Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry
Page 7
The Airbus 320 accelerated down the runway and began its ascent over the blue-green waters below. The hydraulic hum signaled that the wheels had tucked inside the bowels of the aircraft. Gina stared out the window, lost in thought. “Stalemate” was the word running through her head. Her gut told her that she was on the right track. Someone had wanted Cathy Ryan dead and had made it look like an accident. But the Cathy Ryan trail, at least in Aruba, was cold. She was forced to pin her hopes on Meg Williamson, who for whatever reason was not responding to the messages she had left.
She had emailed Geoff to schedule a date to fill him in on what she had learned during her time in Aruba. His response had surprised her. He was traveling the early part of next week. If she wasn’t too tired, could she meet him this afternoon? Gina had accepted.
She now faced a daunting task. Find a way to convince Geoff that the REL News story had legs at a time when she herself was uncertain about how to go forward.
At least tonight will be fun, she thought. Gina had agreed to Lisa’s suggestion that they were overdue for a TGIF dinner. After the last few days in Aruba, I could use a few laughs, she thought as she started to writes notes for her meeting at the magazine.
24
Geoff expected her at three-thirty. That gave her time to toss her few summer outfits on top of the washing machine and unpack her toiletries. It also gave her an opportunity to call her father. When she had tried to reach him before she left for Aruba, she had only got his answering machine, and he had not replied. The faint feeling of uneasiness was released by his message. “Hi. Sorry I missed your call.”
There was an unexpectedly buoyant sound in his voice. Welcome, but surprising. Her “Hi Dad” was immediately interrupted by his question “How was Aruba?”
“Better weather than New York. What about Florida?”
“It’s been raining the last few days.”
“Too bad. How have you been keeping yourself busy?”
“Oh, catching up on a few movies.” Gina knew that her father hated to go to the movies alone. “Who did you go with?” she asked.
“A new neighbor who is a movie buff.”
“Good for you.”
“So how is your latest story going?”
She briefly filled him in on her progress or lack thereof. She followed her usual practice of not naming the company she was investigating. They chatted for a few minutes more. It was only after they disconnected that she realized her father had not mentioned the name of the new neighbor. She dismissed the thought as she put on a winter jacket and wrapped a scarf around her neck. It was time to head to the subway and a meeting with Geoff.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, when she arrived at Empire, Jane as usual was the one to greet her. “Always glad to see you. The boss said to send you in when you get here,” she told her.
Gina knew she wasn’t late, but even so she quickened her step until she was at Geoff’s office. She knocked on the door and opened it when he called, “Come in, Gina.”
He was seated at the table by the window again. She wondered if, just like Charles Maynard, he preferred it to his desk for small meetings. “Tell me about your vacation in Aruba,” he suggested. Shocked, Gina stared at him. Did he really consider her trip a vacation?
But then he raised his eyebrows. “My too subtle British sense of humor. Forgive me, Gina. Now, tell me what happened there.”
Gina explained her attempt to replicate Cathy Ryan’s stay in Aruba; the same hotel room and Jet Ski tour. She carefully summarized the conversations she’d had, up to and including her visit to the dump site.
“Geoff, the key is the control device on the ski Cathy was using,” she said. “Was it tampered with while she was having lunch with her group? Klaus from the ski shop said that would have been easy to do.”
She continued. “It certainly appears that the Aruba police were determined to present Cathy’s death as nothing but an unfortunate accident. Inadvertently or deliberately they allowed the evidence to be destroyed.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Cathy’s brother mentioned the name of a friend from REL News she kept in contact with. Her name is Meg Williamson. I left several messages for her. I’m waiting to hear back.”
“I’d say it’s obvious that’s the place to start,” Geoff said wryly.
He stood up. It was clear to Gina that the meeting was over.
“I’ll get on it right away,” she told him. “Is there any place quiet I can make a phone call?”
“I’ll ask Jane to put you in the small conference room.”
“Don’t bother. I know the way.”
* * *
Two minutes later, closing the door behind her, keeping her fingers crossed, Gina dialed Meg Williamson’s number. After four rings it went to voice mail.
25
“Mommy, why don’t you answer the phone?” Jillian asked. Meg inadvertently put her fingers to her lips in a gesture of shhhh, then smiled self-consciously. “I can tell it’s one of those calls from people trying to sell us something,” she explained, even as she recognized Gina Kane’s number from the earlier messages.
“Or saying that we won something, but only it’s not true,” Jillian replied as she left the living room and headed to the library, which was set up for her to do homework there.
Meg’s eyes followed her six-year-old’s progress. Jillian misses nothing, she thought fondly. And that’s another reason I don’t like her to be around when he phones.
She had told him about the phone messages from Gina. He had ordered her to ignore them. She had followed his instructions, but the phone calls were persisting. How long were they going to keep up?
