark’s building in the West Village. It’s a converted stable—four-story, brownstone and brick, with two enormous doorways in front. She climbs two flights to Mark’s place. It’s one large room. A windsurfing board hangs on one wall like a sculpture. There’s a bed with a cool steel headboard at one end of the room, and a modern kitchen with a rustic farm table at the other. The place is minimal, masculine, and cool, hardly the nerd pad Erica was half expecting. As she picks up the computer and slips it into its case, she takes another look around and wonders about Mark’s love life. He’s a catch.

  She cabs back up to the hospital. When she walks into Mark’s room and he sees the computer, his eyes light up. He indicates his tray, and Erica takes out the computer and opens it up. Mark turns it on, and as the screen comes to life, he comes to life, sitting up in bed, leaning forward—alert and engaged at a whole new level. For the first time since his assault, Erica allows herself to think, He’s going to be okay.

  “Mark, what was it you were going to tell me at Starbucks?”

  His face grows serious. He moves his attention from the laptop to the tablet and types: THE FERRY HACK ORIGINATED IN THE UNITED STATES.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods emphatically.

  “Do you know where in the US?”

  He types: DETERMINING THAT IS MUCH TRICKIER. THERE ARE SO MANY SERVERS AND OVERLAPPING NETWORKS. IT’S GOING TO TAKE SOME SERIOUS DIGGING. BUT I’M WORKING ON IT.

  He smiles, and at that moment he looks like a happy kid with his favorite toy, and Erica again feels that swelling of emotion toward him. She puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him an encouraging squeeze. He takes her hand in his and holds it to his cheek for a moment, in a gesture whose innocence takes her breath away. “You’ve made amazing strides, my friend, and you’re just going to keep getting better. And I am going to be here for you every step of the way, for as long as it takes.”

  As Erica is leaving Rusk Rehab, she runs into Detective Samuels on his way in.

  “How’s he doing?” the detective asks.

  “His progress is pretty remarkable. I found out what he was going to tell me the morning he was assaulted: the Staten Island ferry was hacked from within the United States.”

  Samuels rubs his chin. “If that’s true, it’s a game changer. Can he prove it?”

  “Yes. Hacking leaves a trail. It’s a matter of having the skills to follow that trail. He’s working on determining the exact location.”

  “That information would break this thing wide open.”

  “Any leads on Volodin?”

 
; “He’s connected with Bratstvo D’yavola, a Russian Mafia crew out of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, led by one Leonid Gorev. We’ve staked out their clubhouse but Volodin hasn’t been seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns up dead. At this point he’s worth more as a corpse.”

  “Where are they in Brighton Beach?”

  “They operate out of a caviar shop on Brighton Beach Avenue. But don’t be getting any ideas, Erica.”

  “Ideas?”

  “Do you know what Bratstvo D’yavola means?”

  Erica shakes her head.

  “The Devil’s Brotherhood.”

  As Erica steps off the curb to hail a cab uptown, she thinks, I really should educate myself about caviar.

  CHAPTER 56

  “IS THIS DESK A LITTLE too big?” Erica asks, sitting behind a desk the size of a conference table. “I’m afraid it’s going to cut me off from viewers. Remember, our format is less talking-headsy than most news shows. We’re going to have more medium shots, and I’m going to be moving between the desk and the seating area. And occasionally out into the audience. Otherwise, I love it.”

  Erica is test-driving the set of The Erica Sparks Effect, which premieres in three short weeks. The show’s director, Ali Cheung; its designer, Natalie Ferro; and Greg are with her. The studio is a state-of-the-art space with seating for a small audience, a first for a newscast.

  “The desk gives you authority,” Ali says. She’s serious, low-key, one of the best in the business.

  “I want authority, not autocracy.” Erica has had conversations with Ali and Greg about the sort of culture she wants backstage—one that’s generous, respectful of everyone no matter what their rank, its high standards leavened with humor and caring. If someone is doing a good job, they’ll receive absolute support. No backbiting, no drama, no divas.

  Erica understands that at the end of the day, she’s the captain of this ship. It’s up to her to model the behaviors and work ethic and consideration she expects everyone to deliver. It’s about bringing her best self to work every day—and inspiring everyone else to do the same. If she can accomplish that, the show will soar.

  “I want the show to be a dialogue with viewers, not a lecture. I really want us to be fresh—a little bit of Ellen, a little bit of Oprah, and a lot of hard-driving investigative reporting. The desk feels like armor.”

  “Out with the desk!” Ferro, chic and cool in all black, says in her Italian accent. “I’ll have a smaller one in this afternoon.”

  Erica gets up, walks over to the seating area, and sits in one of the two love seats facing each other over a coffee table. The tones are soothing beiges and creams with pops of color on the pillows and accessories. Erica wants a balance of comfortable and stimulating, and Natalie has delivered.

  Suddenly music pours out of the speakers and fills the studio. It’s the latest iteration of the show’s theme music. Everyone stops and listens—it’s bright and melodic with a pulsing underbeat that gradually grows stronger, holding a promise of important things to come.

  “This is fantastic!” Erica says. A wave of elation sweeps over her—she’s dreamed of having her own show for a decade and now it’s all coming together. She leaps up and does an impromptu little jig. Everyone in the studio laughs, the good energy flows—and Erica feels like she’s at home.

  As she’s walking down the hall to her office, Nancy Huffman appears.

