by Josie Brown
Eve shows me into the office and shuts the door behind me.
Lee comes out from behind his desk to greet me. He does so formally with a handshake.
I pull him in for a hug.
When, finally, we disentangle, he says, “I guess you don’t have good news.”
“I don’t,” I confess. “We should sit down.”
Silently we watch the video from Trident Union’s bank lobby. Lee’s face falls in despair when he sees the woman. Even with dark glasses and a broad, brimmed hat, there is no mistaking Babette’s walk: runway-worthy with a touch more attitude.
The video cuts to the elevator feeds, both in her rides up and down to Trident’s floor.
“If she opened an account, why is it tied to me?”
“Acme can’t figure that out. It’s not in either of your names, and it’s not being run through any of your subsidiaries.” I shake my head, helplessly. “Still, somehow Reynolds has made the connection. Acme won’t give up until it does too. In the meantime, you have to watch your back. She’s setting you up to take a really big fall, Lee. She wants it all. And Edmonton and Congress are primed to let it happen.”
Lee hangs his head. “I see that now.”
“That’s all I could have hoped for; that you’ll do the right thing.”
He doesn’t answer. He won’t even raise his head.
I leave him like that.
I’m back in the Hart Media town car when my private cell phone rings. The call is from Trisha.
The privacy glass between the driver and me is up, but still I whisper, “Hello, sweetie!”
“Mom…I had to call you because…I…I just don’t know what to do.”
“I’m listening, Trisha. Always.”
She takes a deep breath. “Janie just called. She’s in trouble with her mom and dad because of a selfie she took with Madison when she went on her school tour.”
“Why would that be a problem?” I ask.
“Madison and she were doing that thing! You know, with their hands? The gangster signs. I guess it was for MS 13, whatever that is.”
I stifle a groan.
“It went viral! In fact, it got more hits than Mary’s interview! And way more than her mother at Fashion Week.”
I’m sure that’s the real reason Babette is angry with her daughter.
Babette shouldn’t have wed Lee. She should have married a Kardashian.
“Anyway, Madison dumped Janie. She told her she didn’t want to be friends with someone whose father is ‘going to spend all day and all night in a ghetto penthouse.’ Mom, what does that mean?”
“It means your ex-friend, Madison, has been boning up on her prison slang.” If this is any indication of her at ten, I think she’ll soon have a reason to put it to good use.
“So…it’s true? Mr. Chiffray may be going to prison?”
“As you know from your studies, the U.S. Constitution asserts that we are all innocent until proven guilty,” I remind her.
“Janie called because she wants to be friends again…but I don’t know.”
“I can’t make that decision for you. It’s got to come from your heart. But keep this in mind. Janie has been your friend for five years. Your relationship has been tested by distance and time: half of your very young life. Janie is a lonely person who hurt her nearest and dearest friend. She had the maturity to say she’s sorry.”
“She called because she doesn’t have any other friends. People either suck up to her because of who she is, or they make fun of her without really knowing her,” Trisha counters. “Why do I always have to be the nice one?”
That’s a great question.
I only have one answer: “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t know, Mom…” Grief causes her words to drop down to a whisper. “I think it’s time that someone else be nice to me first.”
Janie has never been humbled. Like her mother, she has always gotten her way. And because of this, it’s more than likely that Trisha will lose Janie’s friendship if she doesn’t accept her friend’s olive branch.
But that’s okay.
Trisha is right. She is long overdue for a friendship that merits loyalty and trust.
“Darling, it is solely your decision to make.”
My daughter hangs up with a sigh.
“Gwendolyn, have you met our newest correspondent?” Wendell is standing beside ‘Grant.’
I tilt my head, as if trying to remember where I may have seen him. “Ah, yes! In the New York office. Congratulations on your hire. Grant, isn’t it?”
Jack grins as he shakes my hand. “And you’re Gwendolyn, I know. I suppose the whole world does after your interview with the president.”
“Grant has just returned with a very important get himself,” Wendell informs me. “Vice President Edmonton spoke on the record regarding the Special Counsel’s investigation of President Chiffray.”
“With that in mind, I should join Arvin in his editing bay. I’m sure he’s ready to show me the final edit before we upload it for tonight’s broadcast.” Jack waves as he starts off.
Wendell looks at his watch and grumbles, “Oh bother, I’m late for a production meeting. I shall see you tonight, though, eh?”
“The Metropolitan club, eight-fifteen. I wouldn’t miss it,” I assure him.
“Well, then, ta-ta until the cocktail hour.” He heads off in the opposite direction from Jack.
And a good thing, too, since Jack has circled back to me. In a louder than normal voice, he says, “Ms. Durant—Gwendolyn—I could use your ear on my interview.”
I feign curiosity. “How so, Grant?”
“The vice president made some curious statements that seemed less than supportive of the president than one would imagine. If you wouldn’t mind giving a clean eye to my supporting copy so I can add some analysis to my soundbites, I would truly appreciate it.”
“Of course. Any way I can help.” I walk with him down the hall to the editing bay Abu has already reserved.
