by R. G. Belsky
“Yeah, a lot of times. Big corporate stuff—investigations of business rivals, surveillance, background checks.”
“And then you took his wife’s money to investigate him?”
He smiled. “Hey, I’ve got to pay the rent on this place. All this space, all this furniture—it doesn’t come cheap.”
We talked for a while more. He told me about a few of the big celebrity crime cases he’d been involved with over the years. How he’d once been hired to reexamine the death of Natalie Wood who drowned on a boat trip while she was with her husband Robert Wagner and film costar Christopher Walken. He’d also been involved in the JonBenét Ramsey investigation, he said. And even done work for a client on the O.J. Simpson case.
“Do you want to know what really happened to Nicole Brown Simpson that night?” Endicott asked.
“You know?”
“I have a pretty good idea who did it. And it’s not who you think.”
“I think it was O.J. Just like the rest of the world does.”
“For the right price, I could give you an O.J. exclusive that would blow the lid off everything people believe. I’m telling you, this …”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I only work one high-profile murder story at a time.”
I had one other question for Victor Endicott.
“What happened when you showed those pictures of Charles Hollister in bed to Laurie Bateman?”
“She got mad.”
“How mad?”
“How mad would you be if you saw your husband carrying on with another woman like that?”
“Do you remember exactly what Laurie Bateman said?”
“Sure, I do. And that’s what I told the police when they asked me the same question. She said, ‘I’ll kill the lousy two-timer.’”
CHAPTER 14
“IS THIS CLARE Carlson?” a voice said to me at the other end of the phone.
“Uh, possibly,” I said sleepily.
“You don’t know if you are Clare Carlson or not?”
I looked over at the alarm clock next to my bed. The digital display informed me it was a little before seven a.m. My alarm wasn’t supposed to go off until eight. I cut it close when it comes to waking up in the morning and then making it to work on time. Let’s just say I’m not exactly a morning person.
“Not at this hour. Who are you?”
“My name is Mitchell Lansburg, and I’m a vice president for talent at West Coast Media.”
“Well, that wouldn’t have been my first guess.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you up. But I wanted to make sure and catch you before you left your house for work.”
“Congratulations, you did it.”
I sat up in bed. My head was clearing now, at least enough for me to ask this guy the most obvious question.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I have something important I’d like to discuss with you, and I think it would be worth your while to listen …”
“How in the hell did you get my home number anyway?”
“You’re listed in the book.”
“Oh, right.”
“Ms. Carlson, are you free to meet me today for lunch?”
“I don’t eat lunch.”
“Ever?”
“Yes, I do eat lunch. But I don’t go out for lunch much. Most of the time I grab a sandwich at my desk.”
“So make an exception today.”
“Mr. Langton …”
“Lansburg. Mitchell Lansburg.”
“Okay. Mr. Lansburg, why does someone from West Coast Media, whatever that is—a vice president for talent no less—want to take me out to lunch anyway? Is this about a story I’m doing or what?”
“It’s about you, Ms. Carlson.”
“Why do you care about me?”
“We care about your future.”
It turned out to be a job offer. Or at least the promise of one. Which is how I wound up sitting in the 21 Club, the legendary Midtown restaurant where politicians, celebrities, board chairmen, and media movers hung out, having lunch with Mitchell Lansburg later that day.
Lansburg was barely thirty—everyone seemed to be getting younger and younger, even media vice presidents—and he talked like a guy who was in a hurry to rise even higher. Rapid-fire delivery, short-clipped sentences—there was no wasted time with this guy.
He had blond curly hair, cut short and neatly trimmed, and he was wearing a blue pin-striped suit, sky blue paisley tie, and a pink shirt. I put him at about an eight or a nine on my sex appeal meter. But he was also wearing a wedding ring on his left hand. Frankly, I was relieved about the wedding ring. That meant, hopefully, there’d be no sexual tension between us. I wasn’t exactly sure about how all the rules worked these days for women in the business world, but I was pretty sure that propositioning someone during a job interview was considered inappropriate behavior.
“How much do you know about our West Coast Media company?” he asked me.
“Well, I know it’s on the West Coast. I know it’s a company that has something to do with media. And … that’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge about it at the moment.”
“We are a major production company that works with the networks and big TV studios to provide content for on-air production. In other words, we put shows on television. Entertainment shows. News shows. Talk shows. We’re based in Los Angeles but we also have offices around the country and around the world.”
“Good for you.”
“We’ve been following your career, Ms. Carlson,” he said as a black-jacketed waiter brought our lunch order to the table. “Following it for a while now. You’ve broken big stories. And all the attention you got for your … well, your mea culpa, I guess you’d call it about the Lucy Devlin story. So when you got this latest big exclusive about Charles Hollister and the arrest of his wife, Laurie Bateman—scooping everyone else on this—we decided it was time to talk to you. We’d like you to come work for us, Clare.”
I noticed how he’d switched from calling me Ms. Carlson, which he did at the beginning, to Clare now. A clever ploy. Start out all businesslike, then switch to a friendly, familiar mode. Mitchell Lansburg was a pretty good operator.
“Doing what?” I asked him.
