by Lis Wiehl
“I hope it’s a good one.”
“How about at Mark’s room at Rusk Rehab? We can check on his progress. And see if he’s made any headway in locating the source of the ferry hacking.”
Erica hangs up. Her thoughts are racing. “They will kill me, even in prison they will kill me.” They killed Kay Barrish and Arturo Yanez. They almost killed Mark. And they may kill Fuentes. Would they think twice about killing Erica Sparks? Erica hugs herself and thinks of Jenny.
CHAPTER 61
ERICA IS AT HER DESK on her fourth game of solitaire. And the cards aren’t helping. Her mind is racing like a runaway train. Gorev and the Russian Mafia were involved in the attack on Mark, which means they were involved in the Staten Island ferry crash. Were they also behind Kay Barrish’s murder? Were both the ferry and the murder acts of terrorism carried out by the Russian government, ordered and directed from the Kremlin? Or was Gorev hired by someone in this country to carry them out? If so, who? It’s deeply disturbing to think that some person or organization or cabal in the United States would want—let alone have the means—to inflict this kind of trauma on the country. What would their motive be? Destabilizing our democracy? These are evil acts. Whoever engineered them is a psychopath. Just like that dog-torturer Fred Wilmot and his accomplice Nylan Hastings.
Fred Wilmot and Nylan Hastings. Erica stops mid-deal and the cards fall from her hands into an unruly pile on her desk. What was it Lois Wittmer said to her in the ladies’ room at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner?
“Isn’t it great how you guys are always one step ahead of the news? Awful coincidinky, if you ask me.”
Claustrophobia grips Erica’s neck like a noose. She quickly tosses out the absurd conjecture: that somehow Fred Wilmot and Nylan Hastings were involved in these crimes. They have too much to lose. But then again, the ferry crash caused ratings to soar, and Barrish’s murder put GNN—and Erica—on the map. Erica feels her body flush with a wave of prickly heat. She has to move, to get out of this room, away from these thoughts.
She heads into the hall and toward the ladies’ room. Suddenly the hallway—with its bland gray carpet and off-white walls—feels like a tunnel, a tunnel that leads to someplace dark and dangerous. And she can’t turn back; there’s no way out but forward.
There’s no way out but forward.
Erica ducks into the ladies’ room, heads over to the sink, grips its sides, and looks at herself in the mirror—stay calm, stay calm. She turns on the cold water and holds the insides of her wrists under it. The cold is soothing, her breathing slows down, her fevered imagination slowly cools.
She had a paranoid attack. Just like she did when her mom and dad left her alone for three days when she was five years old, and the only food in the house was a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, and the heat was turned off because they hadn’t paid the propane bill, and it was November in Maine, and Erica huddled under her skimpy covers sure that they wanted her to die—but it turned out they had just driven to the casino in Montreal on an amphetamine-fueled whim and won six hundred dollars, and they came back with a package of filet mignon, three bottles of champagne, and a gram of coke and had an all-night party to which Erica wasn’t invited.
Of course Wilmot and Hastings had nothing to do with these crimes. Wilmot may have committed a heinous act as a ten-year-old, and Hastings may be a megalomaniac, but that doesn’t mean they’re capable of evil on this scale.
There’s no way out but forward.
Journalism is about putting one foot in front of the other in an inexorable march toward the truth. There’s no place for ridiculous imaginings, wild conjectures, off-the-wall theories. Facts are the only valid measures. Whoever committed these crimes put layers of cover between themselves and the actual perpetrators. In the Barrish murder they’ve uncovered Yanez, then Fuentes and Martinez, and now an unidentified Russian who may well be Leonid Gorev. She has to keep following that trail—it will lead her to the source.
“Awful coincidinky, if you ask me.”
CHAPTER 62
BACK IN HER OFFICE, ERICA forces her mind to move on. It’s not as if she doesn’t have other pressing responsibilities. Like the guest list for her first show. Erica leaps at the task like it’s a life preserver.
The show is generating lots of anticipatory buzz, and agents and press reps of politicians, entertainers, and athletes have all been making known their clients’ availability. Erica wants to go big, wants to do something that’s never been done before. But she doesn’t want to strain to be original, or come off as desperate or cheesy or exploitative. She wants substance and she wants big names. She reminds herself that her audience is going to be predominantly women. She picks up her cards and deals a game.
She loses the game. Which is when an idea strikes.
Michelle Obama, Laura Bush, and Hillary Clinton together, talking about their heroes—the women who have most inspired and influenced their lives. Completely nonpartisan. The opposite, in fact. Unifying. Inspirational. Fascinating. Fun. And amazing, even historic, television.
Erica races down the hall toward Greg’s office thinking, I am going to make this happen.
CHAPTER 63
ERICA WALKS INTO MARK’S ROOM at Rusk Rehab to find him sitting at a table that has been turned into a makeshift desk. He sees her and breaks into a big smile. His computer is open in front of him, his iPad and several yellow legal pads beside it, and there’s a printer on the floor.
