“No, I’m not,” Shannon said warily. “I feel no emotion at all. I wouldn’t waste my emotions on those people. But I understand why they died. I believe somebody they knew killed them. I know at least five people who could have done this. But it would be wrong of me to direct suspicion onto someone who may be innocent. That’s what the cops do.” Shannon’s lips formed a wry smile.
Ashley looked at Shannon Michaels and saw something she couldn’t quite define. She was very attracted to him. He was powerful and direct and intelligent. He had presence. But he unsettled her.
Shannon, sensing he was being evaluated, softened his voice. “I’m sorry to come on so strong. It’s just that Costello and Ross were two very bad people in my judgment. You should check further. Maybe they had some good qualities I’ve somehow overlooked.” Ashley wasn’t sure if Shannon was being sarcastic or not.
“You’re an interesting man, Shannon,” Ashley said, smiling just a little. “I appreciate your helping me out, and I have just one more question. What do you know about David Wayne?”
The question took Shannon by surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Good guy. GNN fired him in a downsizing slaughter a few years ago.”
“Was he bitter about it?” Ashley asked.
“You’d have to ask him. I haven’t seen David in years.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No idea. But if I see him, I’ll tell him of your interest.” Shannon smiled and looked away from Ashley’s eyes. Turning back, he added: “You’re a beautiful woman, Ms. Van Buren, but probably spoiled as hell.” Shannon then gave her his best smile. It worked. She was intrigued.
“Now, I have a question for you, Ashley,” Shannon said. “How about having dinner with me Saturday night?”
* * *
12
MANHATTAN
NOVEMBER 1994
Lieutenant Brendan McGowan looked like he was either going to cry or throw up. Tommy and Jackson couldn’t decide which. Their boss had deep circles under his eyes and his comb-over was coming apart. As he nervously rubbed his head, large portions of pink scalp reflected the overhead light.
“So what you guys are tellin’ me is that we don’t have shit? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”
Tommy nodded. He and Jackson had briefed him on the bad news. Nobody at the apartment building saw anything. It was Halloween. Plenty of people were running around in costumes. Forensics had very little—only a couple of rubber fibers from the sole of a sneaker. The Laser got that. The coroner said the woman had been knocked unconscious before being tossed over the balcony. She had also swallowed some panty hose. That was how the perp gagged her.
There were hundreds of suspects, including all the people Hillary Ross had fired. Somebody with some inside knowledge of GNN, and an English accent, had inquired about her shortly before the murder, at least according to the frightened intern who took the call. But with no physical evidence, and no witnesses, the case was ice. McGowan was distraught.
“Do you guys realize the Commissioner has called me twice? It’s my ass on the line here. We’ve got to clear this thing. Where do we go now?”
“I’ve got a couple of ideas, Mac,” Tommy said. “Both Jack and I think the same guy did both hits. It’s probably somebody who feels he was fucked by Costello and Ross. It’s definitely very personal. And personal things always unravel.”
“I’m going to tell the Commissioner we got leads.” McGowan had a faraway look in his eye.
“Yeah, fine. Just give us a little room,” Tommy said. “We’ll get this guy.”
Tommy and Jackson walked out of McGowan’s office, sat down at their desks, and worked out strategy. Three individuals remained to be interviewed: Lyle Fleming, who had agreed to meet them in his apartment the following morning; Shannon Michaels, whose address they had gotten from his union, AFTRA; and David Wayne, who was also an AFTRA member. Michaels lived out on Long Island someplace. Wayne lived in midtown.
It was almost eight p.m. and the coffee pot was empty. Tommy and Jackson decided to head over to Ragg’s for dinner and maybe a drink or two. Tommy needed a drink. The GNN killer was very professional, very slick, and very arrogant—a thug who figured he could murder with impunity. He was probably laughing at the police right now.
“We’re gonna fucking nail this guy, Jack,” Tommy said as he walked across the street toward the bar. “I don’t know how yet, but we’ll get him.”
Tommy O’Malley looked over at his partner, expecting a response. But Jackson Davis just kept on walking in silence.
