Private Scandals (26 page)

“And we have a new goal. One we’re all going to concentrate on.” She paused, waiting until she could skim her gaze over each face. “We’re going to knock
Angela’s
out of the number-one spot within a year.” She held up a hand to stop the spontaneous applause. “I want everyone to start thinking about ideas for remotes. We need to start taking this show on the road. I want sexy locations, funny locations. I want the exotic, and I want Main Street, USA.”

“Disney World,” Fran suggested.

“New Orleans, for Mardi Gras,” Cassie put in, and lifted her shoulders. “I always wanted to go.”

“Check it out,” Deanna ordered. “I want six doable locations. I want all the topic ideas we have cooking on my desk by the end of the day. Cassie, make a list of all the personal appearance requests I’ve got and accept them.”

“How many?”

“All of them. Fit them into my schedule. And put in a call to Loren Bach.” She sat back and rested her palms on the surface of the desk. “Let’s get to work.”

“Deanna.” Simon stepped forward as the others filed out. “Can I have a minute?”

“Just,” she said, and smiled. “I want to get started on this campaign.”

He stood stiffly in front of her desk. “I know it might take you a little time to replace me, and that you’d like a smooth transition. I’ll hand in my resignation whenever you want.”

Deanna was already drawing a list on a legal pad in front of her. “I don’t want your resignation, Simon. I want you to use that wily brain of yours to put me on top.”

“I screwed up, Dee. Big time.”

“You trusted a friend.”

“A competitor,” he corrected. “God knows how many shows I sabotaged by opening my big mouth. Shit, Dee, I was bragging, playing ‘My job’s bigger than your job.’ I wanted to needle him because it was the only way I could stick it to Angela.”

“I’m giving you another way.” She leaned forward, eyes keen. She felt the power in her now, and she would use it, she knew, to finish what Angela had begun. “Help me knock her out of the top slot, Simon. You can’t do that if you resign.”

“I can’t figure why you’d trust me.”

“I had a pretty good idea where the leak had come from. Simon, I spent enough time around here to know you and Lew were tight.” She spread her fingers. “If you hadn’t told me, you wouldn’t have had to offer to resign. I’d have fired you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “So I admit to being a jerk and I keep my job.”

“That about sums it up. And I expect, because you’re feeling like one, you’ll work even harder to put me on top.”

More than a little dazed, he shook his head. “You picked up a few things from Angela after all.”

“I got what I needed,” she said shortly. She snatched up her phone when it buzzed. “Yes, Cassie?”

“Loren Bach on one, Deanna.”

“Thanks.” She let her finger hover over the button as she glanced back at Simon. “Are we straight on this?”

“As an arrow.”

She waited until the door shut behind Simon, then drew in a deep breath. “Loren,” she said when she made the connection. “I’m ready to go to war.”

In the cold, gloomy hours of a February morning, Lew kissed his wife goodbye. She stirred sleepily, and gave his cheek a pat before snuggling under the down quilt for another thirty-minute nap.

“Chicken stew tonight,” she mumbled. “I’ll be home by three to put it on.”

Since their children had grown, each had fallen into a comfortable morning routine. Lew left his wife sleeping and went downstairs alone to eat breakfast with the early news. He winced over the weather report, though a glance out the window had already told him it wasn’t promising. The drive from Brooklyn Heights to the studio in Manhattan was going to be a study in frustration. He bundled into a coat, pulled on gloves, put on the Russian-style fur hat his youngest son had given him for Christmas.

The wind was up, tossing the nasty wet snow into his face, letting it sneak under the collar of his coat. It was still shy of seven, dreary enough that the streetlights still glowed. The snow muffled sound and seemed to smother the air.

He saw no one out in the tidy neighborhood but an unhappy cat scratching pitifully on his owner’s front door.

Too used to Chicago winters to complain about a February storm, Lew trudged to his car and began to clean the windshield.

He paid no attention to the fairy-tale world forming behind him. The low evergreens with their frosting of white, the pristine carpet that coated winter grass and pavement, the dancing flakes that swirled in the dull glow of the streetlamps.

He thought only of the drudgery of scraping his windshield clean, of the discomfort of snow on his collar, of the nip of the wind at his ears. Of the traffic he had yet to face.

He heard his name called, softly, and turned to peer through the driving snow.

For a moment he saw nothing but white and the snow-smothered beam of light from the streetlamp.

