by Lorna Graham
Twenty minutes later, Eve’s brain felt like a packed bleacher at a football game. She had a mental picture of Donald’s and Hap’s rear ends grumpily scooting over to make room for Bliss’s. She felt as though her skull would burst, but it was worth it; she thought she’d figured out something important. In nearly every segment, Bliss pushed beyond whatever the writer had done. She’d rework the intro so that it promised more—often too much—and during the interview, she’d press past the writers’ suggested questions into new territory. Sometimes it was fascinating territory, other times boring. Often it was neutral. So why did she do it? Maybe she couldn’t stand to feel like a “throat,” as anchors were sometimes called derogatorily. Maybe she just wanted to beat the other morning shows. Either way, one thing seemed clear: Bliss didn’t just want to report news; she wanted to make news.
But what if Eve herself could push the story into new territory? What if she could come up with questions that were better and smarter than they could possibly have on any of the other shows? What if she could unearth something from the guest that would actually make news? She wasn’t contemplating getting anywhere near a “100 percent.” But if she could do a decent job of this, Mark would have to put her into the Bliss rotation. She’d have proven herself.
Was that a good enough reason to do what she was doing? She paced the room. The walls pressed in. She shook her head and rotated her shoulders. Now was not the time for doubts. She sat down and dialed criminal profiler Dr. Shin Tang.
He picked up on the first ring and they exchanged the usual pleasantries. Dr. Tang spoke with a slight accent, but Eve decided it was nothing that required the attention of Franka Lemon. She mentally crossed her fingers and embarked on her first question.
“I know you’ve been keeping up with the Stiletto case and analyzing the victims’ accounts for clues. What theories have you come up with about what kind of person the Stiletto might be?”
Dr. Tang began to explain the Stiletto’s probable profile. He seemed to ponder each sentence before he spoke it. Eve encouraged him, nodding to herself as she took it all down. Gently, she probed his reasoning, testing his various theories, all the while feeling more and more certain he knew what he was talking about.
Forty minutes into their talk, the doctor trailed off from an answer about the increasing violence of the attacks. “It almost makes me wonder …”
“Yes?” Eve asked.
He paused. “No, I’m sorry. That is all, Miss Weldon. You have the information.”
“It sounds like you wanted to say something else.”
“Uh … no. It wasn’t anything.”
“Look, Dr. Tang,” she began gently. “I understand if there’s something you’re not sure you should say. Why not tell me about it? Maybe together we can figure out whether it belongs in the segment. There won’t be any pressure from me if you’re not comfortable.”
There was a long silence. “Well, Miss Weldon, and only because you are less abrasive than most of the newspeople I’ve encountered in the last few weeks, I suppose it couldn’t hurt for you and me to deliberate together what should be discussed on the air,” he said finally. “I was going to offer some advice to women who find themselves confronted by the Stiletto.”
Eve straightened in her chair. “Yes?”
“I’m afraid I still hesitate. The police dislike this kind of thing, you see. I was quoted once in a newspaper giving certain suggestions, and I got a very nasty call from the commissioner’s office. The police almost never advise victims to defend themselves, and, statistically speaking, they are probably right. If one does fight back, it can infuriate the attacker and he may become more violent.”
“Statistically speaking? But you think this case may be different, am I right?” pressed Eve. “Then get it off your chest and let’s talk about it.”
The doctor sighed deeply. For a moment, her heart beating fast, Eve thought she’d pushed too hard. But then he continued.
“Well, for what it’s worth, here’s what I have come to believe. Now, it’s just a theory, you understand, but I think it’s sound.…”
Eve’s fingers flew across the keyboard as she took it all down. When she was done, she took a deep breath.
“Sir, I think this is vital information. Important for our audience to hear. May I put this in the interview? May Bliss Jones ask you about this tomorrow?”
It took him a long time to answer. “You really believe it could help somebody?”
“Yes. I really do.”
“All right, then.”
