Close to You (21 page)

Louise had said to dress casually, so Eliza picked a long-sleeved tunic top and a pair of black slacks. Her jewelry selection was limited. She still had the gold hoop earrings, and her grandmother's charm bracelet she had worn in Dallas. She thanked heaven again that the thief hadn't gotten that

She left the house lights blazing, methodically set the alarm system, got into her station wagon and drove the few miles north to the Bear's Nest luxury condominium development. The uniformed security guard stopped her at the gatehouse.

“I'm going to Mrs. Kendall's.”

“Your name, please?”

“Eliza Blake.”

There was no name recognition on the guard's face as he checked his clipboard.
Nice change.

“Go ahead in, miss.”

Maybe she would have been smarter to move to a place like this, Eliza thought as she drove through the quiet
streets. It would be comforting to have a security guard checking to see who came and went. But there were no big fences around the complex, and even if there were, if someone was determined to get to one of the townhouses, there was little anyone could do.

Range answered the doorbell, a drink in his hand.

“Here she is,” he smiled broadly, bussing her on the cheek. “Come on in. Louise is out on the deck. It's still warm enough to have one last cocktail out there.”

It was just getting dark and Louise had lit votive candles in tiny lanterns perched along the deck rails. They sipped their drinks and chatted animatedly about the upcoming presidential election until Louise let out a scream.

“What?” asked Range, alarm on his face.

“Oh my God, I think I just saw bats fly by!”

Range settled back in his seat and smirked. “Don't worry, honey. Eliza can tell you all about bats. There's nothing to be concerned about. Right, Eliza?”

“Well, she can tell me about it inside, because I'm getting out of here.” Quickly Louise carried her scotch and soda through the French doors into the living room and the other two followed her.

Eliza explained the
FRESHER LOOK
research she was doing, but Louise remained unconvinced. “I don't care. Bats creep me out and nothing is going to change that. Let's talk about something more pleasant.”

“Okay,” agreed Eliza, changing the subject. “I got a good plug in for Fragile X yesterday,” she offered brightly.

“How so?”

“The
Record
is doing an article on my move to the area. I told the reporter I would be working with you on fundraising for FRAXA.”

“Thanks, Eliza, that's great. Every little bit helps. And even better, Range tells me that this week's
FRESHER LOOK
piece is on Fragile X. That should do a lot of good in getting the word out. I'm so glad you're doing that story.”

As Louise excused herself and went to the kitchen to
check on the roast, Range wanted to hear more about the newspaper interview.

“Do you think it was wise to publicize the fact that you've moved out here?” he asked. “You know, with those threats and all? Why let anyone know where you live?”

Eliza's eyes popped. “Range Bullock, I can't believe it! You are the one who always wants all the publicity you can get for the show. I thought you'd be pleased.”

“All the publicity in the world won't help the ratings if you aren't around to sit in the anchor chair,” he blurted.

Eliza's face sank.

“I'm sorry, Eliza. That didn't come out right.”

“What didn't come out right?” asked Louise, hearing the tail end of the conversation as she returned to the living room.

“Range is worried about some threats I've been getting.”

Louise took a seat in a crewel-covered armchair. “I know he's worried, and I am too. I remember when Bill used to get those crazy letters. I know he didn't even tell me about most of them, but there were a few over the years that even shook him up. They were truly blood-chilling.”

Eliza played with the charm on her bracelet. “It really is one of the downsides of this business, isn't it? You do your job and report your story, but you never know exactly who is watching or how they are going to respond.”

“Maybe we should do a story on that,” suggested Range.

Eliza looked at him as if he were crazy.

“I'm serious, Eliza. I think it's a good story.”

“No way, Range. I'm not the least bit interested in telling the country what's going on with me as far as all of tins is concerned.” She was adamant.

There was a silent pause in the room. Louise got up and took Eliza's glass to refill it.

“Did they ever find out what happened to Linda Anderson, Range?” Louise asked as she stood at the butler's-table bar and dropped fresh ice cubes into the crystal, double-old-fashioned glass.

