The Newsmakers (33 page)

Is Greg the messenger? Sent to reiterate that they have the goods on her?

“I think the best thing to do is nothing,” he says. “Let Nylan make the next move. Don't let him know that you know.”

Of course he knows that I know. Isn't that the whole point, Greg? Friend, mentor, ally, fascinating man, attractive man . . . man I was going to hold in my arms tonight.

But she can't be sure. Her imagination feels like a runaway train. He's never been anything but honest and supportive. Erica feels dizzy with confusion.

Mercifully the doorbell rings. She goes and collects the food. “Stay put, I'll plate it,” she says as she heads into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and steals another gulp of the wine. Then another. The edges of her anxiety soften. Is she crazy in questioning Greg's motives? She plates the food and brings it into the living room.

“Could I get another glass of wine?” Greg asks.

“Oh, of course, I forgot all about it.” Erica goes back into the kitchen. She takes another gulp. Will Greg notice that the bottle is emptier than it should be? She turns on the cold water and holds the bottle under the tap for a second. Then she returns to the living room and hands him the bottle. Will the wine taste watered down? He pours himself a glass and takes a sip. Does he frown slightly?

Erica sits. She has no appetite, pushes the food around on her plate. Greg digs in with gusto, like a hungry teenager. Oh please let him be the man she thought he was.

“Greg?”

He looks up.

“How does what's in the court documents make you feel about me?”

He puts down his plate. “Erica, I went through a divorce and I know
how painful it is. I behaved in ways that I'm not proud of.” He gets up, crosses the room, and sits beside her on the couch. He takes her hand in his. “We all carry our demons, don't we? They're never going to go away—we just have to fight them to a draw.” He strokes her hand. “As to how this news makes me feel—it makes me care about you even more.”

His words are a momentary balm, and having him this close, smelling his pine soap, feeling his hands enfolding hers is sweet torture. She wants to believe he's on her side . . . she wants it so badly . . . she works so hard, feels so alone, has taken on so much, it's all on her shoulders, she feels like she's walking a tightrope, a tightrope over a black abyss . . .

“Erica, you went from zero to a hundred in the time it took you to try to save Kay Barrish's life.”

“Too much too soon.”

“You're strong, Erica. I have faith in you.” Greg pulls her to him, puts his arms around her, and cradles her to his chest. “You've had a rough day, you need to rest, just rest, beautiful girl. I've got you, I'm holding you . . .”

His voice is soothing, hypnotic, he strokes her hair. Erica snuggles up on the sofa, closes her eyes, and leans into his touch, feeling his warmth, his body, his gently beating heart . . . Is she in a safe place? . . . Is she? . . . Can she let go? . . .
Let go
. . .
let go . . .

Erica wakes with a start, disoriented. Where is she? She's lost in a strange place. She bolts up, out of Greg's arms, looks at him, and for a brief sad second imagines they're somewhere in the country, in a house with a garden and a fireplace—then the mirage evaporates and her terrifying reality is back. “How long was I asleep?”

He brushes her hair from her forehead. “About a half hour. I should probably head home. I've got some loose ends to wrap up tonight, and we have a big day tomorrow.”

Erica nods and walks him to the door. He leans in to kiss her but she turns away and then rests her head on his chest for a moment.

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night.”

He opens the door and then turns. “Oh, there's one thing I forgot to mention. I think I blocked it out.”

Erica looks at him quizzically.

“Nylan wants to see you in his office at nine tomorrow morning.”

Erica closes the door after him, turns the dead bolt, and then leans against the door, feeling like she's tumbled off the tightrope and is falling, falling . . .

CHAPTER 76

AFTER POLISHING OFF THE FIRST
bottle of wine and most of the second, Erica crashes into a deep sleep. When she wakes up, her head feels like it's stuffed with cotton candy and her mouth tastes like sandpaper. Her brain starts spinning—what's Nylan's next step? What's hers? And Greg? She
thinks
she trusts him. Does she trust herself? Outside, the city is enveloped in a drizzly fog. She wraps herself in the covers and wishes she could stay in bed all day. Or forever.