After they hung up, Eve scrolled through her notes, knee bouncing with excitement. Now this, the other shows wouldn’t have. This was information that could help the women of New York. This was going to impress Bliss Jones.
Chapter 11
I think what everyone wants to know is, why would a mugger wear high heels?”
Eve stood wrapped in her kimono, frowning at the television. It was 7:06, and Bliss had just begun the interview with Chief Pell. She had changed sixteen words of Eve’s intro, but things could have been worse.
“Well, that’s the question that’s perplexed us for months. We’ve never seen anything like it, Bliss. But now—now—I’m hoping we’ve cracked the case,” said Chief Pell with a tight smile.
Bliss, looking sensational in a cherry red blazer and lip gloss, leaned in close to her quarry, her trademark move when combined with a delicate frown and the rhythmic tapping of pen on armrest. She was watching the police chief with focused intensity. He gazed back, seemingly transfixed.
“Well, let’s hear it.” Bliss’s voice was as crisp as the bacon frying across the country at this hour. “You think you’ve solved the mystery? It sure has taken a while.”
Sheesh. More aggressively worded than what Eve had as her first suggested question, but still, so far, Bliss was sticking to the script. How could she not, though, really? The question was obvious.
“Well, yes,” began Pell. “It has taken us longer than we would have liked. But we’ve been at it twenty-four hours a day because we’re dedicated to protecting the citizens of New York City and we believe—”
“Yes, yes. As a citizen of New York City, I thank you,” Bliss said dryly. “Now tell us—what’s with the high heels? Even when he’s not wearing women’s clothing, he’s got the heels on. It makes no sense. They don’t exactly make for a speedy getaway.”
For heaven’s sake, why was she being so testy? Eve always felt uncomfortable when Bliss went into Jack Russell terrier mode. She seemed to revel in prodding interview subjects like the embers of a sputtering fire, until she had extracted from them every last spark of information, or, if circumstances demanded, humiliation.
The police chief shuffled in his seat. “We think the high heels are his disguise.”
Bliss leaned in, her visage reflected in the police chief’s badge. “What do you mean? That no one will recognize an armed felon if he’s wearing pumps?”
“No, Bliss. The shoes are not his visual disguise, they’re his audio disguise.”
“His audio disguise?” Bliss asked, betraying no hint that she’d read all of Pell’s answers earlier in Eve’s briefing note; that she and the chief were, in a sense, two actors performing a play. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” began Pell, warming to the subject, “this is what I mean. What does a mugger—or any street criminal—depend on? The element of surprise. He needs to sneak up on his victim. This attacker has found a clever, and utterly unique, way of doing this.”
“Go on.”
“Well, Bliss, I’m sure you’re an alert, ‘big city’ woman.” Bliss narrowed her eyes at him, signaling displeasure at being patronized. “When you’re walking down the street at night and you hear footsteps coming up behind you, what do you do?”
“I look over my shoulder to see who it is.”
“Of course you do. Now imagine you’re walking down the same street at night but the footsteps you hear behind you are the click-click of
high heels. What do you do?”
“Well,” began Bliss, acerbically acquiescent in her role, “I would assume there was a woman behind me. And as women don’t tend to be muggers or rapists, I most likely would not turn around.”
“Exactly,” replied the chief. “And that’s what he’s counting on. He comes up behind a woman wearing these heels, lulling her into a false sense of security, and then sticks a knife in her back and demands money. It’s diabolical.”
“Well,” said Bliss sardonically, “it’s certainly something we haven’t seen before. And your theory would appear to hold some water. Now, sir, stay with us for a moment while we turn to our other guest, criminal psychiatrist Dr. Shin Tang of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.”
The camera panned over to Dr. Tang, in the armchair next to Chief Pell. He was much as Eve had pictured him from his voice on the phone: sixtyish with a thick mop of shiny black hair parted deeply on the side … and a mole the size of a small pancake next to his left nostril. Damn.
