The Concealers (27 page)

She'd jotted herself a note that she wanted to call Alice and ask her if she would share her scrapbook.

“Hi, Alice. It's Katherine Kelly. Hope I'm not calling you too early.”

“Hello, my dear. I've been up for two hours. It's good to hear your voice. How are you and Hailey doing?”

“I'm doing well. Hailey's wistful. I think she's in love with Buck.”

Alice laughed. “They all feel that way. She'll get over it. How's the reporting going?”

“I've been writing obituaries, filler for the Web, local interest stories—a school board member arrested for drunk driving, the firing of a local police sergeant—that sort of thing. I've also written several local bank stories, but my editor is sitting on them.”

“Oh, dear. That must bother you so. I'm sure it takes time.”

“I'm calling to ask if you would be willing to lend me your scrapbook—you know, the one about your bank situation in Braydon?”

“Of course. I'd be pleased for it to have some practical use. And I've found some pictures of Joe I think you'd like—Joe and Harry fishing in Joe's boat, a picture of Joe and Corey in Corey's shop, and a picture Harry sent me of Joe . . . which is so special. I'll send them along in the package.”

“Thank you, Alice.”

“Before you hang up, I'd like to tell you a little story if you have time.”

“Absolutely.”

“This came to mind when you told me about your reporting. Fishermen are always worried about the weather, always talking about it. No one wants to be caught in a storm. But how will you know when it comes? The joke around here used to be, ‘It starts when you say no to Joe.' You remind me of him.”

“Thank you for telling me that, Alice. It says a lot about Joe—his reach. I'm flattered that you think that I remind you of him in any way. And thank you for sending the package along.”

“You're welcome, my dear. Give Hailey a kiss for me, and tell her Buck gives her a tail wag. Keep writing and good luck.”

The point Alice was making was not lost on Katherine, who marveled at Alice's light touch and sensitivity. What a gracious woman. She had to find a way to help her.

Katherine reviewed her strategic plan for the bank stories, mindful that she had to maintain strong focus on the coverage area for
Twin Forks Press
. So far, her first five stories fit—at least, to her way of thinking.

She felt she had plenty of room to drill deeper into those stories, given the broad scope of the wrongdoing of Hamptons Bank alone. Material false entries on the books, reports, and statements. Overvaluation of the assets supported by artificial appraisals and flipping of the real estate. Unqualified investors. Inadequate review of borrowers' financial condition and capacity. The list went on and on. It was criminally and civilly wrong.

And the problem wasn't limited to Suffolk and Nassau counties. It was all over the country. The damage was an equal-opportunity provider—leaving a big wake.

What Katherine needed now was for her stories to reach Chip Reider from Long Island's first congressional district, and Brian Quinn from the second district. One was a Democrat and the other a Republican, and each had a long history of respected service to his constituents. Moreover, Quinn was on the House committee for financial services and had been an outspoken critic of the failure to aggressively go after the wrongdoings of the bank. Neither would be insensitive to the local outcry that Katherine hoped would result if her stories were ever published.

Katherine completed the week's obituaries, fine-tuned her local-interest stories, and developed several more stories to meet
Twin Forks
' website demand. As soon as those tasks were completed, she continued her research.

Alice was right.

“Good morning, Chuck,” Katherine said. “How are you this bright and cheery morning?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Fine, as well, and ready for the list.”

“Sol would like for you and me to have a word with him before I do that. He's waiting for us in his office.”

Katherine had gotten used to the chilly nature of their discussions, and the unaccustomed warmth of Chuck's tone, genuine or synthetic, was beginning to make her sweat. She followed Chuck into Sol's office, realizing just how tall the man was. He'd been seated every time she'd talked to him. She hoped she hadn't underestimated him in other ways.

Sol directed them to the round table, and they all sat.

“Good morning,” Sol said. He retrieved a stack of papers piled on the floor and laid them on the table. “I have here five stories written by Katherine: First, a story about tellers and others who after years of experience with Hamptons Bank were terminated when CCB took over. Second, a piece on FDIC's ten-million-dollar suit against the Hamptons Bank officers and board members for failing to follow sound policy in lending. Third, an article about a group of Southampton citizens who invested in Hamptons Bank only to lose their life savings when it failed. Fourth, a piece on the fall of Henry Wilkins, former president and CEO of Hamptons Bank, who was named U.S. Banking Industries' Community Banker of the Year in 2007 and now facing a possible lifetime in prison. And fifth, an account of Henry Wilkins refuting the charges.” Turning to Chuck, he said, “I assume you've read these.”

“Yes.”

“Did you like them?”

“I thought they were interesting and well written, but not a good fit for our reader base. Not the kind of local interest stories we write. Not only are they not relevant, but they're too long, they're overly comprehensive, and they exceed our capacity. It's not what we do.”

“And that's why you have not assigned these stories to Katherine.”

“Precisely.”

Katherine could feel her heart pound in her chest and her blood course through her body. She willed herself to remain calm while she jotted down some notes in her pad.