26
After her attempt to reach Meg Williamson by phone, Gina left the conference room and went home. She had agreed to meet Lisa for dinner, but they had not set a place or time.
She phoned Lisa, who picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Lisa. Any suggestions about where to go?”
“Any place except where the bartender may let ice cubes fly. The gal who broke her ankle has now figured out that she also hurt her neck when she fell.”
Gina laughed. “I want to hear all about it over a drink.”
“And I want to hear about your sun and fun in Aruba. I’ll make a reservation at Villa Cesare for seven-thirty.”
Villa Cesare on 86th Street was one of those popular restaurants that was always crowded. Both she and Lisa went there regularly and were on a first name basis with the owner and most of the staff.
“I’ll see you there,” Gina confirmed. It’s so good to have a really close friend, she thought as she put down the phone. And when she goes back a long way, it’s even better.
She had been on the worst blind date of her life. It was the older brother of one of the girls in her dorm. He was a Harvard guy and completely full of himself. Her best part of the date was at the bar when he bumped into some Harvard classmates and started talking to them. And just kept on talking. That’s when she met Lisa. By coincidence, Lisa, who was a sophomore at Boston University, was on a first date with one of the Harvard classmates. She was as bored as Gina. They started chatting and rescued each other from a disastrous evening. They had been fast friends ever since.
We were both nineteen, Gina thought. That was thirteen years ago. She never wanted to get married young. Well, mission accomplished, as her dad liked to say. Thirty-two no longer qualified as really young.
She put aside that thought. The most important thing right now was to somehow contact Meg Williamson. I’ve phoned her enough to be sued for harassment, she decided.
* * *
Lisa was already at the table sipping an apple martini when she arrived. Gina pulled up a chair and said, “You look down in the mouth, girlfriend. Anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong. Just thinking about how little problems like drifting ice cubes can cause big problems.” Lisa laughed. “So tell me. How was sunny Aruba?”
“Nothing could be more boring than the seven-hour deposition I sat through today. Come on. Tell me what happened.”
Just as she had done with Geoff four hours earlier, Gina recounted the interviews she’d had during her stay on the island, and her conversations with Andrew Ryan. She concluded by saying, “My gut tells me that something serious is going on at REL News. But I don’t want to fall into the trap of seeing a conspiracy behind every coincidence.”
“Gina, as I told you the one other time we talked about this, when somebody is considering suing a big corporation, then that somebody dies in an accident, that’s a huge red flag for me. And this Meg Williamson who’s refusing to talk to you, that’s another red flag. In her email, didn’t Cathy Ryan say something about other victims?”
Gina quickly recited it from memory. “ ‘I had a terrible experience with one of the higher-ups. And I wasn’t the only one.’ ”
Lisa replied, “So either this begins and ends with Ryan and maybe Williamson or—”
Gina finished the sentence for her. “Or this is the tip of the iceberg. There are more victims, maybe a lot more.”
Part IITwo Years Earlier
27
It was almost two years ago, on a Friday around five-thirty in the evening. The personnel offices were in a building across the street from the REL studios and newsgathering operation. Michael Carter, a lawyer in Human Resources, had stayed late to finish a project and had been looking forward to the weekend.
The knock on his door was soft. Lauren Pomerantz briefly introduced herself. She was a petite five feet three inches with auburn hair and bright brown eyes. He didn’t recall having met her, but she was a familiar face from the company cafeteria. He remembered her appearing very nervous. She had to be persuaded to sit down.
Here we go again, Carter thought. The last time one of the early twenty-somethings knocked on his door it was to complain that there weren’t enough gluten-free choices in the cafeteria. He wondered what this one wanted.
“Mr. Carter,” she began, “I love my job at REL News. I didn’t complain when I did my share of overnight shifts. I hate that I have to leave. I did the right thing after it happened, but nobody did anything.” Tears formed in her eyes and began streaming down her face. “And now I’ve been assigned to the team that’s supposed to go with him to the convention.” She convulsed into sobs and buried her head in her hands.
“Hey, it’s okay. I want to help you,” he said as he waited a few moments to allow her to compose herself. His first instinct was to touch her shoulders or her hands. His training told him: Don’t!
“Do you mind if I sit opposite you?” he asked while pulling up a chair.
She shook her head.
“Lauren, let me begin by saying I’m glad you trusted me enough to come and see me. I want to help you. It may be painful for you to talk about, but I need to know what happened.”
“You’re not going to believe me.”
“Before you decide how I’m going to react or what I’m going to do, please give me a chance.”
“All right,” she said and nodded. “Four weeks ago, on Wednesday the twenty-fourth, I was at my desk and I got a call from Evelyn Simms.” Carter recognized the name of Brad Matthews’s secretary. “She said Mr. Matthews wanted to personally thank me for the segment I had helped edit on the gun control legislation vote. She asked if I could come to his office after the broadcast that evening. Of course I said yes.”