“All right, Dr. Tang, you heard what Chief Pell has told us about the Stiletto’s methods. Any theories on how he came up with the idea of wearing high heels? It’s not exactly a typical MO.”
Again Bliss’s tone was more aggressive than desirable, but this time there could be dire consequences. Eve had spent a good part of the briefing note explaining that Dr. Tang needed careful handling. He was nervous not only because it was his first TV interview, but because the commissioner, whom he’d once angered, would be sitting right next to him. Bliss, Eve had made clear, should tread lightly. Eve fretted; would the lucid, nuanced answers Tang had given her during the pre-interview quiver and disintegrate under the hot lights and confrontational style of Bliss Jones? It had happened before, as all the writers could attest.
“Well, Ms. Jones, we do have one interesting supposition about that. Very often, we find, clever ideas come about by accident. So we believe the attacker might have been wearing high heels for some unrelated reason, perhaps with a full complement of women’s clothing, as he sometimes does now. In any case, we think that perhaps while doing so, he walked up behind a woman on the street, noted that she didn’t turn around, and realized he could use this information for nefarious purposes.”
Bliss’s brow was so tightly knit, Eve almost expected a pair of mittens to pop out of it at any moment. “And why would this person be wearing women’s clothing to begin with? And why only sometimes? Are you saying we’re looking at a part-time drag queen doubling as a violent felon?”
Eve bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t put the “drag queen” bit in; it sounded like a slur.
Dr. Tang also looked uncomfortable. “Well, I—I don’t want to say for sure; but it is possible that this man is experimenting with women’s clothing as some kind of coping mechanism for a psychological issue. The shoes are different. They are a constant, which would indicate that they are most likely a strategic choice. Whereas the clothing, which comes and goes, might be explained by a half-dozen scenarios.”
“Like what?”
What was the point of this antagonism? And going down this unproductive path? Dr. Tang was now shrinking back in his seat and beginning to sweat.
“We’re—we’re just trying to consider all the possibilities.”
Eve’s heart sank. Tang was obviously feeling so besieged now that when asked about his big theory, he might well balk. She prayed he wouldn’t. He had to realize how important this information could be for the city’s women. As he told Eve, he had a daughter walking these streets. Bliss opened her mouth and Eve held herself still. If Tang delivered here, Smell the Coffee would make news.
During their pre-interview, Dr. Tang had proposed a fascinating hypothesis: If the mugger had spent significant time as a cross-dresser, whatever the reason, he might have adopted some feminine personality characteristics. Scientists had seen this before. For instance, he might have developed an aversion to physical violence. The doctor guessed, and he insisted it was only a guess, that the attacker was relying on the element of surprise and his knife to overwhelm his victims, and might find going mano a mano abhorrent. Which meant, the doctor speculated, that a woman who fought back might stand a reasonable chance of overcoming him. In any case, Tang had told her, no woman who found herself a victim should ever let the man take her to a secondary location. That was inevitably where rape or bloodshed occurred. She must stand up to him or get away from him, if only for that reason.
Eve rewrapped the kimono around her, waiting for Bliss to ask the question: Doctor, I understand you have a theory about how victims might defend themselves? We’re aware the police are concerned about this kind of speculation, but we think our viewers will want to hear all the information before making up their minds and we ask Chief Pell to indulge us here.
Bliss leaned forward as if anticipating a choice morsel. She paused dramatically and pressed her lips together.
“Very interesting, Dr. Tang. Thank you.” Bliss leaned back abruptly. Why was she wrapping up? There must be at least two minutes before commercial. “Now,” she began again, pulling out some papers from underneath her script, “Chief Pell, back to you for a moment. If you don’t mind, I want to revisit the issue we were discussing when you were here a couple of months ago. We were talking about the scandal at the Department of Corrections, about the officers who themselves turned out to have criminal records, and allegations of money laundering within prison walls. You never quite answered my question.…”
“Goddamn it.” Eve turned the set off with such ferocity that the knob came away in her hand.
