The Newsmakers Read online

  Erica heads down to Greg’s office to say good-bye. “Ready to rumble?” he asks.

  “A few butterflies, but maybe that’s good.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to fly out with you? I could clear my schedule for today and tomorrow—and I’ll bring my butterfly net.” His voice grows serious. “Nylan really wants this one.”

  “My instincts tell me Barrish will respond better to a simple one-on-one for our first meeting.”

  “Let’s trust those instincts.”

  “Listen, Greg, very quickly: I think Claire has dropped the ball on the ferry crash.”

  Exasperation flashes across Greg’s face. He’s a tough pro who doesn’t always welcome pushback. Which is probably how he got to where he is. Erica reminds herself that in the news business tough is good. Tough. Is. Good.

  “I think we have to let this one go,” he says.

  “But I’m not convinced the NTSB is doing its job. People died in that crash.”

  “The public has lost interest. It was a terrible accident, but it’s really a regional story. It’s fallen off the radar screen. Let’s move on.”

  She doesn’t agree, but she nods.

  “Call me as soon as you leave Barrish and let me know how it went. I doubt she’ll sign on immediately. I’m sure you’re not the only reporter she’s auditioning.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m with you, kid,” Greg says. They look at each other—and in that moment Nylan and Barrish and the NTSB fall away—and Erica’s breath catches.

  She heads back to her office. She picks up her deck of cards to put it in her purse—and that’s when she notices them. In front of her computer. A pair of black eyeglasses, open, facing the screen, carefully placed. Where did they come from? While she was down in Greg’s office, someone came into her office and put them there. Were they searching her files, her history? She picks up the glasses—they’re brand-new. She holds them up—no prescription.

  You’re being watched.

  Erica looks over her shoulder as a spark of fear races up her spine. She tosses the glasses into the wastebasket just as Nancy and Rosario appear in her doorway. Nancy has two dresses draped over her arm, and Rosario is carrying a small cosmetics bag. Erica manages a wan smile.

  “Are you all right?” Nancy asks.

  “Yes, yes . . . I’m fine.”

  “A little emergency kit,” Rosario says, opening the cosmetics bag and lifting out items. “An eye mask—works wonders after a long flight. Moisturizing lipstick—the air is very dry in LA. Argan oil if your hair needs a quick boost.” She zips up the bag and hands it to Erica. Then she reaches out and grasps her hand. “We’re all rooting for you out there.”

  “Tell Kay she has a lot of fans in the East,” Nancy says. “I just love that woman.”

  “Me too,” Rosario adds. “She’s got a big heart. And big cojones.”

  The three women laugh. “It’s time to see one of us in the White House,” Nancy says.

  Erica nods. No wonder President Garner—and every politician with presidential aspirations—is waiting to see what Barrish does. The woman will be unbeatable if she runs—a billion dollars’ worth of ads can’t buy the kind of passionate support Nancy and Rosario have just expressed. Erica takes a deep breath—she has to be on her A game in Los Angeles and land this interview. It’s historic.

  “LA is so casual, I think these dresses will work,” Nancy says. She holds them up quickly, almost as if she’s embarrassed by them. They’re short and low cut. Nancy quickly folds them and puts them in Erica’s suitcase.

  “I’m not sure about those dresses, Nancy. They’re a little bit casual and . . . revealing. Maybe a pantsuit would be better.”

  Nancy doesn’t look her in the eye, and her expression is rueful. Or is it fearful? Rosario just looks glum. There’s a long pause, and then Nancy says, “Let me see what I can do.”

  The two women leave. Moments later her phone rings. “This is Erica.”

  “Hi, Erica, it’s Nylan.”

  She sits up straight, instantly on red alert.

  “I just wanted to wish you luck with Barrish.” His tone is friendly, supportive.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  His tone does a one-eighty and he says condescendingly, “I sure as hell don’t pay people to do anything but their best.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’m counting on you to land this, Erica.”

  “Nylan’s main management tool is fear.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint myself, either,” Erica says.

  “Good girl.”

  Did he call her girl? Just as she’s leaving to interview Kay Barrish? The irony.

  “Listen, Erica, Los Angeles is looks-obsessed. I think you should wear a flattering dress to meet Barrish.”

  Erica looks over at the suitcase with the two dresses, and Nancy’s sheepishness suddenly makes sense.

  “Don’t hide your assets.” Now his voice is calm and businesslike—too calm, too businesslike, and is there a slight leering edge? It doesn’t feel like advice, or even a request—it feels like an order.

  “I don’t think a woman of Kay Barrish’s stature is going to be judging me on what I’m wearing.”

  “You’re representing my network, Erica.”

  “I better get moving or I’ll miss my flight.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Erica.”

  Erica leaves the dresses in the suitcase and zips it up. Her car for the airport is arriving in twenty minutes. She picks up the phone to call Mark Benton and see if he has anything new on the ferry crash. Then, remembering the glasses on her desk and the tone in Nylan’s voice, she hangs up. She grabs the suitcase and heads for the elevators.