  “Erica, I’ve been swamped with orders since the Correspondents’ Dinner. I’ve had to hire three dressmakers to keep up.”

  “You may have to quit your day job.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” She grasps Erica’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Erica heads down to her office and opens the door. Then she screams.

  CHAPTER 57

  THERE’S A RAT ON HER desk, a large rat, a large dead rat—no, it twitched—and blood is oozing from its mouth and nose and eyes, and Erica watches in horror as the rat struggles to crawl across her desk, leaving a trail of smeared blood in its wake. Her stomach turns over, she’s going to heave, and then Nancy is there and then Greg, and they turn her away and close the office door and lead Erica to a chair in the hallway and sit her down. She opens her mouth and a thin stream of watery vomit pours out.

  Greg is on the phone, and now a top man from the building’s maintenance department appears and he takes one look at the rat and says it’s eaten anticoagulant poisoning but that the building has never seen a rat above the second floor and in any event there’s no current problem and no poison has been laid out in at least three months. And then a low-level maintenance guy appears and puts the rat in a bag and cleans off Erica’s desk. And Nancy hands Erica a warm, damp towel and she wipes herself off.

  “Do you want to take the rest of the day off?” Greg asks.

  And even though all Erica can feel is fear, she answers, “No.” And she stands up and walks into her office. Nancy and Greg follow. She sits behind her desk, takes shallow breaths that slowly deepen. Nylan’s behind this. Nylan and Wilmot. They have a thing for dead animals. And dead people?

  If they think this is going to stop her investigation, they’re wrong. Dead rat wrong.

  “I’ve got work to do,” Erica says simply to Greg and Nancy.

  “Erica . . .,” Greg begins.

  “I said I have work to do.”

  CHAPTER 58

  THE NEXT DAY ERICA HIRES a car service to take her out to Brighton Beach. They drive along the Hudson to Lower Manhattan, through the Battery Tunnel to Brooklyn, onto the BQE and under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. They pass Coney Island, honky-tonk and romantic with its boardwalk and amusement rides, crowned by the Cyclone, the iconic wooden roller coaster. The change in scenery is good for Erica, even though she knows she will never get the image of that dying rat crawling across her desk out of her mind.

  They reach Brighton Beach Boulevard, which runs under the elevated subway. Bursting with vitality, the streets are filled with Russians of all ages—some are well-dressed, others look working class and even poor—and lined with Russian shops, bakeries, restaurants, and over-the-top nightclubs. Erica scans the shops looking for A Taste of St. Petersburg, and when she sees it, she asks the driver to stop and wait for her.

  The store is immaculate and filled with a dazzling array of gourmet delicacies—its centerpiece is an enormous refrigerated case filled with a lavish display of loose and tinned caviar set on mounds of ice. A solidly built young man stands proudly behind the case. Unfortunately there are no customers for him to wait on, which doesn’t seem to bother him in the least. Clearly, selling caviar isn’t the store’s real purpose; it was set up to wash illicit cash—and it’s a great-looking laundry.

  A pretty, very Slavic-looking young saleswoman approaches Erica with a polished smile. “Welcome to A Taste of St. Petersburg.”

  Erica has dressed down in jeans, a blouse, flats, and no makeup, but the woman looks as if she’s trying to place her.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’m looking for Leonid Gorev.”

  “I do not know if he is available. May I tell him who is here to see him?”

  “Erica Sparks.”

  The woman disappears into the back of the store. “How’s business?” Erica asks the young man behind the caviar counter.

  “Oh, very good!” he says, smiling and gesturing around the deserted store as if it was filled with shoppers.

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Two months!”

  “How long have you been in this country?”

  “Two months!”

  “So you
came over here to work in the store?”

  “To work for Mr. Gorev.”

  “Oh. Do you know Anton Volodin?”

  A dark cloud sweeps across the young man’s face, and he opens the back of the caviar case and starts to rearrange jars and tins.

  “Erica Sparks, what a pleasure and an honor!” booms a bulky middle-aged man in an expensive suit—sporting a Rolex and a gold ring a rapper would envy—as he crosses to her. “I am Leonid Gorev. And you are far more beautiful in person than on the television set. You are here for some caviar! How wonderful! Maybe you will do a TV show story on our caviar! Come, come with me! Gregor, bring us back the finest selection.”

  He takes Erica’s arm and leads her through the store, down a hall, and into a large, opulent office. The place looks like it was put together by a decorator with an unlimited budget and multiple personality disorder—it’s a dizzying mishmash of plush fabrics, leather sofas, sleek midcentury pieces, and gold-plated rococo—on second glance, maybe it’s not plated. In spite of a desk Louis Quatorze would think was ostentatious, it feels like a party room, and Erica can imagine all-night revels filled with drinking contests, raucous Russian laughter, and sentimental tears, a blizzard of cocaine and passels of expensive hookers.

  “Please sit, Erica Sparks. Make yourself at home. We will start with vodka. You can’t have caviar without vodka! I have the finest vodka in the world! Vodka of the czars!”

  “I’m allergic.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like . . . something else?” he asks with a mischievous twinkle before pouring himself a shot of vodka and knocking it back.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Gregor appears with a large silver tray, which he sets down on the coffee table. It holds iced mounds of shimmering black and red caviar, little triangles of toast, and a silver bowl of butter. Then he bows and leaves.

  “Do you know how to eat caviar the Russian way?”