Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Page 14

  I call the Herald-American and page Joe Bix. I am patched through to him. What Alexandra Waring told me is true. The murder weapon, Joe says, was found this morning in a sewer on Ralston Avenue. It's a handgun that was reported stolen in a burglary from a home in Southampton, Long Island, the year before.

  "Do we know why Meyers was in Castleford yet?" I ask.

  "D'Amico might know, but he's not saying. He got a ton of calls after our story ran this morning. It's great, wait until you see it. Listen, do you have anything on Crazy Pete yet? And by the way, when were you going to tell me that he was last seen sleeping over at your house again? Al's throwing a fit."

  "Don't worry about it," I say. "Anyway, Pete's tucked away in a safe house."

  There is a decided pause. "You're kidding. Who put him there?"

  "The D.A.'s office."

  He gives a low whistle. "He must know something. I think there's thirty thousand dollars in the state's whole witness pro­tection program. So where'd you get this? Your boyfriend?"

  Pang. "What does it matter?"

  "Yeah-yeah-yeah," he mutters.

  "What are you getting from your friend at Newsday?"

  "Not much at the moment," he admits.

  "Well, we need to get an inside line on the Island. I say go to Royce, better yet, go to Royce Senior—"

  "No way!" Joe says.

  "Listen to me, Al Senior used to play golf down at Augusta with that whole Locust Valley lockjaw gang. Get him on the phone to find out what people know about Meyers, his busi­ness, his government contracts, whatever. Because one of those guys will know somebody who does know, and they'll jump for Royce Senior when asked."

  "Good idea, I never even thought of that."

  I hang up and look at Chi Chi. "I don't suppose it would be possible to reach Alexandra Waring, would it?"

  "We can always try," Chi Chi says, picking up the phone. In a minute, she rings her call through to the phone next to me. Some man is holding on the other end and when I speak, he says, hang on, and then Alexandra comes on the line.

  "I don't suppose there's any chance you'd tell me how you found out about the murder weapon being found in Castleford this morning," I say.

  "Not a huge chance," she agrees. "But maybe."

  "Well, let's put it this way," I say, "might there be other in­formation available to you that we might find useful?"

  There is a knowing chuckle. "Where are you?"

  "Outside Cassy's office."

  "Let me send someone up to get you. We'll talk about it."

  Within minutes I find myself being led through the labyrinth of floors below ground to end up in the DBS newsroom, a mas­sive place—full of people and machines—that is located off the main studio that's used for the nightly broadcast. My escort points to Alexandra Waring, who is standing in the doorway of a video-editing booth, reading through some papers. She glances up and pushes off the doorway. "Hi."

  I say hi.

  I follow the anchorwoman down a long hall, through a se­curity door—activated by her handprint, for heaven's sake—­and through another labyrinth of hallways. Then we go through a door to find an older man sitting at an old-fashioned oak desk, scribbling with a pencil on paper. This, Alexandra says, is the mastermind behind the entire electronic operations of the Darenbrook Communications empire, Dr. Irwin Kessler.

  Dr. Kessler appears to be something between Sergeant Schultz on Hogan's Heroes and R2D2 in Stars Wars. I have no idea what he is explaining to me as he hands me a form that swears I will not duplicate anything in the computer banks. The paper also advises me that what I do on this computer terminal will be monitored and recorded. I sign it and Alexandra leads me to yet another room and closes the door behind us. There is one computer bank and two chairs on wheels. She gestures that I should take the one in front of the terminal, and she sits on the edge of the other chair beside me. While she does something to prime the computer for me, I look around. It's as though we are in a hermetically sealed space capsule.

  "The question is," the anchorwoman says, squinting at the screen, "what is this information worth to you?"

  "Name it," I counter.

  She glances over. "Well... " Her eyes return to the computer. "I could ask for a peek at your piece on Cassy before you turn it in." She looks at me. "Just to correct the spelling, of course." Her eyes move back to the screen.

  I consider this. "How about," I say, "I fax you a copy of the article at the same time I turn it in to Expectations?" She looks at me. "Just so you can correct the spelling with Verity and leave me out of it."

