Four Days of Fall

by Beck Jones

“Well, his father owns it, but he’s the first born son so he’ll inherit it. You know they grow tobacco here in North Carolina. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to come down here. Verisimilitude.”

  The look on his face showed he didn’t know the word but didn’t want to admit it.

  “I wanted to make it seem as real as possible.” Verisimilitude. Like the fiction that she was down here for the tobacco plantations. But as long as she was winging it, why not? Verisimilitude. Vertiginous verisimilitude. That’s for you, Russ.

  He started reading again.

  “I’m going to get some sleep,” she said.

  He looked up from the pages. His gaze was mild. Inscrutable.

  But wasn’t hers the same?

  “I need to go get my car,” he said.

  “You can take mine anywhere you want to go. The keys are on the kitchen counter. I left them there last night.”

  She watched him watch her as she stood up and stretched. She was wearing nothing but her t-shirt and her panties, but his look was clinical.

  Vertiginous.

  She turned, half expecting something, even though she wasn’t sure what. But there was only the rustle of the pages behind her.

  She was already out the door when he called to her.

  “Say. Was Russell Stockton—did he—was he—the dude in Steeling Bonds?”

  She suppressed the urge to smile. Instead she stretched her fingers around the door frame. “We writers have our secrets, too.”

  She took the stairs quickly. She wanted to lock the bedroom door, but really there was no point.

  RUSS

  Russ took another gulp of air, reassuring himself he wasn’t drowning.

  Except he was. Drowning. In women.

  But one of them could save him.

  He showered quickly and left Liz snoring in the bed. He would worry about Anna Beth later. He wanted to get to the office. He needed to get to the office. He needed to get to Eleanor. He didn’t know how to talk to her about Anna Beth, but he was sure she would have an answer. Eleanor always had an answer.

  He forced himself to check his phone in the car. Another #YouToo email, but he realized that for once his nausea at the same awful message felt manageable somehow. These emails, he was going to talk to Eleanor about them, too. #ThemToo he thought with grim satisfaction.

  And then there was the text, from Larson. Tell me when you are coming. And please say soon. I can’t wait. Counting the days the hours the minutes.

  Me too, he replied, and didn’t even flinch at the wording.

  He was inside the network building, about to board the elevator when Flynn got off. Flynn Landers. Gorgeous, funny Flynn.

  “Russ,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

  “Better now that I’ve seen you. You look wonderful as always.”

  And she did. He stood, letting the crowd flow around him into the elevator, as he drank her in, the long-stemmed strawberry blonde who headed up a charitable organization dedicated to helping the city’s homeless. Kindness itself, and a woman who genuinely liked him. Flynn always called him her “under covers hero.” She made it simple and uncomplicated. Why hadn’t he strayed and stayed with her?

  He suddenly realized that she was regarding him quizzically.

  “I’m sorry for staring,” he said. “It’s just so damn good to see you.”

  She cocked her head. Her skin, lightly freckled, was still as fresh and beautiful as ever. He used to tell her the freckles were where she had been dusted by Irish fairies.

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?” she said.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Let’s get out of the madding crowd.” He took her arm and began guiding toward the door. “Do you want to get coffee somewhere?”

  She stopped. “No. I just think I ought to tell you something. You know I’m not with the organization any more.”

  “What? Why? You loved your work.”

  “Yes, I did. But four months ago, Amanda Bayard became the largest donor, and apparently her gift, which was mind-bogglingly large, came with strings. And cutting mine was one of them.”

  “No.”

  “Russ, she knew you and I had an affair. She said as much the first and only time I met her.”

  “But that was before—” Russ stopped, tongue-tied.

  But Flynn’s tone was brisk. “Yes, I know you’re having an affair with her. She as much as said that, too. And I assume your affair with her started after we split. You aren’t that big a shit. But I don’t think she cared. She’s not a nice woman, Russ. I just think you should know that. I think she’s the kind who likes her revenge cold. So if I were you, I’d watch my back.”

  Flynn squeezed his arm. “It really is good to see you, Russ. We had some fun. And I would say we should get together again some time, but I still have things I can lose in this town.” She turned on her heel, and Russ watched her disappear in the crowds beyond the door.

  He stood at the edge of the lobby, feeling the crowds flowing in and out as much as seeing them. So many women. It had seemed so wonderful all these years, this banquet of women, encased in chic fashionable clothing, so unlike anything his own mother had ever worn, with those dowdy “housedresses.” Lumpy. Doughy. Dull. Liz kept herself trim and was at least fashionable. She worked in an art gallery, after all.

  But here in the heart of the city, at the nexus of power, he’d been invited to the feast. Beautiful women of all shapes and colors plated up in their finery, and he had peeled it away piece by piece to expose and explore and consume that flesh. Flesh. Pulchritudinous flesh. What had been so wrong with giving women pleasure? He was always courteous and discreet. And honest.

  Now he looked at all the woman passing in front of him, young and old, beautiful and ugly, and they all looked the same to him: Absolutely terrifying. He could almost believe that he would have preferred being born gay.

  On the elevator he counted heads. More women than men. He was behind enemy lines. That awful Symington was right. Pretty soon, there would be no men left.

