The Concealers

by James J. Kaufman

  * * *

  Katherine stormed out of the apartment and ran into the square. The day had turned colder and rainy, matching her darkening mood. She walked around the square to Fourteenth Street at a fast clip, watching the vendors pack up their small booths, and then covered the same ground again. She stopped at the pizza parlor, devoured a single slice, and gulped down a steaming hot coffee. She tried to reach Susan, left a message, and went back to her apartment, which, like her universe, was fast growing way too small.

  Why didn’t she have a boyfriend to call at a time like this? Why didn’t she have a boyfriend in any event? She liked men. In fact, she loved men. Too much at times. Why did these relationships never seem to work out? Okay, she was too busy with school. But that was over now.

  Katherine gathered her composure, sat down at the kitchen table, and took out her cell phone. She pulled the Twin Forks Press phone number from her contacts, picked up the phone, dialed, and asked for Mr. Kaplowitz.

  She was surprised to hear the response, “That’s me.”

  “Mr. Kaplowitz?”

  “Yes. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Katherine Kelly, sir. I read your ad online at ire.org. I’m a recent graduate of the Fletcher Thomas School of Journalism, and I would appreciate the opportunity to talk to you about the position.”

  “Good. Talk.”

  “Well, I have the qualities and skill-set you’re looking for.”

  “Either that or a lot of chutzpah.”

  Katherine smiled. “Well, I did poke a little beyond the ad, about you, the Twin Forks Press, and its affiliations. May I come out and meet you?”

  “Of course. When?”

  “Whenever is convenient for you. I’ll rent a car and drive.”

  “How about sending me some information first so that I may have the benefit of learning about you before we meet? Résumé. Background. Perhaps a first-person piece about what you learned in your master’s program, how you liked it, what kind of reporter you want to be and why. And most of all, what you think sets you apart from other candidates. Can you have all of that e-mailed to me by this afternoon?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll make it tomorrow. It will be quieter on a Saturday. If you get an early start, you might be able to get here by 11:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Kaplowitz. Thank you.”

  “Call me Sol. I look forward to meeting you, too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The overcast skies and wind-whipped Trump Tower matched Preston’s foul mood, made worse when his cell phone buzzed and displayed the name “B. Forsyth.” To say that Preston hadn’t been looking forward to this moment was an understatement. With every day that had passed he grew more apprehensive, and less eager to learn the answer. Maybe if enough time passed, the matter would just miraculously go away. He froze, feeling equal parts of fear and excitement, and then gritted his teeth and took the call.

  “Hi, Ben.”

  “Preston. I just found that I have the report. It actually came into the office a week ago, but there was some confusion because it was marked ‘Personal and Confidential’ and I have been out of town. Would you like to come down to the office?”

  “You’ve read it?” Preston rose from the couch, tiptoed past P.J.’s room, where Marcia was occupied with their son, and stepped into his den and closed the door for privacy.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s confidential?”

  “Yes.”

  Preston could feel his pulse pounding through his veins.

  “No, just tell me.”

  “Congratulations. You’re the father of a beautiful twenty-three-year-old girl.”

  Silence.

  “Preston, are you there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here,” Preston said in a barely audible voice. “Thank you, Ben. I hope my daughter likes me,” he said before hanging up.

  Preston sat down at his desk and stared blankly at his collection of tastefully framed pictures. A headshot of Marcia before they were married, Marcia and Preston together, Preston and Casey in the mountains, snapped by their guide when they went looking for Joe, and P.J., the day after he was born. Preston got up and found Marcia in the kitchen.

  “Honey, we need to talk.”

  “In the closet?” Marcia asked with a slight smile. For some reason that Preston knew Marcia never understood, whenever he had a really sensitive subject he wanted to discuss, he dragged Marcia into his walk-in closet as if his suits and pants and shoes would somehow insulate him and no one would hear.

  “I just got a call from the lawyer I consulted about . . . the paternity issue.”

  “And?”

  “I’m the father—her father.”

  “How long do we have to stay in the closet, Preston?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there is some duality to the question. Can we leave this closet now, go to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee, and discuss this situation? I mean, how are you going to handle this? What are you going to do? What are you going to say? To whom? Stuff like that. And maybe you can tell me what you know about her, starting with her name?”

  Preston and Marcia went to the kitchen, sat on the stools at the fancy butcher block table, and Marcia poured coffee.

  Preston told his wife what little information he had about Katherine. “I don’t have to do anything. No one knows about this except my lawyer and you,” he said.

  “And you. You know about it.”

  “I mean . . . I’m talking about burden of proof and all of that. It’s not on me. On the other hand, honestly, while I’m anxious about all of this, I’m also intrigued. Katherine’s apparently done very well. I’d like to know more about my daughter.”

  “I can understand that,” Marcia said.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “We’ve covered this ground. Again, don’t go there. Just make a decision. Then I’ll make mine.”

