The Newsmakers (31 page)

Erica senses she's hit a nerve. “I'm not sure this is the right place to talk.”

“Agreed. Why don't you call my office and we can set something up.” He nods to one of his aides, who pulls out a card and hands it to Erica.

“Actually, do you think we could talk outside? The matter is pressing.”

Diaz's eyes narrow. He looks around the room as if he's searching for an escape hatch. He rubs his jaw. “Yeah, sure, of course. I'll be right out. We can talk in my car.”

Erica puts his card in her purse and then gets Desmond's cell number. As she makes her way out of the party, she's cajoled into several sloppy selfies. The whole scene starts to give her a bad case of
claustrophobia—the screaming voices, slurred speech, exaggerated emotions—boy, is she thankful she's sober.

Down at the curb Diaz is standing in front of a long black car, talking intently on his cell. As Erica approaches, he hangs up and gives her another big smile. Then he opens the car door and gestures her in with a little bow.

The inside of the car is a hushed world of buttery black leather. Sweat has broken out on Diaz's hairline.

“So, Erica, you're the last person I'd expect to see in Woodlawn, at Fiona Connor's wake. She seems like pretty small fish.” He laughs nervously, his suave showing some cracks.

“Some small fish swim with sharks. I understand you and she had a mutually beneficial relationship.”

Diaz takes out a handkerchief and mops his brow. “Fiona was very committed to her community.”

“To maintaining its
character
, you mean?”

“You might put it that way.” Diaz looks at his watch, looks out the window, looks at Erica, beseeching. “Look, we rubbed each other's backs, okay?”

“I'm listening.”

Diaz takes a deep breath, slumps a little in resignation. “A halfway house wanted to come into the neighborhood. Fiona didn't want them. I was able to get the zoning . . . adjusted. Quickly. Without a lot of people noticing.”

“That's your scratch. What was hers?”

Diaz leans forward, elbows on knees, palms clasped, eyes closed, silent. He stays that way for a long moment, and when he speaks, it's in the steady voice of truth. “I love my wife. More than anything in the world. But we've been married for twenty-five years. There's a lot of temptation out there. I'm human. Fiona owns apartments . . . quiet apartments on quiet streets.”

Erica sighs to herself. Midnight zoning changes and enabling extramarital affairs are a million miles from where she wants to be.

“Look, I talked to my lawyer,” Diaz says. “What I did was stupid, but it's not a felony. And what Fiona did wasn't even illegal. But it's humiliating. For my wife and kids. You understand. I don't want it plastered on the front page of the
Post.
”

Erica likes Diaz, he seems like a sincere guy. She just has to make sure.

“Did you know Fiona was involved in Kay Barrish's murder?”

Diaz jerks upright and looks at Erica, his mouth open. She nods. A big smile of relief spreads across Diaz's face.

CHAPTER 71

ERICA IS IN A LOUSY
mood on the long ride back to Midtown. The trip was a bust. As the car makes its way down the West Side highway, she looks out at the Hudson and thinks. Whoever Fiona was working with on Barrish's murder wouldn't go anywhere near that wake. She replays the scene in her head, searching for anything she may have missed.

“What she put up with . . . that boy.”

“I hear she has millions stashed away in the Caymans.”

“Eddie Spellman never comes back to the old neighborhood.”

Eddie Spellman? Can't hurt to google him. When she gets back to her office, that's the first thing she does. A bunch of Edward Spellmans come up—she quickly winnows them by adding
Woodlawn
to the search. There's only one match, but it piques her interest. Apparently this Ed Spellman is a well-known figure around New York—a consultant with wide-ranging contacts.
New York
magazine ran an article on him several years ago titled “The Insider's Insider.”

Erica clicks on the link and reads:

When a senator wants to know if his wife is cheating, he turns to Ed Spellman. When an Upper East Side heiress wants to make sure
the Italian count she's dating didn't buy his title on the Internet, she turns to Spellman. When a male movie star wants to hush up a coke-fueled weekend of S&M at the Gansevoort that landed him in the ER, he turns to Spellman. With connections from Buckingham Palace to the White House, from the Catholic Church to the Mafia, from the Clintons to the Kochs, from the art world to the netherworld, Ed Spellman is man who can get things done without leaving fingerprints—and who knows how to keep a secret.