“God, I don't know. I never heard anything.”

“Who's Linda Anderson?” Eliza inquired.

“She was an anchor for Garden State Network. She was quite good, and very attractive. We were considering hiring her when she disappeared.” Range squinted. “That must have been about five years ago now. What made you think of her?”

Louise handed the refilled glass back and looked into her guest's face. “Well, I think Linda Anderson looked a bit like you, Eliza. Didn't she, Range?”

Startled, Range stared at his anchorwoman. “You're right. She did.”

Now this was the type of thing she had envisioned when she had made the move out of the city. It was a sunny, clear Sunday afternoon, and the pin oaks and maple trees were just beginning to color in the gold, orange and red hues that would only get brighter in the weeks to come. Eliza and Janie, holding Daisy on a leash, along with Susan and James with their Buddy, meandered around the pond.

“Watch out for the goose doo,” Susan warned as the kids ran ahead with the dogs. “Those geese,” she sighed. “I walk around this beautiful pond for an hour every day. It's one of the things that sold me on the neighborhood. But I spend most of my time concentrating on not stepping in the goose droppings.”

“They should be flying south somewhere soon, shouldn't they?” asked Eliza.

Susan shrugged. “I don't know. It seems like they stay around forever. They're pretty to look at when they're in the water, but I can't stand all the mess they leave behind. Speaking of mess, have you heard anything from the police about the robbery?”

“Nada,” Eliza replied. “And to tell the truth, I'm not
really expecting to. The patrolmen who came that night weren't too encouraging.”

“What do we pay our taxes for?” asked Susan angrily. “They should be doing something about this.”

Eliza hesitated before going further with the conversation. She didn't want to throw around accusations, but for the last week she had been nagged by her suspicions about Larson Richards. She would explode if she didn't confide them to her neighbor.

“Gosh, Eliza,” Susan answered when she heard Eliza's worry that Larson still had a key and could have let himself into the house. “I know Larson is desperate for money, but I can't believe he would resort to burglary.”

“What do you mean, he's desperate for money?” Eliza pressed.

“I told you about that pizza-business deal of his.”

“Yes.”

Susan looked at Eliza. “I shouldn't really be breaking this confidence, but I guess it doesn't matter now that the Richardses are dead.”

“What ‘confidence'?”

Susan began slowly at first and then her story poured out. “The Richardses had lent Larson a great deal of money to keep his business afloat. Mrs. Richards was quite worried about it and asked him to sign notes for the loans. But as he came back for more and more, she finally told him that they didn't want to pour any more cash down the rathole.”

“How did Larson take it?”

“Not well. Mrs. Richards was crying one day when she came over and told me about it. You wouldn't believe the horrible things Larson said to his own mother. He told her that if she didn't help him, he would never speak to her again. That she and Mr. Richards would be dead as far as he was concerned.”

“Nice son,” Eliza observed.

Susan's eyes welled with tears as the sun glistened on her dark hair. “Mrs. Richards said she didn't want to lose
her only child and was reconsidering giving Larson more money.”

“Did she?”

“I don't know. Right after that, that damned gas heater backed up and the Richardses were killed by the carbon monoxide.”

“A Mr. Morton is in the lobby to see Ms. Blake.”

“Tell Mr. Morton I'll be right down.”

Paige hung up the phone. An interview with one of the presidential candidates had opened up and Eliza had hastily taken the morning shuttle to Washington. Paige hadn't been able to reach Samuel Morton to cancel his appointment.

Not bothering to take the elevator, Paige rushed down the stairwell and the long corridor that led to the Broadcast Center lobby. Waiting at the guard desk was a tall, attractive man with dark hair and graying sideburns, carrying a medium-sized shopping bag. Paige knew her clothes and would bet that was a Zegna suit he was wearing, a suit that cost over two thousand dollars.

“Mr. Morton,” greeted Paige, extending her hand, “I'm Ms. Blake's assistant, Paige Tintle.”