“You’re not wasting any time,” Erica says, crossing to him. She puts her hands on his shoulders and gives the top of his head a kiss—scratchy stubble is coming in. He reaches up and squeezes her hand. How comfortable they are with each other, almost like they’re brother and sister. His progress is amazing and she feels close to overwhelmed with some combination of affection, admiration, gratitude, and relief. This guy is a fighter, solid, and she feels like she’s made a friend for life.
“I brought you a cronut,” Erica says, handing him the bag.
“Are you t-try-ing to kill me?”
“Apparently you don’t need me for that.”
Mark takes the cronut out of the bag—it’s slathered with neon-pink, allegedly raspberry frosting. He takes a bite.
“T-this is totally d-d-disgusting!” he says, taking another gleeful chomp.
“I think that’s the idea.”
Detective Samuels walks in. “Is that a cronut?”
Mark nods and says, “Erica b-brought it.”
“In that case, you’re both under arrest for crimes against your waistline.”
“Mark’s been busy,” Erica says.
Mark presses a button and the printer comes to life, spewing out several pages. He hands them to Erica—they contain Leonid Gorev’s Skype account and password, Anton Volodin’s phone number, his address in Moscow, his birth record, and his military service in the Russian navy.
“You found all this on the Internet?” Erica asks.
“You j-just have to know where to look,” Mark says.
“Any luck determining the location of the ferry hackers?” Samuels asks.
“It’s d-difficult. The hackers are v-very sophisticated.”
“Is it hopeless?” Erica asks.
“No! I’m making p-progress. I’m p-p-pretty sure they are within a hundred miles of New York City.”
“So are twenty million other people,” Samuels says.
“O ye of little f-faith,” Mark says.
“It’s a job requirement.”
“You wear it well,” Erica says.
“Don’t mean to be rude, but I w-w-want to get back to work.”
“Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?” Samuels says.
As soon as they’re in the hallway, Erica asks, “Did you find Leonid Gorev on any passenger list?”
“No. He may have flown under an alias. When it comes to passports and other identifying documents, these people are expert forgers.”
“Still, it’s a setback.”
The two of them head across First Avenue to a coffee shop and sit in a booth. After they order, she brings him up to date on the Barrish case. “So I’ve got these two separate investigations—the ferry crash and Barrish’s murder. I see them as parallel tracks and it seems to me the tracks are converging—on Leonid Gorev.”
“Who is just a point man for someone higher up the food chain,” Samuels says. “Barrish’s murder was a real-body blow to our country, and the ferry crash was a very effective act of terrorism. Could it be the Kremlin? I wouldn’t put anything past Putin.”
“We have to get Gorev to talk,” Erica says. “The best way to do that would be a full confession from Volodin that he attacked Mark and that he was paid by Gorev to do it. We can then take that confession to Gorev and force him to spill.”
“Unfortunately Volodin is in Moscow.”
Erica holds up the printout from Mark. “But we have this. Does the NYPD have any contacts in the Moscow police?”
“We do.”
“Do you have any Russian-speaking detectives on the force here?”
“Affirmative again. With the Russian Mafia expanding its reach in the city, they’re in great demand.”
“Would you consider sending one over to Moscow?” Erica asks. Samuels gives her a skeptical look.
Erica leans across the table and details her plan. Samuels considers it for a moment. Then he says, “Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody. If Gorev knows we’re getting close to him, he’ll be on a flight out of the country before we can tie our shoes.” He stands up and buttons his jacket. “And meet me at police headquarters in forty-eight hours.”
Erica pushes away the cup of metallic-tasting coffee as the waitress comes over, plops down beside her and—without asking—takes a selfie of the two of them.
CHAPTER 64
IT’S THE NEXT MORNING AND Erica is in her office, once again quelling her fears by throwing herself into her work. She’s one phone call away from securing the Dream Team for her first show. She’s already spoken to Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton. They were both warm and friendly and agreed to appear. But without Laura Bush it won’t be complete. Erica hates hyper-partisanship—she considers herself a militant moderate and wants the show to foster a sense of unity and shared purpose among viewers, no matter where they sit on the political spectrum. For that to happen she needs the final link.
The office phone rings.
“This is Erica Sparks.”
“I have Laura Bush on the line,” a woman’s voice says.
“Erica, this is Laura.” Her voice is welcoming.
“First of all, Mrs. Bush, I can’t thank—”
“Please . . . Laura.”
“As you can imagine, Laura, I’m a little nervous,” Erica says.
“So am I.”
They share a laugh. Why are famous women so much easier to deal with than famous men?
“I know my producer has outlined my vision for the segment with you, but let me elaborate. It’s called ‘Three First Ladies—Nine Extraordinary Women.’ We’ll open the show with the four of us discussing what it means to be First Lady, and especially the causes you espoused while you were in the White House. I know how passionate you are about literacy. And as someone who grew up in a house without books, I can’t tell you how moved I was by your efforts.”