“Starring on a new talk show we’re creating.”
“Talk show?”
“Yes, a daytime talk show that is in the planning stages. It would be syndicated around the country, and appearing on all the major channels. You would be perfect for it.”
Lansburg had ordered something called a Colorado lamb chop, which looked like any other lamp chop except much bigger. Me, I’d gone for a lunch entrée of creamy chicken hash. And then, since Lansburg was picking up the tab, I added an appetizer of truffle mac and cheese. It was a lot different from the tuna fish sandwiches I usually had for lunch. Maybe I should come here to 21 every day. That way I could work my way through the entire menu. Or at least keep eating until I exploded.
“Has anyone told Ellen yet?” I asked him.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, if I’m going to be replacing Ellen DeGeneres on her talk show …”
Lansburg smiled now. The first smile I’d seen so far. That was a good sign. I always appreciated a good audience for my jokes.
“You won’t be replacing Ellen at the moment,” he said.
“Dr. Phil?”
Another smile.
“We envision a panel show. More like The View. Or The Talk. Out of our studio in Los Angeles. You’d be part of a group of people like that talking about the news of the day. Lots of it would be entertainment, but we expect to focus on news, too. We’d want you to break stories on the show. Like you do now on local TV. Only you’d be doing it for a national audience. You’re a terrific personality, Clare. I could tell that from watching you on air, and I can tell it even more now that I’ve met you in person. We want to introduce you to a bigger audience. We want to turn you into a big national star, not just a star here in New York. All you h
ave to do is be yourself. Just be Clare Carlson.”
“I could do that.”
“So you’re interested in pursuing this?”
I decided it was time to bring this conversation back to reality.
“Look, Mr. Lansburg …”
“Call me Mitchell.”
“The truth is, Mitchell, I’m not that good on the air. Sure, it seems great when I’m breaking a big story on air. But those were special moments. Not day-to-day, on-air reporting. When I started out on Channel 10 as an on-air reporter, I bombed. Everyone said I was too grating and too intense and … well, too unlikeable on-screen. That’s how I wound up working behind the scenes and eventually as news director. Your viewers aren’t going to like me any more on air than Channel 10 viewers did back then.”
“That was then, Clare. Times have changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back then, everybody thought it was important that viewers ‘liked’ the people they were watching on TV. But now, with all competition from hundreds of places on cable and social media and the rest for viewers’ attention, it doesn’t matter as much. It’s all about getting that attention away from the other sites and putting it back on us. Look at how many major news journalists these days—like on the 24-hour cable news channels—have made a name for themselves by being obnoxious and over the top with their actions and opinions. People might love them or hate them. That’s what we’d be looking at with you. A personality the viewers wanted to tune in to watch and hear what the hell you were going to say and what big story you were about to break. You’d be must-watch TV, Clare.”
“You’re saying you’d want me to act outrageous on air?”
“We’d expect that.”
“How outrageous?”
“Whatever it takes to attract an audience.”
“Can I take my clothes off during a show?”
He smiled again. I was starting to like this guy.
“No, I’m afraid that’s one pretty hard and fast rule we stick to—you have to keep your clothes on while you’re on the air.”
“I guess I can live with that,” I said.
CHAPTER 15
“LOS ANGELES?” JANET asked.
“That’s where the job would be.”
“You’re thinking of moving to Los Angeles?”
“Hooray for Hollywood,” I said.
“Are you sure about this?”
“It is kinda far away, isn’t it?”
“Three thousand miles.”
“We could talk on the phone. Exchange texts every day. Maybe even video chat with each other, if I can ever figure out exactly how to do that on my computer.”
“No, I mean are you sure about you being in Los Angeles? You’re much more of a New York City person.”
“I could change my lifestyle. Eat yogurt and rice cakes instead of pizza. Take up meditation. Join a health club. This could be a whole new me we’re talking about here.”
“Clare, I think it’s more likely you’ll spend your time working your way through every fast-food place from San Diego to Santa Barbara.”
“I do hear those In-N-Out burgers are pretty tasty,” I admitted.
We were sitting on a wooden bench inside a courthouse near Foley Square in downtown Manhattan. Janet was on a break from a case. I’d come down there specifically to tell her about my conversation with Mitchell Lansburg. I didn’t tell her beforehand why I wanted to see her, but I think she figured it was pretty significant. When Janet and I meet up for dinner or drinks or anything else socially, we try to stay away from serious topics most of the time. But, when we need to talk business, we go to each other at work. Like Janet did by coming to Channel 10 to talk to me about Laurie Bateman and her divorce plans. And that’s why I was here in Foley Square with Janet right now. I needed to tell somebody about what had happened, so why not my best friend?
“When would all this happen?” Janet asked.
“There’s no actual job offer yet. He said they’re still in the planning stages—getting network and advertising interest and a bunch of stuff like that. He was going to get back to me once it was more nailed down that the show would be a go. After that, I’d have to move to LA.”
“Weren’t you talking about writing a book one day soon? About all the big stories you’ve worked on? Lucy Devlin and the rest? Hard to do that if you’re gonna make this kind of a big career move.”
