Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Read online

"That's what I'm asking you."

  Interesting. If I say my request for a membership of the Ma­sonic Lodge from twenty-one years ago has nothing to do with his investigation, that I'm just curious since Crazy Pete thinks my father belonged to something akin to a satanic cult, then Buddy will be relieved. On the other hand, since he's asking, he must perceive there could be some kind of connection. "I wanted to see if Tony Meyers belonged."

  "Liar," Buddy says. "You know dam well he wouldn't have."

  I do? I better read up on my Masonic Lodges. "I meant his fa­ther."

  "You are so full of it, Harrington," he says.

  "Okay, if you're so smart, Buddy, you tell me why I want that list."

  "No way," he says. "If you play dumb with me, I play dumb with you."

  Now I'm getting irritated. "So what else is new?" I mean it as a rhetorical question, but Buddy takes it literally. He must be tired.

  "The Preston Roadhouse went up tonight."

  The roadhouse was built a couple of decades ago as the "sporting man's bar" in north Castleford and in no time be­came a big biker's hangout, drawing gangs from all over the state. A crackdown on the gangs in the past decade changed its clientele somewhat; now it's mostly frequented by employees of the new electric plant down the road and lost fishermen look­ing for the hydrothermal cooling discharge pipe from the plant that apparently lures fish of mythical proportions.

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "No, thank God. But we've all been over there. We had to close 691 for a while, the smoke was so bad. It looks like a short in some kitchen equipment started a fire and then it hit the gas lines and the flame backed up into the tanks and blew out the whole side of the building."

  "Huh," I say. "Funny how everything's blowing up around town this week, isn't it?"

  "That's what I was thinking. Got any ideas?"

  "There wasn't any real insurance on Tranowsky's Auto Body," I say. "There was no value to the land, really. We thought, if anything, maybe someone was trying to get rid of something in the building." I put the lid down on the john so I can sit. "To tell you the truth, Bud, the first thing I wondered was if Johnny Boy Meyers or somebody was in there."

  "Great minds think alike," he tells me. "But he wasn't. Noth­ing was in there."

  "What about the insurance on the roadhouse?"

  "Oh, heavily insured, actually. The owner will do fine."

  "Who is the owner?"

  "Some guy in Norwalk."

  "Norwalk? Who would commute from Norwalk?"

  "He owns a bunch of stuff around here. He got the road­house and a lot of other parcels at one of the auctions." During the recession, about twenty percent of Castleford business properties changed hands this way due to the domino effect of bankruptcies. It was hard to keep track of who owned what anymore.

  "Do you think it was deliberate?"

  "I'll wait until Dean files his official report," he says, refer­ring to the fire marshal. "They had the dogs there."

  The dogs that worked for the fire department were amazing. They could get past any smell imaginable to zero in on the one they had been trained to find. One dog was trained to find gas­oline and derivatives like kerosene; another, explosives. I've seen the gasoline-trained dog go through the charred remains of what had been a two-family house and point out six different places to the fire marshal. When the lab tested those spots, they tested positive for kerosene. And so they knew that someone had poured kerosene in six places on the ground floor to get the fire started.

  "Keep me posted, will you?"

  "Yeah, right, Miss Glamour Girl. I'll call you on your bath­room phone."

  I hurry to dry my hair and get dressed. I grab my cosmetics bag to put my makeup on in the cab. I feel like a New Yorker now.

  When we arrive at the West End gate, I realize Spencer's in the cab in front of me. I throw some bills at my driver and run to join Spencer.

  "Hey," Spencer says appreciatively, sliding his hand into mine and kissing me hello. "I was going to apologize for being late, but... "

  We are dropped off at the circle where security is waiting. As we are processed and taken inside to Studio B, Spencer is im­pressed with how many people I seem to know: Wendy the se­curity gal; the receptionist; Jessica's secretary, Marianne. As we approach the studio doors, Alexandra Waring comes up the hallway and waves to me. "When's our interview?" she calls.

  "Next week."

  "Great! See you then!"

  "This is some company you keep," Spencer observes.

