by R. G. Belsky
Damn, it felt good to be a journalist again.
CHAPTER 28
TERRI HARTWELL HELD a press conference the next day that quickly turned into a tidal wave of news.
Hartwell announced that the District Attorney’s Office—in conjunction with housing and other city officials—was taking immediate action against the buildings I’d featured in my broadcast.
They were all being taken over by the city, she said. The illegal operations taking place in them would be shut down. The legitimate tenants would be allowed to stay and their complaints—heat, broken elevators, and all the rest—would be dealt with in a professional and compassionate and expedited manner.
Hartwell also said that swift action would come soon at other buildings around the city with questionable ownership practices. A number of other buildings had already been targeted, several of which turned out to belong to Thomas Wincott. I didn’t figure I’d get invited back to the Wincott house anytime soon.
She also denounced Victor Morelli as a “violent criminal who belongs behind bars.” She said she would use the full power of her office to prosecute him for this and other crimes. She said that she never received any campaign contributions from Morelli. And—if any money had been somehow given to her campaign by him through a third party—it would be immediately returned.
“Wow!” Maggie said as we listened to Terri Hartwell’s comments.
“Wow, indeed,” I echoed.
“You did it, Clare! You broke this whole story wide open!”
Yep, I sure did. In my entire career, I don’t think I’d ever experienced a story of mine creating so much immediate news as I’d done with this.
But there was even more from Hartwell.
“We had been working on this investigation for some time in my office,” Hartwell said. “It has been one of my top priorities for months to put Victor Morelli and other unscrupulous landlords out of business.
“I originally planned to announce these actions at a later date, but we are doing it now in response to Channel 10’s report highlighting these shocking abuses discovered in buildings around the city. Let me take a moment to salute Channel 10 News—and their news director, Clare Carlson, who broke the story—for an outstanding example of responsible journalism. I’m proud of what we’re doing here to right these wrongs, and the people at Channel 10 should be proud, too, for their role in this.”
By the end of the day, the elevator on the Lower East Side had been fixed. The double-parked cars outside the pizza place had been towed away. And the gambling operation and the BDSM sex business had been shut down or moved elsewhere. There was no activity that anyone could see going on at any of these locations anymore.
We covered all this big on Channel 10—first on our website as part of “The News Never Stops,” which made Weddle happy—and then as our lead segment on the evening newscast.
“Thank you, Channel 10 News,” a resident of one of the affected neighborhoods said at the end of the report. “Our city leaders let us down, but Channel 10 came through for us. Thank God we have journalists looking out for us when the politicians aren’t.”
Damn, it didn’t get much better than this.
And then it got even more interesting.
Terri Hartwell called me up personally at one point to thank me for what I’d done—and to explain a bit more about why she had been less than truthful to me that first day when I asked her about the buildings in her office.
“I apologize for misleading you that day,” she said. “Obviously, I knew all about those buildings even though I denied it. I had to at that point. I wasn’t ready to go public yet with what we were doing. We were still trying to accumulate all the necessary evidence we needed to act. But you changed that timetable—speeded it up, I guess is the best way to put it—by breaking that story of yours. I respect that. Please respect me for doing what I had to do, Clare. I hope you understand that. I hate lying.”
“Me, too.”
“See, I knew we’d get along.” She laughed. Okay, I thought to myself, let’s put that to the test. I still had questions about her office and Morelli. Despite everything she’d said at the press conference, that was the one part of all this that didn’t make sense to me. I told Hartwell about the scene I’d secretly witnessed in the garage of a meeting between Morelli, his top lieutenant Grasso, and her man Enright. I asked her to explain that to me.
“You really saw Chad there?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“With Morelli?”
“They seemed very friendly.”
There was a long pause at the other end.
“Are you sure it was Chad?” she asked finally.
“Chad Enright is a pretty unforgettable character. Hard to miss.”
“And Morelli?”
“Same thing. Unforgettable.”
“Maybe they were both accidentally in the garage at the same time.”
“I don’t think that’s too likely. Why would Chad Enright be meeting secretly with Victor Morelli?”
She didn’t answer me.
“What the hell’s going on here, Ms. Hartwell? You make these great-sounding statements at your press conference about going after a vicious mob boss like Morelli with all the resources at your disposal. And at the same time, your top aide is meeting him in an underground garage. Whatever is going on with your office and Morelli is going to come out, sooner or later. So why not make it sooner and tell me everything you know about Morelli and Enright and all the rest?”
“There are things happening that I can’t share with you yet,” she said.
“I thought you said you were going to stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying about this.”
“No, but you’re not telling me all of the truth either.”
Hartwell sighed on the line.
“Look, how about you and I get together sometime soon,” she said. “We’ll grab a few drinks, maybe dinner—we’ll do it off the record. Just the two of us having a candid conversation. We can talk about all this stuff then.”
“Including the relationship between Chad Enright and Victor Morelli?”