“People don’t read books anymore.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Okay, but twenty-five years from now, it probably will be true.”
“Twenty-five years from now you’ll be too old to care.”
“Thanks for cheering me up with that little piece of wisdom.”
We were sitting side by side on the bench. Outside a courtroom where Janet was representing a client in a wrongful injury suit. I had a cup of coffee in my hand, and she was drinking tea. Janet might be the only person I know who drinks tea every morning instead of coffee. Me, I was already on my third cup of coffee for the day. I started to try to take a sip of it now. But Janet suddenly poked me in the ribs, almost making me spill it.
“Uh-oh,” she said, “ex-boyfriend approaching.”
“Which one?”
This was not an idle question for me. I’ve been with a lot of men. Married three times. And plenty of others along the way that I’ve shared passion and heartbreak with as well. Long-term relationships were definitely not my strong suit.
“Wild Bill Carstairs.”
“Damn.”
William—Wild Bill—Carstairs was an assistant district attorney with big political ambitions. He took the nickname from Wild Bill Hickok. Carstairs said he saw himself as a modern-day gunslinger lawman, cleaning up New York City the same way lawmen like Hickok cleaned up the Old West. He was constantly in the newspapers or on TV. The media loves that kind of stuff.
I’d gone out with him for a while, but it ended badly.
Extremely badly.
One day I unexpectedly walked in on him in bed with a woman police officer. She’d handcuffed him to the bedposts and appeared to be “interrogating” him—using her lips and fingers on various parts of his body and asking him which position felt the best. He was moaning in ecstasy until he saw me. “Clare, I can explain this!” he yelled as I stormed out the door. Needless to say, he couldn’t. Handcuffed in bed with another woman is not an easy one to explain. All in all, it ranks right up there as one of your basic relationship busters.
“Where is he?” I asked Janet now.
“Turned the corner and coming down the hall toward us.”
I had three choices. I could ignore him; I could dive under the bench and hide—or I could talk to him. I decided to talk to him.
“Clare, you’re looking great,” he said when he saw me. “You’re still the best-looking journalist in town.”
“So what do you call that anchorwoman over at Channel 5 you’ve been dating? The second-best looking?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Same old Clare.”
“Same old Billy,” I said. “By the way, are the handcuff marks on your wrists healed yet? I hear those suckers can really chafe.”
I heard Janet doing her best to try to stifle a laugh next to me. But Carstairs didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t pay any attention to her at all. He seemed to be interested only in me. Lucky me.
“I’ve been following your stuff on Laurie Bateman,” he said.
“Are you involved in that case at all?”
“Involved? It’s my case. I’m going to be the lead prosecutor against Laurie Bateman.”
Of course.
“Could we talk about the DA’s case against Bateman?” I asked him.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Just be nice to me.”
“How nice?”
“Have a drink with me.”
“I’d prefer to keep this on a professional basis.”
“Have it your way
.” He shrugged. “Well, I gotta go. I’m on my way to tell what I know about Laurie Bateman to someone else who wants that information.”
“Who is that?”
“The anchorwoman at Channel 5.” He smiled.
I stared at him. I couldn’t believe this guy. “You’re an asshole, Billy. You know that, don’t you?”
“C’mon, Clare, don’t get mad. What am I supposed to do … give all my exclusives to you? Because we had a few good times together?”
“Our times together weren’t all that good,” I told him.
If that hurt his feelings, he didn’t show it. He was still smiling when he walked away.
“Well, that was pleasant,” I said to Janet.
“Looks like you’re not going to get much help out of the prosecutor’s office.”
“Which means I need to concentrate on the defense. Laurie Bateman’s defense, whatever it is. What about that defense attorney? That woman Donna Grieco you told me about? Can you get me in to talk to her? If I could break a story that gets Laurie Bateman off the murder charge—no matter how improbable it might seem—that would be a huge scoop for me, Janet. And I could stick it to that jerk Carstairs.”
“I’m still trying on the interview. I’ll let you know. But I gotta say again—this looks like a pretty slam-dunk case against Bateman. I imagine she’s going to have to make a plea deal at some point. Everyone is convinced she’s guilty—the police, the DA, the media, and the public. You seem to be the only one holding out hope she might beat this charge. Why are you doing this, Clare?”
I watched Carstairs—still smirking I was sure—as he got to the end of the hall and turned the corner, presumably on his way to a meeting with the Channel 5 anchorwoman.
“Hey, if you can’t join ’em, beat ’em,” I said
CHAPTER 16
THEY HELD THE funeral for Charles Hollister at a church on East 67th Street. The city was festooned with Christmas decorations as I made my way over there. Wreaths. Colored lights. Even a smiling Santa Claus with a sled and reindeer on the lawn in front of the church. Yo-ho-ho. ’Tis the season to be jolly.
The funeral service itself had turned into an A-one media event. Camera crews from all the TV networks as well as the New York stations—including mine—were there, along with throngs of reporters and lots of curious onlookers. Why not? Charles Hollister had been a powerful and wealthy man, a larger-than-life figure, for many years. Now he’d died a violent death, and his beautiful young celebrity wife was in jail accused of the murder. This was big news no matter how you looked at it.