* * *
13
MANHATTAN
NOVEMBER 1994
The clock radio clicked on at seven a.m. with Billy Joel singing about honesty. A prone Tommy O’Malley, trying desperately to change the station, almost knocked the radio off the nightstand. On came the nasal voice of Howard Stern, the outrageous shock jock whose primary mission in life was to make famous women admit they had had lesbian affairs. O’Malley could never figure out why Stern was so popular, but most of the young cops he knew listened to the guy religiously. This morning Stern was ranting about Michael Jackson seducing little boys, and about Jackson’s wife, Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of the King.
Tommy got out of bed and headed into the shower. Forty-five minutes later, Tommy was walking on West 79th Street toward Millie’s Coffee Shop, where he was to meet Jackson Davis. Even at this early hour, a legion of beggars was working the streets. Mostly crack heads who haven’t been to bed yet, Tommy thought.
“Hey, bro, got change?” Tommy O’Malley stared the blade-thin man down and brushed past him. He couldn’t believe that the streets of New York had been turned over to the hustlers. Five years earlier, the cops would have never permitted it. But Mayor Dinkins hadn’t seen anything objectionable in having beggars hanging out on every corner, so that’s what evolved. The new police commissioner, William Bratton, was changing things for the better, but taking back the streets, if only from the beggars, was a slow process.
When Tommy walked into Millie’s, Jackson Davis was already sitting in a booth, shaking his head while reading the New York Globe.
“Did you see this Van Buren piece?”
Tommy had not seen it. Jackson brought him up to speed as Tommy ordered coffee and scrambled eggs. Ashley Van Buren had written a column saying that Ron Costello and Hillary Ross had something in common: they were both despised by many of their coworkers. Ashley quoted blind sources—unnamed people—to make the accusations. GNN had no official comment. Yet, Lyle Fleming not only said he had the highest regard for both of the deceased, but practically insisted in the column that anyone saying otherwise was a lying coward.
“Gutsy column,” Tommy said. “Had to come from the inside. Maybe former GNN people who got screwed. Could be Shannon Michaels or the other guy, David Wayne. Van Buren has a line on them.”
“You going to see Michaels?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, soon. I gotta see my mother anyway. They’re both on the Island.”
Jackson smiled. “How is she?”
“Busting my chops as usual. Every time she calls, I know it’s gonna cost me. The St. Anthony Fund, St. Jude, St. Elsewhere, it never ends. Between her and my ex-wife, I’m going to heaven for sure. And if I don’t, I want a refund.”
Jackson laughed. “You tell her she owes me a big corned beef and cabbage dinner for saving your ass time and time again. Surely she knows who the brains of this operation is.”
It was Tommy’s turn to laugh. “Jack, that earring is cuttin’ off circulation to your brain. Gimme the ketchup, will ya?”
“I can’t believe you dump ketchup on everything. God, don’t pour it right on top of those runny eggs. That is gross, my brother. Is there anything you don’t put ketchup on?”
“Lobster,” Tommy said with a grin. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”
Lyle Fleming was one of the most powerful men in America. His forum as GNN’s nightly anchorman ensured that twenty milli
on people saw his face each weeknight. The influential and the famous—from the President on down—courted him with vigor. Whatever Lyle wanted, Lyle got. America had rejected royalty, but eagerly embraced media stars and professional athletes, bestowing adulation on them that was almost frightening in its intensity. For Lyle Fleming, the opportunities for immediate gratification were everywhere.
Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis arrived at Fleming’s Park Avenue apartment precisely at nine a.m. They parked their unmarked car in front of a fire hydrant, checked in with the doorman, and rode the elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor.
Fleming lived in what New Yorkers call a “prewar” building—a structure that was built before World War II. The appointments were impressive: hand-carved stone gargoyles on the building’s facade and crystal chandeliers in the lobby. And the entire building was spotlessly maintained. It was exactly what one would expect of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world.
Fleming’s three-bedroom apartment faced Park Avenue. His young wife answered the door, graciously greeting the detectives. Tommy thought she looked Middle Eastern: brunette, tanned skin, dark exotic eyes with a hint of the Orient in them. A beautiful woman, immaculately dressed in a white blouse and black slacks.
