American Outrage

by Tim Green

  After an hour, he found he could move. He got out slowly and walked around the car. Except for the mirror, it wasn’t in bad shape, but he’d report it stolen from his hotel after the uplink with Nancy. The gun and the shell casing were the only things that could tie him to the murder. Any hair or fibers in the bed or fingerprints on the beer can or vodka glass could be explained. Zamira had picked him up and they had had a night together.

  He felt the bulge of the gun in his pocket and looked around. Cars came and went and people walked in and out of the glass doors that led into the mall’s lower level. He knew the lake lay just beyond the railroad tracks outside the mall. He limped up the ramp and out into the sunshine.

  Walking as briskly as his knee would allow, he crossed the parking lot, the road, and the railroad tracks until he came to the edge of the green water. After looking around, he heaved the gun as far out as he could, then did the same with the casing before he hobbled back to the mall to catch a cab.

  He tried Muldoon’s cell phone and got a machine, then gave the cabbie the address of his original hotel, where he thought he might find the producer. Muldoon came to the door in his boxers and holding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He winced when he saw Jake and started shaking his head.

  “They went ballistic,” Muldoon said. “You look like shit.”

  “Do you know what the hell happened to me?” Jake asked, pushing his way into the room.

  “Yeah, you missed the interview with the president’s daughter and Katz ripped me a new ass. Like I’ve got the leash on you. Christ, does that hurt?” Muldoon said, craning to get a better look at Jake’s forehead. “You gotta call Katz. I don’t know if you can save yourself on this one, Jake, but you gotta call him right now.”

  Jake sat on the edge of the producer’s bed, looked up at him, and said, “Save? We just delivered what’s going to be the highest-rated show for the year.”

  “Just call.”

  Jake took out his cell phone and dialed the office. Katz got on the phone. His words were wound up and they popped from the phone one or two at a time. Jake told him the story, how he was working a lead on the Albanians, what had happened to him the night before and then this morning, leaving out the fact that the woman who had saved him was dead. He told him excitedly about his FBI contact warning him away and the possibility that the Van Buren family was involved. When he finished, the phone was silent for a minute.

  “You there?” Jake asked.

  “You done?”

  “Done? You need more?”

  “We’ll pay you till the end of your contract. That’s it. I’m sending Sara up to do the rest of the bunker wraps. I’m sorry. Good luck, Jake.”

  Jake started to talk, but the line was dead. He looked at his phone and cursed. Muldoon puckered his lips and looked away.

  39

  EVA WAS HALF IN THE BAG by the time Jake rolled in. He found her in the big room listening to Frank Sinatra tunes, her pitcher of gin and tonic half empty and glittering on the sideboard by the window in the late afternoon light. Jake wet his lips at her offer of a drink, but said he had a long drive.

  “You ought to have one,” she said. “You look like you need it.”

  Jake touched the cut on his forehead and ran his tongue over the chip he had discovered in his tooth on the way there.

  “I’ve got to drive.”

  “What’s the hurry?” she asked. “Spend the night.”

  “Trouble at work.”

  Eva raised an eyebrow. Her next question got cut short by Sam, who burst into the room with a .22 rifle in the crook of his elbow and a dead rabbit in his hand, dangling by its back legs.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jake said.

  Sam grinned and held the rabbit even higher.

  “Parker’s making stew,” he said.

  “Hunting is a family tradition,” Eva said, raising her glass before finishing it off.

  “Head shot,” Sam said, extending the rifle to Jake. “Grandma said you don’t waste the meat. You said get along.”

  “Every man where I come from can ride a horse and shoot a gun,” she said, filling her glass as well as a second she took down from the shelf of crystal.

  “Can we get my dad on one?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about buying horses. My father rode Arabians.”

  Jake looked from Sam to Eva.

  “Next time,” he said. “We’ve got to hit the road. Get your stuff.”

  “You’re exhausted,” Eva said, taking a sip. “Look at you. At least stay for dinner. Sam hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He and Parker fished through lunch.”