  CHAPTER 15

  ERICA LOOKS AT THE ELEVATOR’S control panel. She hears Greg’s voice: “Let it go. Let’s move on.” Then she hears Archie Hallowell’s, fierce with passion, quoting Shakespeare: “Time’s glory is to unmask falsehood and bring truth to light.”

  Bring truth to light. Watched or not. Threatened or not.

  Erica presses the button marked 3.

  As the elevator descends, she says the Serenity Prayer. The doors open. Erica gets off and heads down the hall, suitcase in tow. Mark Benton is in his office, and she’s surprised to see his face isn’t inches from the computer screen, but buried in a windsurfing magazine.

  “Mark, do you have a minute?”

  He puts down the magazine. “Sure, it’s a slow day.”

  She steps into the office and closes the door behind her. “I’m going to cut right to the chase.” She lowers her voice, almost to a whisper. “Would it be possible for you, hypothetically, to get into the Staten Island ferry’s computer system and figure out what happened that day?”

  “Oh sure, no problem. I haven’t committed any felonies lately. Seriously, it would be very difficult. Just speaking hypothetically.”

  “Of course.”

  They exchange a small smile as Mark’s eyes light up and he swivels to his computer screen.

  “Thanks for the information,” Erica says.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mark says, already punching keys.

  Erica starts to leave, then turns. “You windsurf?”

  Without taking his eyes off the screen, Mark smiles. “Yeah. I’m going out on the Hudson this weekend.”

  “Be careful. The currents are treacherous.”

  CHAPTER 16

  AS THE PLANE DESCEND
S TOWARD LAX, Erica feels her pulse quicken. If she lands the interview, Greg and Lesli will follow to set up the shoot; they’ll use local sound and camera people. She spent the flight reviewing her notes on Kay Barrish. What a dynamo. The day after she graduated high school in 1976 she moved to Los Angeles, determined to be an actress. To support herself she got a job selling cosmetics at Bullock’s—within a month they asked her to take over the whole department. She had a brief first marriage to actor Kent Barrish—his connections helped her get cast in television movies. Agents and producers noticed her strong screen presence—what she lacked in beauty she made up for in intelligence, vivacity, and charm. During those early years, she lived in Silver Lake, then a rundown part of town, and got involved in neighborhood cleanup efforts. Then she got her big break: a small but showy role in a Robert Altman film that earned her an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress. She moved up to leads, earning a reputation as one of the most versatile and gifted actors in the business. She won a Best Actress Oscar in 1996, the peak of her stardom.

  Then she married Bert Winters, the butter king of the Southland (just about every pat in every restaurant comes from his company), had two children, and gradually gave up acting. She enrolled at UCLA and earned a degree in American history. Her philanthropic and community involvement grew and led her into politics. A moderate Republican, she was drafted by the party to run for governor and proved to be a natural on the stump, with seemingly endless stamina and a gift for inspiring audiences with her call for every Californian to look past self-interest and commit to the common good. She won the election in a landslide and became a star on the national political scene. She was considered a shoo-in for reelection—until a right-wing congressman mounted a primary challenge and beat her by a tiny margin. He went on to lose the general election by twenty points. Her grace after the defeat only increased her popularity.

  Since that time, Barrish has kept a high profile as head of her family’s foundation and the author of three books that detail her policy views. She cunningly leavens the books with down-to-earth personal anecdotes—and lessons learned—about being a woman, a mother, and a wife. Polls regularly name her one of the most admired women in America and the leading candidate for the presidency in the next election. It’s all a long way from a lawn covered with hostas.

  As the pilot announces their final descent, Erica looks out the window and marvels, as she always does, at the sheer size and sprawl of Los Angeles. She loves the energy and diversity of the city, its noirtinged history, its exuberant architecture, its creative output. It’s not New York, but it’s a close second.

  Erica gathers her things as she gets ready for the landing. Nylan’s little power play with her outfits was a cheap trick, a head game designed to let her know who was calling the shots. And placing those glasses in front of her computer? That could have been Claire. GNN is definitely not a warm and fuzzy workplace. Erica reminds herself of her healthy paycheck and the opportunities—including gaining custody of Jenny—that lie in front of her. If she has to put up with some juvenile machinations, it’s worth it. As she folds up her laptop, she can almost convince herself that the little ball of dread at the back of her neck is just a stress knot.

  The plane lands and Erica finds her driver. She’s going to meet Barrish, who lives in Brentwood, in the morning. Then she and her old pal Moira Connelly are going to have lunch. Erica is staying at the Miramar in Santa Monica. On the way to the hotel, she has the driver stop at a boutique on Montana Avenue, where she buys a pearl-gray pantsuit and a stylish above-the-knee dress. Maybe she should send Nylan a selfie of her wearing them.