And then he saw. For just an instant, he saw.

The shotgun blast struck him full in the face, cartwheeling his body over the hood of his car. From down the block a dog began to bark in high, excited yips. The cat streaked away to hide in a snow-coated juniper.

The echo of the shot died quickly, almost as quickly as Lew McNeil.

“That was for Deanna,” the killer whispered, and drove slowly away.

When Deanna heard the news a few hours later, the shock of it overshadowed the envelope she’d found on her desk. It said simply:

Deanna, I’ll always be there for you.

D
eanna lounged in Finn’s big tub with steaming water whirling and pulsing around her, her eyes half closed and a frothy mimosa in her hand. It was the middle of a Saturday morning, and she had more than an hour before Tim O’Malley, her driver, would be by to pick her up for an appearance in Merrillville, Indiana.

She felt as lazy and smug as a cat curled in a sunbeam.

“What are we celebrating?”

“You’re in town; I’m in town. And not counting your afternoon across the state line today, it looks like it could stay that way for a week.”

From the opposite end of the tub, Finn watched her tension ease, degree by degree. She’d been wound tight as a spring for weeks. Longer, he thought, sipping the icy drink. Even before Lew McNeil’s random and senseless murder, she’d been a bundle of nerves. In the weeks following Lew’s death her feelings had shifted from remorse to anger to guilt to frustration over a man who had done his best to sabotage her show for his own ends.

Or Angela’s ends, Finn theorized.

But now she smiled, and her eyes were heavy with pleasure. “Things have been a little chaotic lately.”

“You flying off to Florida, me chasing presidential
candidates from state to state. Both of us trying to put together a show with press and paparazzi dogging our heels.” He shrugged, rubbing his foot up and down her slick, slippery leg.

It hadn’t been easy for anyone on her staff, or his, to work with the continued and pesky attention the media had focused on their relationship. For reasons neither of them could fathom, they had become the couple of the year. Just that morning, Deanna had read about her wedding plans in a tabloid some helpful soul had tucked under the front doormat.

All in all it made her uneasy, unsure and far too distracted.

“Do you call that chaotic?” Finn asked, and drew her attention back.

“You’re right, just another day in the simple life.” Her sigh was long and sumptuous. “And at least we’re getting things done. I really liked your show on Chicago’s decaying infrastructure, even if it did make me start to worry that the streets are going to crumble under my car.”

“Everything was there—panic, comedy, half-crazed city officials. Still, it wasn’t as gripping as your interview with Mickey and Minnie Mouse.”

One eye opened. “Watch it, pal.”

“No, really.” His grin was wicked. “You’ve got America talking. What kind of relationship do they have, and what part does Goofy play in it? These burning questions need to be answered—and who knows, it might help take some of the heat off us?”

“We were dealing with American traditions,” she shot back. “On the need for entertainment and fantasy, and the enormous industry that fuels it. Which is every bit as relevant as watching politicians sling insults at each other. More,” she said, gesturing with her glass. “People need some mode of escape, particularly during a recession. You do your shows on global warming and the socioeconomic troubles in the former Soviet Union, Riley. I’ll stick with the everyday issues that affect the average person.”

He was still grinning at her. Deanna took a sip of her mimosa and scowled at him. “You’re riding me on purpose.”

“I like the way your eyes get dark and edgy.” He set his glass aside so that he could slide forward and lay his body over hers. Water sloshed lazily over the lip of the tub. “And you get this line right here”—he rubbed his thumb between her brows—“that I get to smooth away.”

His free hand was busy smoothing something else. “Some might say you’re a sneaky bastard, Finn.”

“Some have.” He nipped at her lips. “Others will. And speaking of Mickey and Minnie.” His hands cruised over her hot, soft skin.

“Were we?”

“I was wondering if we can compare our relationship to theirs. Undefined and long-term.”

While the jets of water frothed around them and between them, she stroked a hand through his damp hair. It felt so good to be here, to know that at any moment the comforting heat could erupt into explosive heat. “I can define it: We’re two people who love each other, who enjoy each other, who want to be with each other.”

“We could be with each other more if you’d move in with me.”

It was a subject they’d discussed before. And one they had been unable to resolve. Deanna pressed her lips to his shoulder. “It’s easier for me to have my own place when you’re away.”

“I’m here more than I’m gone these days.”