  “I’ll go fill the pot,” Sam said.

  “Not stew,” Eva said, handing the second glass to Jake. “We’re having sea bass, but I can have him grill the tenderloins and braise them with raspberry sauce for an appetizer.”

  “Eva, I’m serious,” Jake said, but he took the glass and had a sip.

  “So am I,” she said, returning to her seat and looking up at him with her chin in the air.

  They stared at each other across the room. A little smile tugged at the corner of Eva’s mouth and Jake pursed his lips and took a drink.

  “I take that as a yes,” Sam said, heading toward the kitchen and calling Parker’s name.

  “Ask Parker to bring your father’s bag in,” Eva shouted after him.

  Jake finished his drink and settled into a low-backed burgundy leather chair. Parker appeared and without a word struck a match, touching it to some paper under a fire he’d built before disappearing again.

  “I wonder where Sam is,” Jake said.

  “I’m sure changing for dinner,” Eva said, crossing the room and refilling his glass.

  “You got him to change for dinner?”

  “He has the makings of a gentleman,” she said, walking back to her spot. “I’ve always thought so.”

  Jake looked out at the lake and sighed. The mountains rising up around them felt like a protective force. The crackling fire and the smell of balsam and wood smoke made the past few days seem like a bad dream.

  Sam showed up at the table wearing a dark green polo shirt and khakis. His hair was still a mess. After dinner, they played Scrabble and Jake and Eva drank fifty-year-old port. Sam made up words like “snarf” and Eva would laugh at them until tears ran down her face. At nine, Parker appeared, cleared his throat, and whispered something into Eva’s ear. She spelled “excursion” with the X on a triple score square and claimed victory before she excused herself and wished them good night, giving Sam a kiss on the cheek.

  “She takes a bath,” Sam said, watching her disappear up the stairs. “I think he doesn’t like her to get too hammered.”

  Jake started to pick up the game and said, “I was thinking maybe you could stay here a little longer.”

  Sam’s face clouded over.

  “I thought we were going home,” he said.

  “You’re doing okay here,” Jake said, heading up the stairs. “School’s almost out. It’s good for her.”

  “What about what we’re doing? Finding my mom,” Sam asked, following Jake into the guest bedroom.

  Jake sighed. “I ran into some complications.”

  “Part of the job.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “Rabbit get to you?” Sam asked, picking a pillow off the bed and throwing it at the headboard.

  “Hey, I’m glad. She thinks you’ve got the makings of a gentleman.”

  “Bull.”

  “Look. This thing is getting dangerous.”

  “Family first, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cut the crap,” Sam said. “You go home, I go, too.”

  40

  JAKE STARTED FROM HIS SLEEP.

  The noise at the door made him jump. He thought about Zamira. He thought about Lukaj.

  It was only Sam, coming in from the hall.

  “What’s up?” Jake asked.

  “Car’s packed,” Sam said.
“I told Parker to scramble some eggs.”

  Sam’s hair was a mess, and he wore a scruffy pair of jeans and one of Jake’s faded old workout T-shirts. Jake touched his bruises and hobbled into the shower.

  Eva joined them at breakfast, stone sober and prim in a flower-print dress and a straw sun hat. She drank tea and ate sausages that Parker brought on a salver, removing the silver cover with a flourish. Outside, an oriole sang in hopes of a mate and hummingbirds darted in and out of the red plastic window feeder.

  When they got up to leave, Sam kissed Eva’s cheek.

  “School ends soon,” she said, patting Sam’s cheek and directing her piercing gaze at him. “I expect you back for a visit.”

  When Sam looked at him, Jake nodded. Sam took her hand and told her he would be back.

  Jake marched through the newsroom with Sam in tow, trying to ignore all the eyes he felt on his back. He stopped at the desk of Joe Katz’s assistant, Penny, and saw the overnight ratings sheet on her desk.

  “Nice,” he said, scooping them up and reading the numbers. They were twice the normal audience. It was unprecedented.