Sol turned to Katherine. “Kiddo?”

Katherine looked at her notes. “It's not what we do,” she read aloud. “That to me means let's do what we've always done.” Katherine looked up at Chuck. “I'm the new kid on the block, and I've made it clear that I respect your position as editor. What I found at the root of my cost-containment study of Florida's Medicaid department was bureaucratic inertia—taking refuge in established routines. I suppose this can happen anywhere, even creep into the culture of journalism.”

“Chuck?” Sol said.

Chuck shook his head. Sol got up and looked at Chuck and Katherine. “Can I get either of you some coffee?”

Chuck nodded and Katherine shook her head. Sol went into the break room. Katherine studied her notes; Chuck studied the table. In a few minutes, Sol returned with two coffees.

Chuck looked directly at Katherine and met her assessment head-on. “I'll tell you what I think. Bureaucratic inertia—refuge in established routines—that's a lot of corporate babble. I don't even know what it means. I'm not sure you do. My focus is on local content. That's what our readers want, and that's what keeps us in business.”

Katherine felt the heat in her back rise through the back of her neck and into her head. She leaned over the table and returned Chuck's stare, wishing she were a few feet taller so she could get a few inches closer to his bulbous nose. She ran through her mind what she wanted to say to him.
You want to write about a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. I want to write about the president of a bank—a local bank—pissing on his board, his employees, his customers, his investors, and the country.

“I agree content matters and my stories are local,” she said instead. “I just don't want to miss the parade.”

“I like the stories,” Sol said. “I find them comprehensive and compelling.” He got up and paced in front of his desk, then turned to the table.

“Katherine could have gone anywhere she wanted. The reason she came here, apart from believing in me, was because she was impatient and eager to be given a real chance to show what she could do. I promised her I'd give her that chance. In fact, I told her I'd start her on a story I just broke about the FDIC closing Hamptons Bank.”

Sol stopped talking, and no one else spoke for a few beats.

Chuck broke the silence. “Okay, Katherine, consider all five stories assigned to you. They may have to be cut a bit to get them on the front page. We'll run them one a week under your name and see what happens.”

Sol addressed his editor first. “Thanks. You make the trains run around here.”

He turned to Katherine. “Anything else you want to say, kiddo?”

“Not a word,” Katherine replied, with a smile that said it all.

“I think we're done here,” Sol said.

“Hello, Missy. How are you doing?”

“That's the reason I called. I told you about our hope to have the camp open in a few months.”

“A dance studio for girls with special needs,” Preston said.

“That's where I wanted to start. The renovations in the main building were finished three weeks ago, and today we had our first classes. Fifteen girls signed up, and I divided them into three classes, five girls in each class.”

“Were you the only teacher?”

“Yes, for now.”

“How can you teach three classes?”

“Why not? I'm in good shape. Each class lasts about forty-five minutes, with a break of fifteen minutes in between.”

“Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“You had to see their faces. It was wonderful. The concept's going to work. And the mothers and grandmothers who came were ecstatic.”

“Well, I'm happy for you. How's Tommy?”

“He's right here. Hang on. I'll put him on.”

Preston heard Missy tell Tommy, “It's Preston—he's asking about you.” There was silence for about a minute.

“Tommy, are you there?” Preston asked.

“Ah, hello. Preston?” Tommy mumbled, his voice rising on the name.

“Hi, Tommy, how's it going?”

“Going good. I'm with Missy in Elko. She's doing great with the girls. Big day here.”

“Yeah, she sounds excited,” Preston said.

“We're all excited. It's a
pivotational
moment.”

Preston wanted to talk to Tommy further, but had trouble thinking of what else to say. The pause was awkward.

“You done?” Tommy asked.

“Well, no. It's good to talk to you, Tommy.”

“It don't sound good for you. Lot of dry spots. How're the ponies treating you?”

“Is Missy listening?”

“It doesn't matter, Preston. You can't hide forever. People bet and people know. There's a guy in Vegas that's been checking on you.”

Suddenly Preston was interested in the conversation. “What? Who? Why?”

“Now you sound like one of those ace reporters. All I can tell you is a friend of mine at Caesar's saw me talking to you and gave me a tip that a PI he knows was asking about you. Somebody wants to know more about you.”

“What do you think that means?”

“That somebody wants to know more about you. But don't worry. You probably know more about you than he does.”

“I'm not borrowing to cover anymore.”

“You do what you do.”

Preston decided to change the subject. “My daughter, Katherine, is doing well. She got a job as a reporter with a weekly newspaper on Long Island, and she's already writing stories under her name. We've been spending time together, and I'm really proud of her.”

“That's good to hear. How are things going with P.J.? I love that name.”

“Great. P.J.'s almost seventeen months, and he's walking all over the place.”

“Get to the tough stuff, Preston,” Tommy barked.

“What do you mean?”

“It's always uphill talking to you. You told me he has a hearing problem. I want to know how he's getting along. Missy mentioned hearing aids. How's that going?”