Erica stumbles into the shower, turns on the cold water, steps in. As the frigid water runs over her scalp and body, she forces herself to face the truth about last night. She slipped. And she loved every wine-softened second of it—would love to spend today, tomorrow, and all the days after in that tender haze. But she knows that wine would turn into vodka and vodka would turn into hiding and lies and slurred speech and work screw-ups and on and on . . . and now she's shivering, trembling, her whole body is shaking. She steps out of the shower and dries herself, running the towel roughly over her skin. But even when she's dry, the shaking won't stop.

Erica walks down to GNN. After her meeting with Nylan at nine, there's a technical rehearsal for her show at eleven—the first with full
lights, music, makeup, and wardrobe. In her office she looks over her notes on the show, but the letters blur, she can't focus, she's too restless. She gets up, walks into the closet, and tries to pick an outfit to wear for the rehearsal. There are so many choices, it's overwhelming—she'll ask Nancy for some help. She goes to her desk and calls her extension.

A woman's voice she doesn't recognize answers, “Wardrobe.”

“Oh, this is Erica Sparks, I'm looking for Nancy.”

There's a pause and then, “Nancy Huffman doesn't work here anymore.”

“
What?
What happened?”

“That's all I'm at liberty to say.”

Erica sits there in shock, then she calls Nancy's cell. Voice mail picks up. “This is Nancy Huffman. I'm not available right now, but please leave a message.” Hearing her voice is . . . eerie. “Nancy, it's Erica. I just heard. Call me, please.”

Erica calls Greg. “Do you know what happened with Nancy Huffman?”

“She was fired yesterday, escorted out of the building.”

“Why?”

“Theft. They claim she was billing for more than her garments cost.”

“That's ridiculous. And why didn't you tell me last night?”

“I found out this morning. Aren't you due at Nylan's in a few minutes?”

Erica hangs up. The news about Nancy is disturbing but she has no time right now, no time . . . She checks herself in her office mirror. Does the fear show on her face? She can't let it show, she can't let him know.
He knows. She knows.
She stands up straight, the trembling has stopped, hasn't it? She throws back her shoulders and heads to the elevators.

CHAPTER 77

ERICA GETS OFF THE ELEVATOR
and is facing the mirthless receptionist and the suited security guard.

“Mr. Hastings is expecting you.”

Erica heads down the hall and walks into Nylan's office. Fred Wilmot is standing there, alone, holding a manila folder.

“Erica,” he says without a smile.

“Hello, Fred. Where's Nylan?”

“He's not in the room at the moment, is he?”

“I'm here to see him.”

“The morals clause in your contract specifically states that there is nothing in your past that could adversely affect your public image. By failing to disclose your aberrant and criminal actions, you've given us due cause to terminate you. The public will forgive a lot of behaviors. Kidnapping your daughter and then driving drunk with her in the car isn't one of them.”

“I did not kidnap her.”

Wilmot opens the folder and reads: “. . .
Unauthorized removal of Jenny Sparks from her father's house in Dedham, Massachusetts.
I'd call that kidnapping. You then drove your daughter to the Monticello Motor Inn in Framingham where you rented a room and immediately abandoned
her alone in the room while you went out in search of a liquor store. On Route 9 you rear-ended a Toyota Tacoma truck and suffered cuts, contusions, and sprains. Your blood alcohol level at the time of the accident was .31 percent, almost four times the legal limit.”

The cold hard words, the cold hard truth, make Erica queasy. A bead of sweat rolls down from her left armpit.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Wilmot demands.

Erica wills herself to stay composed. She doesn't want to give him any satisfaction. Yes, she made a terrible mistake, but
she
didn't commit acts of terrorism and murder. “We all have to answer for our behaviors, Fred. Sooner or later. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

Nylan strides into the room, casual as day. “There she is, our superstar.” He gives Erica a big smile and sits at his desk. “Please have a seat.”

Erica remains standing.

