Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

I had the file full of e-mails that Robbie had given me. Across the tab at the top was scribbled
Wackos
. I was looking through the pages as Freddie drove us back into Midtown from the Bronx. We were driving west across Forty-ninth Street, and he was listening to a slow gospel tune.

“Here’s one from a group called Citizens for Change,” I said.

“I like it. Broad enough where it can mean anything,” he said.

“They took exception to a show Jack did on immigration and securing the border with Mexico.”

“They for it or against it?”

“Hard to say. President is some guy named Horton L. Sundstrom, and it sounds like he just doesn’t like Jack.”

“You try going through life being called Horton. See how happy you are,” Freddie said.

I read the email out loud. “Once again, you have shown your ignorance and complete lack of ability to grasp the facts of a story.”

“Ow,” Freddie said. “Sure that wasn’t supposed to be sent to you?”

I shook my head and looked at him. “I can easily replace you, but I won’t,” I said. “I know that’s what you want. But I want you to work through this hostility issue you have.”

“Damn,” he said.

A few minutes later we pulled up outside Liberty on Sixth Avenue and parked in one of the handful of open spots. I went up to the newsroom and looked for Marty. I found him in Jack’s office, sitting behind the desk. He had a stack of manila folders on his lap and was flipping through them.

“Nothing I enjoy more than stopping into work on a Saturday,” he said, as I walked in.

“I’ll buy you a drink. You name the place.”

“Malloy’s,” he said.

It was the bar downstairs on Forty-ninth Street.

“No reason to try anyplace new,” I said.

“I’m a man of simple tastes,” he said.

I took a seat in one of the chairs facing the desk, and he looked up.

“See, here’s the little problem with your request,” he said. “You wanted to see what stories we were working on.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a rather broad request,” he said. “As a TV show that’s kind of all we did, work on stories.”

“There is a certain grain-of-sand-on-the-beach feel to this,” I said.

“And this would all be related to the Widow Steele’s investigation?”

“It would be.”

Glover looked at me and seemed to be trying to find the right way to say something. “People are talking, Sam.”

“They’re always talking, Marty.”

“Are you …”

He let the thought sit there, too uncomfortable to ask about the gossip.

“Am I what?” I asked.

“You know.”

“No, Marty. I’m not sleeping with Robbie Steele, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is,” he said.

“It’s insulting, Marty. The woman just lost her husband.”

“Which makes her vulnerable,” he said.

“And by the way, I happen to be seeing someone myself.”

“Like that stops people,” he said.

I nodded toward the folders on his lap. “Let’s talk stories.”

“Sure.”

He put the top folder on Jack’s desk. “These are the stories we ran in the last few weeks.” He held the second folder up and put it on top of that. “These are ones we were chasing for upcoming shows,” he said. He put a third folder on top of the others. “And these were some of the letters and e-mails we received in response to recent stories.”

“Who’s Stuart Ripley?” I asked.

“A very big pain in the ass,” he said.

“His name came up when I spoke to Jerry Drake about Operation Outrage.”

He tried to stifle a laugh but was unsuccessful. “Jerry Drake,” he said. “What a waste that was.”

“Ripley was pretty aggressive with Jack when you went after IT&E,” I said.

“That’s what these corporate flacks do, Sam. They’re bitter little weenies and they get all bent out of shape every time someone mentions their company. That’s their job,” he said.

“Why’d Jack stop going after IT&E?”

“Wasn’t much there,” he said. “He told me to just monitor the Web sites and blogs and all those fringe guys who were talking about their equipment and stuff, but we never saw anything really new or newsworthy.”

“Drake says you and Marshall killed all his ideas,” I said.

“Drake’s an idiot, Sam. He got paid a lot of money and made things worse,” he said.

“IT&E seemed like a good story. Company’s equipment shows up in Iran and Syria. An American icon doing business with questionable governments, maybe even terrorists,” I said.

“Was never really that cut and dried, Sam. Some of their equipment found its way into Iran and possibly Syria, but it wasn’t like they outright sold it to those dirt bags,” he said.

