by Lis Wiehl
And now?
Now she knows she’ll never be able to trust Greg again. She went through this with Dirk, her first husband, Jenny’s father. His Internet date that turned into an affair with that perfectly nice, deadly dull office manager. Her smell on him. His transparent lies. Never again. Erica feels anger rising up in her and she welcomes it, wants to embrace it, step into it like a coat of armor—Greg, that creep, that sleazy little Lothario who can’t keep it in his pants.
But as she stokes her rage, it’s extinguished by something greater. Pain, hurt, loss. It grips her body like a vise, squeezing out anger and reason. The truth is she’s still in love with Greg Underwood. She still wants him. And he’s in the arms of another woman.
Erica walks over to the bed and throws herself back on the pillows as her eyes fill with tears.
She lies there for a long time. She can hear muffled sounds out in the apartment, but it all seems a million miles away.
Then there’s a tentative knock and a soft, “Mom? Are you all right?”
Erica struggles to pull herself together, to make her voice sound normal. “Yes, honey, I just have a little headache. Did Becky go home?”
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Erica quickly sits up and leans against the pillows.
Jenny comes in. Her face is side-lit by the hallway light, and Erica can see that her brow is furrowed, her mouth turned down. Erica manages a little smile, but Jenny’s expression doesn’t change.
“You know how I said I don’t worry about you when you’re home?” Jenny says.
“Yes.”
“That’s not true.”
CHAPTER 22
IT’S THE NEXT MORNING AND Erica is back in her office at GNN. Eight hours of sleep helped, but she’s still feeling shaky and trying to sort out her feelings toward Greg. In the cold light of morning she feels much more in control. And more humiliated. And more angry. The milk has spilt and taken trust with it—and all the apologies and hurt and regret in the world won’t restore it. But it’s a sea change in her life, and in the way she thinks about her future. In fact, it’s close to overwhelming. Thank God for the demands of her job.
The television networks have agreed not to replay footage of the assassination and suicide—it’s easy enough to find it online, but the consensus is that it’s just too grisly for general viewing. But the tape of Erica reporting before and after the shootings has been shown endlessly, and GNN’s ratings and her profile have both skyrocketed. A few more details have emerged about the shooter: Peter Tuttle was a former divinity student from Woodstock, New York, who was working two jobs, struggling to support his wife and two young kids. He flew into Detroit from Albany the night before last. That’s all that law enforcement has released so far.
Mike Ortiz has suspended his campaign for three days, and he and Celeste have released a statement decrying the horrific act and calling for a national period of prayer and healing. Their fundraiser at Robert DeNiro’s apartment will mark the resumption of the campaign.
Shirley appears in Erica’s doorway, holding a bouquet of flowers filled with exotic blooms in neon colors—gaudy and playful.
“These just arrived for you,” she says. “Someone has a wild imagination.”
Erica stands up and takes the bouquet into the kitchen to find a vase. Then she opens the note:
Hope you’re in one piece after yesterday. I’m around if you want to talk. Thinking of you and hoping we can have some fun again soon.
Your pal—Josh
Erica arranges the flowers in the vase—they’re a welcome reminder that in the midst of all of life’s danger and darkness and heartbreak, there is exuberant life. She puts them on her desk and texts Josh: THANK YOU.
He quickly texts back: ARE YOU OKAY?
Erica: SHAKY BUT STEADY. BUT CHEERED BY THE BLOOMS. YOUR TIMING IS IMPECCABLE.
Josh: IF THAT’S A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL, YOU’LL HAVE TO GIVE ME SOME TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT.
Erica: PONDER AT LEISURE.
Josh: OKAY, I’M DONE THINKING ABOUT IT. DO YOU WANT TO FIND THE CATERER OR SHOULD I?
Erica: I’VE ALREADY GOT A CALL IN TO DOMINO’S. UNLESS YOU PREFER MICKEY D’S.
Josh: I KNEW YOU WERE TOO CLASSY FOR ME.
Erica can hardly believe that she is nonsense texting with a man she spent one afternoon with. But it’s just what she needs after last night’s call with Greg. To feel desired. To be wooed. To smile. To admire a crazy-quilt bouquet on her desk.
Erica: GOTTA RUN. SOME OF US HAVE REAL JOBS.
Josh: AH-CHOO! THOSE TWO WORDS ALWAYS TRIGGER MY ALLERGIES. HOW ABOUT A LITTLE BOAT RIDE ON SATURDAY?