“I know.” Her lips slid up his throat as she tried to distract him. “Give me some time to work it out in my head.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to trust your impulses, Deanna, your instincts.” His mouth met hers, tasting of frustration and desire. He knew if he pushed, she’d agree, but his instinct warned him not to rush her. “I can wait. Just don’t make me wait too long.”

“We can give it a trial run.” Her blood was pulsing as frantically as the bubbling water. “I’ll move some things in, stay here through next week.”

“I’ll make it hard for you to leave again.”

“I bet you will.” She smiled, pushing his hair back, framing his face. “I’m so in love with you, Finn. You can believe that. And I swear, the rumors about me and Goofy are all lies. We’re just friends.”

He tipped her head back so that her body slipped farther into the water. “I don’t trust the long-eared son of a bitch.”

“I just used him to make you jealous—though he does have a certain guileless charm I find strangely appealing.”

“You want charm? Why don’t I—damn.” Finn tossed his wet hair back and reached for the tubside phone. “Hold that thought,” he told her. “Yeah, Riley.”

Deanna was considering several interesting ways to distract him when she saw the change in his face. The water shifted and slopped over as he climbed from the tub to reach for a towel.

“Get Curt,” he said, dripping as he slung the towel around his waist. “And contact Barlow James. I want a full crew, a mobile unit on the spot five minutes ago. I’ll be at the site in twenty minutes.” He swore, not so lightly, under his breath. “You can if I tell you that you can.”

“What is it?” Deanna turned off the tub and rose. Water streamed from her as she shook out a towel. She already knew he was leaving.

“There’s a hostage situation over in Greektown.” With a quick flick of the wrist, he turned on the television even as he headed into the bedroom to drag on clothes. “It’s bad. Three people are already dead.”

She shivered once. Then as quick, as brisk as he, she reached for her robe. She wanted to tell him she’d go with him. But of course she couldn’t. There were several hundred people waiting for her in the ballroom of an Indiana hotel.

Why was she so cold? she wondered as she bundled hurriedly into her robe. He was already tucking a shirt into his slacks, as calmly as a man going to his office to work on tax forms. He’d survived air raids and earthquakes. Surely a skirmish in Greektown was nothing to worry about.

“You’ll be careful.”

He grabbed a tie, a jacket. “I’ll be good.” As she reached into the closet for the suit she’d chosen for her afternoon appearance, he spun her around for a kiss. “I’ll probably be back before you.”

The worst kind of war was one with no front lines or battle plans. It was fueled on anger and fear and the blind need to destroy. The once-tidy restaurant with its pretty, striped awning and sidewalk tables was destroyed. Shards from the broken window sparkled like scattered gems over the sidewalk, The flap of the awning in the raw spring wind was smothered by the static-filled drone of police radios. Reporters held back by barricades swarmed like hungry wolves.

There was another volley of gunshots from inside. And a long, terrified scream.

“Jesus.” Sweat popped out on Curt’s brow as he held the camera steady. “He’s killing them.”

“Get a shot of that cop there,” Finn ordered. “The one with the bullhorn.”

“You’re the boss.” Curt focused in on a cop in a neon orange trench coat with a hangdog face and graying hair. Amid the screams and shouts, the weeping, the bitter threats and curses from inside the restaurant, the steely-eyed cop continued to talk in a soothing monotone.

“Pretty cool customer,” Curt observed, then at a signal from Finn shifted, crouched to get a shot of the SWAT team taking position.

“Cool enough,” Finn agreed. “If he keeps at it, they might not need the sharpshooters. Keep rolling. I’m going to see if I can work my way over and find out who he is.”

The ballroom was filled to capacity. From where Deanna sat on the raised dais, she could see all three hundred and fifty people who had come to hear her talk about women in broadcasting. She was going to give them their money’s worth. She’d gone over her notes thoroughly once again on the drive from Chicago, letting her concentration lapse only when she
caught a glimpse of Finn on the limo’s television.

He was, as Barlow James would say, in his element. And, it seemed, she was in hers.

She waited through the flattering introduction, through the applause that followed it, then rose and walked to the podium. She scanned the room, smiled.