  But there was one woman who was not his enemy. Eleanor. Eleanor wasn’t like these other women. She wasn’t demanding like Liz. Or calculating like Amanda. She was Eleanor. His rock. He would call her in this morning, tell her everything, and she would fix it all.

  He was feeling almost elated by the time he reached the suite.

  And then suddenly he was face to face with them. Or trying to face them down, as they lounged in the chairs next to Madison’s desk, chatting amiably with her. Or at least Yablonski was. Fucker. He rose first, forcing Russ to lift his gaze.

  “I hope this means you have some good news,” Russ said briskly. Although it was completely doubtful that they would both schlep to his office to share such news. Still, he didn’t want them to think they could just keep on wasting his time.

  “We do have news,” Yablonski said. “But we’d like you to come with us down to the station so we can talk about it.”

  Madison actually gasped. Her eyes went wide. “I’ll call Eleanor,” she said, snatching the phone off the cradle.

  Dammit. Why hadn’t he asked them into his office before he opened his mouth?

  Murphy regarded Madison with what seemed to be amusement. “So is she also Mr. Stockton’s lawyer?”

  “Does he need one?” Madison blurted out.

  “No,” Russ said, more sharply than he meant to. “Don’t call anyone.” He raised an eyebrow at the detectives. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  They actually had a squad car parked out front. He couldn’t believe it. What were these bozos trying to prove? Had they “alerted the media” as well?

  Murphy rode in the back of the car with him. No doubt she wanted him to fume about his treatment. Or fear it. He trusted his face was suitably stony. After all, he was Russell Stockton, and he’d faced down bigger foes than a couple of cheap-suited cops.

  At the station, he kept his poker face as he followed them into an interview room.

  “
We’re not arresting you, Mr. Stockton,” Yablonski said. “But we do need a DNA sample. Would you be willing to provide one?”

  Russ shrugged. “You brought me all the way down here for that? You could have taken a swab in my office.”

  “We needed to ask you some more questions,” Murphy said. “Can you tell us your whereabouts last night around midnight?”

  He couldn’t afford to pause. “At home.”

  “Anybody else at home?”

  “My wife. And I know the drill. Yes, she will back up my account.” She wouldn’t have a choice. “What does this have to do with Phoebe?”

  “This isn’t about Phoebe,” Yablonski said. “It’s about another of your former interns. Vanessa West. She died around midnight in a club in Tribeca. We think it may be foul play.”

  He flinched at the name. He couldn’t help it. Vanessa? This couldn’t be true.

  “Foul play? What—what does that have to do with me?”

  Murphy leaned forward. “Oh, come on, Mr. Stockton. You know the drill. We’re saying that Vanessa West was probably murdered, at midnight last night. And so we have over the course of just a few days, two young women murdered, and their only connection is that they worked as interns on the Take Stock show. So you can see why we need some answers from you.”

  “I don’t have any answers,” Russ spluttered.

  Murphy laid a plastic bag on the interview table and pushed it toward him.

  “Take a closer look inside there, Mr. Stockton. There’s a fountain pen with your initials on it.”

  He wanted to say there were probably hundreds of men in the city with his initials—JRS—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t say anything, because he knew it was his pen. A gift from Eleanor for his birthday last year.

  He pushed it back toward the cops. “That looks like a pen I own. I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”

  “When was the last time you used the pen?”

  “I can’t remember. It wasn’t really a pen for writing. Not practical. You can see it’s a fountain pen. It was just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Just something to mark the occasion. My birthday. It was a gift. I don’t understand—”

  “When was the last time you saw Ms. West?”

  “I don’t remember. About a year ago I believe I gave her a reference for a job at a Jersey television station.”

  Murphy held up the plastic bag. “So how did this pen get into Ms. West’s pants pocket? That’s where it was found.”

  “I have no idea.”

  He remembered the day in Paul’s office, right after Eleanor gave it to him. And Paul took it from him, ran it under his nose like he was sniffing it and made a crude crack about Clinton and cigars and Monica Lewinsky, and seeing Russ disgusted, he added how maybe Russ should get his dick monogrammed now that he was fucking rich bitches like Amanda Bayard. And Russ had left the room. Because that’s what he did with Paul when he was like that. Just turned him off or walked away.

  But on that day when he walked out hadn’t he taken the pen back? Hadn’t he?

  Behind the detectives, Paul’s reflection shimmered into view in the two-way glass. I am Banquo’s ghost, he said.

  That was bullshit. Because despite his expensive Ivy League education, Paul couldn’t or wouldn’t make a literary reference if his life depended on it.

  For some reason this knowledge made Russ relax a little.

  “I don’t have any answers for you,” he said. “I’m sorry. And I’m very sorry about Vanessa.”

  “But don’t you think this is awfully close to home?” Yablonski said. He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? You are an investigative reporter, aren’t you?”

  Dammit, he was sick of being goaded. “I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me my business. But yes, hell, yes, I’m damned curious. And if you think you’re the only ones who will be trying to get to the bottom of this, you’re wrong.”

  Who might be doing this to them? To those beautiful girls? To him? It was terrifying to consider.

