CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (14 page)

"It's a deal." She extended her hand, and they shook. "Thanks."

"Get with Thornton and let him fill you in on what he's got so
far."

"Right," she said, reluctantly. She'd dealt with Thornton pretty
well until now, she thought. No more outbursts. No more crying.

"Cotten, I know all about you and Thornton. Just do your job and
don't worry. I'll keep him out of your hair."

She threaded her hair behind her ears. "I'll be fine," she said, wondering whom she was really convincing. "You're the best, Ted."

"Yeah, I know. Now, return some of those calls and see how many
interviews you can get in before you leave. Remember, you're a celeb.
Milk it"

As she walked from the conference room, she realized that
through all the excitement and celebrating she found herself thinking
more and more of John Tyler. Especially when she saw the picture of
them together on the newscast. She wondered if he had returned
from Rome yet. It would be nice to talk to him.

Back at her desk, Cotten dialed John's number, but got his
answering machine. Maybe I shouldn't call anyway, she thought. She
hung up before the message beep.

She lifted the receiver again and dialed Vanessa's cell.

"Hello," the voice on the other end answered.

"Nessi!"

"Oh, my God!" Vanessa Perez shouted into the phone.

"Calm down, girl."

"Are you kidding? You're a certified star. I saw you all over the
evening news. I can't believe it. I'm telling all my friends I know you."

"Will you please calm down."

"Okay, okay."

"I want to swing down for a visit. Are you going to be home next
week or are you off to some exotic-"

"I'm free for the weekend, but I've got a shoot coming up in Nassau at the first of the week. But it's only a two-dayer. You can hang
out, and then I'll be back."

"Sounds great. Then I'm coming down, if it's all right."

"It's perfect. Excellent timing. There's going to be a huge festival-kind of like a mixture of Calle Ocho and Fantasy Fest. They're
calling it Miami Phantasm Jubilee-a half million people dancing in
the streets partying their brains out."

Cotten waved at two staffers who came by to congratulate her as
she said, "Sounds like just what I need. I'll fly in Friday night. Saturday evening I've got to attend a political dinner. I can get two passes if
you want to be my date-very high-end stuff. After the dinner, I'm
free."

"I guess I can be good long enough to get through some highbrow dinner."

"I'll rent a car and come straight to your apartment. What's that
club on SoBe you told me about?

"Tantra's-it's wild, Cotten. Think you're ready?"

"More than you know. Love you." Cotten hung up. She missed
her friend and desperately needed a change of scene. A good mix of relaxing and partying might help her stop thinking about Thornton ...
or John Tyler.

Cotten looked at the stack of message slips on her desk. She
slowly went through the pile before deciding on three. "Here goes,"
she said, picking up the phone.

COTTEN DROVE HER RENTAL car down the long, tree-lined entrance
to Vizcaya, James Deering's palatial villa on the shores of Miami's Biscayne Bay. The Italian Renaissance-style mansion, built in 1916 on a
160-acre estate, contained Deering's collection of art and furnishings
reflecting 400 years of European history. Over the decades, Vizcaya
had hosted popes, presidents, and kings. Tonight, it would be the
majestic backdrop for a man wanting to run for President of the
United States.

"This place is incredible," Vanessa Perez said, sitting in the passenger's seat. She finger-combed her long black hair. "I've done a dozen
photo shoots here, but I still get goose bumps."

Millions of tiny lights lit the gardens and villa giving Cotten the
impression of a star-filled wonderland. Every twig and branch twinkled in the soft breeze from the bay.

"It's magnificent," Cotten said. The lights, the fountains, the
breeze, all reminded her of Rome and the evening at the Coliseum.

White-shirted valets opened the car doors. Cotten and Vanessa got
out and made their way up the regal steps of Vizcaya's west facade-a grand entrance between two stone towers connected by a low wall
with old world Italian grillwork.

They entered the reception room and picked up their name tags.
The hum of voices and rustling of formal attire filled the air.

In her tight little black dress and spike heels, Vanessa was a sexual
magnet, Cotten thought, as men glanced in their direction.

One man stepped in front of them. "You look absolutely elegant,
as always," he said to Vanessa.

His suit-Cotten guessed it cost more than she made in a
month-hugged his tall, slim frame.

"Thanks, Felipe." Vanessa shot him the same smile that had
graced the cover of so many magazines. "I want you to meet my best
friend, Cotten Stone from SNN. Cotten, this is Felipe Dubois, the editor of Deco Dining."

"Of course, Ms. Stone," Dubois said, a look of sudden recognition
on his face. "I saw you on Oprah. What an experience you had."

"Meeting Oprah or finding the Holy Grail?" Cotten said, shaking
his hand.

"Both, of course," Dubois said, laughing heartily. "Do you believe
it's real, the Grail, I mean?"

"I'm no expert, but the evidence seems convincing. At least that's
what the Vatican says."

"Vanessa, where have you been hiding this gorgeous creature?" he
asked. "She should be right there on the cover of Vogue next to you."
His hand moved with a flourish, and he spoke with a drawl at the end
of his words, as if they were taffy and he had to pull them slowly from
his tongue.

"I've tried many times to get her to come over to my way of
thinking." Vanessa winked at Cotten.

"Behave," Cotten said. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to mingle.
Nice to meet you, Felipe. Nessi, I'll see you at our table. The number
is on your ticket."

As she walked away, she glanced back to see a half-dozen men surround Vanessa Perez, vying for her attention. Cotten found it amusing that most of them never realized they had no chance.