“Good afternoon. One of the first things we learn in broadcasting is that we work weekends. Since we are, I hope to make the next hour as entertaining as it is informative. That, to me, is television, and I’ve found it a very satisfying way to make a living. It occurred to me that as you are professionals, you wouldn’t have much opportunity to watch daytime TV, so I’m hoping to convince you to set your VCRs Monday morning. We’re on at nine here in Merrillville.”

That earned Deanna her first chuckle, and set the tone for the next twenty minutes, until her speech segued into a question-and-answer period.

One of the first questioners asked if Finn Riley had accompanied her.

“I’m afraid not. As we all know, one of the boons, and the curses, of this business is the breaking story. Finn’s reporting on one right now, but you can catch him on
In Depth
Tuesday nights. I always do.”

“Miss Reynolds, how do you feel about the fact that looks have become as much a part of the criteria for on-air jobs as credentials?”

“I would certainly agree with network executives that television is a visual medium. To a point. I can tell you this: If in thirty years Finn Riley is still reporting, and considered a statesman, I’d not only expect but demand, as a woman, to be given the same respect.”

Finn wasn’t thinking about the future. He was too involved in the present. Using wile, guile and arrogance, he’d managed to gain a position beside the hostage negotiator, Lieutenant Arnold Jenner. Jenner still held the bullhorn but had taken a short break in his appeal to his quarry to release the hostages.

“Lieutenant, the word I’ve gotten here is that Johnson—that’s his name, isn’t it, Elmer Johnson?”

“It’s the one he answers to,” Jenner said mildly.

“He has a history of depression. His VA records—”

“You wouldn’t have access to his medical records, Mr. Riley.”

“Not directly.” But he had contacts, and he’d used them. “My take on this is that Johnson served in the military and has been troubled since his discharge in March of last year. Last week he lost his wife and his job.”

“You’re well informed.”

“I get paid to be. He went into this restaurant at just past ten this morning—that’s about three hours ago—armed with a forty-four Magnum, a Bushmaster, a gas mask and a carbine. He shot and killed two waiters and a bystander, then took five hostages, including two women and a twelve-year-old girl, the owner’s daughter.”

“Ten,” Jenner said wearily. “The kid’s ten. Mr. Riley, you do good work, and usually I enjoy it. But my job right now is to get those people out of there alive.”

Finn glanced over, noting the position of the sharpshooters. They wouldn’t wait much longer. “What are his demands? Can you tell me that?”

It hardly mattered, Jenner decided. There had been only one, and he hadn’t been able to meet it. “He wants his wife, Mr. Riley. She left Chicago four days ago. We’re trying to locate her, but we haven’t had any luck.”

“I can get it on the air. If she catches a bulletin, she may make contact. Let me talk to him. I might be able to get him to bargain if I tell him I’ll put all my people on it.”

“You that desperate for a story?”

Insults were too common in his line of work for Finn to take offense. “I’m always ready to bargain for a story, Lieutenant.” His eyes narrowed as he measured the man beside him. “Look, the kid’s ten. Let me try.”

Jenner believed in instinct, and he also knew, without a doubt, that he couldn’t hold the situation from flash point much longer. After a moment, he handed Finn the bullhorn.
“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.”

“Mr. Johnson. Elmer. This is Finn Riley. I’m a reporter.”

“I know who you are.” The voice came out, a high-pitched shriek through the broken glass. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“You were in the Gulf, right? I was too.”

“Shit. You figure that makes us buddies?”

“I figure anybody who did time over there’s already been to hell.” The awning flapped, reminding him of the road to Kuwait, and the sparkle of pink sequins. “I thought maybe we could make a deal.”

“There ain’t no deal. My wife gets here, I let them go. She doesn’t, we’re all going to hell. For real.”

“The cops have been trying to reach her, but I thought we could put a new spin on it. I’ve got a lot of contacts. I can get your story national, put your wife’s picture on television screens from coast to coast. Even if she isn’t watching, someone who knows her is bound to be. We’ll put a number on, a special number where she can call in. You can talk to her, Elmer.”

That was good, Jenner decided, even as he braced to rip the bullhorn from Finn’s hands if the need arose. Using his first name, offering him not only hope but a few minutes of fame. His superiors might not approve, but Jenner thought it could work.

“Then do it!” Johnson shouted out. “Just fucking do it.”

“I’ll be glad to, but I can’t unless you give something back. Just let the little girl come out, Elmer, and I’ll plug your story across the country within ten minutes. I can even fix it so you can get a message to your wife. In your own words.”