  Except maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was business as usual for some people. He straightened in the chair.

  “I have a lot of enemies,” he said. “There are two men right now in prison because of my work.”

  “Lenny the Lisp and Andrew Shrekel,” Yablonski said. “Yes, we know.”

  “Shrekel sent me a dead funeral wreath yesterday with a Dylan Thomas poem on it. About the dying of the light.”

  Screw Shrekel. He couldn’t know anything for sure about Phoebe. See how he liked have a couple of homicide cops up his ass. At least they’d be off his own back.

  “So you think that from a prison cell, Andrew Shrekel paid someone to kill these young women to frame you?” Murphy asked.

  “I don’t think anything. I know Shrekel, Romano and probably a half dozen corporate evil doers hate my guts and would like to see me suffer in some real way.”

  “Well,” Yablonski drawled, “You probably aren’t suffering like those two young women.”

  After a few more parries—Did he know the interns better than he was letting on? Was there someone on his staff who might have a grudge against the interns?—the cops took the swab from his mouth, told him he shouldn’t leave town, and finally he fled the station, fury and fear twining his gut like tangled barbed wire. He wondered if he would ever be able to digest food normally ever again.

  He checked his phone in the taxi. Over a dozen texts. He picked out the one from Sabine. What’s going on with the police? What’s going on with these girls?

  Russ hesitated for a minute, but only for a minute before he sent his reply. This is a big story. And we’re going to break it.

  And there was another text from Larson. I dreamed about you last night. Strictly X-rated. You can’t imagine how much I want you.

  I’m imagining right now, he texted back. We are going to collide like stars. And just like that he steadied himself.

  This was all just a bump in the road. Soon, he’d be working for Project X—which reminded him: he had forgotten to put Eleanor and Gabe to work on that name; he would do that today. They would come up with a name, and the crew he would take down to North Carolina would be his very own crew. He would put together an ass-kicking story on Argofel. He didn’t need Paul McGann for that.

  And he would see Larson in North Carolina. Hell, maybe he would bring her back with him. Tuck her away somewhere up here. She’d have lots more opportunities here. He could actually imagine that. Or at least almost imagine it.

  And he would find out what happened to Phoebe and Vanessa. He wasn’t going to forget about them. He just needed to do a little strategizing to adjust to the delicacy of the situation. He would talk about that too with Eleanor.

  It was such a relief to be back in his building that when he heard the woman shouting as he stepped off the elevator, it was a moment before the noise began to make him uneasy. But the piercing pitch of the voice, as it seemed to be coming closer, was physically difficult to hear. He felt the panic set in even before he saw them turn the corner in the corridor, coming toward him like some crippled six-legged creature, the woman wedged between two security guards, who were more or less carrying her as she dragged her feet.

  “You can throw me out, but it won’t change things,” she shouted. “Everybody here is going to know it.” As they came nearer, he decided she was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he had seen her. But she was small, mousy. Not necessarily the type of female he usually noticed or remembered.

  And then the six-legged lame beast was even with him. He jumped when the woman snarled at him. “It’s you, too,” she said, her face contorted. “Everybody’s gonna know when it comes to me too, it’s you too.”

  Even though security hardly gave him a glance, Russ felt his feet push roots into the carpet, holding him to the spot. He couldn’t move, couldn’t really hear much either, what with his heart pounding so loudly. But he could smell, so he knew
from the cloud of cologne it was Larry Symington.

  “Well, it’s a damn good thing it’s you too, too,” Symington sing-songed in his ear.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Russ replied. Convincingly, he thought.

  Symington snorted. “Oh, come on. We know Eleanor King wouldn’t have taken such a keen interest in this case if you hadn’t been one of the many victimized by that crazed harpy.” Symington nodded toward the hallway where the women and her captors had disappeared.

  Russ tried to keep a poker face, but clearly didn’t succeed, since Symington’s eyes lit up and his insinuating smile stretched so far it seemed to lap over his pointy little ears.

  “You didn’t realize?” he said gleefully. “You poor bastard. You must have been sweating it out, thinking she’d picked you out specially. But there were a dozen of us at least. And fortunately for us, you were one of the victims, or I doubt seriously that Eleanor would have bothered to suss the woman out. Quite the eager detective, Eleanor is. Pointed IT and company security in the right direction so they could nail her. Eleanor King, Russell’s terrier.”

  “Shut up,” Russ said. “Just shut the hell up.”

  “Why so grouchy? We’d all like to have a breed just like her,” Symington called after him as he walked away.

  Madison stood up, wide-eyed, as Russ started past her desk.

  “Mrs. McGann,” she stage whispered. “She’s in your office. She insisted. Said something weird, cooling her heels, whatever that means. Anyway she wanted to wait for you in there, and Eleanor’s not in her office. So.” Madison shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Russ said, and he meant it. Why not the annoyance of Anna Beth on top of everything else? He entered his office, closed the door behind him. She was standing at the window, her back to him.

  “Anna Beth,” he said, and sat down heavily at his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  She turned around. She looked like holy hell.

  “I need some money,” she said and settled into a chair in front of his desk. She looked like she was a hundred years old.

  “I’m sorry—”