The Newsmakers (20 page)

Erica stands. “I better get to work.”

“There is one thing, Erica,” Nylan says. “I appreciate your journalistic instincts, and the investigative reporting you've done on the Barrish case. But you're more valuable to us on-air, behind a desk, than you are down in the weeds of Juarez or anyplace else. We need you pulling stories together, making sense of disparate information, putting field reports in context. In a word: anchoring.”

“Nylan, I'm more than a news reader. I'm a
journalist
.”

“I realize and respect that.” He looks at her, his eyelids lowered to half-mast in an almost seductive gesture. Uh-oh. “But your value is dependent on your stature. Having you report from the slums of Juarez is not consistent with being the global face of GNN. We have field reporters to do that.” He smiles, and this smile feels like ice. “Are we on the same page?”

Erica hesitates. The last thing she wants is to be stuck behind a desk for the next three years. She needs to be out there, covering stories on the ground, searching for the truth. But there's no way she's going to walk away from the financial independence and the level of power she's being offered. She'll be able to get custody of Jenny, buy them a beautiful apartment, put Jenny in private school, give her every advantage of a privileged Manhattan childhood. Erica has to pick her battles carefully. She's willing to acquiesce on this one. For now. “Yes, we're on the same page.”

As she rides down in the elevator, Erica tries to digest what just happened. She feels like she both got the biggest break of her career
and
was cut off at the knees. Nylan basically told her to stop her investigation—and there was an implied
or else
. What would that
or else
be? Erica feels her throat tighten. Billionaires really do make their own rules. Erica pulls out her phone to call Moira. Then she remembers she's being watched.

CHAPTER 45

AS ERICA CABS DOWN TO
Beth Israel, she takes out her prepaid and makes the call to Moira.

“Hey, Moira, I was just offered a prime-time show and a three-year contract at three million per.”

Moira hollers so loud that Erica moves the phone away from her ear. “Baby, I am
so
proud of you.”

“Hey, thanks, and I mean it when I say it wouldn't have happened without you. You reached down and picked me up when I needed it most. You're the best friend I've ever had.”

“Can you lend me a hundred K?”

“At 15 percent.”

“This calls for a celebration.”

“Let's hold off until the ink is dry. Listen, can you do me a big favor?”

“Name it.”

“Can you see what you can find out about Fred Wilmot? He's our chief visionary officer.”

“Sure. Why the interest?”

“There's something cold and . . .
scary
about him. What do you make of Yanez's death?”

“It feels like gang work to me. The stolen rental car MO is popular with Hispanic gangs out here, and they've used the desert as a dumping ground before.”

“Why would a gang want to kill him?”

“Follow the money.”

“So you think they were paid?”

“Absolutely. Whoever engineered Barrish's murder is smart.
Very
smart. I'm sure they put at least four or five layers between themselves and the crime. Yanez was the first layer, whoever killed him is the second layer. This is going to be a tough onion to peel.”

“There's no way I'm letting go.”

“Erica, you don't sound like a woman who has just scored a life-changing triumph.”

“Moira, Hastings and Wilmot want me to stay behind the desk, stop field reporting. I feel like they want to muzzle me, use me almost as a figurehead. They ran focus groups on me without telling me. And there's something very . . .
bizarre
about Nylan Hastings. The network has this secretive cyber department. He seems power crazed.”

“Why would they want to muzzle a reporter as talented as you?”

The question hangs there.

“Talk soon,” Erica says as the cab pulls up to the hospital. As she rides up in the elevator, she thinks,
Until my show debuts I'm still a field reporter—it may be time for another trip out to LA.

CHAPTER 46

ERICA WALKS INTO MARK
'
S ROOM
at Beth Israel to find him asleep. He looks better—the bandage around his skull is smaller, his bruising is less livid, and he has come out of his coma. Erica gently touches his hand. His eyes slowly open. It takes him a few beats to register where he is. Then he focuses on Erica and a small smile forms. He looks beautiful in that moment.

“Hey, buddy,” Erica says.