Erica: YOU HAVE A BOAT?
Josh: A REASONABLE FACSIMILE ANYWAY. WE’LL HEAD UP THE HUDSON. KIDS TOLERATED.
Erica: WE’RE THERE.
Josh: 79TH STREET MARINA AT 10 AM WORK FOR YOU?
Erica: BARRING THE UNFORESEEN.
Erica puts down her iPhone and picks up her office line and calls Mort Silver.
“I have three words for you, Erica: Through. The. Roof.”
“That’s great, but—”
“No, it’s more than great. We’re going to raise our advertising rates on your show.”
Erica sees an opening and takes it. “Listen, Mort, I want to do in-depth profiles on the two presidential candidates. Maybe two or even three hours each, shown over consecutive nights. I want to visit their birthplaces, look at their childhoods, schooling, major influences, and mentors, really trace their growth and development. We’re making history here with a Latino and a woman competing against each other.”
“Erica, if it bleeds it leads. Your ratings have spiked because of a bombing and a murder-suicide. I don’t think viewers will flock to see you traipse around Lucy Winters’s elementary school and do a soft-focus interview with the principal, who has already been spewing out her Little Lucy Winters spiel every time she gets within ten feet of a microphone.”
“I don’t do soft focus, Mort, and you know it. I happen to think we have a crucial role to play in this election. There’s a lot at stake. For this country and the world.”
“There’s a lot at stake for this network in keeping you number one in your time slot.”
Time to put the screws on. Erica lowers her voice and speaks slowly. “Doing these profiles is very important to me, Mort.”
There’s a pause. “You’re a force to be reckoned with, Sparks. Consider them green-lighted.”
Erica hangs up and allows herself a moment of triumph. She’ll have all the resources of the network behind her. “Inside Mike Ortiz” and “Inside Lucy Winters” will be hard-hitting investigative journalism. She’ll follow the truth wherever it leads her. And she senses it may be down some very dark alleys.
Erica calls down to the Smart Room, the network’s research center. It’s staffed 24/7 by lawyers, accountants, scientists, and researchers. Throw them a question and they’ll find the answer.
“Hi, Erica, this is Judith Wexler. What can we do ya this morning?”
“I need contact info for Robert DeNiro.”
“Coming right up.”
As Erica waits for Judith to call back, she Googles “Al-Qaeda in Iraq.” She leans forward, avidly scanning the links—she’s a dog with a new bone, ready to get into some serious chewing.
Her research is interrupted when Judith Wexler calls back with the number of DeNiro’s office. She hangs up and calls.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice answers.
“Hi, this is Erica Sparks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if I could attend Mr. DeNiro’s fundraiser for Mike Ortiz on Friday?”
“It’s a closed event, no media. No pictures. No taping.”
“I understand. I’m doing in-depth pieces on both presidential candidates and would like to attend as background. Just to soak up the atmosphere, see how Ortiz does in situations like this one.”
There’s a pause and then, “I�
��d have to run it by Mr. DeNiro.”
“Of course.”
Erica gives the woman her phone number and hangs up. Then she starts to work on her material for tonight’s show. She’ll be leading with the assassination and suicide, of course. Which is tough for her. To relive it so soon will be gut-wrenching, but that’s her job. The fact that Tuttle flew in the night before the shooting, that his press credentials were so expertly forged, and that adhesive-tape residue was found under a bench in the courthouse all point to the man’s not having acted alone. He and his cohorts, whoever they are, very much wanted to keep Markum from revealing his motives for the bombing. Erica keeps going back to the same questions: Who benefited the most from Buchanan’s death? And who also has the means to engineer the crime and its follow-up? The answer never changes. Or becomes any less disturbing.
Erica’s phone rings—the incoming number is blocked.
“This is Erica Sparks.”
“Erica, it’s Bob . . . Bob DeNiro.”
Erica sits up straight and fights the urge to gush. It’s a dead end with celebrities—it puts up a wall. If you come off as a foaming fan, you’re immediately unequal. Plus, Erica thinks, I ain’t exactly chopped liver. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“I understand you want to . . . ah . . . you know, show up on Friday. At my place. On Friday.”
Erica quickly makes her pitch about her piece on Ortiz.
“He’s one helluva interesting guy, isn’t he?” DeNiro says.