“So that marked the end of Operation Outrage?” I asked.

“The end? Hell, it never really started,” he said.

“Drake made it sound like it was going to save the show,” I said.

“Consultants always do.”

I got up and took the three folders and thanked him for coming in on a Saturday.

“I’ll collect on my drink next week,” he said.

“I find something in here, maybe you get two.”

“By the way, I saw your agent Kenny a few nights ago. At the Overseas Press Club Awards,” he said.

“Must have been there with some of his younger, attractive clients,” I said.

“Said he hadn’t seen you on air much since the big story,” he said.

“You tell him I’ve been busy?”

“He already knew. Said he’s been hearing from people that you’re running around chasing some conspiracy theory,” he said.

“At least they’re talking about me.”

“I’m serious, Sam,” he said. “I don’t think you want to get in too deep with this. It’s getting kind of nutty. People are starting to say things that can really hurt a career.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re too good a reporter to have your career end because of something like this.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Mr. Ripley is quite the e-mailer,” Liz said.

“Believe it or not.”

“You might have a career in entertainment if this news thing doesn’t pan out,” she said.

“The way this is going, I may need options.”

It was Sunday afternoon. The kind that’s supposed to be lazy and relaxing. Unless you were poring over email exchanges between Jack and Stuart Ripley. And that’s what Liz and I were doing, holed up in my apartment looking for clues in old emails.

Liz studied one of Ripley’s emails. “This guy seems pretty intense.”

“He’s a corporate guard dog.”

“He sounds bitter, kind of nasty.”

“Probably is,” I said. “He seems like one of those guys determined to respond to any and every mention of IT&E.”

“Here’s one from him titled, ‘Your Show Last Night,’” she said.

“Date?”

“July 13,” she said.

“July eleventh was the first day Jack went after IT&E. And the e-mails I got from Drake have Ripley’s response to that report,” I said.

“So this is two days later,” she said.

“Jack did a follow-up story the night before. Probably in response to that,” I said.

“It has a lot of official language and corporate speak,” Liz said, as she scanned the e-mail. “Oh, here’s a keeper. ‘Your report contains egregious inaccuracies that are blatantly false,’” she read.

“Wow. I got a headache just trying to keep up with that line.”

“Whatever happened to ‘you’re wrong’?” Liz asked.

“Too easy. You’ll never become a flack if you’re going to keep it simple,” I said.

Liz looked through the rest of the e-mails from Ripley while I flipped through the stack of threats Steele had received from various nut jobs and fringe groups. The man got under the skin of dozens of groups, and people. But that was what had made
Steele Yourself
a success.

I picked up a handful of miscellaneous e-mails. They were ones not from Ripley but still related to Operation Outrage. There was one to Steele titled simply “IT&E.” The email address on it read: [email protected].

It contained just a single sentence.

Last-minute change … something came up … but more on IT&E where that came from.

That was it. No name, and no indication of who sent it. It was dated July 12, the day after Jack’s first report mentioning IT&E.

“Maybe we file this one under cryptic,” I said, handing it to Liz.

I grabbed my iPad off the coffee table and shot an email to the address, asking if I could speak to someone about IT&E.

“What’s
CCI
stand for?” Liz asked, looking at it. “And what is this ‘last-minute change’ all about?”

“This might be where you become a reporter,” I said.

“Talk about a career setback. Investment banker to reporter.”

“But think about the interesting people you’ll meet,” I said.

Liz took her laptop off the table and searched for
CCI
; a minute later the email I just sent came back to me.

“Undeliverable,” I said. “E-mail address not found.”

“Too bad for you,” she said. “Looks like I made more progress on my first day as a reporter.”

“I knew you’d take to the field. You’re a natural.”

“And to think, no training,” she said.

“Whattya got, kid?” I asked.

“I like it. The crusty old city editor,” she said. “A gruff-but-with-a-heart-of-gold type, who mentors me.”

“And maybe you and me get together after work,” I said.

“Yes, to work on grammar and usage.”