  "They're such a nice bunch, you can't imagine."

  "I can, actually," he says as we file into the studio. "We pub­lished Jessica's autobiography, remember? I met a lot of them at her party."

  I turn. "You were at the party where she was kidnapped?"

  He nods.

  "Then you know Cassy?" It is amazing to me that we have not had this conversation before, but then we really haven't talked about the piece at all. I don't like to discuss what I'm working on.

  "I've met her—briefly. I don't know her."

  Marianne shows us to two seats in the front of the studio au­dience. The place is full and the audience members are raring to go. It reminds me a lot of The Tonight Show studio in Burbank.

  A man comes out to warm us up. He tells us, "We have a pos­itively bizarre show tonight—Jessica thought of it. The produc­ers have chosen five people who think they are coming to West End to simply watch the show, but are, in fact, set up to witness an accident, which we set up, outside the complex. The accident was videotaped. Now each of these people is going to, sepa­rately, describe what happened. Also appearing on the show are three famous attorneys who will critique the testimony of each 'witness' and choose the one they think will make the best for court and why. After all is said and done, the video will be played to show what actually happened at the scene of the ac­cident."

  The show comes off brilliantly. One attorney, a defense attor­ney, rouses boos and hisses from the audience after he insists the witness he has chosen as the best—a white, good-looking mother of two who is proved to have the most dreadfully in­accurate recollection of the accident—still makes the best wit­ness because jurors will believe her. When the show's over, Marianne takes us to Jessica's dress­ing room to say hi.

  "Oh, my God," she says, rising from her dressing room mir­ror, where she is wiping off the worst of the TV makeup, "this is your friend?" She laughs, shaking her head. "Hello, Spencer, how are you?"

  "Very, very good, Jessica," he says, coming over to kiss her on the cheek. "It was a wonderful show."

  The talk-show host is still clearly taken back. She points first at me, then at him and then back to me. "How do you two know each other?"

  "We just met last week."

  Jessica smiles, nodding, looking at both of us. "Cool," she fi­nally says, going back to her dressing table.

  "Why did she say 'Cool'?" I immediately ask when we get into a taxi.

  "I don't know," Spencer says.

  "Do you think she knows we're more than just friends?"

  "I don't know," he says again, putting his arm around me.

  "Why don't you know anything?" I demand.

  "Oh, I'm a very lucky man," he murmurs, kissing me.

  We go to his house and order some Indian food. We eat it at the dining room table and talk awhile. Then we curl up under an afghan on the couch (we have to keep the air-conditioning on, Spencer says, because it's too noisy with the windows open) and we watch a movie.

  Then we go into the bedroom and make love. Quietly, ten­derly, a first for us.

  I fall asleep in his arms.

  But not before I hear Spencer whisper, "Thank you, God."

  29

  The alarm goes off at six and Spencer is out to the world. I just get up, reset the alarm for seven, slip on my clothes, kiss him softly on the forehead and go back to the hotel.

  I've got a very busy day. I shower and do my room service thing and review my notes. At nine-fifte
en I've got an interview with Bonnie Kirk, a news producer who was fired from DBS last year. I take a cab down to Eighth Avenue, nearly across the street from Madison Square Garden, and check in with the re­ception desk of a competing network. I am cleared to go up.

  Bonnie Kirk has that stressed-out look everybody in news has on a bad day, although I strongly suspect she may have more of these than most. She asks me if I mind talking in "a spe­cial hideaway," and when I say no, I find myself being ushered into a concrete stairwell where she immediately lights up a cig­arette, drags heavily and sits down on a stair to talk.

  "I find it very strange you're writing about Cassy," she tells me. "She will usually do anything to stay out of the limelight." She drags again. "Does she know you're writing about her?"

  "Oh, yeah," I acknowledge.

  "Huh," the news producer says, "then maybe they're in trou­ble." My eyebrows go up. "That's the only reason Cassy would do this. If she thought there was no other way. To, you know, boost the ratings." She squints, chin resting in her hand, cigarette next to her face, smoke drifting up.