Erica races through the article—which mentions Spellman's working-class Woodlawn childhood—and then stops dead when she reads:

Spellman got his start when he founded a consultancy with business executive Fred Wilmot, who is currently Nylan Hastings's second-in-command at Universe Entertainment.

Erica gets up and closes her office door. She goes back to her desk and sits there. She pieces it together—the trail from the lowly caterer's assistant to the LA gangs to the Russian Mafia to Fiona Connor to Spellman and then . . .

“Isn't it great how you guys are always one step ahead of the news? Like with that ferry crash—you just happened to be there. Then Kay Barrish, bless her heart, buys the farm in the middle of your interview. Awful coincidinky, if you ask me.”

But it's not “you guys” who are always there. It's her. Erica. Is she being manipulated? Is she part of their web? Their plan? She remembers frantically blowing her breath into Kay Barrish's lungs, holding her as she died, the fear in her eyes.

And what followed? Her fame, her contract, her show, her apartment, the prospect of getting Jenny back.

Think it through, Erica.

She's getting ahead of herself. She has no
proof
that Nylan or Wilmot
was involved. Journalism—and justice—demand the truth. Yes, the trail leads in their direction, but she has to keep investigating until she has proof. The closer she gets, the greater the danger, but she can't stop now, she can't.

There's a knock on her door. She clicks away from the Spellman article. “Come in.”

Greg enters. “Are you okay, Erica? You look spooked.”

“Oh, I'm fine. Just feeling a little swamped.”

“I know that feeling. Listen, are we still on for tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Greg walks over to her desk and sits opposite her. He lowers his voice. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm hanging in.”

“Dinner at your place? Don't you remember, you invited me last week? After we'd . . . well, made out like a couple of teenagers.”

Erica does remember their make-out session—it was giddy and . . . passionate. “Oh yes, of course, dinner. I've been so busy, I forget what day it is.”

“Does tomorrow still work for you?”

Maybe she should tell Greg what she's learned. They could become allies in nailing down the final piece of the investigation, no matter where it might lead. Yes, she'll do that. She'll tell him tomorrow before dinner, slowly, with no detail left out. He'll be able to help her make the right decisions.

“Yes, it works fine. I have been known to make a halfway decent omelet.”

“Sounds perfect.” He reaches across the table and gently strokes her hand. His hand feels so warm—the warmth spreads through her body. But another feeling flares up, for the first time with Greg—wariness. She can trust him. Can't she?

“I better get cracking. I'm doing a promotional interview for the show in twenty minutes.”

Erica sits in the makeup chair, and as Rosario works on her face,
she goes over the key points she wants to get across in her interview. She puts the troubling information about Ed Spellman—and all its implications—out of her mind for the moment. As the makeup goes on, so does her game face.

“Nylan Hastings was in the chair today,” Rosario says.

“Oh, why?”

“He was doing an interview on the business show.”

“How was he?”

“He was okay at first and then he got a text that upset him. He became agitated and angry.”

“I wonder what it could have been.”

“I read it over his shoulder,” Rosario says. “I read everyone's texts. How else can I gossip?”

“Well, what did it say?”

“It said ‘she knows'—Erica, please try not to flinch when I'm spraying your face.”

“Just ‘she knows'?”

“Yes. Maybe Nylan's girlfriend found out he's been sleeping with Claire Wilcox.”

“Yes, yes, that must be it,” Erica says, looking at herself in the mirror—can anyone else see the terror in her eyes?

CHAPTER 72

ERICA GETS ALMOST NO SLEEP
and when she finally does doze off around five a.m., she wakes up suddenly an hour later in a cold sweat. Out the window the gray dawn is oppressive, unforgiving. There have been many times in her life when she's felt alone and vulnerable, but never anything like this.

Her mind keeps circling back to that text: S
HE KNOWS
.