  After checking in, she goes up to her tenth-floor room and unpacks. Then she sits on the edge of the bed. It’s late afternoon, the sun is softening, the room is silent. She looks out at the Pacific and the Santa Monica pier with its honky-tonk amusement rides. Suddenly a terrible wave of loneliness sweeps over her. She remembers a vacation she, Dirk, and Jenny took on the Maine coast when Jenny was three. One afternoon they played miniature golf, and she and Dirk let Jenny win. The winner got to pick the restaurant where they ate dinner. Who says a butterscotch sundae can’t be called fine dining? And now here she is, alone in a hotel room, three thousand miles from home.

  She picks up her phone and dials.

  “Hello.” Dirk’s voice sounds oddly cheery.

  “Hi, Dirk, it’s Erica. May I speak to Jenny?”

  There’s a pause and then a perfunctory, “Hold on.”

  Out the window, she watches a hawk circling while she waits.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hi, baby. How are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I miss you. I miss you so much. How was school?”

  Jenny giggles. “I played hooky.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, we went to the aquarium in Boston. I fed the penguins!”

  “You and Daddy went to the aquarium?”

  “And Linda.”

  “Who’s Linda?”

  “Daddy’s new friend.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “She’s so nice. We had a lot of fun.”

  “I, uh, I don’t think you should be skipping school, honey.”

  “It’s only one day.”

  “You must be tired after all that excitement. Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Your favorite mac ’n’ cheese?”

  “No, that’s for babies. We had scallops with fennel, wild rice pilaf, and a kale soufflé.”

  “A kale soufflé?”

  “Linda invented it. She’s very creative. We’re going to paint my bedroom.”

  Erica feels a welling up behind her eyes. Her baby—she’s losing her baby, her little girl, her Jenny. And there’s nothing she can do about it.

  “I’m in Los Angeles, Jenny.”

  “Is it nice?”

  “Yes, yes, it is. I wish you were here. Then it would be much nicer.”

  “I have to go to school tomorrow!”

  “I know, I just meant . . . well, I just meant that I miss you terribly and I love you and I’m proud of you.” Jenny doesn’t say anything. “Bye-bye, baby girl.”

  Jenny sighs in exasperation. “I’m not a baby!”

  “No, no, of course you’re not.” Erica sits up and exhales. “You’re a girl, and soon you’ll be a young woman. And you’re going to do great things!”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Erica hangs up. She feels her throat tighten as her loneliness edges toward anxiety.

  She looks over at the minibar. It looks friendly and welcoming. She walks over and opens it. The contents look so benign: the salted cashews, cheese and crackers, and, of course, those adorable little bottles. All the makings of a party. A party of one.

  Think it through . . .

  Erica reaches into the minibar and grabs a . . . Toblerone. Then she slips into shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, takes a huge bite of the candy bar, and heads out for a run.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT’S A SPARKLY SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA day as Erica and her driver wend their way through Brentwood toward Kay Barrish’s house. Erica is always dazzled by LA; the colors seem so much more vivid, varied, and saturated than back east, as if God was working with an extra box of paints when he created the landscape. Has it really only been three and a half weeks since the ferry crash? And now—wearing the pantsuit—she’s meeting one of the most admired women in the country. To calm herself, and for good luck, Erica fingers her simple blue clip-on earrings. The car arrives at a large gate, and her driver pushes a button on an intercom stand.
/>   “Yes?”

  “Erica Sparks to see Ms. Barrish.”

  The gates swing open and they drive up a small rise and find themselves in a parking court in front of a rambling white house that looks as if it were airlifted in from Connecticut—except for the pop of neon color provided by the blooming vines that artfully climb the façade. It’s a large house, yes, but not at all gaudy or intimidating.

  Erica gets out of the car just as Kay Barrish comes out of the house. She’s wearing Levi’s, a white cotton shirt, a brown leather belt, and blue sneakers—the orange scarf tied around her neck gives her a splash of color. She looks lovely: fresh, fit, and vibrant. She grasps Erica’s hands and gives her a radiant movie-star smile. “Erica, welcome. How terrific to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Before we go any further, I have a message from Nancy Huffman, the head of wardrobe at GNN, and Rosario Acevado, one of our makeup artists: ‘We love you.’ I, on the other hand, reserve judgment.”

  Barrish roars with laughter. Her face looks unlifted, if pampered, she’s wearing nothing more than lipstick, and her silver-blonde hair is swept back and picks up glints of sunlight. “Oh good, you’ll keep me on my toes! And love back to those two ladies. Come in, come in.”

  Erica follows Kay into the house. The living room is large and comfortable, the furnishings a mix of traditional and modern, with bold abstract art on the walls. The far wall is all glass and looks out onto a large yard, a pool, and several outbuildings. Kay leads them down a wide hallway and into the kitchen/family room, which is huge and filled with sparkly appliances, but lived-in and homey at the same time.

  “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “Love one.”

  “And I made us some muffins.”

  “Did you really?”

  “No.” The women smile at each other. “I’m not much of a cook, although I do make delicious boiled water.”