“There’s really nothing I enjoy more than curling up with a good book. And I must say that I was moved by your actions with Kay Barrish. She was a friend of mine,” Laura says.
“It’s a loss that continues to reverberate, isn’t it?”
“I miss her,” Laura says simply.
“After we talk, I want to introduce short segments on three women of your choosing—women who have inspired and enriched you in some way. Michelle and Hillary will do the same, and then we’ll look for common threads.”
“It sounds worthwhile—and great fun. I accept.”
“You have just made my year.”
“I’m always delighted to see my fellow First Ladies and compare war stories. Tell me, have Michelle and Hillary signed on?”
“They have, yes.”
“Oh, so you reeled in the big fish first?” Laura says, tongue firmly in cheek.
They laugh. “Not at all. They just took the bait first.”
“I’m not buying that—hook, line, or sinker.”
Erica hangs up with a smile on her face. She can’t believe she exchanged corny banter with a former First Lady. That she spoke to three First Ladies in one day. That they’re all going to be on her show. She’s about to call Greg and tell him the news when her prepaid rings. She walks into the closet before answering.
“Erica, it’s George Samuels. We have a problem. Our contact in the Moscow police wants ten grand for ‘operating expenses.’ ”
“Wow.”
“I should have seen this coming.”
“Can the NYPD pay it?”
“We have a no-bribe policy, which has a little give in it, but this case is too sketchy right now for anyone to sign off on a payment this size.”
“So without the 10K, we’re at a dead end.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Let me work on this.”
Erica hangs up. When you need water, you go to the deepest well. She goes back to her desk and calls Nylan—thank God he can’t see that her hands are shaking.
“Erica,” he says in a flat voice.
Erica ignores his antipathy and says brightly, “I just had the nicest chat with Laura Bush. She’s in. As are Hillary and Michelle.”
“This is the kind of thing you should be focused on.”
“Your faith in me has made it all possible,” Erica says, laying it on thick.
“I hope that faith continues,” Nylan says.
“I do have one other issue. I’m working on a story about price fixing by the major drug companies. Millions of Americans are forced to sacrifice their financial security to pay for drugs they need to stay alive. This is major. I have a source who swears he can deliver incriminating documents. But he wants to be paid for his services.”
There’s a pause, and Erica can almost hear Nylan switching gears. His voice stays casual, but the undertone goes from honey to ice. “Erica, I want you charming First Ladies, not chasing half-baked conspiracy theories.”
“This isn’t—”
“I want to leverage your star power, not squander it. There’s nothing sexy about price fixing.”
Erica feels frustration boiling in her veins. This man is acting like he owns her. Like he owns her. Time to cut her losses. And she can hardly claim the moral high ground.
“All right, Nylan. I’ll move on.” I sure will move on.
“That’s my star talking.”
Erica hangs up, walks back into the closet, and calls Samuels. “I’ve got the money,” she tells him. “How do you want it?”
Samuels gives her the transfer codes for the Moscow bank account. Then she heads out to her bank.
CHAPTER 65
NYPD HEADQUARTERS IS TUCKED BETWEEN City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge, at the southern edge of New York’s vast Chinatown. Nearby are two imp
osing courthouses—one federal, one state—and other magnificent municipal buildings. Erica is awed by the grandeur.
Police Plaza, on the other hand, is a hulking, brutalist box dating to the early 1970s when Americans were rioting in the streets and public architecture crouched into a defensive posture. Erica wonders what they would build today if given the chance—surely something with more grace and fidelity to its stately neighbors.
Erica passes through security, where she is greeted with smiles of recognition, and heads up to the eighth floor. The windowless conference room is nondescript, with just a table and chairs. Samuels is alone in the room, sitting in front of a large-screen laptop with Gorev’s Skype account open on the screen. He’s talking on a landline, is serious and keyed-up.
“Hang on, Ed,” he says into the phone, putting it down on the table before turning to Erica. “We’re just about ready to go.”
Erica nods, her pulse quickens, her breathing grows shallow—if this doesn’t work, her investigation will hit a dead end.
“It’s one a.m. in Moscow, the lights are out in Volodin’s apartment,” Samuels says. “We want to wake him up, get him when he’s groggy and vulnerable.”
“And probably half drunk,” Erica says. She sits down next to Samuels—close enough to see the screen but not so close as to be in the computer’s camera eye.
Samuels picks up the landline and asks, “You ready? . . . Great. Hang tight.” Samuels dials on Skype. The phone rings. And rings. And then it’s answered—a bleary-eyed, underwear-clad Volodin appears on-screen.
“Leonid, it’s the middle of the night,” he croaks, not yet focused.
“I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, Volodin, but this isn’t Leonid. It’s Detective Samuels of the New York Police Department.” Samuels holds up his badge as he barks “Go!” into the landline. Suddenly there’s violent knocking on the door of Volodin’s apartment and shouted commands in Russian.