  “The Catherine Anastacia interview run last night?” Jake asked, looking up at her.

  “Yup.”

  “They cut me out of it?”

  Penny’s face turned red. “Not completely.”

  “Let me guess,” Jake said. “Sara did the voice-overs? The toss to Nancy?”

  Penny looked down.

  “LA must be happy with this,” Jake said.

  “Thrilled,” Penny said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Um, downstairs,” she said, suddenly interested in her computer screen.

  “Control room?” Jake said. “Doing an uplink?”

  “Something,” she said. “You can wait right here. He should be done any time.”

  “That’s okay,” Jake said, taking Sam and starting for the stairs. “I’ll catch him there.”

  “You should probably wait here,” she said.

  Jake kept going, passing the desks of editors, production assistants, researchers, bookers, people Jake had worked with for several years, all of whom averted their eyes. The only thing Jake could think of was the dead girl, lying on her bed, and that let him share in their revulsion as his feet slapped the concrete steps on his way down the back stairwell.

  He could tell by the glow of lights from the bank of screens that something was being shot, but it wasn’t until he slipped quietly into the back that he realized that they already had someone in the adjacent studio, auditioning for his job. He stopped before Sam could realize what was going on and in a whisper asked him to wait outside.

  The five top executives for American Outrage, along with several suits from LA, were crowded together, elbow to elbow, all staring up at the program feed at a kid with straight dark hair and icy blue eyes. Even in an Italian suit it was obvious that he was lean and muscular and taller than Jake. Nancy bantered back and forth with him, simpering in a schoolgirl way that made Jake want to puke. To wrap it up, the two of them exchanged smiles, then a little laugh that caught on with the crowd in the control room, who broke out in a collective giggle.

  Joe Katz leaned over and switched on his microphone.

  “Thanks very much, Skye. Nancy, thank you. That was great.”

  The room was abuzz before the lights even came on. When they did, Joe Katz saw Jake by the door and popped out of his seat, ushering him into the hallway.

  “Skye?” Jake said, shaking his arm free. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “What the hell happened to your face?” Katz asked.

  “Where’d you get that guy?” Jake asked. “Some modeling agency?”

  “Hi, Sam,” Katz said with an awkward smile.

  “Can I talk to you in private?” he said to Jake, leading him into a greenroom, a place full of overstuffed furniture where guests were kept before an appearance on the set. There was a bowl of M&M’s on a sideboard and Katz held it out for Jake.

  “I saw those numbers last night,” Jake said, shaking his head at the candy. “Great, now you got Skye. It’s like the daily double.”

  “I thought you were busy with Sam’s thing,” Katz said.

  “Joe, I need to talk to you,” Jake said.

  “Don’t do this, Jake,” Katz said, turning away and replacing the bowl.

  “Remember the guy who escaped from prison with the warden’s wife?” Jake asked. “He wouldn’t talk to anyone, then I showed up. Remember the woman whose husband got tossed off that cruise ship? That schoolgirl up in Alaska who killed her mother? Come on, Joe.”

  “What’s done is done,” Katz said. He pushed his hands up under his glasses to rub his eyes, then let them fall back into place and looked at Jake. “You’ll find something else. Look at you, when you heal up. How about your approval rating with women in our last focus group? I’ll get that thing to your agent.”

  “I’d rather sell cars than sit behind a desk and read the screen,” Jake said. “Come on, Joe. I’m no talking head.”

  “This is beyond me,” Katz said, looking down at his desk. “You burned all your chits, and I’m done burning mine.”

  “What about a freelance job?” Jake said, leaning forward, selling it. “A blockbuster. You don’t pay me unless I deliver. What about the Van Burens? They’re the ones behind all this. You know this is my power alley. I’m not bullshitting. This is huge. You’ll have Diane Sawyer knocking down your door, People and Howard Stern will be crawling up your ass.”

  “Christ.” Katz sat down on the edge of the leather couch.

  Jake could see his mind working and he sat in the adjacent chair, leaning toward the producer.