“Lyle will be out in a minute. He’s just finishing up a call. Would you gentlemen like an espresso? Perhaps a cappuccino?”
Tommy and Jackson looked at each other. “Sure,” Tommy said.
Fleming’s wife smiled patiently. “Which will it be, Detectives?”
“Cappuccino,” Jackson answered diffidently. “Cappuccino’s good.”
After keeping the detectives waiting for five minutes, Lyle Fleming finally emerged from his bedroom. He was smiling as he shook hands. His delayed entrance signaled his sense of self-importance. He was used to appearing when he felt like it. Nobody was going to rush Lyle Fleming.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Detectives, I had to monitor the daily conference call with all our bureaus.” Fleming looked to see if his explanation impressed the policemen. He was disappointed.
Fleming walked over to a black leather easy chair and motioned for Tommy and Jackson to resume sitting on the white couch. Although the apartment was built in the twenties, the Flemings had furnished it in a high tech, modern style. Impressionist paintings were hung on the eggshell colored walls. Shiny black tables flanked the chairs and sofa. And the large Persian rug covering the hardwood living room floor was red and black. Tommy was no expert, but he sensed that the interior had been decorated with too much money and too little thought.
“Did you see the Globe today?” Fleming asked. Jackson answered yes.
Tommy took in the GNN anchorman. About 5990, 175 pounds, black, wavy hair—probably colored—and a lined face indicating that Lyle Fleming would never see fifty years of age again.
“Just a terrible, irresponsible piece of journalism,” said Fleming, sounding like he was delivering a speech. “These tabloid papers will print anything. Respect for the dead? Forget it. I’m sorry I even talked to the woman.”
Tommy and Jackson did not react to Fleming’s statement. They did not want the anchorman to get comfortable. Controlling the interview was the detectives’ job. To do that, Lyle Fleming would have to be put a bit off balance. The less confident an interview subject was, the more likely he or she would speak candidly.
“Mr. Fleming, our information is that both Costello and Ms. Ross had enemies inside GNN. Is that true?” Tommy’s peremptory tone of voice told Lyle Fleming to pay attention.
“Network news is a rough business, Detective. We all have enemies.”
“Didn’t Hillary Ross fire people?” asked Jackson Davis.
“Well, yes.”
“So we can assume that some GNN employees, perhaps those who were fired by her, did not think as highly of Ms. Ross as you seem to?”
Fleming didn’t let it show, but he was surprised that Jackson Davis was so well spoken. “Perhaps so, Detective, but, as I told the Globe, both Ron Costello and Hillary Ross were valued members of the GNN family.”
Fleming’s wife appeared with the cappuccino, and just in time. Tommy O’Malley was already losing patience with the interview, especially Fleming phrases like “the GNN family.”
“Okay, Mr. Fleming, let’s not waste your time. Any ideas about who might have killed these people?” Tommy asked.
“I have no clue, Detectives.”
“Do you know Shannon Michaels and David Wayne?”
Lyle Fleming’s eyebrows shot up. “Are they suspects?”
“At this point, there are no suspects, Mr. Fleming. I am asking you about these men in confidence. I don’t want their names splashed all over the news. Or even talked about in the newsroom. That would be ‘terrible and irresponsible,’ to use your words.” Tommy was staring hard at Fleming.
“I quite understand, Detectives. And anything I say is off the record as well. There are so many libel and slander lawsuits these days. Now about your question. Shannon Michaels reported for us for a brief time in the early eighties. He just didn’t work out. Got into some trouble in Argentina during the Falkland conflict. After that he went back to local news. Much better suited to that world.”
Lyle Fleming took a sip of cappuccino and resumed his monologue. “David Wayne was with us for more than twenty years. Unfortunately, he was let go a few years back when GNN downsized the correspondent corps. I argued against that, you know. I liked David, but GNN commissioned a study by an outfit in Los Angeles, I believe. Its research showed that GNN viewers preferred to watch younger correspondents. So David and four other reporters were let go. I made certain the company gave him and the four others a nice settlement.”
Sure, O’Malley thought.
“Was Ross the one who fired him?” Jackson asked.