The mansion was arranged around a central courtyard in the style
of a sixteenth century Italian villa. She wandered across the crowded
courtyard, through a number of high-ceiling rooms, and finally
emerged on a grand stone veranda running the length of the villa and
overlooking the bay. A smooth jazz trio played at one end while
guests chatted, sipped champagne, and munched on smoked salmon
and stone crabs.

As she wove her way through the attendees, a nagging headache
reminded her of the previous night. She and Vanessa had started the
evening with a spicy dinner and giant margaritas at Tequila Blue
before moving on to Tantra's. From the moment they walked in, Cotten felt the sensuality of the place-fresh cut grass floor under her
feet, the scent of jasmine, the waterfalls, people smoking glass
hookahs of Middle Eastern tobacco, the long mahogany and copper
bar, the New Age music. Vanessa said the club was the hotspot for
South Beach's beautiful people, and true to her word, they passed
Janet Jackson and her bodyguards just leaving. After hours of dancing, downing Cuervo 1800 shots and flutes of champagne, more
dancing, more shots, and propositions by as many females as males,
Cotten finally called it quits. Taking a cab back to Vanessa's beach
apartment, she left her friend with two Dolphins cheerleaders trying
to become fire-eaters with a box of matches and a bottle of 151.

The soft jazz, combined with the fresh breeze coming in off the
bay and across the Vizcaya balcony, soothed her headache. Cotten stood by the railing, looking down at the expansive ground-level
patio covered with dinner tables and a dais for the honored guests. A
small group gathered to the side around a tall man in a pinstripe suit.
He had an obvious flair for attracting attention and seemed to enjoy it.
His mannerisms and body language suggested plenty of self-confidence. He was either a uniquely charismatic individual or had been
well coached, or both. He already looked presidential, she thought. She
stood intrigued as she watched Robert Wingate, the perfect candidate.

When the dinner seating began, Cotten joined Vanessa.

The menu was lavish, including crispy whole red snapper with
coconut rice and spicy red curry sauce.

"This is delicious," Vanessa said, sipping her white wine. "Wingate
must be made out of money."

"It would seem so," Cotten said, wondering just how deep his
pockets went. His speech would start soon, and she looked forward to
hearing if his voice matched the rest of his commanding presence.

They chatted with others at their table, most of the talk centering
around questions about the Grail. Every now and again, Cotten
glanced at Wingate. As the dessert of caramel rice pudding topped
with fresh mango and currants was brought to each guest, she noticed
someone, whom she assumed was an aide, approach him. The man
whispered into the candidate's ear. Wingate's perpetual smile faded.

Glancing over his shoulder, Wingate looked in the direction of
Vizcaya's classical gardens-acres of paths and fountains that wound
among a maze of rare, exotic flowers and plants. Standing, he made
what appeared to be apologies to those at his table and moved toward
the gardens.

Ted Casselman had asked Cotten to observe, and that's what she
intended to do. "Be right back," she whispered to Vanessa as she stood
and headed through the sea of tables toward the gardens. Following
Wingate on a parallel course, keeping the candidate over her left shoulder about a hundred feet away, she entered the spider-webbed
paths that weaved among fountains, pools, and cascades. Although the
gardens were lit, much of it was torchlight throwing flickering patches
of light at her feet and reflecting off the sculptures and decorative urns
along the path. Passing through a double grotto, Cotten entered the
high-walled Secret Garden, a private place where Deering family
members were known to retreat from the formality of the main house.
It was the same garden where in 1987, millions of television viewers
around the world watched as Pope John Paul II and President Ronald
Reagan met during the Pontiff's first visit to America.

Catching glimpses of Wingate, Cotten was able to keep up with
him. Delicate lighting hidden among the surrounding hedges and
vines gave the scene a van Gogh, Night With Stars, appearance.

As Cotten watched from the shadows, Wingate stopped at a small
circle of limestone benches surrounding a Florentine fountain with
stone fish jumping and spraying streams from their mouths. He came
face-to-face with a man dressed in street clothes, not the formal attire
of the evening. The man handed Wingate what Cotten thought was a
business card. The candidate held it up to catch the light and read it.
They spoke for a few moments-Cotten getting the impression through
their gestures and body language that the discussion was heated. Over
the white noise of the fountain, she thought she caught a fragment of an
argument. At one point, Wingate stabbed his finger toward the man's
face, then pitched the card at him like a Frisbee. It whirled on the air for
a moment before cart-wheeling to the ground.

Wingate turned and moved hastily down the path, back toward
the villa. The stranger watched Wingate leave, waiting a few minutes
before leaving.

Once the crunching of his steps along the gravel path faded, Cotten snatched up the business card. She stole a quick look at it, then
fell in behind the unknown man, keeping her distance. He moved briskly to the central courtyard, the reception area, out through the
mansion's front entrance, and into a waiting limousine.

Cotten stood on the steps until the black limousine's taillights
vanished before she headed back to the dinner.

"Are you all right?" Vanessa asked as Cotten slipped into the seat
beside her. "I was getting worried."

"I'm fine." Cotten dropped the card into her small sequined
handbag. "Just making some business contacts. Did I miss anything?"

"Only Chris Matthews from MSNBC. Very cool guy. He actually
stopped and said hello. Other than that, just a couple of boring politicians giving some speeches." Vanessa nodded toward the stage and
podium. "Your guy disappeared for a while, but he's back and about
to make his case."

Cotten watched Robert Wingate thank the state senator who
introduced him.

"Good evening, my friends of the press," Wingate said after stepping up to the microphone. "I can't tell you how happy I am to be
here on such a glorious night in South Florida."