“I guess you’re right. And, man, Miranda sure does sound spooked,” Sheila added, rereading the warning at the bottom of the document. “‘Trust no one.’”
“I can’t believe she’d suspect Jason,” Cassie said, “unless she had a really good reason. They were married. Had a child. You don’t go around digging up dirt on your husband unless you’re pretty convinced there’s something buried underneath.”
“Sounds to me like you’re trying to convince yourself of that,” Sheila said, turning to look at Cassie.
“Maybe. I… we… Jason and I…”
“I kind of guessed,” Sheila said, cutting off her embarrassed explanation. “How serious was it?”
“For me, very,” Cassie said, walking over to the window. Though nearly eight-thirty, it was still dusk: a liquid sunset flooded the windows opposite with a burnt orange wash. “From the moment I first saw him… I knew.”
“And with him?”
“He claims to feel the same way,” Cassie replied unhappily. “And initially I believed him. I wanted to, rather desperately, despite the fact that he’d been married to my incredibly beautiful and glamorous sister for eight years. I still wanted to believe him, and did, ignoring the odds. And then, damn it, I came on this”—Cassie gestured at the screen—“and realized how important it would be for him to make me think he loved me.”
“You mean, it would keep you from telling anyone if you suspected he’d somehow arranged Miranda’s death?”
“Yes.”
“And this was all it took for you to suspect him?” Sheila demanded. “Miranda’s notes? Nothing more? Suddenly—boom—a great love dies?”
“No, you’re right. I sensed from the beginning that he was hiding something. His moods can change so quickly. And when I stayed with them for a weekend a few weeks before Miranda died, they fought terribly. There was this passion—this electricity. There was so much between them—I don’t know if it was love or hate—but it terrified and attracted me at the same time. I wanted it. I wanted him.”
“It’s ironic,” Sheila said. “That’s exactly how I felt about Magnus and her. He was so obsessed by her, so totally enthralled. I thought, if only he’d wake up and see that she didn’t love him, wouldn’t take care of him the way I could. She was just using him, dazzling him.”
“I accused you once of being so jealous of her you couldn’t see straight,” Cassie said, crossing the room and leaning against the desk beside Sheila. “The truth of it is, so was I. From the time I was a little girl, I envied her. Tried to emulate her. Wanted everything she had. I’ve spent my life trying to be her. And now she’s gone, leaving me everything I wanted. Even her husband.”
“Except you can’t enjoy any of it, right?”
“Enjoy?” Cassie said bitterly. “Ever since I found this disk, I feel I’ve been living a lie. Miranda begged me to move to New York the weekend I visited here. She hinted that something was wrong, but I chose not to hear. I really believe that if I’d stayed, if I’d helped her, she wouldn’t have died. I feel utterly guilty.”
“And you’re going to absolve that by finding out what happened to her… and why?”
“Exactly. It’s my fight. It’s a personal one. You’re free to step out of it now that you know what’s at stake. In fact, I really wish you would.”
“Forget it with your noble sentiments. I’ve got a few of my own, you know, though none are particularly elevated. Vance, for instance. I knew he was far from perfect, but this?” Sheila tapped the keyboard a few times. “This is downright illegal. Scummy. It would do me a hell of a lot of good to discover he was a slime. An instant cure for heartache. And, like I said before, this could be one sensational story, though I somehow doubt Vance would want it on Breaking News.”
“You’re taking this very lightly, Sheila. It could be dangerous.”
“Correction. It is fucking dynamite. Wrong person finds out we know what we know? Boom, we’re dead.”
“You take my point,” Cassie said with a faint smile. But the feeling of isolation and despair that had surrounded her like a fog the last few weeks had lifted slightly. She put her hand on Sheila’s shoulder. “Thanks for helping me. It means a lot.”
“Hey, I’m not doing this for you, okay?” Sheila replied with an embarrassed shrug. “This thing could land me a job on 60 Minutes if I play it right.”
