The Newsmakers (29 page)

“She's a woman. And she has a strong Irish accent.”

“The Irish accent helps. Most brokers from abroad try to lose their accents. Except the British—high-end buyers love a British accent. Irish? Not so much. So if this woman has retained her brogue, it may be because she considers it an asset. Which means she may have a largely Irish customer base. Which means she may operate in one of the city's remaining Irish enclaves.”

“Which are?”

“There's Marine Park and Gerritsen Beach in Brooklyn, Broad Channel and Sunnyside in Queens, Woodlawn in the northern Bronx. Many of these old neighborhoods still have mom-and-pop real estate agencies. Hold on, let me do a quick search.” Madge starts typing. “I'll just get the zip codes for those neighborhoods . . . Here we go . . . Now let's do a zip code search for real estate agencies . . . Okay.” Pages start to flow out of her printer. She hands them to Erica. “Here you go.”

Erica looks down at the list of about two-dozen agencies. “Madge, if you ever want to switch careers, let me know. My show is hiring researchers.”

Madge smiles in bemusement. “I'm not sure you could meet my quote.”

“I'm sure we couldn't. I can't thank you enough.”

“My pleasure. And your request was easy. I've had clients ask me to babysit.”

“Don't give me any ideas.”

Back at her office, Erica starts working her way down the list. When she tells them she's interested in investing in a small apartment building, most tell her they have none listed. And the two agents that do have buildings also have New York accents. It's drudgework and she's beginning to wonder if maybe she's barking up the wrong list. She reaches the last neighborhood, Woodlawn in the Bronx. She calls Celtic Home Realty.

“Welcome to Celtic Home, your home away from the homeland,” says a woman with a lilting Irish accent that she's milking for all it's worth.

Erica sits up straight, suddenly alert and focused. “Hi, my name is Erica Sparks.”

“Now why does that name ring a bell?”

“You may have seen me on television.”

“I'm not a big one for television, but never mind that. I'm Fiona Connor. How can I help you today?”

“I'm thinking of investing in some real estate. I know how strong the rental market is, and I'm considering a small apartment house.”

“Well, you've come to the right place. I've got a nice little apartment building, eight units, been in the same family for forty-two years, maintained with great Irish pride. Would you like to schedule an appointment?”

“I would, yes. Does tomorrow morning work for you?”

After the call, Erica feels restless and out of sorts. She gets up and paces, goes to the window—down below rush hour is starting and thousands of workers are pouring out of office buildings and joining the throngs on the already crowded streets in a great surging wave of humanity. The sight only exacerbates her loneliness. She feels like there's a piece missing from her essential self, that no matter what she does or how far she travels, something is
off
, that her family's sickness and depravity and self-sabotage is hardwired into her DNA.

And then there's her fear, which has grown constant—sitting still has become difficult, getting to sleep has become a nightly battle. In the long, dark hours she falls prey to terrifying thoughts, horrible scenarios—many involving Jenny being harmed. She feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to see her daughter. She picks up her phone.

Dirk answers. “Hello, Erica.”

“Hi, Dirk. How are you?”

“Pretty well. Linda and I are engaged.” Is there an edge of gloating in his voice?

“Oh. Well, that's . . . that's wonderful.”

“Yes, yes it is. Jenny will have a complete family. Which she needs at this point in her life.”

The dig hurts but Erica ignores it. “May I speak to her?”

“Hmm . . . yes. Okay.”

“I'd like to come up and see her.”

“Aren't you swamped? I saw a promo for your new show.”

“I am busy, but I'd like to see my daughter. I could fly up, just for an afternoon.”

“It took her a week to get back in the groove after her trip to New York. As I predicted, your glamorous life unsettled her. It seemed to exacerbate her insecurities.”

What a lousy thing for him to say. When they first got together, Erica confided in Dirk, told him about her childhood, about Susan, about her own insecurities and fears about motherhood. She had no role model and hoped the combination of her maternal instincts, common sense, and abiding love would guide her. She wants to be a good mother more than anything in the world, to break the chain of negligence and abuse that goes back for generations in her family. All her other success will be meaningless if she fails at that. For him to throw that in her face is a low blow. She wants to lash out at him, to defend herself, to say that Jenny seemed excited and enriched by her New York experience. But she knows that—at least for now—Dirk holds the cards.