  "How about," she says, bringing up a search engine on the screen, "you fax it to me one hour before you hand it in?"

  I think about this. What do I care? Actually, I should care a lot. If Verity found out I gave anybody an early copy, she'd hit the roof. Any editor would, because it would mean the subject could descend with a team of lawyers before the story ever got on the stands. The editors want the lawyers to descend after the issue is out, the more publicity then the better. So if I say I will do this, I could kiss goodbye any future assignments from Ver­ity or anyone else.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't do it," I say, standing up. "I can't fax you a copy of anything at all."

  "I see," Alexandra says, typing "Anthony Meyers, River­head, New York" into the search engine before hitting Enter. Within seconds the screen is covered with information. "Did you know he has a younger brother, John? And that there's a missing-person report on John in Tampa, Florida?"

  "What?" I exclaim, sitting down and scooting next to her. "That's Johnny Boy," I say. "He worked for my father when he was a teenager."

  The screen goes black. "What's wrong?" I cry, looking at her.

  "We don't have a deal yet," the anchorwoman explains.

  "But what can I do? You expect me to hang myself profes­sionally?"

  "If you want to write for magazines," she says, "then why do you care so much about this murder story?"

  "Because it's news and it's my town and my beat and what the hell business is it of yours, anyway?"

  At this, she bursts out laughing. She hits a key and the screen illuminates. She gets up. "You have fifteen minutes. Study it carefully, you can't write anything down."

  I don't bother answering, there is too much to read. The data­base or whatever it is that I'm looking at is some sort of combi­nation of the wire services, credit services, the Darenbrook newspapers, affiliate station newsrooms and some kind of gov­ernment system that probably shouldn't be accessed. Not only do I have a bio on Anthony Frederick Meyers, but I have his so­cial security number, his driver's license number, a list of bank accounts, credit cards, mortgage agreements and on and on.

  A blinking line indicates breaking news, which is his murder; there is also a blinking cross-reference to his brother John. As Alexandra said, the Tampa Police Department has issued a missing-person report on John. I key into this. He was last seen four days ago in Tampa.

  Huh. The day before his brother was murdered in Castleford.

  I go back to the victim's dossier and into the cross references about his business. I try to memorize as much information as I can, and note how most of his assets are under his wife's name. There are no numbers on the business itself, just a list of current contracts, which mean nothing to me; nonetheless I try to mem­orize them.

  What else? I scan and read. Three kids. He's a registered Democrat, belongs to Spring Glen Golf Club, handball champ men's division 1986, owns 1962 left-wheel Jaguar, got a ninety-­seven dollar rebate on a Sears refrigerator.

  This is certainly an eclectic database. Before I know it, Alexandra Waring is back. "I'm afraid time's up."

  I want to look at one more thing, but the computer has seem­ingly shut itself down. I stand up, looking at her in awe. "This is really something."

  She smiles. "I'm glad you think so."

  She escorts me outside, where I thank Dr. Kessler, who says, "You haf never been here, remember that."


  Alexandra winks at me and waves me on to follow. In the el­evator I thank her. "I don't suppose—" I begin, wondering if I might ever get on that machine again, but she is shaking her head.

  "Like Dr. Kessler says, 'you haf never been here.' I just wanted to give you a jump on your story. The missing-person angle on the brother should make a good headline for your pa­per tomorrow."

  "But I didn't promise you anything," I say (mostly to reas­sure myself that I didn't).

  "Just write a fair story on Cassy," she tells me. A security guard is waiting for me when the elevator doors open. I get out, but Alexandra does not. "Bye."

  The elevator doors are not even closed before I'm fumbling for my pen and paper, determined to write down everything I saw on that computer. "Just a minute, okay?" I ask the security guard, moving over to write on his countertop.

  I write and I write and I write. Then I reread my notes and add some things. Satisfied, I thank the guard and go out to the cab. Then I scan my notes again after we start driving. I don't care if I get carsick; this is great. I can hardly wait to get to my room; I race down the hallway and burst in, grabbing the tele­phone to find Joe Bix.

