The campaign aide flushed and took a step back. “I’m sorry, I just thought—I mean, as long as we’re here—I thought—”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“There’s a diner about a mile from here, it fills up about now and so I figured we might as well—I mean, if you don’t object we could—”
“Let’s go,” she said and walked quickly out of the deli.
• • •
Billy Sandifer had a flashback to a time when his after-school activity had been breaking into neighborhood homes to pilfer loose change, the occasional portable radio, small, usually worthless jewelry that he’d give to his girlfriends. Nothing really valuable or obvious—if he’d showed up at home with a television or stereo Freddie Sandifer would have beaten him senseless, something he did frequently, anyway, and he’d had no idea how to fence stolen goods back then. What took Billy back to those times was the sense of extraordinary peace and stillness he felt in someone’s else’s home. It was like entering another dimension altogether, as if you weren’t breaking a law of man but some fundamental law of physics. As he moved around Zach Springer’s small apartment, he felt invisible, impervious, safe, which was an odd way to feel, given that what he was doing could get him sent back to jail for a very long time. But that’s how he’d felt back then, in Brooklyn, and perhaps that’s why he’d done it, to live in someone else’s world for a few minutes, undetected in a place that had nothing to do with him or Freddie Sandifer.
The kitchen yielded nothing of interest, other than the identity of Springer’s live-in girlfriend, which he wrote down on a small pad he’d brought with him. While inspecting the refrigerator just for the hell of it he heard something from the bedroom. He took his blade from his pocket and recrossed the living room. Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, he almost laughed out loud. A big dog—sheepdog, he guessed—was cowering in the far corner of the room, whimpering.
“Some fucking guard dog you are,” he said, then proceeded to go through every drawer in the bedroom while the big, stupid dog looked on. He learned that Sarah Pearlman was a size four, wore a 34C bra, and, judging by the photo of her and Zach on top of a dresser, was hot in an intelligent, class brain kind of way. As for Springer, his wardrobe was mainly bike clothes, jeans, and polo shirts, although there were a bunch of very expensive suits in a back corner of the single bedroom closet. In a nightstand drawer he found a sheaf of condoms, some half-burned candles, a book of matches, and a clutch of photographs. He pocketed a snapshot of the two of them—at someone’s wedding, it looked like.
Back in the living room, he turned on the computer, which sat on a small table in one corner. A nice room, he decided as the machine fired up, definitely decorated by a woman with a limited budget but a good sense of how to make a space feel comfortable and happy. Deep sofa, cushiony chairs, Oriental rug, thick red drapes. The tiny, dark studio he rented in the West 40s, with the tub in the kitchen and the kitchen in the living room, would never feel like anybody’s home.
He turned his attention to the manila files on top of the makeshift desk. The handwritten labels were like chapter titles in what appeared to be a major obsession. “Mellow: Recent Deals” was the thickest folder, crammed with newspaper clippings and printouts from internet stories about the doings of Mellow Partners. “Mellow: Social” contained a collection of stories and pictures of Julian and his wife at various fundraising events, most of them for psychiatric-related charities. He worked his way through “Mellow: Art Collection” and “Mellow: Son Matthew” and “Mellow: Press Interviews” (a very thin folder) until he got to one that sent his insides tumbling: “Mellow: Billy Sandifer.” Inside were a few articles printed from the internet, most of them having to do with the uprising at Williston and his release two years earlier. Nothing incriminating in itself—in fact, nothing in the file connected him to Mellow, but he hated seeing his name and Mellow’s on the same folder. And the next folder, labeled “Mellow: Lightstone,” wasn’t exactly comforting. Inside were articles on Charles Moore’s plane crash, airplane schedules to Portland, Maine, an article about Lightstone’s speech at the Saint Francis in San Francisco, another one about the murder in San Francisco—fuck, what were all those articles doing in the same file? And then there were dozens of lined pages torn from a notepad, covered in handwriting, much of it unreadable. Springer did a lot of diagramming, connecting names (Mellow, Sandifer, Lightstone, mostly) with long lines interrupted by question marks and exclamation points and accompanied by scrawled notations. The scribbling of a lunatic, except a lot of it happened to be true.