“I am over-the-moon excited about your show.
Three
First Ladies. Every other network is pulling their hair out. How did you do it?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Dumb like a fox.” There's tense silence, he runs his hand over his glass desktop, grows serious. “You know that we've become privy to your court records.”

A bead of sweat rolls down from Erica's right armpit. The sun is pouring in the room, it's too warm, almost stifling. “Yes.”

“Well, I don't give a damn about your past. You paid a price for your actions and you had every reason to believe you could move on. That's what I want to do. Move on. We expect your opening show to set ratings records. You inspire us all, and I want us to be a team for many years to come.” The good cop is on a roll. “I want to demonstrate my faith and commitment by paying you a five-million bonus on the first anniversary of your show. All taxes paid.”

What?
Erica is thrown off balance. It's a bribe, but a seductive one. Her salary is paid monthly, and taxes take a fat bite. A year from now she'd be a rich woman
. Secure. Safe.
She flashes to her high school days, the exhausting hours working at Burger King, trying to find a quiet
corner to work on her homework during her breaks, leaving with the stench of cheap beef and rancid oil clinging to her clothes.

“There is one thing I'd like in return,” Nylan says.

Here it comes. “What's that?” Erica asks as sweat breaks out on her brow.

Nylan leans back and smiles, ignoring her question, switching gears. “GNN is building our bench, creating the next generation of stars. I'm about to hire a brilliant young reporter named Laura Gordon, who anchors the evening news at our Tucson affiliate.”

Wilmot takes an 8x10 photograph out of his folder and hands it to Nylan, who holds it up for Erica to see.

“Isn't she pretty? And so bright—and only twenty-four. She's
very
popular, our ratings have spiked down there. She reminds me of you, although she's very confident.”

Did Nylan turn the heat on? The office is starting to feel like an oven.

He hands the photo back to Wilmot. “Listen, Erica, with so much riding on your shoulders, I need you to pull back
completely
on any investigative work and concentrate on the show.”

Erica decides to force his hand—but can she keep her voice steady? “What specific investigation are you referring to?”

Nylan leans toward her, lowers his voice. “The whole country was traumatized by Kay Barrish's death. Since it happened on my network, I feel a sense of responsibility. I know you do too, and that, in fact, you're conducting an informal investigation. I think it's time to leave it to professionals. I've hired the best private detective in the world.” Nylan stands up, crosses to the front of his desk, and leans against it, just a few feet from Erica. “I've given him carte blanche to take any actions he feels may be necessary to find Barrish's killer or killers.”

Wilmot walks out of the room and returns moments later with a well-groomed man of around fifty, his thinning hair slicked back, his muscular frame encased in an expensive suit.

“Erica, I'd like you to meet Ed Spellman.”

CHAPTER 78

ERICA CAN
'
T STOP HER SHARP
inhale but otherwise hopes her poker face holds. The fox is in the chicken coop. And she's the chicken.

Ed Spellman crosses to her and extends his hand. They shake. He smells citrusy and rich, his nails are coated with clear matte polish, his hair looks like it was cut with a diamond blade.

“What a pleasure,” Spellman says.

“Likewise,” Erica manages. The room feels like a sauna. Prickly heat races over her body.

Spellman steps back, next to Wilmot and Nylan. Erica looks at the three men—the three rich, powerful white men—standing over her. Even David didn't face a hydra-headed Goliath.

“Erica, I considered Kay Barrish a friend. Her death was a terrible loss.” Spellman's voice is edged with emotion. “We are going to make sure whoever is responsible pays the price.”

“Do you have any idea who that might be?” Erica asks.

“At this point we believe the murder was engineered by the Kremlin. Barrish had said some very harsh things about Vladimir Putin. He did
not
want her in the White House. We've been able to identify one of the middlemen in the plot. He's a capo in the Russian Mafia.”

“What's his name?”

“Leonid Gorev. Unfortunately he's disappeared. He probably sensed that we were closing in on him and returned to Russia. Without Gorev, I'm afraid the trail has gone cold. Temporarily, of course.”