  “It’d have to be shocking,” Katz said with a faraway look. “I mean something that would gum up the elections. The one brother, Peter, he’s still on the Intelligence Committee, right? I’d need the whole family to dance. Him and the sister who’s married to that movie producer. The mom, too. I’d pay for that.”

  “One hundred thousand for five two-part segments.”

  Katz snorted.

  “You paid that for Al Fayed.”

  “That was Princess Di. The bodyguards. The photos with Dodi when they were kids. You’re nuts.”

  “I’m talking organized crime,” Jake said.

  Katz’s head lolled and he winced. “We’ve seen that.”

  “White slave trade.”

  “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “Selling babies.”

  “Christ,” Katz said, the stunned look of a man hit with a board filling his face. “If it wasn’t you, I’d say bullshit. Are you serious? What are they doing with Albanians?”

  “A hundred thousand?”

  “You get that,” Katz said, his hand fluttering to rest on his knees as he leaned forward, “I’ll pay you a hundred and figure a way to get your contract renewed. Your kid’s okay with this, right? That’s good.”

  “Sam?” Jake said, raising his eyebrows. “He hasn’t got anything to do with this.”

  “He’s the story, Jake,” Katz said, sitting back and dropping his jaw. “Don’t tell me you don’t see that.”

  “My kid’s not a story,” Jake said. “He’s out of this. It’s the Van Burens.”

  Katz laughed. “He is a Van Buren, right? This whole baby thing. This is what you’re doing for Sam. That’s the story. Sam.”

  “I don’t know if Sam’s theirs,” Jake said. “He’s not going to be a part of this. He’s thirteen. Middle school. The age where kids perfect being mean.”

  “Jake, you’re kidding.”

  “You’re kidding. Are you that fucked up?”

  “Why? Because it’s you this time? All I’m talking about is the same thing you get from everybody else. What do I hear you say? It’s just a brief window into their world.”

  “The window’s closed,” Jake said, getting up and heading for the door.

  “Maybe,” Katz said from behind him, “but it’s still glass.�
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  41

  THE BODY WAS ALREADY GONE by the time Niko got over to the clubhouse. The somber expressions worn by the police had infected the club’s typically friendly staff. Niko walked through the dining room, watching the commotion out on the eighteenth green through the curving bank of windows. A technician knelt down beside the large bloodstain to take a sample. Niko slipped out the side door and inside the yellow tape that kept the media at bay, and approached the green.

  He felt a large hand on his shoulder and looked up at the big blond face that seemed familiar.

  “You can’t be in here, sir.”

  “I am a member,” Niko said, peering at the name on the uniform, then looking up. “Ron Osinski?”

  The cop nodded and his grip loosened.

  “Niko Karwalkowszc,” Niko said, touching his own breastbone. “You’re on the other side of the law now. What was it? Shoplifting, I think. Your mother didn’t want you to have a lawyer. ‘Jail,’ she said.”

  The cop’s face went red and he let Niko’s arm drop and said, “Mr. Karwalkowszc. Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a member,” Niko said. “I had a tee time at eleven o’clock with a client. I guess not.”

  “No,” Osinski said. “I’d say this afternoon but with what we got, you never know.”

  “A body on the golf course?” Niko said, wagging his head.

  Osinski looked around. Under his breath he said, “They don’t know if it happened here, but this is where they think the head came off.”

  Niko sucked in a pocket of air. “Any idea who?”

  Osinski shrugged. “They don’t tell us. Not me anyway. It’s the FBI. Someone said something about some Albanians.”

  Niko looked in the direction of Osinski’s nod and saw an enormous black man in a well-made dark suit. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans and he was talking to what looked like a detective in a blue blazer and tan slacks.

  “Get the paper,” Osinski said in a low tone. “A newspaper guy got a picture last night before they taped it off.”

  “I’ll just go back in this way,” Niko said, “so I don’t get you in trouble. My job is to get you out of trouble, right?”