He checked out the sites Springer had recently visited. Most of them had to do with Mellow or Lightstone. Springer had a major hard-on for Julian Mellow, that much was clear, and he’d somehow managed to uncover at least the outline of what was going on. If he were able to connect a few more lines to a few more names—and all the information he needed was basically in those files—then he’d know everything. And what flashed through Billy’s mind just then wasn’t an image of being taken back to Williston but of Rebecca being led out of the Newman Center and dumped into the state institution from which he’d rescued her two years earlier.
He gasped, having forgotten to breathe for a good minute, and found himself panting, as if he’d just run up several steep flights of stairs. He would never let that happen to Rebecca. Her mother had deserted her, and he’d been unable to help her for so long. She was never leaving the Newman Center. He’d made a pact with himself, and with Rebecca.
Footsteps, outside the apartment’s front door. Probably headed for another apartment, but with only four units to a floor…the jangling of keys, the unmistakable sound of a single key sliding into the lock of apartment 6D. He held in the on/off switch of the computer until it shut down—five seconds that felt like five hours—then crossed the living room to the closet just inside the front door. He squeezed into the closet just as the front door opened, crouching under hanging coats and jackets, gripping the edge of the door with his fingertips and pulling it almost shut.
He heard footsteps crossing the living room, then the sound of the dog running to greet the new arrival. He took his switchblade from the inside pocket of his jacket. Had Springer cut short his ride? Too cold even for him? He could kill Springer now, remove the files, and Rebecca would be safe. There would be an investigation, of course, and the connection to Mellow, whatever it was, might surface, but so what? As long as the connection between Mellow and himself was never revealed, Rebecca was safe. Springer was a few inches taller, and in shape, but he had the element of surprise in his favor, and he had experience in this line of work.
Suddenly a voice, a woman’s voice. “Hello, Guinevere. How’s your day been so far?”
So it was the size-four girlfriend, not Zach Springer.
He ran his thumb over the switchblade release button, gently enough to keep from ejecting the blade. What would be gained by killing her? Nothing, and it would potentially alert her boyfriend that his amateur investigations had been discovered. A shame, because killing her would be easier than waiting in the closet, his knees already throbbing with pain from maintaining a crouch.
A sudden noise—from the living room television, he quickly realized—startled him back to the moment. His legs still throbbed but now he felt a tingling in his feet and hands, which had lost sensation. Then something in the newscast caught his attention.
“…political analysts doubt that this will derail the Rooney-Delsiner campaign,” a male voice was saying.
“Has the Lightstone campaign issued a statement?”
“Senator Lightstone said, through a spokesperson, that he has no reason to doubt Delsiner’s sincerity,” came the male voice. “Remember, Delsiner has made no secret of his past problems with substance abuse, and he has used his back-from-the-abyss story to great advantage. A lot of voters relate to his life, particularly the role of Christian faith in his recovery. And let’s not forget what we’re talking about here, a quantity of cocaine maile
d to the senator. There is not a shred of evidence that the senator requested the drug.”
“Thank you, Bill. In other news, President Nessin appeared in Canton, Ohio, today, widely regarded as a pivotal state for both parties in the upcoming…”
Billy felt a small sense of satisfaction that his parcel had been detected in the Russell Building mail room. Julian Mellow was clever, no doubt about it. No wonder the man was worth a gazillion bucks. He was looking forward to seeing how the whole thing played out, since Mellow kept him pretty much in the dark about the bigger picture. He liked the whole idea of a born-again holy-roller type getting nailed on a drug charge. Before he knew it the TV was off and he heard her heading into the bedroom.
