“Joel must be beside himself. What is he going to do without her?”
“I saw him at lunch. He looked just fine to me.”
“If I know Joel, he has a plan.”
“Watch out. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
As the executive producer entered the conference room, the conversations ceased. All eyes were on Malcolm, dressed in a gray cashmere sports jacket, black turtleneck and black trousers, and carrying a can of soda as he strode to the front of the room.
“We all know why we are here,” he began. “We’ve lost Gwyneth. I’m sure every one of us is struggling with our own personal feelings about her death. She was a legend in our industry, an extremely talented professional with whom each of us was privileged to work. She was also a true friend, a commodity that is pretty damned scarce these days.” He stopped to take a swallow of his Diet Coke.
“But, my friends,” he continued, “this, of course, does not mean the end of Hourglass. To the contrary. Some may find me crass to say this, but Gwyneth’s death will mean higher ratings for Hourglass. At least initially. Just out of curiosity, more viewers will tune in than ever before. And we are going to capitalize on this opportunity.”
Someone coughed and broke the thick silence that engulfed the room. Laura wondered if the other people sitting there were as creeped out by what Joel was saying as she was. She shot a look in Matthew Voigt’s direction. He was staring intently at Joel, but didn’t look like any of this was bothering him.
“Every single person in this room is expected to do his or her part toward holding on to this new audience. I want us to move toward February sweeps forcefully. When the ratings are tallied next month, it is my goal not just to beat 60 Minutes, but to have Hourglass command the highest advertising rates on TV.
“To this end and, of course, in Gwyneth’s memory, Hourglass will be conducting its own investigation of Gwyneth Gilpatric’s death. We should be ahead of the police. We will be ahead of the police. Viewers will look to us for the latest breaks in the case. And we will not disappoint them. Every week, we are going to have something new. Something nobody knows. Something the audience can’t get from any other source.”
Joel nodded at his secretary. “Claire?” he prompted.
The secretary passed out sheets to those assembled. Laura scanned the written outline of the month’s Hourglass shows. Joel expounded on what the staff was reading.
“First, our next show is just two days away. The audience is going to watch just because it is the first show without Gwyneth. Eliza Blake, who, of course, will continue anchoring KEY Evening Headlines, will, for the foreseeable future, be taking Gwyneth’s place as Hourglass anchor. At the end of this week’s broadcast, we will promise to have exclusive new information on the case in next week’s show.”
“Shouldn’t we be absolutely sure we can deliver on our promise before we make it?” someone asked bravely.
Joel shot the questioner a withering look. “We already have our exclusive, but I’m not going to divulge what it is at this time. In the weeks that follow, however, I’m expecting this staff to come up with new material for our continuing investigation.”
Laura’s stomach was in knots. What had she gotten herself into by coming here? She wished she could make herself invisible as she felt Joel’s eyes bearing down on her.
“Before we break up here, everybody, I’d like to introduce, to those of you who don’t know her already, Laura Walsh.”
Everyone turned to stare at Laura and she felt her face flush.
“Laura comes to us from the Bulletin Center, where, I might add, she—amazingly—had Gwyneth’s obit ready to go. I expect Laura’s prescience and industry to be of great benefit to Hourglass. Welcome aboard, Laura.”
Welcome, indeed.
48
DESPITE THE BITING January wind, Homicide Detective Alberto Ortiz, his hands on his hips, stood with his overcoat wide open outside Gwyneth Gilpatric’s apartment building on Central Park West. It was a bright, sunny winter afternoon and he stared up toward the top of the massive building, shuddering as he tried to imagine what the final moments of the famous anchorwoman’s life must have been like as she sailed through the dark night to her violent death.
Ortiz was more and more certain that Gwyneth Gilpatric had not taken her own life. While the autopsy showed that she had been drinking, the study of her body showed signs of a struggle. There were marks on her upper arms and there was skin under her fingernails. DNA results were not back yet, but the detective felt sure that it would turn out that the skin was not Gilpatric’s. Decades of experience told him that this was a homicide.
Ortiz had volunteered for New Year’s Eve duty, covering for a younger detective who usually worked the overnight shift, but desperately wanted the holiday night off. The senior detective had been glad to do it. Divorced and with no one special in his life, he had no plans for that evening. He remembered what it had been like when he was a young cop, what a drag it was when Michael was young, to always work the holidays. It had taken a toll on their family life. Now Ortiz was just past his fiftieth birthday and his son was grown and out on his own, but he had seniority, the best shift, and he could get time off pretty much whenever he needed it. Screwy system.
Ortiz’s voluntary good deed had led to the biggest case of his career. When the call came in to the squad, Ortiz briefly felt sorry for the young guy who was out somewhere partying, but would find out in the morning that he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime. A case like this one made a career.
Ortiz was just a few years from retirement and he hoped this murder might be his defining legacy. He had a solid reputation, but he’d never had such a high-visibility case. He was determined to find out what had happened to Gwyneth Gilpatric, not only to feed his hungry midlife ego, but because he hoped Michael would be proud of him. Things between the two of them had not been good since the divorce. Ortiz knew that Michael blamed his father and the police work for the dissolution of his parents’ marriage.
