The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (22 page)

“You’re good.” Gwendolyn bumped her hip against Eve’s.

“Thanks,” said Eve. She bumped back.

“I’m sorry for shooting my mouth off. I forget not everyone can take it.”

Eve wound the dangling thread around the spool and handed it over. “I can take it,” she said.

   • • •

On Saturday, Eve called Gin, and when he answered it was clear he was happy to hear from her. Eve made a big pile of her shoes in the living room and, while they spoke, gave them their weekly polish from a set of pots and brushes she kept in a sturdy wooden box. Soon they were chatting in easy, relaxed fashion about her brothers, the new exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art, and, amazingly, a little about Penelope.

Eve brought the subject up, rather tentatively, sticking to simple remembrances of her mother’s sometimes eccentric behavior. Gin chimed in with the story about the time Penelope heard gunfire in the kitchen. She had run to the neighbors and used their phone to summon the police, who arrived to find six exploded eggs she’d been hard-boiling. She’d forgotten about them while outside on the lawn building a Victorian-style birdhouse from a kit she’d ordered from England. One of the officers, laughing, stayed to help her affix the roof.

“Boiling eggs. She did
try
to be a wife,” Gin said with a chuckle.

“She did.”

Eve wouldn’t say six hundred and fifty miles had made them closer, exactly, but perhaps less far apart.

   • • •

Eve was usually the first to arrive at work, except for Mark, but today not even Mark was there yet. She flicked on the light in her office and found a memo on her desk. It was titled “New guest vetting procedures.” She could guess what this was about. For weeks there had been rumors that the network brass was unhappy with some of the show’s less-than-attractive interview subjects. And a week ago, according to one of the associate producers, several viewers had actually called to complain about a female guest in a camisole out of which peeked a sprinkling of black underarm hair, insisting the sight made eating breakfast impossible. Eve scanned the missive with mounting irritation.

Eve sighed and stuck the memo to her corkboard along with the dozens of others. Then she realized the light on her phone was blinking. She entered her voicemail password thinking it might be Vadis, who was due back from the tour any day.

“Eve, it’s Mark. Small crisis here.” He was speaking quickly. “My mom’s in the hospital. Seems to be some kind of heart thing. It looks like she’s going to be fine but my dad’s away on business and I want to wait with her until he gets here. I’ve left the assignments on my desk—wouldn’t you know there’s major breaking news today—and I need you to get the list and tell everyone what they’re doing today, okay? Archie will be in later to edit. I’ll call you to check in. Thanks so much.”

Saying a silent prayer for Mark’s mother, Eve went into his office. The list, which he’d printed out and left on his keyboard, was entirely predictable. Archie was doing the latest on the Middle East peace negotiations and a toy recall for Bliss. Russell was to interview the author of
A Psychoanalytical Approach to Quantum Physics
. It had taken him two weeks to get through the book and the interview with the author promised to take up most of the afternoon. On Quirine’s plate: a consortium of heirloom vegetable
growers about to march on Washington to save small farms for Bliss and the annual
Forbes
list of “America’s Most Powerful CEOs Forty and Under” for Hap. Steve had a segment about a football player who’d been killed in a home invasion for Hap and the latest sports steroid scandal for Bliss. Eve was to tackle the best pillows for your hair type and then interview the cast of the new sci-fi movie
Starship Kibbutz
, both for Hap. The tape of the movie, or “screener,” was next to the assignment list on Mark’s desk.

Just as Eve realized that Cassandra had no assignment, she spied a handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the page.

Eve stared at the paper. Obviously, this was the “breaking news” Mark had been referring to. The Stiletto, in heels and, this time, a mini skirt, had struck again, overnight in the East Village. So much for
Smell
never acknowledging New York. It seemed half the stories were related to the city in some way.

The Stiletto had now attacked seven times, each assault more violent than the last. The first couple of times, he’d only brandished his knife. Then, back in April, he’d slashed his fourth victim on the arm (which Bliss was reporting when she was cut down by Eve’s rancid bouillabaisse). Over the summer, he’d slashed two women in the torso, and last night, he’d pierced his victim’s neck. She was alive, thankfully. Nevertheless, it was the story of the day. And Cassandra was going to do it. For Bliss.

Eve opened the folder of Stiletto research. Inside were Nexis printouts of recent articles on similar crime waves and dossiers on NYPD Chief Sebastian Pell and Columbia Presbyterian criminal psychologist Dr. Shin Tang. Pell was to give the details of the latest attack, while Tang was booked for the bulk of the segment, to try to shed light on what kind of person the Stiletto might be.
Stuck to Tang’s bio was a Post-it, on which a booker had written:
No prior TV appearances, no pic avail
.

Eve closed the folder and ran her palm over it. She wanted this segment. She deserved it. On the other side of the closed office door, she could hear the writers arriving. They made their way down the hall, chatting about what they’d done with their mornings and about the day ahead. Any minute now they’d poke their heads in, looking for Mark and their assignments. She strained to hear if Cassandra was among them, but it appeared she was running late. Again.

Eve would give her ten minutes.

   • • •

Archie raised an eyebrow. “You’re doing the Stiletto? Well, good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me know if you need any help.”

“I will. But the first pre is in five minutes, so I guess I better get to it.”

Her heart beating fast, Eve headed back to her office and plunked down at her desk. She kicked off her pumps, which had begun to pinch, and unbuttoned her tweed peplum jacket. What she was doing wasn’t technically ethical. But this was her chance to finally show Mark—and everyone else—what she could do. If she executed this segment well, Mark would have to admit she was ready for hard news and ready for Bliss, and everything would change. He might, though he was the boss, even allow his old feelings for her to stir.

Anyway, she’d asked him for months for a real story. This was apparently the only way to get one.

Plus, Donald said she had to stop being a doormat and demand what she wanted. If he were here right now, he’d no doubt applaud her. Gwendolyn would, too. The thought gave her the final push she needed.

She skimmed the Stiletto articles as quickly as she could and dialed the police chief. The phone was answered by a deputy, who informed her that Chief Pell was on the line with another morning show and two camera crews were waiting outside his office to tape interviews.

“I’ll hold,” she said through gritted teeth.

Seventeen minutes later, Pell finally picked up. He sounded harried and annoyed and Eve’s usual powers to charm a guest out of extra information fizzled. The chief stuck to a clear script, answering each of her questions in a brisk, rote monotone that told her he’d just given the exact same information to ABC, NBC, and CBS. He cut their talk short when the
New York Times
reporter showed up.

Cassandra came in, eyes bloodshot and carrying the world’s largest Coke, which she sucked at greedily, not unlike someone who was dehydrated after a night of drinking. “Archie says you’re handing out the assignments today. I’ve had a shitty morning. What am I doing?”

Eve held out the
Starship Kibbutz
screener, which Cassandra grabbed before weaving off down the hall.

Any guilt Eve might have felt over what she was doing evaporated. Cassandra clearly wouldn’t appreciate the honor of doing a big segment for Bliss. She looked like she was going to spend half the evening in the ladies’ room, head hovering over the toilet.

Eve turned her attention to the next order of business: the stack of scripts and transcripts of Bliss Jones’s most recent segments. Eve had ordered them from research, planning to compare the transcripts of what Bliss said on the air with the writers’ segments as they’d been written. She was going to crack the case and figure out just what Bliss Jones wanted.

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.…”