“Ready for a walk, Guinevere?” The dog panted its enthusiasm.
She’d be leaving soon. He flicked open the switchblade and slowly cracked the closet door. There was no rationale for what he was about to do, other than that he needed to do it. He was crossing the living room when he heard a toilet flush in the bathroom, which was off the bedroom. A second later he heard a cell phone ringing, and then her voice.
“Hi, how are you?” she said, and then, after a pause, “I’m walking Guinevere.”
He didn’t want to surprise her while she was on the phone. Whoever it was would call the cops and that wouldn’t leave time for what he had in mind. In an instant he calculated and recalculated his options. He heard the sink turn on while she continued to talk, then it was turned off and her voice grew louder as she left the bathroom, still talking. He was frozen at the center of the living room, paralyzed by conflicting desires. He’d wait till she was off, assuming she hung up before leaving the apartment. He entered the small kitchen and opened what he thought was a closet but turned out to be a tiny service bathroom. He closed the door behind him and waited.
She was still on the phone when she left the apartment, the dog in tow. He left the bathroom and crossed the living room to the window, which overlooked the street. A minute later he saw her leave the building with Guinevere. He raised the window and leaned out, following her down the street as she continued to talk on the phone. When was the last time he had a conversation that long? Had he ever? What did he have to say that needed five, ten minutes? What person would he say it to? He envied her for the long, comfortable conversation and for a thousand other things. He hated her, too, for the easy confidence in her voice, the way her ass swayed ever so slightly as she walked, for the easy intimacy she shared. He hated her because he hadn’t fucked her or run his knife across her throat and because she would never see the inside of the Newman Center or its unspeakable state counterpart. When she turned onto Amsterdam Avenue, disappearing, he stood up, grabbed the fancy red drapes and pulled hard, tearing the supporting hardware from the wall. Let them try to figure out what had happened, he didn’t give a fuck. He went back to the kitchen and opened a few drawers until he found what he was looking for: a spare key. He used it to lock the front door behind him and placed it in his pocket for future use.
Chapter 31
Julian Mellow approached the receptionist on the forty-third floor of 1222 Avenue of the Americas, a building he controlled through his 51 percent interest in Sundian Real Estate Investment Trust (he’d divested the other 49 percent in a public offering, netting just north of $540 million), and asked for Simon Avery, the chairman and chief executive officer of Masters Broadcasting, the nation’s largest group of network-affiliated local television stations. He controlled Masters through a 100 percent interest in its parent company, Masters Media.
“And your name?”
“Julian Mellow.”
“I’m sorry, you said Junior Moody?”
“Mellow,” he said. Spelled O-W-N-E-R, he almost added, but he was in fact pleased that she recognized neither his face nor his name.
“Is Mr. Avery expecting you?”
“He is not.”
“I’ll call his assistant,” she said warily. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
He was still standing less than half a minute later when Simon Avery bustled into the reception area.
“Julian, what a pleasant surprise.”
They both knew the surprise was anything but pleasant. Masters Broadcasting had been a lackluster performer since Mellow Partners’ takeover three years earlier. Avery, who had been head of affiliate relations at one of the big networks, had been brought on board soon after the buyout, when the entire senior management team had been shown the door, with the mandate to turn the ship around so that it could, in a leaner, meaner, more profitable incarnation, be sold back to the public in an IPO at a substantially higher price. So far, he’d underperformed.
“Can I get you some coffee? Water?” he asked as they walked back to his corner office. Avery was a fleshy fifty-year-old who regularly showed up in the society columns, schmoozing with a broad cross-section of New York’s media establishment. With his luxuriantly thick, bluish-white hair, pink complexion, and preference for foppish bowties, he, unlike Julian, was no doubt recognized by most receptionists in town, as well as the maître d’s at the better restaurants.
“Nothing,” Julian said.