If she knows, she goes.

Erica gets dressed and heads up to the Whole Foods at Columbus Circle to shop for her dinner with Greg. It's tough to concentrate, and the store is jammed with people, too many people, they're all around her, writhing and streaming, she can barely move, a cart bumps against her, people whisper and point. Why are they looking at her? Claustrophobia grips her throat. She needs to get out of here. In a near panic she grabs what she needs and rushes to the express checkout.

After dropping off the groceries at home, Erica heads down to GNN. Today is blocked off for work on her show, including a couple of rehearsals. In her office she has a hard time sitting still, can't even get through a hand of solitaire. Then Claire appears in the doorway. She seems subdued, as if she's turned her wattage down a few notches.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.”

Claire is even dressed down, in a dark pantsuit. “Listen, Erica, I know I've been horrible. And I'm sorry. Sometimes my ambition gets the best of me. I also know we're probably never going to be besties, but I'd like to try and clear the air. So we can all move forward.” She smiles, and it actually looks sincere—or at least in the ballpark. “Any chance we could get a cup of coffee and chat?”

Erica is wary—sharks don't suddenly turn into minnows. But it's in her own best interests to get along with Claire, especially if she's sleeping with Nylan. “Yes, coffee would be nice.”

“Great. What time works for you?”

“How about four?”

“The Four Seasons?”

“Why not.”

Rehearsal is called, and Erica knuckles down and does her best to focus. But the mood on the set is subdued, there are no smiles or quips. When her eyes meet Greg's, his light up with anticipation. She gets through the day and heads off to her meeting with Claire.

CHAPTER 73

ERICA IS AWED BY THE
lobby of the Four Seasons—it looks like the set for one of those glamorous 1930s movies—soaring, exquisitely lit, Art Deco details. She sees Claire sitting on a cozy sofa and crosses to her. Claire stands up—she's changed into a little silver dress and looks sensational, if a little overdone—and they air kiss, which feels so phony. Heads are turning; they've both been recognized.

“Isn't it fun being famous?” Claire says with giddy girl-talk intimacy.

“It has its perks.”

A waiter comes over and they order coffee.

Claire grows serious. “I'm going to cut to the chase, Erica. What I really wanted to tell you is that I have tremendous respect for you. As a journalist. I know how high your standards are and I think your example is good for all of us at the network.”

“Thank you.”

“The truth is, I've been a little jealous of you. You arrived and I felt overshadowed. Nylan suddenly seemed to turn all his attention to you.”

“You've held your own.”

The coffee arrives and they both take sips.

Claire puts her cup down and says, “It's been tough at times, to watch your star soar. You've forced me to up my game. I appreciate that.”

“We all have a stake in GNN's success,” Erica says.

“Exactly. I hope we can move forward in that spirit.”

“So do I.”

Claire raises her coffee cup and clinks it against Erica's. “Cheers then.” She puts down her cup, runs her fingers through her hair, gives her head a shake, sits up a little taller, and lowers her voice. “I don't know if you've heard, but Nylan and I are seeing each other.”

“I might have heard a rumor.”

“He's the most intriguing man I've ever met. His intellect, his ideas never fail to astonish me. He's just so passionate . . . in
all
areas, by the way.” Claire smiles with satisfaction.

Erica is unsure how to respond to this overshare, and for a moment she wonders if she should warn Claire about Nylan's predilections—she wouldn't want her to end up in the emergency room—but it's their business. “He's certainly passionate about the network.”

“I believe he's a great man, Erica. And that we're seeing—not just seeing, are actually
a part of
—history in the making.”

Someone drank the Kool-Aid.

“I hope I can use my show to move the arc toward justice,” Erica says.

Claire reaches out and grasps Erica's hand. “That's another reason I have so much respect for you. You
care
.” She fiddles with an earring, her expression darkens, becomes regretful. “I feel very protective of Nylan. Of what he's working to build at GNN. That's why I felt compelled to do some digging. I discovered something that I felt I should share with you. It's upset Nylan. I think he views it as a threat to the network's future.”