I looked over Liz’s shoulder as she read from the laptop.

“There doesn’t seem to be any homepage or anything, but this
CCI
is mentioned in a number of places.”

She double-clicked on one entry from the
Los Angeles Times
and read from it: “The initial report on IT&E’s dealings in the Middle East appeared in
Corporate Corruption Investigations
, a quarterly newsletter devoted to chronicling abuses of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act.”

We scanned some of the other entries, almost all of which referred to the IT&E story from a month and a half ago.

“Aha,” Liz said, after a few seconds. “Here’s one from some sort of business directory with a phone number for our mysterious friends at
CCI
.”

I looked at the entry. It was an 800 number.

“I think this is what they call a lead in the reporting business,” she said.

“I think it is. Nice work, kid.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“So tell me again why you’re doing this?”

The question came from my agent Kenny Slattery, of the esteemed talent representation firm Slattery & Stone. It was Monday morning, and my agent was telling me people thought I was nuts.

I was sitting in a cheap office chair in front of Kenny’s desk. The desk was a mess of newspapers, folders, piles of papers, and Styrofoam cups. If RCM Management reeked of money and prestige, Slattery & Stone reeked of, well, stale coffee and inattention to detail.

“Why am I doing what?” I asked.

“Acting like a nut. Chasing around town pissing people off.”

“It’s my only skill set, Kenny,” I said. “What am I going to do, go someplace and become a marketing executive or something?”

Slattery sighed and leaned forward over his desk. He was younger than me, early forties, with slicked-back black hair. I could never tell if the hair was naturally oily, or if he added some sort of gel or grease to it. Either way, it was slick.

He was dressed business casual in a dark suit, light blue shirt, no tie.

He locked his long fingers together and placed his index fingers to his lips while he stared at me. I believe he was attempting to give the impression he was in deep thought, or maybe just thought. Either way, it wasn’t working. Kenny lacked the gravitas to look serious.

“I’m not going to stay if you’re going to fall asleep,” I said.

“I’m thinking,” he said.

“Same thing.”

“Look, Sam, I have a responsibility here as your agent.”

“Funny how you didn’t seem to have a responsibility when I was bugging you to get me a new contract from Cal. Then you were busy with the twentysomething gals you seem to specialize in these days,” I said.

“They need help and guidance just like my veteran clients, Sam.”

“I didn’t come over here for career advice,” I said.

“Excuse me for caring.”

“Give me a break, Kenny.”

“No, Sam, I’m being straight with you. I got people calling up asking about your behavior. I get reports of you going around questioning people on all sorts of bizarre things. Hell, I feel like maybe I should hold an intervention or something.”

“Only if you invite a few of your young clients. We can make it a party.”

“Joke if you want to, but you’re in danger of getting labeled.”

“As?”

“As the nutty conspiracy theory guy who’s sleeping with Steele’s widow.”

“That’s wrong on all accounts.”

“That’s what people are saying,” he said.

“The people are wrong.”

He sat back and shook his head like he was actually concerned. “Case in point. I get a call from someone Friday asking if I still represent you.”

“Funny, I’ve asked myself the same question.”

“I’ll ignore that.”

“Too late.”

“I say, ‘Sure. Sam is still with me.’ It was Emily Wells, you know her?”

I shook my head.

“Works with NBC on talent,” he said. “Says they’d like to consider you for a full-time spot, but it’s just that, you know … there’s talk you’re running around questioning people about Jack Steele’s death. Some kind of special project that no one can seem to explain.”

“That’s because it’s top secret.”

“Word is Robbie Steele thinks someone killed Jack, and you’re going to find out who did it.”

“Crazy, huh?”

“Everyone knows she’s nuts; the question is, are you even nuttier?”

“Not if she’s right,” I said.

Kenny sighed a deep sigh just to let me know he was disturbed.

“Are you deflating?” I asked.

He shook his head like he pitied me. “I even have people telling me you pissed off Ron Marshall. I mean, it’s like you’re
trying
to end your career.”