Mark opens his mouth and struggles to speak. He finally chokes out a barely audible “H-hi there.”

“You look so much better, my friend.” That sweet smile again. “How are you feeling?” He thinks about it for a moment and then nods. “Dr. Kaminer tells me you're going to be moving to rehab in a couple of days. That's
great
news. He said your progress is slow and steady, which is the best kind.”

Mark looks as if he has suddenly remembered something. His brow furrows, he seems to grow agitated. He opens his mouth and struggles to speak, but he can't form the words.

“Mark, what is it?”

He's working so hard to talk, and the inability is frustrating him. He looks like he might start crying.

“Take it easy, take it easy, my friend.” With his eyes he implores Erica to come closer. She leans down. “What is it? Do you want to tell me something about the ferry crash?”

His eyes open wide and he nods his head. Again he opens his mouth but can't find speech. Then finally he manages a few slurred words that sound like “nice till.” He repeats it, only this time it sounds like “nasal.” What sense does that make?

Mark shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, marshals his strength, and slowly, unmistakably articulates, “Not ISIL.”

“Not ISIL? The ferry crash wasn't the work of ISIL?”

Mark nods. Then he sighs, exhausted from saying the two words, closes his eyes, and falls back on the pillow.

On the sidewalk outside the hospital Erica calls Detective George Samuels.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“Have you made any progress on the attack on Mark Benton?”

“We have a person of interest. The surveillance camera at the Sheridan Square subway station recorded a man entering the station at 5:41 that morning, which is consistent with the time of the attack. He was wearing a cap that obscured his face, but he was definitely furtive and in a hurry, and he was carrying a computer case that matches Benton's.”

“How do we find him?”

“We're in the process of enlarging and enhancing the camera footage. When we can see his face more clearly, we'll have an artist draw a full rendering and then we can start publicizing it and looking for a match in our databases.”

“Keep me posted.”

“I have a question for you. Do you know why anyone would want to attack Benton?”

“He was helping me investigate the Staten Island ferry crash. He was tracing the source of the hackers who froze the ferry's computers.”

“The ferry investigation was over when he was attacked. ISIL claimed responsibility and we took out their capability.”

“They
claimed
responsibility. It hasn't been
proven
. Mark told me today that ISIL didn't do it.”

“What, does he have magic powers?”

“No, but he understands hacking.”

“So does my ten-year-old son.”

“Mark Benton not only understands it, he can
do
it. There's a big difference. Look, I'm handing you the motive and you're giving me a hard time.”

“Ms. Sparks, I'm paid to be skeptical.”

“So am I. So let's work together. Mark called me the night before he was attacked—he'd found something out and he didn't want to tell me on the phone. He asked me to meet him at Starbucks the next morning. He didn't show up. Put it together. And call me Erica.”

There's a pause. “It's certainly the strongest theory we've got. This was definitely not a random attack. So it was carried out, or at least ordered, by whoever
did
sabotage the ferry. Does Benton have any theories on who that might be?”

“He has more information. But speech is very difficult for him. He's getting a little stronger every day. Listen, is there any chance we could get a police guard stationed outside his room?”

“As of now, this is just a mugging. There's no way the department is going to pay for a guard. I'll go see him tomorrow.”

“Let me know if you learn anything. And please light a fire under the folks who are enhancing the subway footage.”

Erica hangs up and steps off the curb to hail a cab. The traffic is fierce but flowing, there are surges of people on the sidewalks, in the crosswalks, there is music and honking and yelling, the smell of asphalt and exhaust and tacos from a nearby food truck—the city feels like one great wave racing toward the future, and she's riding the wave—riding it toward the truth.

CHAPTER 47

ERICA RETURNS TO HER OFFICE
to find a bouquet of red roses on her desk. The card reads:
You just keep blooming—Your GNN family.