“And you went?” Carter asked.
Lauren nodded. “I stopped in the makeup room on my way. Rosalee wasn’t busy, so she gave me a quick touch-up.”
“Why did you go there first?”
“I don’t know. I keep asking myself that. Even though I already work here, I felt like I was going on a job interview. I admit it. I wanted to look my best.”
“Go on.”
“At first everything was okay. Mr. Matthews talked about when he got his start at a small cable station in Detroit. I already knew the story but I let him tell it. While he was talking, he got up and closed the door to his office.”
“Did you object to him doing that?”
“No. It’s his office. He’s Brad Matthews. What was I supposed to say?”
“And then what happened?”
“He started talking about teamwork, how important it is in any organization that everyone be a team player, that they have chemistry, that they help and support each other. He asked me if I agreed.”
“And you—?”
“What was I supposed to say? Of course, I said yes. He said something about the two of us being friends. I didn’t answer. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. He told me he never got tired of looking at the beautiful view of the East River. He pointed at something and waved for me to come over to where he was standing.”
Lauren’s eyes again filled with tears. To give her time to collect herself, Carter got up, went behind his desk, and brought out two bottles of water. She accepted one, twisted it open, and took a sip.
“So you stood next to him by the window—”
“I looked out to see what he was pointing at. All of a sudden he stepped behind me with his hands on either side of me. Then his fingers were on my forehead, then going down my face.” Her breathing quickened as she tried to maintain control. “I could feel him rubbing against me from behind. His hand went down my neck, under my blouse, onto my breasts.”
“Did you ask him to stop?”
“I was afraid at first. Then I said, ‘What are you doing?’ ”
“He said, ‘I’m being your friend.’ And then he licked my neck all the way up the side to my head,” she said with a grimace.
Carter was mesmerized. Brad Matthews was the Walter Cronkite of his generation. Some polls identified him as the most trusted man in America. If what he was hearing was true, this would be a bombshell. But it was a big if.
“I’m sorry to make you relive this,” he said, “but I have to know everything that happened.”
“He started to lick me a second time when the phone on his desk rang.”
“Did he take the call?”
“He acted like nothing had happened. He left me, went over, and picked up the phone. It was Senator McConnell on the line. His first words were, ‘Hey Mitch, what’s up?’ ”
“Did he ask you to stay or to leave?”
“He never even made eye contact. It was as if I was never there. I just walked out of the office. He waved as I left.”
Carter remained silent for several seconds. Lauren stared at him and said, “Tell me, Mr. Carter, do you believe me?”
He exhaled. If he’d been at liberty to answer honestly, he’d have said, No, I don’t. I think you’re full of crap. But I give you credit for having a very fertile imagination. You’re trying to make a name for yourself by making an accusation against one of the most trusted men in America. But he couldn’t say that.
“Ms. Pomerantz, I’ll be honest with you. What I believe doesn’t matter. It’s my job to take what you are saying seriously. What you allege happened between you and Mr. Matthews, by your own account, took place behind closed doors. There were no other witnesses. He is entitled to give his version of events. Reputations are at stake—”
“Reputations,” she sneered. “Is that your way of telling me that nobody will believe me over him?”
“Lauren, I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to. You sent the message without saying it.”
“Do you have any evidence to support your account? Any emails, text messages between you and Mr. Matthews?”
“I’ve got something even better than that, Mr. Carter.” She took out her iPhone and tapped it a few times. After a few seconds, Brad Matthews’s distinctive baritone voice was heard saying, “Lauren, come in, have a seat.” For the next several minutes Carter listene
d as the recording confirmed what Pomerantz had described.
“Do you make it a habit to tape your conversations?” he asked.
“Only when I have a good reason.”
“Are you taping this conversation?”
“No, should I be?”
“What was your ‘good reason’ to tape your,” he paused to find the right word, “visit to Mr. Matthews’s office?”
“It wasn’t a visit. I was an employee who was called to a meeting by a superior. I’d call that a summons. As for my reason to tape, women talk, Mr. Carter. They talk to each other about how they’re treated, particularly by the men they work for and with.”
Carter stared at Lauren. She was formidable. And tough. And smart. She had to know that any prestigious law firm would salivate to have her as a client and bask in the publicity that would result from taking down Brad Matthews. But she was here talking to him. Why?
“Lauren, I assure you REL News will take your complaint seriously. There’s a process—”
“No, it won’t.”
“Please, Lauren. I’ve known about this for fifteen minutes and you’re already concluding I won’t do anything.”
“You’re not the first person I spoke to.”
“I’m not?”
“The day after it happened I went to somebody who I was sure would have the guts and the clout to do something about it. Nothing happened. When I called him a week later to ask what was going on, his first question was ‘Do you like working here?’ He told me I should focus on doing my job.”