“I appreciate your caring, Kenny. I don’t know if it’s worth the ten percent I pay you, but I appreciate it.”

“Sam, I’m serious. This is your career we’re talking about,” he said.

“Which was officially dead until I got this story.”

I had been with Slattery for fifteen years. He had done well for me with some contracts, not so well with others. I had thought about dumping him but had stayed. It was inertia or loyalty. Maybe both.

“This worries me,” he said.

“Stop with the, you’re-screwing-up-your-life talk,” I said. “Robbie Steele called me and asked me to look into something. Daniels gave me the green light to pursue it.”

“That doesn’t mean you just go out and—”

“Both of those developments happened without your involvement,” I said.

“Cheap shot.”

“Regardless of the unfortunate and horrible event that brought them about, both developments have at least pumped a little life into my career.”

The door behind me opened and I heard a women’s voice. “Kenneth, don’t forget, you have an eleven a.m., red.”

I turned around to see Cheryl, his office manager. She was late twenties, short brown hair and an hourglass figure packed into a low-cut top and jeans. As much as the woman at Marshall’s place said serious professional, Cheryl said party girl who had a job so she had somewhere to go during the day.

I looked at Slattery. “Kenneth? An eleven o’clock. Red?”

Cheryl stepped in and held up a sheet of paper with a grid filled with red and orange squares.

“I’ve color coded Kenneth’s schedule so he’s more efficient.”

“I didn’t even realize Kenneth had a schedule most days. I thought this was more like a drop-in center,” I said.

“Oh, no more,” she said. She gave me a little wave and walked out.

“Kenneth?” I said, looking at Slattery.

“I’m trying to foster a more businesslike atmosphere, Sam. A couple of the clients complained.”

“You may want to have Cheryl wear tops that actually fit,” I said.

“Baby steps, Sam. Baby steps.”

“Let me get to the reason I came over here today,” I said.

“I assumed it was to thank me for my years of loyal service.”

“No. I want to know why I don’t have the paperwork for a new contract.”

“You don’t have the paperwork because I don’t have an offer from Cal,” he said.

“You need to get one.”

“Cal won’t return my calls.”

“Why?”

“Might have something to do with your having lost your mind. But that’s just a guess,” he said.

“You need to get me a new contract.”

He rocked back in his chair and looked at me. “Let me tell you something.”

“Please.”

“About a week ago, I get a call from Cal.”

“Nice of you to share with me, your client.”

He put up a hand and tried to slow me. “Whoa, whoa, there’s more.”

“Always is,” I said.

“We had been discussing a deal for you, no hard numbers, just a let’s-sit-down-and-get-this-done kind of thing. He tells me to schedule something with Susan, so I do.”

“This was when?”

“Day or two after you broke the big news. We were going to have lunch. You know, break some bread, talk about a deal for you. Get it all worked out.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Day of the lunch, Susan calls to cancel, says Cal had something come up. Says we’ll talk about rescheduling. I don’t think anything of it.”

“But?”

“But I have yet to sit down and break bread with the man. I’ve e-mailed him directly. Nothing. Nada. Like he doesn’t own a computer or something.”

“And you’ve called,” I said.

“I have. Susan takes a message.”

“She told me.”

“And he doesn’t call back,” he said.

“She told me that,” I said.

He picked up his iPhone and waved it. “I’m still waiting.”

“You’ve been an agent for a while.”

“I have. Twenty glorious years,” he said.

“Would this fall under the man-is-a-bit-busy category?”

“Not to me,” he said.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“This would fall under the I’m-getting-blown-off category,” he said.

“And you never got a reason?”

“I think we can guess. One minute you’re hot stuff. The guy who broke the big news. The next, you’re the nut job racing around town asking odd questions.”

“So Cal goes from hot to cold on me?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Right when you start your top-secret project for Robbie Steele.”

We were both silent for a moment.

“I think maybe he thinks you’ve gone around the bend on him,” he said.

“Risky move,” I said.

“How so.”

“When I put this together, it’s going to cost him a lot more.”

Slattery smirked. “I’m glad one us is confident.”