“Aunt Cassie! Daddy!” Heather shrieked from the other side of the sea lions’ pool in the Central Park Zoo, “Mindy and I are going into the penguin house!”
“Okay,” Jason called back. “We’ll see you back out here.” Then, lowering his voice, he said to Cassie, “Unless, of course, you want to go in…”
The enervating mid-August sun dazzled the surface of the large pool in front of Cassie, worsening the headache she’d had all morning. It was a Saturday. Jason had been back a week.
“No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ve spent enough time with Heather and her buddies and those damn penguins over the past few months to last several lifetimes.”
The zoo, just a few streets down and across the avenue from the town house, had become one of Heather’s favorite places to take her new friends. Along with Mindy, Heather’s constant companions included Laurel, Marisa Newtown’s daughter, and two other giggling, enormously energetic eight-year-olds from Heather’s Dalton class. Though Cassie could trace the advent of Heather’s social life from the afternoon of the birthday party, she also realized that it was the change in Heather herself that kept her popular. The poutiness, the selfishness, had evaporated with the first few friendly phone calls from classmates.
“You’ve been great with her, Cassie,” Jason said. She knew he was watching her, though his eyes were hidden by dark glasses. Every time they were together, she felt his gaze on her: weighing and analyzing her moods. Jason surely had to wonder about how quickly her feelings could swing—from cool and distant, to needful and yearning. Because, try as she might to erect a wall of reserve between them, the thin emotional structure gave way the moment he touched her. She sensed that he didn’t entirely believe her story of wanting to concentrate on her career, that he knew something deeper and far more complex had come between them, but that he didn’t want to pry into the problem. He seemed willing to let things drift, content just to have her near, even though he had to sense that she was withholding a large part of herself from him. Surely he realized she no longer trusted him, Cassie told herself, but did he know why?
“She’s growing up, that’s all,” Cassie replied, starting to walk toward the trellised colonnade on the far side of the pool. As always, being too close to Jason made her anxious and confused. His physical presence intoxicated her. When he was within touching distance… she longed to reach out. Instead, as often as possible these days, she forced herself to move away. He followed her across the park, his hands in the back pockets of his worn blue jeans, the sleeves of his faded denim work shirt rolled up to his elbows. Cassie often felt other women turning to look at him, and her heart contracted with jealousy.
“Yes, she is,” Jason said, leaning on the rail next to where Cassie had stopped to watch an extended family of monkeys roam over their rocky island home. Swans drifted in pairs around the little pond that separated the island from the walkway where Jason and Cassie stood. “Much too fast, as a matter of fact. I feel as though I’ve missed most of her childhood.”
“Because you were traveling?” Cassie asked, shielding her eyes with her right hand as she looked at him. She shouldn’t have. His lips turned down in the smile she knew so well. He must have sensed her reaction; he took off his sunglasses.
“That and because I wasn’t paying enough attention,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “The way I obviously wasn’t paying attention to what matters to you. I can see now that I forced my own values on you, my own experience. Work doesn’t matter much to me anymore. It’s odd, but especially this past trip, I found my thoughts constantly wandering… back to you.
I’ve canceled my next business trip. I’m sending one of my associates to complete the Bangkok negotiations. I want… I want us to work things out.”
She looked away from him, across the man-made pond, into the dense green backdrop of distant trees. It was the worst possible news; each day—torn by her desire for him and her growing suspicions about Miranda’s death—she’d been waiting for him to tell her he was leaving again.
“It will be good for Heather to have you back.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear you say.”
“It’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s simply not true, Cassie. I know you better than that. I know us better, damn it. Listen. Look at me…”
“Please don’t… force me to say—”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he said to cut her off. “But I just don’t think I can go on like this. I’m ready to do whatever you want to bring us together. Cassie, I’m in this private little hell—you must know what you’re doing to me.”
“Jason, I thought I made it clear before that I’m not ready to get… too close.”
“What were we before, Cassie? Don’t tell me our time together didn’t mean anything to you. Our weekend in the country? What was that? Casual friendship?”