“Nice to meet you.” The man shook her hand firmly.

“I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Blake had to go out of town unexpectedly this morning. She is very sorry, and told me to tell you she hopes you can reschedule another time to meet.”

Paige could see the disappointment on Samuel's face.

“If you'd like, I could give you a little tour of our operation now,” Paige offered.

Samuel was very pleasant and showed a lot of interest over the half hour that Paige escorted him through the news facility. When they got upstairs to Eliza's office, Samuel gazed through the windowed wall down at the newsroom.

“I wish Sarah could have seen this,” he murmured wistfully. “She would have loved it.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Morton.” Paige couldn't think of anything else to say.

As they exited the office to go back down to the lobby, Samuel suddenly remembered the shopping bag he carried. He extended it to Eliza's assistant.

“I'll be in town all week, and I would very much appreciate a chance to see Ms. Blake personally, if her schedule permits. But just in case we can't get together, would you please give her this for me?”

The weekend dinner conversation had stuck with him and Range was not giving up on his story idea. As executive producer it was his prerogative to assign any piece he wanted. After the morning editorial meeting, he called Keith Chapel down to the Fishbowl.

“See what you can find out about the disappearance, about five years ago, of a Garden State Network anchor-woman named Linda Anderson.”

Keith scribbled on his notepad. “Are you thinking about this as a
FRESHER LOOK?
”

“I'm not sure yet,” Range answered. “See what you come up with. Let me know and then we'll talk to Eliza about it.”

Keith nodded and turned to leave the office.

“Wait a minute, Keith.” Range pulled open his desk drawer and extracted a black videocassette box. “I searched around and found this audition tape that Anderson submitted when she was trying to get a job here. Take a look and see what you think.”

Later, the producer popped the cassette into the viewing machine. The woman who appeared on the screen delivering dated New Jersey news reminded Keith of the woman who appeared on the dozens of other videotapes scattered around his office.

That guy was loitering across the street from the Broadcast Center again.

By rights the security chief knew he should call the police and have them talk to the man, but Joe Connelly itched to get out there and confront him face-to-face. There had been more letters and still no response from the FBI. Connelly was tense, and determined that nothing would happen to Eliza Blake on his watch.

Taking two uniformed security guards along with him, Connelly pushed through the revolving door, waited for a break in the traffic and jaywalked across the wide street. The sweatshirt-clad man stared at him defiantly as he approached.

“Excuse me, sir. I'd like to know your name and why you've been hanging around here.”

The man looked at him disdainfully. “I don't have to tell you my name, and the last time I looked, this is a free country and these are public sidewalks.”

“Listen, clown. Move along and don't come back. Do you hear me? If I see you out here again, I'll call the police.”

“Oh. I'm scared.”

Connelly felt like slamming the sarcastic son-of-a-bitch in the face. Instead he motioned to one of the guards, who speedily pulled a camera from his pocket and snapped off a couple quick shots of the tough mug.

“Hey! You can't do that,” the loiterer protested, lunging for the camera.

The guard pulled back, the camera safely out of Meat's reach.

“Why not call a policeman?” Connelly dared triumphantly. “Now get the hell out of here and, I'm warning you, don't come back.”

What a lucky little boy!

Sure, he had something called Fragile X syndrome and he was forced to live a life with mental retardation, speech problems and anxieties. He might never drive a car or learn to read or write, and it was a cinch he was never going to learn to do long division, but, just because he had some lousy genetic condition, he got to be close to Eliza.

It was heartwarming to watch Eliza talking so gently to the boy as he flapped his hands up and down. No wonder the kid was flapping. Being near her was damned exciting.

The thought of having pictures together with Eliza to watch over and over on the television screen at night would ensure sweet dreams. But then again, there were those pictures together with Linda Anderson and watching them over and over again didn't lead to peaceful nights. If only Linda hadn't resisted. It was her own fault, really. Linda had only herself to blame.