  "Joe! Get this. There's a missing-person report in Tampa, Florida, for Tony Meyers's brother, John. He was last seen in Tampa the day before Tony got murdered." And then I go into details, moving on all the information I can remember from the database.

  When I've finished, he says, "Damn. I can't believe it. How did you get this?"

  "A good reporter never reveals her sources," I say.

  "Damn," he says again. "Well, girl, you just got yourself a shared byline for tomorrow's front page."

  "Gee, thanks a lot," I say. "I could dictate the whole thing and get it all to myself if I wanted to."

  "But you don't want to because you're a big-shot magazine writer now," he tells me.

  I am distracted now, hoping against hope the flashing mes­sage light on the telephone signals a message from Spencer.

  I get off with Joe and fax him my handwritten notes as fol­low-up. Then I listen to my messages. "I can't believe I might be able to see you," Spencer's voice says. "I've cleared the deck on my end, and I'm just sitting around here in my office waiting for you to call." There is a pause. "I'm so very glad I've found you, Sally."

  I call his office. "I've cleared the decks here, too. I'm free until tomorrow around ten."

  "You're kidding!" Spencer cries in a way that makes me feel weak. "Can we meet now?"

  My heart is pounding. "Yes. Right now."

  I have no defense except to say that physically I have never responded like this to anyone before. Never this free, never this easy. Somehow Spencer has unlocked something in me that I had no idea existed at all. Passion. I know that when I read cer­tain books sometimes, or see certain movies, I can be intensely aroused, but somehow that passion always seems to dissipate when trying to carry it out in reality. I hate self-help stuff, but I must confess I have looked at some of it, wondering if maybe what some professionals hint can happen has something to do with me—that I have a lack of trust, that I hold back because...

  Oh, hell, I don't know; all I know is I want to have sex with this man again and I want it this minute, I don't care, I don't want to think, I just want to be there.

  He gives me an address on the East Side.

  Within twenty minutes I have showered and changed and am downstairs getting a cab. I feel like I'm some sort of crazy person. My heart is pounding and I am excited and happy and terrified and feel like I'm floating outside of myself. As we ar­rive at the address, it's as if I'm watching the cab pull up be­neath the awning of the building. I pay the driver and the door­man opens the door for me and I feel a slight tremor in my shoulders as I get out and look up and realize that I am here.

  I know what I am about to do—I'm stone-cold sober—and I float into the lobby and tell the concierge who I am here to see. He calls up and he smiles and tells me to go right up, 17B, and I walk through the hallway and stand by the elevator. I smile at a little girl holding her mother's hand and we all get in the ele­vator and I push seventeen. The little girl says hi to me and I say hi back and we arrive at seventeen and I walk out into the hush of the thickly carpeted hallway.

  I see Spencer at the end of the hall, smiling, waving to me, and I hurry down and in a moment I am in his arms again, and my mouth feels normal now, be­cause the pressure is back on my lips. I don't see anything of the apartment because we go right into the bedroom and fall on the bed and start taking off each other's clothes, and I only feel right, I only feel good, and when he is inside me I feel normal again, I feel at home. This is where I belong, and he tells me, "Sally, I love you," and I think it's crazy, but I believe him, and I feel like I'm being lifted to another world, where all feeling is exquisite and all heartache has been left far, far behind.

  18

  I blow off everything to stay the night with Spencer. Now, in the light of morning, I am riding in a cab back to my hotel and I am scared again. I didn't call Doug at all yesterday.

  Going up in the elevator of my hotel, I realize this is ridicu­lous. I have never made love so many times in my life. I sup­pose this is what a honeymoon is like, and that very topic came up in passing—around midnight last night, when we got up to make scrambled eggs for dinner.

  Until this morning I have never been able to imagine myself married. Curious that when it should happen, I should visual­ize marriage with someone who is practically a stranger.

  I know I have a lost my mind and yet I don't care.