“Yikes! Talk about a slam job.” Dismayed, I shake my head at ‘Grant’s’ Edmonton interview. “The only soundbites he gave you are mostly backhanded compliments toward Lee.”
Abu nods. “First, he declares Lee is innocent of all charges, then he backtracks and says Lee’s interview might have painted him into an ugly corner.”
“A corner in which Edmonton comes out the victor,” Jack points out. “Edmonton’s endgame is to run against Lee in the next election. That is, if Lee isn’t impeached first.”
“His biggest crime is covering up for his wife,” I retort.
“No, Donna. His biggest crime was not putting his country before everything—including her.”
Jack is right.
Suddenly, Abu does a double take at something he sees on the TV monitor playing silently in the corner of the bay. Awed, he shouts, “Hey! Look there!”
Our eyes follow his.
Jeanette is on the screen, standing beside the banks of the Potomac River. It’s pouring rain, so she’s reporting under an umbrella.
Over her shoulder, viewers can see a Bethesda CSI team looking over the covered body.
The copy scrolling at the bottom of the screen reads:
DEAD WOMAN’S BODY IS THOUGHT TO BE PRESIDENT’S MISSING FUND MANAGER
* * *
“Helen Drake?” Jack and I say in unison.
Abu turns up the sound.
“…and the body was found this afternoon by a man who walks his dog on this path at least twice a day,” Jeanette proclaims into her handheld microphone.
The camera makes a quick cut to the man—mid-forties and balding—who pats his dog, a Labrador retriever.
“Eddie here started going wild! He almost dragged me into the river with him.” The man shakes his head as though in shock. “At first I thought it was an old log. But then I saw her…her foot.” He wipes away a tear. “The rest of her was pretty much a mess.”
The camera cuts back to
Jeanette. “Although it has not yet been officially confirmed, because of items found floating upstream from the body, the victim is believed to be Helen Taylor Drake. She was a person-of-interest wanted in the Justice Department’s Special Counsel investigation of President Lee Chiffray’s dealing with a German law firm known for laundering its client’s funds in offshore bank accounts.”
The camera zooms in on the crime scene. “To hinder her identification, the tips of the victim’s fingers have been clipped off and her eyes were gouged out. However, a purse was found two miles upriver. Experts on the river’s currents say that it is possible it might belong to the victim.”
The camera cuts to another closeup: this time of a CSI investigator bagging the purse.
“All evidence must be examined by the county’s forensic lab before there is a confirmation of the victim’s identification. However, one of the officers on the scene has already confirmed that a cell phone and wallet bearing Ms. Drake’s name was discovered in a secret pocket inside the purse.”
The camera goes back to Jeanette.
“If indeed the victim is Ms. Drake, our viewers will know soon. The lead investigators say they’ll be prepared to make an official statement later tonight. ” Jeanette pauses before adding, “Back to you, Wendell.”
Jack and I stare at each other. “How could that be?” I ask.
“Maybe it wasn’t Babette in the tape,” Jack reasons. “We’ll know more as soon as Ryan gets ahold of the coroner’s report.” He stretches in his chair. “Hey, where do you want to go for dinner?”
“Sorry, you’re on your own tonight,” I announced grandly. “I already have a date. In fact, I’m going home now, to change into something more appropriate. And since I’m headed out anyway, I can take any cheat sheets you scrounged up and upload them to Emma from the condo.”
Jack’s brows rise. “If your bestie needs more consoling, I hope you’re not implying a negligee under a designer raincoat.”
I tweak his nose. “No, Wendell and I are going out for a drink when he gets off the air. He’s a member of the Metropolitan Club. And by the way, that’s only a look I save for you, because you are my bestie.” I kiss Jack’s cheek.
“Ah, sweet love,” Abu grumbles.
“Is that your way of telling me that you’re free to grab a beer after we get done with the Veep’s hatchet job?” Jack asks.
Abu snickers. “You’ll have to do better than that. Scotch. Neat.”
“Damn! So much for those rumors about you being a cheap date,” Jack retorts.
“Hey, it could be worse. Dominic could have been here instead,” Abu reminds him.
Jack slaps his head.
On that note, I’m out of there.
I’m about to step into the elevator when Polly rushes up. “Gwendolyn! I’m so glad I caught you. Mr. Hart would like to see you.”
Damn it! What does Harold want now?
“I’m sorry but please tell him I am predisposed. Ta-ta!”
I turn to leave.
Polly grabs hold of my arm. She looks if she’s about to cry. After glancing around, she hisses, “Gwendolyn, please! I cannot go in there and tell Mr. Hart that you’re…you’re predisposed. He’ll beat me with his cane!”
“Oh, that Mr. Hart!” Damn it! He’s the one Hart I can’t dodge. “You’re right. We mustn’t encourage public floggings in the newsroom! That won’t do at all.”
She’s practically running to the elevator, which will whisk us up to the top floor of the Hart Media Tower.
My stride is a little more dignified, but not by much.
Unlike his son, Randall Hart is straight to the point. “Gwendolyn, have a seat.”