“Everything.”
CHAPTER 29
ONE OF THE newsroom traditions I’d brought over with me to the TV news business was the Page One bar celebration. Whenever a reporter scored a big front-page scoop, the staff took him or her out to celebrate with drinks that night.
We didn’t have a front page at Channel 10. But breaking a big story on air like I did was the equivalent. So, after the Terri Hartwell announcement and all the accolades started pouring in for the story we did, everyone took me to a place called Headliners that was not far from the station.
It used to be a legendary newspaper hangout, but these days—with newspapers dying out and staffs at them being drastically cut back—it was more of a journalism bar. Filled with people from TV news, magazines, websites, and all sorts of other media. So it was still a good place to celebrate a big scoop. Tradition, history, colorful surroundings. And they served liquor, so there was that, too.
Everyone was there when I got to the place. Faron, Maggie, Brett and Dani, Cassie O’Neal, Janelle Wright, Wendy Jeffers, Steve Stratton, and most of the other reporters and editors on staff. Even Brendan Kaiser, the station owner, showed up. And, even more importantly to me at the moment, Gary Weddle was there, too. I was the big star. The center of attention. That’s happened to me a few times in the past during my journalistic career, but do you want to know something? I still love it!
There was a big bar surrounded by pictures of famous reporters over the years who had scored big scoops and won awards. One of the pictures on the wall was of me. Not the today me, the me from nearly twenty years ago when I won a Pulitzer Prize for my coverage of the big Lucy Devlin disappearance story. I looked at myself now in that long-ago photo. I looked so young and so pretty and so … well, happy. No idea that the Lucy Devlin story was a long way from being over.
Next to the b
ar was a buffet table with chicken, cold cuts, and a bunch of seafood appetizers—shrimp, oysters, salmon.
As I surveyed the offerings, Jack Faron was one of the first people to come over to congratulate me on our big success.
“Jeez, I can’t ever remember a story coming together as fast as this one did,” he told me. “Everything fell into place perfectly. And the public praise from the DA—well, that was icing on the cake.”
I hadn’t told him about my phone conversation afterward with Terri Hartwell. Because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I wanted to hear Hartwell out, listen to whatever she planned to tell me later about everything. I still had a lot of questions about the relationship between Enright and Morelli. Something was going on there. The biggest question was whether or not Hartwell was involved, too. I sure hoped not. I kinda liked her.
“Carlson’s the name, scoops are my game,” I said brightly to Faron.
I took a big swig of the drink I’d gotten from the bar.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked.
“I’m just starting.”
“I was afraid of that.”
I started to sample the food. I couldn’t decide between the shrimp, the boiled ham, and the chicken wings, so I filled a plate with all of them. Moderation is not one of my specialties. While I was doing this, Cassie O’Neal came over and started looking over the seafood selections, too.
“They say fish food is good for the brain,” I whispered to Faron.
He looked at me questioningly.
“If I was Cassie, I’d eat a very large amount,” I said.
Cassie is an enigma to me at Channel 10. She looks great, she’s one of the most popular on-air reporters we have with the viewers, but she’s also, well … dumb as a plank. I’d recently had a go-round with her when I assigned her to cover a hearing on First Amendment rights for the media. She asked me if that was the amendment that you took when you didn’t want to testify in court. I said no, it was the one that repealed prohibition. She laughed, but I still don’t think she quite comprehended the whole free press concept. The worst part was she made a lot of money. Even more than me. That’s because rival stations had tried to hire her away from us several times; each time, Faron made me give her big money to stay at Channel 10. It was a source of constant frustration with me about the state of journalism in the world today.
“Are you going to start up again with all your jokes about Cassie being stupid?” Faron asked.
“Let’s face it, her elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.”
“Jeez, Clare …”
“She’s a few beers away from a six-pack.”
“My God, you never stop, do you?” Faron said, shaking his head.
“All I’m saying is if she ever grew another brain, it would die of loneliness.”
At some point, Faron asked me about the serial killer stuff again.
“I don’t know, Jack, I don’t have anything substantial. To be honest, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to do anything to back that up. Or come up with any answers on that Becky Bluso killing in Indiana after thirty years. The trail is long cold. There are better stories—easier stories to get—for us to go after now. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Does that mean you’re going back to being my news director again?”
“Bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Now you’re talking sense, Clare.”
There was a lot more praise and adoration for me before the evening was over. A few people like Faron and Maggie and Brett and Dani stood up to toast me and the story I’d broken wide open. The best toast came though from Brendan Kaiser, the media baron who owned Channel 10 and a jillion other media properties. He called me “the embodiment of the best of journalism, TV or newspapers. We’re just so glad to have Clare Carlson with us here at Channel 10.”
“Do I get a raise?” I yelled out.
I’d had a few more drinks by that point.
“You’re the hotshot investigative reporter, you figure it out,” someone shouted back.