  "I think she wants to help promote the network's new pro­gramming," I offer. "Now then," I continue, tapping my papers to­gether to signal we are going to begin. I am sitting on the first step below the landing, twisting around to address this woman above me. I am acutely aware of my muscles. I have used mus­cles with Spencer I know for a fact haven't been used in years, if ever. I smile to myself. It was a wonderful night. Spencer is a wonderful man. I have a wonderful job assignment.

  Life is good.

  "Maybe we should start at the beginning. What job did you hold at DBS?"

  "Features producer, the nightly news."

  "And your responsibilities?"

  "To oversee every non-hard-news feature story we developed either in New York or through one of the affiliates.”

  "And how long did you work at DBS?"

  "Oh, ten months."

  I look up. "Not long."

  She cracks a smile. "Not long," she agrees, dragging on the cigarette and then mashing it out on the landing with her shoe.

  " And you left...?”

  "I left, all right." She laughs. "But not without letting people know what I thought.”

  "And what was that?”

  "That Alexandra thinks she's God and she's not.” She lights another cigarette and hastily exhales smoke over her head. "That you can't do anything at DBS News without Alexandra looking over your shoulder, screwing around with your stories, criticizing stuff and then, if the story is great—and a lot of our stories were—she gets all the credit."

  "Did you say she takes the credit or she's given the credit?" I ask, trying to get this right.

  "Given," she admits. "She's not that bad, not yet. She's not like the guys. The credit's given to her—she doesn't try to take it—but in the end, what does it matter? Either you become an extension of Alexandra or you're out."

  I nod. "Well, she is the managing editor, right?"

  "More like Evita Peron, managing dictator. And you can quote me on that."

  I smile, making a note although the recorder is running. "This is not a piece about Alexandra Waring,” I remind her.

  "Oh, right, Cassy." She pulls on the cigarette. "Cassy was all right. If she has a fault, it's that she lets Alexandra get away with murder. Jessica Wright, too. They bend and break the rules left and right—"

  "What kind of rules?"

  "Oh, you know, they just hire and fire people at will, they re­ally don't give everybody a chance. I mean, it's such a little club there, either you're in or you're out and it depends on their moods most of the time. And they have such fucked-up per­sonal lives, who knows what their moods will be."

  "Jessica's married—"

  "Yeah, to my old boss, Will Rafferty. What does that tell you about the inner circle there? It's practically incestuous."

  "And you think Cassy has allowed this—what would you call it, nepotism?"

  "Ha!" the producer cries. "Come on! She's married to the guy who controls the whole shebang, Jackson Darenbrook! Langley Peterson, the CEO, is married to Jackson's sister! Jessica's mar­ried to the executive news producer of her best friend's news­cast!"

  "And Alexandra?"

  "Oh, Alexandra," she says in a conspiratorial voice, mushing out her cigarette. "Well, you know she's a major dyke, right?"

  I choose not to respond but look interested. And I am.

  "She's been messing around with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres for like three years. So if you want to know what I think Cassy's most valuable asset to DBS is, it's been handling the spin on that story. For God's sake, they're photographed in the Inquiring Eye every week as 'gal pals' and the network pretends it's not happening."

  "But don't you think that's Cassy's job, in a way?" I ask. "To develop strong programming and financial stability for DBS, and foster and protect those people who can make it happen?"

  Bonnie Kirk stares at me a moment and then shakes her head, letting out a husky, bitter laugh. "Boy, have you bought into it big-time, I can tell."

  "Bought into what?"

  "The Inner Circle. The Daisy Chain. You think Cassy's just great, don't you? And the others? You buy into that whole 'We are family at DBS' shit. Come on, admit it."

  I'd like to admit that if Bonnie Kirk worked for me, I'd fire her, too, her attitude is so annoying. But I don't. I suffer the rest of the interview wondering if she'll ever say anything substan­tive about Cassy, but she never does. Her ax to grind is with Al­exandra Waring and that is all she wants to talk about. I find that interesting, though, the angle on Alexandra War­ing and Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres.