When they were seated in Avery’s office, across from each other in matching wingback chairs, Avery jumped right in. “I’m guessing you’re here about the fourth-quarter numbers. I was as disappointed as I’m sure you were that we didn’t make our goals, but I think in this environment, with what’s happening over at the networks, a 4 percent increase in overall audience—which translates into a 6 percent increase in gross margins, by the way—is an impressive performance.” Avery let out a long, slow breath and crossed his meaty legs. A fine line of sweat glistened on his brow. His performance stank—did he really think Julian was unaware that competitor affiliate groups had turned in double-digit growth figures?—and a personal visit from Julian was certainly bad news. Mellow Partners had six managing directors who oversaw its investment portfolio, and it was these men (all were men) who had direct contact with the operating company CEOs. Zach Springer had been his first managing director, and the most capable, even as the organization expanded and additional high-performance MBAs were brought on. It would have been his job, or that of one of his successors, and not Julian’s, to grill an anxious CEO about his numbers, his goals, his strategies. Julian swooped in only for the most important events, such as planning divestitures and “bolt-on” acquisitions. And high-level firings, of course.
“I’m not here to discuss the numbers,” Julian said. The darkening of Avery’s complexion indicated that he feared the worst. “It’s about a news story, actually.” He handed Avery a flash drive. “There’s one file on this. Play it.”
Avery let out a long, slow breath and hoisted himself from his chair. He plugged the flash drive into his computer.
Julian stood behind Avery as he watched.
“What is this?” Avery asked.
“Wait.”
A minute or so later a figure approached a car.
“That’s…Stephen Delsiner,” Avery said, turning to Julian, who nodded and pointed at the screen. Avery tried to turn up the sound, but there was none.
Before Delsiner got to his car a second figure appeared on screen.
Five minutes later it was over.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was emailed to me. Anonymously. An accompanying note indicated that man with Senator Delsiner in the video is Christopher Ruben, known as Kobe, a drug dealer from Missouri.”
“Do you have the note?”
“No.”
He could see the frustration mounting in Avery’s expression.
“Why you? Why was this sent to you?”
“I own the largest group of network-affiliated television stations.”
“But why not send this to the networks themselves?”
“Our local stations have wider reach than any single network, and we’re affiliated with all of the networks anyway. Plus, I think whoever sent this realizes that the ne
tworks might not show it.”
“We don’t run anonymous tips, either.”
“Is there something about this video that strikes you as inauthentic?”
“It certainly looks like a drug deal, and after the cocaine incident at the Russell Office building, this would almost certainly destroy him. Which is why we can’t run this without knowing where it came from, who shot it, what the circumstances were…”
“I told you, I received it anonymously.” Julian returned to his seat.
“We can’t run it, Julian.”
“You will run it, Simon.”
They locked eyes. Avery turned away first. “This violates a cardinal rule of journalistic ethics,” he said without looking at Julian. “Interference with the news operations by corporate management is unthinkable. I won’t do it.”
“Your performance as head of this group has been very disappointing to us.” Avery watched with fresh alarm as Julian reached into his briefcase and removed a multipage document, which he tossed onto the coffee table between them.
“What is that, my resignation? I won’t sign, you’ll have to fire me.”
“It’s a three-year contract, with a 20 percent raise included as well as various performance bonuses built in. It also provides for equity participation when we take the company public.”
“Is this a payoff?”
“An acknowledgment of your superior performance.” Julian emitted a tight smile.
“And if I don’t sign it?”
“You will be replaced.”
Avery’s eyes unfocused as he took this in. A droplet from the line of sweat on his forehead broke free and ran down the side of his face.
“Why, Julian? Why is this so important to you?”
“It will be a scoop. Our ratings will go through the roof. It will put our news operation, which hasn’t exactly been your strong suit, on the map.”
“For a day or two.”
“Given the performance of this company, even a day or two of improved ratings will be like a blessing.” He allowed another tight smile as Avery slowly shook his head.
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