No howdy-do. No. please. Hmm.
Because Randall sits behind a massive desk, it makes him look all the smaller. I take a seat in one of the two chairs directly across from it.
“Your interview was our most-watched special news report in over a decade,” he says.
I smile politely. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“However, I am somewhat disappointed that you went off-point on some very specific questions for the president. May I ask why you decided to do so?”
“Yes, of course.” As soon as I can make up a plausible excuse.
A minute ticks by.
“I’m waiting,” he says.
His voice is calm. But his eyes can’t shield his anger.
I sigh. “Sir, I was under the impression that the questions came from Mr. Harold Hart as opposed to you. And considering your very firm command that he allow me to work in peace, I thought it best to ignore his recommended questions and honor your directive: that I seek the truth while I have a glaring spotlight on the president.”
He says nothing. Instead, he watches me. Is he waiting for me to betray my excuse with shifty eyes or quivering lips? If so, he’ll be disappointed. As it is, I feel as if I’ve betrayed Lee and the office of the president with the interview’s opening remarks.
If they were coded, I’ll live with the guilt that I betrayed my country. I imagine every Hart Media reporter who has been duped into reading the cheat sheets would feel the same way.
So, yes, I hold my head high and say no more.
Finally, Randall growls, “You may go.”
Because I’m still holding his gaze, I see the slight change in his demeanor. It’s as if his skin has grown a bit paler and the light has gone out of his eyes.
But as I rise, he says, “Just one more thing. Did you happen to see Harold when he was here this morning?”
I nod. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“I take that to mean he accosted you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
He shudders. “I hope I can count on your discretion.”
I nod.
He turns his chair to face the window.
I have been dismissed.
15
Catch and Kill
Some tabloid magazines pay for interviews.
Some pay to kill interviews.
The latter practice is known as “catch and kill.”
This occurs when an interview subject accepts a mutually agreed-upon compensation for the exclusive rights to any and all specific details of his or her story without any guarantee that the story will ever make it into print or broadcast.
It never does, for good reason:
Someone wants the story killed.
“Catch and kill” is a term that could easily describe the extermination business as well. (Not for bugs, silly! For a hitwoman!)
The only differences:
1: It would be the assassin, not the victim, who gets paid; and
2: An untold story is never missed. However, someone always misses a murder victim.
I work as quickly as I can to take photos of the cheat sheets and upload them to Emma’s cloud.
When I complete the task, I only have an hour left to get dressed. Even via taxi, it will take at least fifteen minutes to get to the Metropolitan Club, so I’ve got to get going. I choose a gray cocktail sheath embellished with soft blue soutache appliqués: simple, yet elegant.
I’m about to put the cheat sheets in my valise when it occurs to me that too many others, all named Hart, have a key to this apartment, So I slip the intel back into my purse. It doesn’t go with my dress, but it will have to do.
I arrive fashionably: that is to say, five minutes late. Wendell is already in the lobby. The gold marbled walls cast a warm tone to its Federal-era furnishings. The staircase to the second floor is bound in a thick berry-hued carpet. An American flag stands to the left of it.
Wendell beams when he sees me. “You look divine!” He points to the staircase “Shall we?”
I laugh. “We shall.”
He may be in his early seventies, but he keeps pace with my climb up the staircase.
We walk through a large arched doorway into one of the club’s many libraries. Deep floor-to-ceiling bookcases flank its walls. The bright, white, coved ceiling softens the light eman
ating from the room’s numerous lamps into an intimate glow. Comfortable blue armchairs, paired off, are scattered about the large room.
Wendell has reserved a small alcove. It is private enough that our conversation won’t be overheard, but close enough to watch the meanderings of the other members.
After a waiter takes our drink orders, we make polite conversation about the top news of the day: The discovery of Helen Drake’s corpse.
“I feel this will reflect poorly on Mr. Chiffray,” Wendell opines.
“Isn’t that the point, especially when tried in the court of public opinion? If he’s innocent, either of the tax fraud or Ms. Drake’s murder, the forensic analysis will discover it.”
“You like him, don’t you?” He watches me carefully as I answer.
“I don’t know him well enough to like him,” I demur. “I’ve only met him once. But I felt he was forthright in his interview.”
“Your questions were quite candid with him.”
“I was just following my damned little cheat sheet.”
He chuckles at my response. I’m about to ask him why when my cell phone buzzes softly. As I pull it out of my purse, Wendell reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry dear, but all calls must be taken in the conversation lounge downstairs. Club rules.”
I glance down at the Caller ID:
DUMBLEDORE
A.K.A. Arnie. He wouldn’t call unless it were very important.
“Will you excuse me? It’s…a source.”
He nods.
I try to slow my pace to the stairwell, but at the same time I don’t want to lose Arnie’s call.
When I reach the lobby, my frantic look and the phone in my hand is all the shorthand the club concierge needs. He points me to a door marked CORRESPONDENCE LOUNGE.
I’ve just clicked onto the call when Arnie crows, “I’m a genius!”
I pull the phone away from my ear.