“Hillary was involved in the downsizing, yes.”
“And how about Shannon Michaels? Did she ax him too?”
Fleming sipped his coffee and looked at Tommy O’Malley, choosing his words carefully. The detective isn’t too impressed with me, Fleming thought. Somewhere down the road, he might say bad things to the press about GNN, and worst of all, about Lyle Fleming.
“I believe Hillary had something to do with Shannon’s departure as well. But that was a long time ago. I could be wrong.”
“Was David Wayne in Argentina along with Shannon Michaels?” A possible scenario was beginning to form in O’Malley’s mind.
“I believe so, yes.”
“Was Ron Costello down there?”
“Yes, he was the primary correspondent.”
“Any bad blood between Costello and Wayne or Michaels?”
Lyle Fleming was thinking hard now. And both Tommy and Jackson saw his hesitation. “You know, Detectives, there is often intense competition among correspondents for airtime. Sometimes disagreements occur.”
“Let’s drop the diplomacy, Mr. Fleming.” Tommy’s voice was low and hard. “Did Ron Costello piss off David Wayne and Shannon Michaels?”
“Yes, Detectives. Now that I think about it, I believe he did.”
Tommy O’Malley sat back on the couch, putting his hands behind his head. “Why don’t you tell us about that, Mr. Fleming? And please try to recall every detail you can.”
* * *
14
MANHATTAN
NOVEMBER 1994
It had cost Shannon Michaels a crisp fifty-dollar bill, but the restaurant captain had come through on a very busy Saturday night. The table at the Rainbow Grill could not have been better. Shannon and Ashley Van Buren were seated against the window looking south over the towers of Manhattan. The Grill, at the top of 30 Rockefeller Center, more than one hundred stories up, afforded spectacular views of the city.
Ashley’s appearance matched the stunning surroundings. Her black silk dress was low cut but elegant. She wore a pearl choker around her slim neck. Shannon had known many beautiful women in his life, but Ashley Van Buren had
a natural grace to go along with her beauty. A very rare combination.
Ashley smiled at Shannon, appraising him differently in a social situation than she had on the job. He was very well dressed in a navy blue blazer, gray trousers, and powder blue shirt. His tie was a Hermes. To Ashley, Shannon looked like a GQ model without the hair mousse.
Shannon realized he was being measured and it pleased him. Another challenge had presented itself. If he could charm this woman, if he could rise to the challenge, it would be a huge ego boost. He decided to quickly distract Ashley with an offbeat bit of conversation.
“Here’s a very personal question for you. Are you related to the political Van Burens?”
Ashley smiled. “I heard somewhere that we are distant cousins of the Van Burens of Kinderhook.”
Shannon was impressed. The woman had a historical frame of reference—the eighth President of the United States, Martin Van Buren, was from Kinderhook, New York, on the Hudson. “I don’t want to bore you, but did you know that President Van Buren is responsible for arguably the most frequently used word in the modern world?”
Ashley shook her head no, her blond hair flaring out just slightly. Her lipstick, Shannon noticed, was a subtle shade of light red. Just right, he thought. “Well, here’s the scoop. In 1835, Van Buren was Vice President and Andrew Jackson was President. Jackson was a rough guy. John Quincy Adams once said that he was a barbarian who could hardly spell his own name. Anyway, Van Buren was a smooth, slick politician whom Jackson relied on to articulate the policies of his administration. And Van Buren did his job well. In fact, he was so obsequious that he agreed with everything Jackson said. ‘Yes, General, you’re right, General,’ and so on. He was the Ed McMahon of eighteenth century politics.”
Shannon paused, looking at Ashley. “This is really boring, isn’t it?”
“Not so far, and I’m really looking forward to the payoff.” Ashley laughed.
“Well, here it comes. Martin Van Buren’s nickname was, logically enough, ‘Old Kinderhook,’ because he came from Kinderhook, New York. The nickname was eventually shortened just to O.K. And since Van Buren agreed with everything Jackson said, those living in Washington started using O.K. as slang, meaning ‘right you are.’ And now nearly everybody in the world says okay when things are, well, all right. Is that story okay with you?”
Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 11