  “That’s not fair. Back when we were having problems you were always complaining that I didn’t open up and talk to you . . . that I was . . . distant. Now, I am talking to you, and you’re pulling back. What I decide, obviously, involves you.”

  “Don’t put this on me. I was not involved when you created this situation. This is, after all, your daughter, not our daughter. You have to determine whether you are going to reach out to your daughter or not. You don’t know how any of that is going to turn out, nor do I.”

  Preston got up and started pacing, ending up looking out of the window at the Park. He was tired of the conversation with Marcia and disappointed in her response, but he also knew that she didn’t create this quandary. He turned to Marcia.

  “I’m going to meet Katherine, talk with her. I’m going to tell her that this is a shock to me and must be a shock to her as well. I want her to be aware that I didn’t know until now that I am her father, that I don’t want her to think that she was abandoned by me.”

  “I understand,” Marcia said. “I really do.”

  * * *

  Preston dialed the cell phone number Beth had given him.

  “Hello,” Beth answered.

  “Beth, this is Preston.”

  “Hi, Preston. Can I call you back? I’m at the hospital, but I’ll be off shift in about thirty minutes.”

  “Sure, call me on my cell,” Preston said and gave her the number.

  A little over a half hour later, Preston’s cell phone rang. He quickly answered.

  “Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier,” said Beth. “Occupational hazard.”

  “I’d like to talk to your . . . our daughter. Can you tell me where I can reach her?”

  “Thank God, Preston. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I’m not sure how she’s g
oing to respond. She’s upset with me at the moment. Why don’t you contact her through her e-mail first and let her decide whether to give you her cell number?”

  “That sounds like a sensible idea, under the circumstances. Go ahead with the address—I have a pen and paper.” Preston recorded the information.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On a gray and soon-to-be rainy day, Katherine fed and walked Hailey, picked up a rental car at the agency five blocks away, drove to Susan’s apartment, dropped Hailey off, and drove up the FDR Drive, through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and onto the Long Island Expressway, I-95, heading toward the Hamptons. It seemed as though every resident of Manhattan was headed the same direction, even on a Saturday morning. This was Katherine’s first trip to Long Island, and she’d heard about the traffic congestion on the LIE. She almost wished she’d brought Hailey and buckled her into the right front seat so that she could use the fast High Occupancy Vehicle lane.

  As she inched along, she caught up on her phone calls. She retrieved the private investigator’s card and after some thought, gave him a call.

  “Hi, Angelo, it’s Katherine Kelly. We met outside the Flatiron Building.”

  “I know. What d’ya need?”

  Katherine laughed. “You really know how to smooth-talk a lady, Angelo.”

  “Come on, let’s have it.”

  “I’d like to have you get some information on someone, but I don’t have any money to pay you right now.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’re both just starting out—me as a PI, I mean.”

  “I’d like you to find out what you can about a man named Preston Wilson. A Google search presents his extensive automobile dealerships, and I have information that he lives at Trump Tower.”

  “How deep?”

  “I’d like to know what there is to know.”

  “What’s your interest in this guy, if I may ask? He giving you trouble?”

  “No, it’s not like that, Angelo. But it’s complicated. That’s all I’d like to say about it at this point. I have an exit coming up.”

  “Gotcha. No problem. I assume you want this yesterday?”

  “Today will be fine,” Katherine said with a laugh. “Actually there’s no deadline on this, Angelo. Since you’re doing it pro bono, you probably should work me in when you can.”

  “I get that. You and me will help each other. If you like my work, you can refer me business. I figured that was sort of a given when we first met.”

  “Thanks, Angelo.”

  “You got it,” he said.

  Katherine noticed the congestion had disappeared as she got closer to the Nassau County line. She checked her iPhone for directions as she continued east. The GPS wanted her to continue on the LIE all the way to Manorville, exit seventy. But she decided to get off the expressway early, taking Route 112 south to Montauk Highway to explore some of the little towns along the South Shore, many of them with Native American names. She drove through Patchogue and continued east through Shirley, and Speonk. She detoured off Montauk Highway, slowed down to admire some of the charming old houses in the Remsenburg area, and other sections of rural farmland. The scenic countryside reminded her, surprisingly, of Marion, the Finger Lakes, and rural sections of upstate New York. She eventually reached the Hampton Bays area and the entrance to Long Island’s South Fork, and the Hamptons, a playground for some of the world’s richest and most famous people.

  The closer she got to the Hamptons, and to the ocean, the more she recognized the hedgerows and the mansions behind them that she had heard and read so much about, with fewer rural patches in between. Katherine was surprised by the swift changes between farming country and trendy little towns or villages. The highway veered northward to Shinnecock Hills, and then turned southeast again. Finally, she reached Southampton, noting the upscale nature of the community: stately colonial style expansive homes behind more carefully trimmed hedgerows and interesting shops with artistic signs and catchy names.