“We moved too fast,” Cassie retorted. “I told you at the time I was getting in over my head.”
“That’s what it’s all about—losing perspective, getting lost in someone else’s life, letting go.”
“I’m just finding myself,” she said, turning to him, but unable to meet his gaze. She directed her words to the man-made mountain where a family of monkeys laughed and played in the sun. “I’m just getting my sea legs in a very rough business. I’m in the middle of my first big assignment. That’s what I’m thinking about. That’s my priority.”
“Why is it that I don’t believe you?” he asked, his gaze taking her in. “I believe you when you kiss me, Cassie. I believe you when I hold you in my arms.” His tone had softened; his voice felt like a caress.
She longed to feel his mouth on hers. She inhaled deeply; it took a monumental effort for her to say: “Perhaps it would be better if I moved out.”
“No, don’t.” Jason turned away, leaning his back against the railing. He ran his hands over his face, massaged his temple, and put the sunglasses back on. “Did you know I was going to ask you to marry me this afternoon? I have a ring in the back pocket of my jeans. I knew it was probably too soon. I kept telling myself you weren’t ready. Christ, you don’t have to say it, Cassie. In your own way, I know you’ve been trying to warn me off. I’m not a total fool.”
“I’m sorry, Jason.” She was grateful that he didn’t see her expression.
He was silent for a long time, staring out across the hot sea of children, balloons, gardens, and fountains. Cassie studied his profile—the high forehead and overgrown brow, the slightly too long but somehow elegant nose, the wide, mobile mouth—and let herself briefly feel how much she was losing. No, don’t think about it, she told herself quickly. Remember Miranda. Consider what Miranda lost.
“I was thinking before,” he said at last, “of asking you to take some time off and spend the last two weeks of summer up in the country with Heather and me. I realize that’s impossible now. But I think Heather and I should go.”
“It will do her good to get out of the city.”
“It’ll do us all good, I suspect,” he replied, glancing at her with his down-turning smile. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t put you through this again. I’ve spent my life being aggressive, going out and grabbing what I want. I can’t pretend I don’t want you, Cassie. But I am prepared to wait. I’ve never been a very patient man, but I’m willing to learn. I’m not returning the ring. I want you to know that. It will be here with me. Because in my heart I know, even if you don’t, that we belong together.”
“Daddy!” Heather cried, running through the crowd toward them. “We’ve been looking all over for you!”
“It’s just a matter of time,” he added quietly.
No, Cassie told herself, it’s a matter of life… and death.
Twenty-six
Senator Anthony Haas’s “little party” turned out to be a posh by-invitation-only fund-raiser, and as soon as Cassie and Sheila saw the limousines double-parked along the Senator’s tree-lined Brooklyn street, they realized that they should have insisted the production unit be allowed to accompany them.
“Damn, that son of a bitch Mellon,” Sheila muttered as Cassie paid off their cabdriver. “He knew we’d be pissed when we saw how big this thing is. Look over there—that’s the Channel 5 news van. I’m going to strangle the man.”
“Forget it,” Cassie replied. “It will give us a chance to concentrate on Haas. How he lives. What his tastes are.”
“Where his personal financial files are stored,” Sheila added, climbing out of the cab.
“Now, don’t concentrate too hard,” Cassie said.
“You mean, don’t get caught at it,” Sheila replied. “Listen, if I happen to run smack into a list of his 1974 campaign contributors, is that my fault? Oh, don’t worry,” Sheila added when she saw Cassie’s expression. “I’m not about to do anything foolish.”
“I wish I didn’t know you so well. I might be able to believe you.”
Even from the sidewalk, it was clear that this was an expensive, fully catered affair. A bright green-and-white-striped awning led across the lawn and up to the front lacquered green door of the Senator’s brownstone. Valets in white tuxes waited at the sidewalk to open car doors, help people out, and escort the older guests up the steps. Urns, filled with freshly potted geraniums, and ivy flanked the front path, and pinpoint white lights, wrapped around the sycamore trees, gave the carefully groomed front yard the otherworldly look of a fairy garden.