• • •
That subterranean snake, otherwise known as the subway, slithered unaccountably slowly that day, and Eve arrived late for work, barely making it in time for the production meeting. She snuck in at the back of the room. Giles was detailing an upcoming November sweeps trip, spotlighting the best Christmas shopping from coast to coast. Immediately a general mumble began, as everyone speculated on whether they’d be on the trip, which cities had the best stores, and which hotels in those cities had the best room service.
Suddenly, everyone stopped talking. Bliss Jones had entered the room through the far door behind Giles. He turned, startled.
“Well, hello,” he said, standing. “Bliss. How nice. Welcome.” Giles dispensed these words like hopeful little pellets as he made his way toward the anchor and then stopped abruptly when her expression said he’d come close enough. It was disheartening to see the executive producer behaving like a beaten dog but not altogether surprising. Just last week, Russell had explained the somewhat twisted relationship between top managers and top talent at the network. He said that although the executive producer was “the boss,” the one who called the shots on programming, who interfaced with the network brass and handled the budget, a star anchor (if the ratings were good) actually possessed more clout. It was the anchor the public knew, the anchor who was the face of the show, the anchor with the glamour quotient and the astronomical paycheck. If the anchor and executive producer both went to the network president with a dispute, it was almost guaranteed the president would side with the “talent.”
“Hi, troops.” Bliss nodded to the room.
“Can we get you something?” Giles asked. “A water maybe? We’re just talking about the sweeps shopping trip and I think you’ll be pleased—”
“I’m not here about sweeps,” replied Bliss.
Eve tried to take in what was happening but found herself starstruck. Bliss Jones was in the room! And she looked exactly the way she did on television! There were no marks or shadows on her skin, which glowed with health and vigor. The hair was teased enough to appear lustrous but not hard, and the purply-blue eyes sparkled like amethysts thanks to perfectly blended cinnamon eye shadow and expertly drawn brown liner. They did not move from Giles’s face. “I need to ask you about what happened this morning.”
There was a mass intake of breath.
“I’m sorry?” Giles appeared to have only barely
recovered from the initial shock of Bliss’s appearance and now struggled with this new blow.
“The Stiletto segment,” Bliss returned.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“It was unacceptable.”
Eve felt the blood come to a halt in her veins.
“Shall we take this in my office?” Giles asked.
“I don’t have time. I’m on my way out. But before I go, I need to know how a brand-new writer came to handle the lead story.”
“We don’t have any brand-new writers.”
“Well, I certainly don’t recognize this name.” She looked at a sheet of paper in her hand. “It’s right here on the briefing note. Eve Weldon. Who is that?”
“She’s right over there,” Cassandra piped up prettily, pointing in Eve’s direction.
Every head in the room swiveled in neat formation.
“Right. I’m Eve Weldon,” said Eve in a voice that sounded as if it were coming from very far away. She forced herself to meet Bliss’s gaze. The anchor gave her a once-over that felt like a punch in the stomach. Then she turned back to Giles.
“This is not someone who has ever written for me before, yet suddenly she is handling the top story, one that includes violent crime, an untested guest, and Chief Pell, who is one of the world’s most evasive and self-aggrandizing public officials. This alone is of great concern to me.”
Eve looked back at the ground, focusing on a tiny patch of beige carpet, trying to count the fibers in it.
“And then, making it far worse, is the fact that the interview, as prepared, was disastrous, bordering on dangerous.”
What? Archie himself had told her she’d done an excellent job. That’s why she’d been confident Mark wouldn’t be angry with her if he found out what she’d done. She glanced around looking for Archie in hopes of finding some support, but he wasn’t there. Mark himself was looking at her with mounting alarm.
“Dangerous?” said Giles.
“Yes. I won’t go into it here, but the line of questioning proposed was downright irresponsible and could have gotten the network in serious trouble.”