Patting back the wind-blown wisp of graying hair that remained on the top of his balding head, Detective Ortiz walked the last steps down the sidewalk to the entrance of the apartment building. He entered the lobby, identifying himself to the doorman, who called upstairs to announce his arrival.
“Go right up, sir.”
How some people live! Ortiz marveled as the elevator doors opened onto the expansive foyer. This hallway is bigger than my first apartment.
The large Christmas tree still stood eerily in the entrance hall. Gilpatric’s maid, Delia Beehan, was halfway through taking down the luminescent ornaments. Packing boxes and tissue paper lay on the floor beneath the tree.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Delia greeted him. “Detective.”
“Miss Beehan. Thank you for making yourself available.” As he shook her cold hand, he thought he felt it trembling.
“We can talk in the living room if you’d like, sir.”
The detective followed her and took a seat at the edge of the large white down-stuffed sofa and briefly fantasized about lying down on it with a beer on a Sunday afternoon to watch the Giants game. Heaven.
“I know you were very upset when we talked the night of the party, but I have a couple of things I hope you can help me with now, Miss Beehan.”
The maid nodded solemnly. “I’ll try, sir.”
“Did Miss Gilpatric have any enemies that you know of?”
“No, sir. I don’t know of any.”
“Had she been upset about anything?”
“She really didn’t tell me much, sir. I was her maid, not her friend.”
“I understand.” Ortiz nodded. “But maybe you overheard her talking to someone. A telephone conversation, perhaps,” the detective fished.
Delia stared down at the hands clasped in her lap.
“Please, Miss Beehan. Anything you can tell me might be a big help.”
“Well,” the maid began reluctantly, looking into Ortiz’s surp
risingly gentle brown eyes, “I know she had words with Mr. Malcolm.”
“That would be Joel Malcolm, the executive producer of Hourglass?” Ortiz prompted.
“Um-hmm.”
“When was this?”
“The day before the party. Well, the night, actually.”
Ortiz scribbled in his notebook. “So Mr. Malcolm was here that evening?”
“No. Madam talked to him on the phone in her bedroom.”
“What did you hear?”
Delia was clearly uncomfortable as she tried to explain. “I’ve never heard her use the language she used that night. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I listened outside in the hallway.”
Ortiz’s face betrayed no judgment. He waited for her to continue.
“I heard her tell Mr. Malcolm that she was leaving Hourglass.” Delia watched the detective’s face for a reaction. She got none.
“And.”
“Well, of course, I didn’t hear what Mr. Malcolm said, but Madam was very angry. She said that she didn’t owe him anything. That he owed her. That she was the reason for his success. Then he must have said something that really made her mad because she started calling him all sorts of names and yelling terrible things he should do to himself.”
“Okay,” said Ortiz approvingly. “That’s a big help. Now I want to ask you about just a few other things. As you know, we took some of Miss Gilpatric’s things with us the night of the party. One was her appointment book. I see she had some surgery scheduled this week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what it was for?”
“She didn’t tell me, sir.”
Again Ortiz sensed her hesitation. “She may not have told you, but do you know anyway?”
The maid reddened slightly. “I think it was plastic surgery.”
“Face-lift?”
“Yes.”
“Has the doctor’s office called about confirming her appointment?”
“No, sir, but why would they? I think everyone knows about Madam’s accident. In fact, Dr. Costello was here at the party.”
“Dr. Costello was her plastic surgeon?”
The maid nodded.
“But the Day-Timer entry says ‘Dr. Koizim.’”
Delia looked puzzled and shrugged.
“Okay, Miss Beehan. One last thing. Miss Gilpatric’s checkbook. There are very few entries in it.”
“That’s because her accountant takes care of most of her business. She has the other checkbook just for spur-of-the-moment things that come up.”
Or checks she doesn’t want anyone to know about, thought Ortiz.
“That makes sense,” he agreed. “But there is a recurrent name here. It seems Miss Gilpatric wrote a check every month to someone named Emmett Walsh. Do you know who that is?”
Delia paused to consider the detective’s question. “No, I never met or heard Madam speak of any Emmett Walsh. But she was very fond of a young woman at KEY News named Laura Walsh. Ms. Walsh was here just before Christmas.”
Ortiz flipped back the pages of his notebook until he found the list of people he was looking for.
“Oh, yes. Miss Walsh was at the party, too, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, sir, she was.”
Detective Ortiz closed his notebook.
49
SHE HAD WAITED what seemed like forever for his decision, but once Joel Malcolm’s call had come, Laura had had to move quickly to Hourglass. She hadn’t even had time to clear out her old desk in the Bulletin Center.
At the end of her first day in her new position, Laura ached to get home, heat up a bowl of soup and soak in a hot, sudsy bathtub. Instead, she had to make a stop at her old office and clean out her drawers for whoever would be taking her place. Then she had promised to have dinner with Francheska, who wanted to take her out to celebrate the new job.
Her makeup having worn off hours before, Laura knew she looked as tired as she felt when she bumped into Mike Schultz as he was leaving the Bulletin Center for the day.