Erica fingers one of the roses and leans down to smell it—suddenly a huge water bug crawls out from the petals and onto her hand. “Yuck!” She shakes it to the floor, where it scuttles away. Then another bug appears on the flowers, and then a third—it's crawling with them. Erica grabs the vase and runs down to the ladies' room, where she dumps the whole thing in the toilet. The blood-red roses are surrounded by a swarm of flailing water bugs. Erica flushes the toilet and watches the petals and bugs swirl round and round and then get sucked down into the pipes. Nothing remains but the bare, thorny stems. She shudders.

As Erica walks back down the hall, fighting to slow her heart rate, she thinks,
Someone wants me off balance and on edge. Makes me easier to control.
Then she feels anger rising like a tonic in her veins.
You're not going to stop me.

Back in her office, Erica calls down to building maintenance and reports the rose stems, casually, joking. “It was an only-in-New-York moment.”

Then she gets a call from Greg. “Any chance of dinner tonight?”

“That would be nice.”

“My place? At seven?”

Erica has a moment of wondering whether she's ready to be alone with Greg in his apartment. She trusts him—but she's not sure that she trusts herself. It's been a long time since she's been with a man and Greg is so kind and she craves being held, touched, shutting off her overactive mind and imagination and letting go.

Oh, Erica, grow up. You sound like some lovestruck coed who's taken one too many poetry classes. You and Greg are both adults. You can handle a simple dinner.

“Your place at seven sounds perfect.” Erica hangs up and immediately wonders what she should wear.

Paul Elliot, the network's lead producer of promos and teasers, knocks on her open door, carrying a laptop. “I've got a rough cut of the first promo for
The Erica Sparks Effect
.”

Elliot plays the thirty-second spot. It opens with the footage of Kay Barrish collapsing and Erica giving her CPR, cuts to the ferry crash, and then goes to a series of quick cuts of Erica reporting various other stories. As pulsing music plays underneath, the breathless male announcer says: “The
New York Times
calls her ‘the most exciting new face in network news.' The
Washington Post
says, ‘Sparks is setting new standards of excellence.' And Huffington Post raves that ‘Sparks leaps off the screen with a rare combination of charm and smarts.' Don't miss
The Erica Sparks Effect
, debuting on June 15 on GNN.”

Erica puts her imaginary helmet on—the one that keeps her head from swelling. “Nice work, Paul.”

“I got a call from Nylan this morning—he put a rush on it. It's going to start airing tonight. He also wants a camera to trail you at the White House Correspondents' Dinner—he wants footage of you with the movie stars.”

Paul leaves, and Erica calls Nancy Huffman. “Do you have a couple of minutes you could spare?”

Erica steps into her large walk-in closet and checks out the clothes. They're arranged by piece and by color—rows of dresses, separates,
shelves of sweaters and pullovers, racks of shoes, a dresser filled with scarves and hose and topped by an array of purses and accessories, a jewelry box filled with bracelets, necklaces, and her clip-on earrings. There's also a red-leather ottoman. It may not be
Real Housewives
ostentatious, but it's all pretty drool-worthy. Looking at it, Erica feels some guilt—she knows how many girls and women in the world would be thrilled with a tiny fraction of her bounty.

Nancy appears, looking divine in the world's crispest white shirt worn over loden-green leggings and black sandal heels. How does she make it look so effortless?

“Fashion panic. What should I wear to a sorta-maybe but not-too romantic dinner?”

“Erica, you'd look great in a potato sack. Cinched with the right belt, of course.”

“You pick the belt and I'll find the sack.”

“Is this restaurant or home?”

“Home.”

“His or yours?”

“His.”

“Okay, you're on his turf, so you want to up the armor quotient just a tad. I'd recommend slacks . . .” She walks into the closet and pulls a pair of fitted black slacks that have just a hint of shimmer. “Silk blouse . . .” She pulls a Caribbean-blue blouse. “Last pedi?”

“Three days ago.”

“Good.” She pulls a pair of metallic-silver sandals. Then she opens the jewelry box and chooses a pair of simple sterling circle earrings with a single blue topaz in the center. She holds the ensemble up for Erica—everything just
works.
And Erica's confidence about the evening soars.