  By twenty to eleven I am racing to get to West End, scanning another set of questions I have prepared for Jackson Daren­brook. Chi Chi meets me at the security desk and takes me up­stairs to his office. It is enormous, almost like a one-room house. There is an office area, a bar area, a living room area, a confer­ence area and in the comer, a StairMaster. He jumps up from behind his desk and kind of bounces over. He seems to be in a feisty mood, but then I think he might always be this way.

  "It's such a nice day," he says after we say hello, "maybe you'd like to do this outside."

  I say that with all my stuff, particularly the recorder, it's probably better to work in here. He says sure and lets me choose where I want to sit. I opt for the conference table, where I set the recorder down between us.

  "So what do you want to know about my wonderful, beau­tiful, thoughtful, kind, generous, brilliant, sensational wife?" he begins.

  "I was going to ask you how you fell in love with your won­derful, beautiful, thoughtful, kind, generous, brilliant, sensa­tional wife," I say back to him, "but I realize that is a rhetorical question."

  He kicks back his head and laughs. He is a cool guy. Likable. Something between Harrison Ford and Ted Turner. "I see why Cassy likes you," he tells me. "You're bright. Maybe you want a job here."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "I bet it does." He frowns. "How did you get mixed up with Corbett Schroeder, anyway?"

  I look at him. "I didn't. I'm working for his wife."

  He grunts, still frowning, and mutters something about Ver­ity getting her head examined.

  "I'm sorry," I say, "I missed what you said."

  He sighs, deflated. "I promised Cassy I wouldn't say any­thing."

  "Say anything about what?"

  He flashes a grin. "You are a tricky one. We should hire you. I've got three hundred newspapers and twelve magazines."

  "Is that a bribe, Mr. Darenbrook?"

  "Well, it could be." He winks.

  I laugh.

  "Okay, so let me tell you about my wife," he says, looking at his watch as if he has timed this presentation. He looks back across the table at me. "Cassy has given me life. I swear. After my wife—my first wife—“

  "Barbara," I say.

  He nods. "After Barbara died so suddenly..."

  His wife, I know, had been pa
rticipating in some sort of div­ing contest at their country club. The Darenbrook children were on the swim team and it was an annual Labor Day weekend event, where the parents goofed around for the benefit of the kids. Barbara Darenbrook had hit her head on the bottom of the pool and died instantly.

  "I didn't think I'd ever connect with another human being. 'Cause Barb and I were so close... " He smiles to himself. "But then I met Cassy—gosh, it was like ten years later—and, well, I love her more than anything." He examines my face carefully. "Sounds like bull, doesn't it? But let me tell you, Sally Harring­ton, I've been around. I mean, around—around and around and back again—if you know what I mean."

  "I know what you mean," I assure him.

  "When I first met Cassy," he continues, "I couldn't stand her and you know why? Because she represented everything I had been running away from since my wife's death. Love, respon­sibility, family, myself. When she came into my life, she called me on everything, demanded I snap out of it."

  He looks away for a moment. "Thank God Cassy arrived when she did." He looks at me. "When there was still time to reach my kids. Lydia and Kevin." He sighs. "Barbara's sister and her husband raised the kids after Barbara died." He looks away again. "I don't know what would have happened to us." His eyes come back. "As a family, I mean. If Cassy hadn't come along when she did." He smiles. "They're grown up now, Lyd­die and Kev, with good lives of their own."

  "Cassy said that you two argued a bit when she came here."

  “A bit?" He roars with laughter. “Yeah, I'll say we argued a bit, all right, like day and night. I'll tell ya, it was so bad, I thought I was going to have to fire her. I couldn't stand her."

  "So why didn't you fire her?"

  "Creepin' crickets, you ever gone up against Alexandra and Langley about anything? Separately they're bad enough, but to­gether? Ha! Forget it. And then Jessica jumped on board the Cassy wagon and, you know, it looked like everyone was going to fire me and I ran the joint!"

  We talk a little more about this and then I ask him why he hired her in the first place.

  "Alexandra," he says. "It was part of our offer to her, that we would offer Cassy the job of executive producer for DBS News at a stated salary. And she wasn't cheap," he adds.