“He's got the aids. Marcia is working with him every day. He's doing better. It's hard to know where he is compared to where he should be.”

“A lot of people I know have that problem. I'm glad he's doing better. I hope you're doing all you can to help. Be
compassionated.
”

Preston chuckled. “It's always good to talk to you, Tommy.”

“Wait a minute. Missy's telling me she wants to talk to you some more. Big mistake.”

After a beat, Missy came on the phone. “How's it going with Marcia?”

“Not well—but we're still together.”

“I heard Tommy talking to you about P.J. I'm sure he'll tell me how he's doing. I hope well. And, apparently, you mentioned your daughter, too. I can't wait to hear about her. Thanks for taking the call. I just wanted to share the news from Elko. Wanted you to be the first to hear about it.”

“Thank you for calling, Missy. I haven't forgotten what you told me at breakfast, and I haven't given up on Marcia. Katherine's been a joy. Great news about the camp. I mean the dance studio. The progress.”

“Thanks, Preston, good luck and keep in touch,” Missy said, and the line went dead.

“Hi, Grandpa, are you all right?”

“Hi, Kitten. I'm fine. Have you got a minute? I hope I'm not bothering you.”

“Of course. I've always got time to time to talk to you, Grandpa.”

“I'm standing in the Rod and Gun Club with a guy who wants to say hello to you. His name is Harry Klaskowski.”

“Harry . . . on the wall Harry?”

“One and the same. Only now he's here in person. I've been bragging about you, and he wants to speak to you.”

“That's wonderful. I do want to meet him—for a lot of reasons. Please put him on.” Katherine grabbed her notepad and pen.

“Hello, Miss Kelly. Harry here. Your buttons must be popping the way your grandfather goes on about you. I'm pleased to talk to you.”

“Likewise Mr. Klaskowski. More than you know.”

“Cut out the Mr. Klaskowski stuff. It's Harry. Your grandfather and I have been friends too long. He tells me you're burning the world up as a journalist down there. Congratulations.”

“I don't know about the ‘burning the world up' part, but I am—finally—a reporter, and I love it.”

“That's great. This old coot I'm with tells me that you shot twenty for twenty-five, right here, a couple of months ago. Nice going.”

“That old coot tells me you're a state champion. Nice going to you. But I have a report for you when you're ready.”

“Go ahead. Shoot. No pun intended.”

“I spent time with a friend of yours in Braydon, South Carolina, not too long ago.”

“Really? Who?”

“A lovely lady named Alice Hawkins.”

“How in the world did you get together with Alice?”

“It's a long story, but it's a story that includes you. I bet you can figure that out.”

“You're a pistol. I can see why Adrian brags about you so much. Okay, I'll play the game. We'll see how good you are. Is it about having heart?”

“Yes it is—if you spell it H-a-r-t.”

“I'll be. You win. We have to get together.”

“I agree. Do you ever get to New York City?”

“Funny you should ask. Me and my oompah band have a gig down there a week from Saturday night. You have to come. It's at the Heidelberg Restaurant in Germantown. Do you know where that is?”

“I'll find it. Can I bring my friend Susan?”

“Sure can. Bring whoever you can. We need to pack the room.”

“I have one more person I'd like to bring if I can get him to come.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“No, my father.”

“That's not funny. Adrian told me about your father years ago.”

“I wasn't trying to be funny, Harry. It's just that the man you were told about—to my grandfather's surprise and mine—turned out not to be my father. My father is a man I think you know. His name is Preston Wilson.”

The line was silent for a few moments.

“Preston—the big-shot car dealer in New York—is your daddy?”

“That's correct. Can he still come?”

“Absolutely. As a matter of fact, I talked to your father not too long ago. He called me wanting to get together, and I told him if we ever had a gig in New York, I'd let him know. I didn't, but I should have. Thanks for helping me out.”

“Thank you. My father told me that he talked with you. He really does want to get to know you better.”

“Well, we'll see about that, but I can tell you right now, I can't wait to meet you, young lady. In fact, if you come a little early—like in the afternoon—I'll buy you lunch.”

“You're not hitting on me, are you, Harry?”

She could hear his laughter. Harry and Katherine exchanged telephone numbers.

“Your grandfather wants to talk to you again. I look forward to seeing you in New York. When you get in, you can call me on my cell. Here's your grandpa.”

“Hi, Kitten. That was a long conversation. I know you're busy. I hope I didn't do the wrong thing putting him on the phone.”

“Not at all, Grandpa. In fact, it's ironic, but I really wanted to meet him and talk to him for a lot of reasons that I'll explain to you another time. Maybe you could come down for Harry's gig and stay with me.”

“I'd love to, Kitten, but I need to look after your mom and take care of things up here. When you get a chance, give me a call.”

“I will. I love you Grandpa.”

“You, too,” Adrian said.

Katherine was pleased beyond words. Another of the Collectibles—and she couldn't wait to meet him.