“Well, if I come up to Massachusetts, that shouldn't be a problem. Jenny and I could go out to lunch, go to a museum, maybe do a little shopping.”

“If you take her shopping and buy her a lot of fancy things, she'll start comparing it to what I'm able to buy her.”

“Does that mean that I'm never allowed to spend money on my daughter?”

He has no answer to that question.

“Listen, Dirk, you know I'm in recovery. I haven't had a drink in over two years. I've apologized to you for my past behaviors. You told me you accepted my apologies, but I'm not so sure.”

Erica can sense him softening.

“I know you've worked hard, Erica.”

“Jenny is
our
child. Our marriage may not have worked out, but it produced a wonderful young woman we can both be proud of.”

“Yes, yes it did. Hold on, I'll get Jenny. And, yes, you can come up and see her.”

“Thank you, Dirk.” Erica waits, and in a moment Jenny comes to the phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“It's so great to hear your voice. I've missed you. How's school?”

“It's good. I had a lot of fun in New York.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. Dad doesn't like me to talk about it, but I did. I think he's jealous.”

Erica allows herself a small gloating smile. “Well, dads can be like that sometimes. But he loves you very much.”

“I like to watch you on TV in my bedroom. I like Linda okay, but she's not my real mother.”

In that moment Erica learns something new: tears can just start to flow. Without warning, without fanfare and sobs and sniffles, they just flow, like water from a spring.

“I'd like to come up and see you, hang out for a day,” she manages.

“Cool.”

They chat about this and that, easy banter, mom-and-daughter stuff, for a few more minutes. When Erica hangs up, she feels a tentative confidence. She's not an iota like her own mother. She
is
breaking the chain, the sad, sordid legacy. She's giving Jenny confidence and support and guidance. She's a real mother. She's not a fraud. She's an imperfect woman doing the best she knows how.

Erica's prepaid rings. It's Mark. She goes into the closet.

“Hey there, Mark.”

“Erica, I'm g-getting close. The f-ferry was h-hacked from somewhere in Man-hattan.”

Erica's short hairs stand up. “Do you think you'll be able to pinpoint the exact location?”

“Yes.”

Erica hangs up and starts to pace. The ferry crash has fallen off the news, but when they can identify the terrorists, Erica will be sitting on a story every bit as big as Barrish's murder. And it will be her exclusive. But the closer she gets to the truth, the more of a threat
she becomes to the perpetrators. Erica feels a sudden chill. She goes back to the closet and slips into a cardigan, hugs herself—but the chill remains. Then she closes her office door and leans against it, slowly sinking to the floor.

CHAPTER 68

THE BOAT IS ROCKING, ROCKING
slightly in the wake of a cruise ship that lumbered past filled with three thousand peons off to spend a drunken week trying to forget their crummy, meaningless lives. Nylan chuckles. People are so pathetic. He picks up the bottle of Roederer Cristal—off the teak table, handmade in Antwerp, that sits on the deck of the yacht
Universe
, handmade in the Lürssen shipyard in Bremen—and pours himself another glass. The boat, which cost $143 million to build, is only a toy. An amusement, a divertissement, a plush little ha-ha. Fun, yes, but he's after much bigger game. And he has it in his sights. He doesn't wear jewelry, but if he did, they'd all be on their knees waiting to kiss the ring and grant him three wishes—unless he wanted six: presidents, prime ministers, movie stars, popes, titans of the brave new world.
Kiss the ring. Kiss my ass. Kiss of death.