  Well... Yes, of course I do, but I have the strangest sensation that I am saving my own life. As if Spencer is a lifeline, and un­til now I have been drifting away, slowly dying.

  There are no messages for me and I am both relieved and cu­rious that there is no message from Doug. I remind myself again that we are not in a committed relationship. (I'll say.)

  I order coffee and yogurt and Danish up to the room and hit the shower. When I come out, I sign for breakfast and place a call.

  "Hi," I say.

  "You sound funny, dear," Mother replies.

  "Funny? What do you mean?"

  "I mean we've talked more on the phone in the past two days than we have for a month here in town." I laugh. "Well, I was just calling to see if you are, by chance, free for lunch this weekend?"

  "I thought you sounded funny."

  "Mother, I just want to talk, get your advice, maybe."

  "I knew it. I heard it in your voice."

  "Mother! Please, it's no big deal."

  She decides not to argue the point. "Let me know when, dar­ling, and I will make myself free."

  "Sunday?"

  "It's a date. Brunch at my house," she says. "By the way, Sally, that was quite a piece this morning. I'm afraid to ask how you manage to co-write articles when you're not even here, but I thought it was very good. Explosive. I worry about Johnny Boy being missing. He was such a nice young man and your fa­ther was fond of him. You don't suppose... "

  "I don't know. He may just be in hiding because of what hap­pened to his brother."

  "Then I should think he would have taken his wife and chil­dren with him."

  "Good point, Mother." When I get off with her, I reach for my pen and make a note. Maybe Johnny Meyers was in on the murder. But why? I saw on the computer yesterday that he's a builder in the Tampa area, nothing big, private homes, an in­dependent contractor.

  I check the time. Ten-thirty. I've got a few minutes before I need to review yesterday's tapes of Cassy Cochran. I call Buddy D'Amico.

  "How the hell did you know Johnny Meyers is missing?" he says as a greeting. "I thought you were supposed to be working on your fancy schmancy magazine piece."

  "Between the fancy and the schmancy I had some time," I say.

  "So what do you want, Sally?" he sighs.

  "I want to know if you think Johnny killed his brother."

  "Now, what makes you think that?"

&
nbsp; "Well, if he's in fear of his life," I say, "wouldn't he have taken his wife and kids into hiding with him?"

  "Who's to say they aren't?"

  My mouth parts. "Really?"

  "I'm not saying anything."

  "Well, you're saying something and I want to get it straight."

  "Goodbye, Sally." He hangs up.

  Oh well, I make my next call. "Attorney Wrentham," Doug says gruffly.

  “Hi.”

  Pause. "Hi. Where have you been?"

  "Writing the story of the century," I say.

  "I saw."

  I realize he is referring to the Herald-American.

  "I'm impressed that a glamorous New York writer like your­self can still get around out here."

  He is being obnoxious and I decide it is because I didn't call. "So how are you?"

  "Fine."

  Yeah, he's mad.

  "So how's Crazy Pete?"

  "He's fine."

  "Well, I just wanted to touch base. I'm coming home to­night."

  "I've got something on for tonight," he says.

  Okay, so he's going to be like that. Unbeknownst to him, it only sends a huge wave of relief.

  When I replay the early part of the interview tapes with Cassy from yesterday I want to die. I cannot believe I sat there and nearly burst into tears within the first five minutes of meet­ing her. Some big-shot journalist! I sound like I'm in junior high school. I can't imagine what she must think of me.

  Well, it can't be helped. All I can do now is make sure I am professional from here on in.

  When I reach West End I am focused. Today, I have decided, I am going to ask the questions that will give me a framework of her life, a framework that will hopefully show me what angle I should take on this piece.

  "Good afternoon!" she says brightly, coming out of her office with her hand outstretched. "We've cleared everything off my schedule, Sally, so it's just you and me. Come on in."

  It is a gorgeous day outside and the view from Cassy's office looks particularly beautiful. A Circle Line cruise ship is chug­ging up the Hudson. "That's where we should be," Cassy says, following my eyes. "Not cooped up in here."