All in all, it was a great night. Weddle and I kept a respectful distance away from each other for most of the party. But, when things were close to wrapping up, I found myself sitting next to him. Lots of people had been hugging and kissing me during the night. I wondered if maybe I should do that with Weddle now. Probably too soon. Maybe after a few more drinks.
“You’re really something, Clare,” he said, looking around the place at all the people who’d turned out for my big night.
“You mean as a journalist?”
“I mean in a lot of ways.”
Weddle was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a checkered sports jacket. He almost looked cool. Well, the sports jacket didn’t quite match the T-shirt, and the jeans were a bit too baggy. But I was never a stickler for detail in this kind of situation. His face was very near to me now. I took it all in. His blue eyes. A cute dimple on his cheek.
“How much time is left on this consulting contract between you and the station?” I asked.
“Two months, two weeks, and three days to go.”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” I told him.
Then I kissed Weddle quickly—without anyone seeing us—and moved away to mingle before either of us had a chance to succumb to temptation.
When I looked around a little later, he had left.
I went home, too, a bit after that.
Alone.
I walked into my empty apartment, took off my clothes, grabbed a box of Chocolate Mallomars out of the refrigerator—my favorite guilty indulgence after I’ve been drinking a lot—plopped down on the bed, and watched a forgettable movie on TV until I drifted off to sleep.
Virtue thy name is Clare Carlson.
CHAPTER 30
THERE WAS A ringing sound coming from somewhere.
I shook my head from side to side, hoping the ringing would go away. But it didn’t. It kept getting worse and more insistent. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it. That didn’t work either. Damned sound just wouldn’t go away.
I opened my eyes again and suddenly the events of the night before—most notably how much I’d had to drink—began to come back to me.
The ringing sound was still there. Ring, ring, go away. Come again some other day. I reached over to swat my hand at it and found my phone. I picked up the phone, dropped it on the floor, and finally got it up to my ear. The ringing stopped.
“Hmmm,” I said.
“Clare, is that you?”
I recognized the voice. It was Rob Kinsey. The overnight guy who answers phones for us in the Channel 10 newsroom until everyone else gets to work. I looked over at the clock next to my bed. 6:15 a.m.
“No, Clare Carlson died several hours ago. Let her rest in peace.”
“You sound bad.”
“I feel worse.”
“What happened?”
“I may have partied a bit too hard last night. What’s up?”
“Terri Hartwell’s office is looking for you.”
“I talked to Terri Hartwell yesterday. She thanked me for everything we did on the story. What does she want now?”
“Maybe she wants to thank you again.”
“What did she say?”
“It wasn’t her who called. It was someone from her office.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Chad Enright.”
“Chad Enright called to talk to me?”
“Yes. He wasn’t too nice about it either.”
“He never is.”
What the hell was Chad Enright calling me about at 6:15 a.m.? Did he know about me spotting him and Morelli and Grasso in that parking garage? Maybe Hartwell had told him after our conversation yesterday. But why call me now about it?
“You got Enright’s number?” I asked.
Kinsey read it to me. It was a cell phone number.
“Okay, I’ll call him when I get to the office.”
I figured I might be able to go back t
o bed and get another hour of sleep.
“Enright wants you to call him right now.”
“It can’t wait until the sun comes up?”
“He said it was urgent.”
I hung up with Kinsey, pulled myself up into a sitting position, and punched in the number Enright had left. He answered on the first ring.
“I have to talk to you, Ms. Carlson. There’s a lot of things going on here. You think you know the story, but you only know part of it. I want everyone to hear the real story before it’s too late. I’m prepared to tell you everything. About me. About Morelli. And about Terri Hartwell.”
“Okay, tell me.”
“Not on the phone. It has to be in person. This is too important to talk about on the phone. Meet me. Meet me right now. It will be a blockbuster story for you. And I’m going to lay it all out for you exclusively.”
Jeez, who did this guy think he was? Deep Throat? On the other hand, if anyone knew what secrets Hartwell was hiding—assuming she was hiding secrets—it would be Chad Enright, her top aide. Enright wasn’t my idea of the perfect source. But you don’t always get to pick and choose your sources in the journalism business. And I’ve had even less desirable sources than Chad Enright in the past. I think.
“Where?”
“Meet me downtown at our building. In an hour. Less if you can make it.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
I drank some coffee—well, a lot of coffee—took a shower, and got dressed as fast as I could. I called Kinsey back and told him I was going to meet with Enright so I might be late getting into the office. I left voicemail messages for both Faron and Maggie with more specifics about my conversation with Enright and the meeting I was headed to. “Should be interesting,” I told them both.
Then I took a subway downtown to the district attorney’s offices. The subway stop was a few blocks’ walk from the building on Foley Square. As I got nearer, I saw Enright standing on the sidewalk in front.
This guy sure was eager to see me.
“Okay, let’s go upstairs to your office and talk,” I said as I approached him.