Nylan looks out at the glittering Hudson, up at the glittering Manhattan skyline. All hail! GNN has roared into the black, defying expectations. Just two years ago he founded the network from scratch and now it's in the stratosphere, the highest-rated cable news network. He's on the cover of
Fortune
and too many other magazines and websites to count, he's being begged to join consortiums developing ski
resorts in the Andes and building artificial islands in the Red Sea, he's preparing a TED Talk, publishers are clamoring for a book, Donald Trump—that bloated, orange-faced freak—wants to be his BFF. He could go on. And on—he's surfing the crest of the biggest swell in history. But he won't go on. Because tonight is about humility. Nylan looks up to the glowing night sky, to the planets and stars, and knows he's just a speck, just a wink of a blink in the ceaseless tide of eternity. How could he be anything
but
humble?

And here come Fred Wilmot and Dave Mullen walking down the dock! This night is about
them
. He loves them. No, he does. Really. They're his true friends. His soul mates. His partners. His puppets.

The two men walk across the ramp and make their way up to the aft deck. Nylan hands them each a glass of Roederer.

“To an epic night,” he toasts. They clink and sip and smile, the anticipation among them palpable, pulsing, tumescent.

“How about a little amuse-bouche to start the festivities?” Dave Mullen asks in his deeply hip drawl. In spite of his laid-back manner, he looks drawn, anxious around the edges. He takes out a small silver box, presses a button on the side, and the lid pops open—it's filled with sparkly white powder.

“That looks delicious,” Nylan says. Dave hands him a silver straw and he dips down and
snorts
and a sweet shot of ecstasy shoots through him.

But something's wrong; Fred is looking so serious. “Frederick—why the long face?” Nylan asks.

“We have a little problem. It's blonde and very inquisitive.”

“She's a temporary irritation, not a problem,” Nylan scoffs.

“A new poll came out today. She's now the second-most-admired woman in America after the First Lady.”

“So what? She's just about outlived her usefulness at this point.”

Outlived her usefulness.
Nylan loves that phrase. It has so many implications, it promises so much. Death. Death is such a beautiful thing. The finality. The removal. The power.

“That's just the thing, Nylan, I'm not sure she
has
outlived her usefulness. Her effect on ratings and social media is instantaneous. Commercial time on her show is presold for four months at 600K for thirty seconds. The money is gushing in. It's what sent us into the black. But it feels like a house of cards—if we lose her, it could all come tumbling down. We
need
her.”

Nylan hates the idea of
needing
anybody. All Nylan has ever needed is Nylan. Fred can be such a wuss sometimes. But Nylan is no fool, he's not about to shoot the messenger. “So she's as inquisitive as ever?”

“I've detected an unknown presence,” Mullen says. Then he takes a snort and then two more. His eyes are darting around. “I don't like unknown presences. They mess with my head.”

Nylan starts to pace. He can feel anger rising in his veins. And a begrudging respect for the white-trash blonde. He underestimated her. But, seriously, who does she think she's playing with? She has
no
idea.

“I have the goods on her,” Nylan says.

“I know you do, Nylan, but if we destroy her reputation, where does that leave us?”

Nylan pays Wilmot
a lot
of money to ask these tough questions. But that doesn't mean he likes to hear them. And he can't believe that boozy little trailer-trash blonde has backed him into this corner. It's time to turn on the cunning tap and let it flow.

Think
.

He
does
need her. For now. Until he can replace her. With another star. He has to make that happen. Soon.
Very
soon. That's really all he needs. Once he has another girl—and he'll find one—Erica Sparks will suffer a tragic and unfortunate death. There are so many creative ways to kill a person. Maybe a drive-by shooting as she walks to work—a single bullet to the brain. Fired by some pathetic soon-to-die lackey.

Think of the publicity her death will bring. The network will go into collective mourning, broadcast her funeral live, set up a foundation in her name that provides journalism scholarships. And then, tears
still flowing, the next GNN superstar will be introduced on a wave of sympathy and goodwill.

Nylan takes another snort. What a beautiful plan, stunning in its simplicity.

But it has to happen soon. Mullen is jittery. And Mullen never gets jittery. It's time to send Erica Sparks out in a blaze of glory. One last story that transcends even Kay Barrish's death. That cements her place in history. But what? What? Nylan's wheels start racing faster, faster,
faster.