Inside, the high-ceilinged rooms had been likewise transformed for the party with elaborate flower arrangements and more strands of tiny white lights. The front hall led straight through the brownstone to the backyard where a Dixieland jazz band was playing. Though the front rooms of the house were crowded, the noise level emanating from the back indicated that the real party was taking place out there.
“The Mayor’s here,” Sheila whispered to Cassie as they made their way toward the music. “And his wife. She never puts in an appearance at night if she can help it. Haas must have a lot of pull down at City Hall.”
“Isn’t that the publisher of the News?” Cassie asked, nudging Sheila and nodding toward a group of well-dressed men in the far corner of the dining room.
“Yeah, and, oh, God,” Sheila said with a sigh, “there’s Magnus.”
“Come on.” Cassie pulled Sheila’s arm. “We’re supposed to be mingling, remember? Him you can see anytime.”
“You don’t fool me, Cassie,” Sheila replied as they continued down the hall and out into the noisy backyard, “I know him well enough to sense when he’s hot for someone.”
“And?” Cassie already knew, but didn’t want to hear, what Sheila was going to say.
“‘Baby, it’s you.’” Sheila sang the old doo-wop song under her breath.
“I’ve done nothing to encourage…”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not laying this on you,” Sheila said, lifting a glass of white wine from a waiter passing with a silver-plated tray. Together the two women moved into the milling crowd. Cassie had borrowed an off-the-shoulder, above-the-knee Mizrahi sheath from Miranda’s wardrobe for the black-tie occasion. The fabric—woven with tiny beads and strands of gold—shimmered as she moved. “It’s not your fault you look so much like Miranda. You even sound a bit like her. And now, in his eyes anyway, you’re stepping into her shoes at the network.”
“That’s absurd. I’m doing a single temporary host slot, hardly anchoring the show.”
“The word is you’re it,” Sheila told her, sipping the wine and watching the couples dancing on the grass in front
of the band. Sheila, for whom formal attire meant black, was wearing a jet-colored cocktail dress with a pouffed skirt that dated the purchase at least three years, high spiked heels, and long dangly ebony earrings. Though the two women couldn’t look less alike, they had one thing in common: every male head turned to watch them pass.
“Did you see Susan Dearborn’s segment last week?” Sheila went on. “She was so stiff, boring. But you—you’re a fresh new face. Even Mac thinks so. He told me yesterday,” she insisted when she caught Cassie’s disbelieving look. “Why be so shocked? You’re gorgeous enough. You’ve got the presence … the right ‘look.’ And the emotional currency for the viewers—I mean your being Miranda’s sister—is pay dirt for the network. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve twice the investigative stuff Miranda ever had. Barring some terrible mistake or other, I’d guess the seat is yours.”
“Why are you telling me all this … suddenly?”
“Because some people would view our little hidden agenda … as just such a terrible mistake.”
“Do you?”
“In terms of your career?” Sheila asked, glancing at Cassie. “If Magnus found out? Or Haas? I mean, forget Miranda’s file for the time being and whether or not either one of them is guilty. They find out what we’re up to … you can kiss Magnus Media good-bye.”
“You’re getting cold feet,” Cassie concluded.
“Hell I am,” Sheila shot back. Then, looking around, she lowered her voice. “What have I got to lose? I’m just trying to point out to you what you’re risking by going ahead. No one’s telling me I get to host Breaking News if I keep my nose clean. I’ve never kidded myself. I’m nobody’s golden girl.”
“I’m not either,” Cassie told her, “if it means whitewashing Miranda’s death. I thought I made that clear to you.”
Sheila looked at her a long moment over her wineglass, her dark eyes dancing with the tiny, reflecting lights. Then she held up the glass in a toast and said, “You’ve got a hell of a lot more guts than she had, too. Okay. So, let’s get mingling.”
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