  On her right, she passed the Southampton Town Hall and the Bridgehampton National Bank. She found the Twin Forks Press on the southeast corner of Hampton Road and Lewis Street, in a three-story wood frame house with a barn-style roof covered in Shaker shingles. The ground floor front consisted of two large windows with a wooden door in the middle; the house as a whole had an Early American feel. Clearly, this was not the New York Times.

  It was only 10:15, so Katherine turned around, drove a few blocks and found a Starbucks, freshened up, and ordered a cup of coffee to go. Returning to the address she’d verified earlier, Katherine grabbed the black leather Tumi briefcase her mother had given her for graduation and briskly entered the newspaper office.

  She was greeted by a man of average height with curly black hair, a warm smile, and an outstretched hand. He wore thick horned-rim glasses with round frames and appeared to Katherine to be in his fifties.

  “Hi, Katherine. Sol. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Katherine replied, thinking he looked a little like Lou Grant in the old Mary Tyler Moore television show.

  Sol led her past the reception area to his office at the end of the hall.

  “You made good time. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Kaplowitz, I just grabbed a cup down the street.”

  “Call me Sol. If you were Southern you would agree and still call me Mr. Kaplowitz, but you’re from New York. By the way, where are you from in New York? You don’t sound like the city, certainly not the Bronx.”

  “I’m from Marion, a small village in upstate New York, north of the Finger Lakes Region and south of Lake Ontario.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “I was inspired reading your biography. It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “What are the other reasons?”

  “I’m eager to start my career, and I need money. I have an internship offer from a highly ranked magazine in Washington, D.C., and the chance to work in the nation’s capital would be great, but frankly, I’d prefer a tougher challenge. Besides, I can’t live on a thousand dollars a month, and my research indicates that my chances of being allowed to run with a good story in today’s economic and journalistic environment, before I have proven myself as a reporter, are slim to none. I’m impatient and eager to be given a real chance to show what I know I can do.”

  Sol pushed his chair back and went to a credenza where he poured himself some coffee. He looked at Katherine to see if she had changed her mind about coffee, and she shook her head.

  “Your assessment of the industry is correct,” he explained. “Major daily papers are folding, with literally thousands of journalists losing their jobs. Investigative reporting is no longer seen as a good investment. Papers can’t afford to take the risk. They’re under immense pressure to cut back on print and shift their focus to the Web. I worry about how discouraged our young people are not finding jobs—the whole jobless issue,” Sol said.

  Katherine nodded in agreement. “I’ve talked with journalists-to-be in and out of Fletcher, and many of them are worried not only about whether they will get a job or have to freelance, but if they do get a job, how little they’ll be paid, the way their pay will be calculated, how long their jobs will last, and whether their pay will be based on page views or other metrics.”

  “Yes. So let me tell you a bit about the Twin Forks Press. Fortunately, I had the money and the desire to make the investment. It also helped to be connected to the Northeast Print and Media Group.”

  “For me, this really comes down to security or opportunity,” Katherine said.

  “Which do you choose?” Sol asked.

  “It’s a false choice. I have to be practical and live with reality, but if I’m given a chance and enough money to live on, I’ll forego security in favor of expanded opportunity.”

  Katherine and Sol talked for a few more
minutes about issues in newspaper management, before he invited her to stay for lunch. They walked west on Hampton Road a few blocks to the Fish Tank, a charming little restaurant featuring a large tank filled with live lobsters.

  As they entered Katherine took in the delicious aroma of fresh seafood cooking. Several diners, she saw, were enjoying steamed clams and crab legs. She could not resist having a closer look at the lobsters.

  “This place is an institution in Southampton,” Sol said. “Owned and run by the same family for three generations. I was introduced to it by Donald Louchheim shortly after he bought the Southampton Press in 1971 at the age of thirty-four. He is one of my heroes. It’s sort of like a senior law partner, tired of dealing with all the management issues in a huge firm, throwing away the support system and following his romantic dream to practice his way.”

  “And that’s you, too—why you bought the Twin Forks Press?”

  Their waitress brought water to the table, interrupted their conversation, and took their orders. Katherine was tempted to have the lobster but settled for the crab sandwich.

  Sol ordered flounder and then continued.

  “Yes. At some point, the idea of being an editor and publisher and having the ability to decide what stories were truly worth pursuing, aside from the anticipated reader reaction, seemed more meaningful to me. Fortunately, I had enough money to not only purchase the Press and fund the operations, but to take the inherent risk of developing and following through with stories whether the subjects liked it or not.”

  “The inherent risk of telling the truth?” Katherine asked. “Such as being sued?”

  “All of that. We’re in the business of the truth, and we’re being challenged more every day.”

  “I understand,” Katherine said.

  “I was intrigued reading your story, particularly your description of what your mentor, Simpson, asked you to write about— the influence of someone outside your family on a family member—and why. Do you agree with him that you are holding back and need to learn how to find the emotional core of the story?”