“Whoa. You look beat. What are they doing to you over there?” Mike asked jokingly. “I knew that you’d really appreciate working for me once you had a taste of Joel Malcolm.”
Laura shook her head and pulled Mike aside to a spot in the hallway where fewer people might overhear their conversation.
“Mike, that guy’s a ratings-driven madman!”
Mike laughed out loud. “Well put. But he’s also a television genius. You are going to learn a lot from him. Tell me what happened today.”
Laura briefed him on the high points of the staff meeting and Joel’s plan for ratings glory.
“What you’re telling me doesn’t surprise me, Laura. Malcolm is a fanatic about his baby. It has always galled the hell out of him that Hourglass doesn’t beat 60 Minutes. He smells blood now. As he sees it, this is the opportunity of a lifetime for the broadcast and he is not about to blow it.”
Laura grimaced. “The whole meeting left a rotten taste in my mouth. Mike, what have I gotten myself into?” she wondered aloud.
Mike put his big paw on her shoulder. “Hang in there, kid. You’ll get used to him. This was your dream, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Laura agreed wryly. “Be careful what you wish for.”
50
WITH NEWSPAPER SPREAD over the kitchen table, Emmett was peeling potatoes when the telephone rang. He quickly washed his hands at the sink and got to the wall phone on the fourth ring.
“Mr. Walsh?”
“Yes?”
“Hello, sir. My name is Matthew Voigt. I work with your daughter at KEY News.”
“Is Laura all right?” Emmett asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes, sir. She’s just fine. In fact, we are working on a story together. Laura may have told you about it, a piece on Palisades Amusement Park?”
Emmett clenched his fist around the telephone receiver.
“Yes. She mentioned something about it.”
“Well, Mr. Walsh, Laura tells me you operated the Cyclone for the last few seasons at Palisades. I bet you have some wonderful stories to tell.”
“What kind of stories?” Emmett asked suspiciously. He’d be damned if he was going to get into the Tommy Cruz thing, not even for Laura.
“Memories, Mr. Walsh. What the park was like. The people who came. Any celebrities you buckled into the roller coaster. That sort of thing.”
“I’m not much for storytellin’.”
Matthew was not to be dissuaded. “You know, Mr. Walsh, this is Laura’s first story for Hourglass. It’s important that it turn out well.”
“Why isn’t Laura calling me herself?”
“It’s better if I do, sir. Of course this is Laura’s story, but since you are her father, it would make more sense for me to interview you. We want to avoid any conflict of interest.”
Emmett wasn’t sure what exactly “conflict of interest” was, but he understood that his daughter needed to do a good job on her story. He guessed he could be careful about what he told this Matthew fellow.
“All right,” Emmett agreed reluctantly.
“Wonderful! I’ll call you in a few days to set up a time when we can come out there to interview you. Maybe we could do it on the site of where the old roller coaster used to stand.”
“I doubt that, mister. There’s a big fat condominium complex sitting right on top of it.”
“At your home, then?”
Emmett glanced around the kitchen, seeing it through a stranger’s eyes. He didn’t want this tired old place on national television.
“I have an idea, Mr. Voigt. Did Laura tell you about the miniature Palisades Park I built in the basement? Maybe you’d like to see that and we could do the interview down there.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Returning to the cut potatoes, Emmett threw them into hot Mazola corn oil and watched them fry. When they were a crispy, golden brown, he scooped the potatoes from the oil and drained them on paper towels. A liberal sprinkling of salt and He
inz malt vinegar followed. He tasted one of them, relishing the flavor.
Just like they used to make them at Palisades Park.
51
LAURA DEPOSITED THE large cardboard box packed with the last of her things from the Bulletin Center in her new office, switched off the lights, locked the door and headed toward the ladies’ room to freshen up before meeting Francheska. She looked into Matthew’s office as she passed. He was still at his desk.
“You are making me feel guilty.” She stopped at his doorway, smiling. “Should I be staying late, too?”
Matthew grinned. “Not tonight, my pretty. But you are going to have plenty of late nights here. Get out now, while you can. Hey, I could knock off now, too. Want to stop and have a drink?”
“Can I have a rain check? I’m meeting a friend for dinner tonight.” Laura glanced at her watch. “And I’m going to be late.”
“Sure, we’ll do it another time. Where are you going for dinner?”
“Picholine.”
“Mmmm. May I ask, male friend or female friend?”
“My best friend, Francheska. She’s treating me in honor of my new job.”
“Generous friend.”
“Yup. And she’s going to be livid if I don’t make our reservation. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Laura turned to leave.
“Hey, Laura,” Matthew called after her, “I just talked to your father.”
Laura froze in her tracks and turned back to the doorway.
“You did? How come?”
“I thought I’d get his interview set up.”
“What did he say?” Laura asked, trying not to show she was bothered. Matthew should have asked me if he could call, talked to me about it in advance. This is my story. My father.
“He seemed a bit reluctant at first, but finally he agreed to talk. That little amusement park of his sounds cool. I think it should make a great visual for the piece.”
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear Page 11