“Fascinating. And I want to get up close and personal. I understand you’re limiting the size of the fundraiser.”
DeNiro laughs. “I think it’s the price of the ticket that’s the limiting factor here, Erica Sparks. Not every Joe Schmo on the street can . . . you know, shell out ten grand to la-di-da it at my pad.”
“As a journalist, of course, I can’t pay. But you’ll be doing a service for our democracy.”
“A service for our democracy, huh? That kinda language loses me. I do this for the people who are hurting. Here. Now. In my city. In my country.”
“Well then, you should let me do this for them. They have a right to make an informed choice when they vote. And, to be blunt, you should do it for me. It will all be off the record; you have my word on that.”
There’s a pause and then, “All right, Erica. Come on down Friday. I’ll put your name on the list.”
“I need a plus one.”
“Oh, now she needs a plus one.” He laughs again and then says, like a perfect gentleman, “I look forward to meeting you. And your friend.”
CHAPTER 23
ERICA IS DRESSED DOWN FOR DeNiro’s fundraiser in a simple little black dress and a pair of clip-on sapphire earrings—she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. She’s hired a car and driver for the evening, and she picks up Martin Vander at his apartment building in Chelsea. Vander cleans up pretty nicely for an academic—his beard is trimmed and his black suit fits well. He’s also keyed up—eyes alight, gestures fidgety—eager to see his subject up close.
“I’ve become obsessed with Mike Ortiz. And his wife,” he says as the car makes its way down to Tribeca. “I’ve been devouring every word I can read on them. And watching every video I can find.”
“And?”
“I’m still not ready to make any definitive judgments, but I do think there’s something, for lack of a better word, unnatural about them.”
“Say more.”
“If you study their body language, you can see that for every move one of them makes, the other makes a countermove. Their bond is extraordinary. And she seems to be the dominant player. He’s submissive. It’s subtle but, once you start looking for it, undeniable.”
“This should be an interesting evening.”
The car pulls up in front of an old factory that is now home to priceless loft condos. There’s a small phalanx of security guards in front.
Erica and Vander get out of the car, and she walks up to a man with an iPad. He recognizes her, smiles, and ushers them both in. The elevator is manned and it lets them off directly into DeNiro’s loft, which has high ceilings and banks of metal-mullioned windows and seems to stretch on forever. The place is crowded and buzzing with that electric New York energy that never fails to recharge and renew Erica.
There’s Beyoncé. And Jay-Z. And Sarah Jessica Parker. And Anna Wintour. And George Clooney. And Taylor Swift. And Andy Cohen. And on and on. Erica doesn’t have to worry about being recognized in this crowd. In fact, she feels almost B-list. That is, until Beyoncé waves and smiles. Erica manages a wave back, thunderstruck by the singer’s beauty.
Vander seems completely nonplussed by the glittering crowd. He unabashedly devours the artful hors d’oeuvres being offered by the army of waitstaff. Erica scans the room and sees no sign of the Ortizes, but she knows from experience that the candidate often doesn’t appear until after an introduction.
And then she sees DeNiro, looking handsome in a suit, chatting intently with a tall Chinese woman who is without a doubt one of the most striking women Erica has ever seen. She looks about five nine, lean as a pole, wearing a stunning black suit with bright-orange silk lapels. Her jet-black hair is slicked back, her skin as pale as a winter twilight, her glistening red mouth as bold as a dare.
Erica heads over to the two of them.
“Thank you so much for letting me crash your party,” she says to DeNiro.
“My pleasure. Lily Lau, Erica Sparks.”
Lily narrows her eyes and looks at Erica with a knowing smile. Then she extends her hand. “I watch you almost every day.”
“You must love being bored.”
“I love being informed. And you’re never boring. In fact, you get more interesting all the time.”
“Where is the guest of honor?” Erica asks.
“They’re hiding out in my office,” DeNiro says, indicating a hallway at one end of the loft. A security guard stands at the front.
“It’s all about making an entrance,” Lily says.
“I’ll leave you two ladies while I go play host,” DeNiro says, heading into the crowd.
“Do you know Mike Ortiz?” Erica asks Lily. Even though she knows the answer.
“I’m one of the campaign’s chief fundraisers. I also advise the candidate. And I run Pierce Holdings. For Celeste Ortiz.”
“So you know them well.”
“Celeste and I met at Stanford. She’s going to be an extraordinary First Lady.”
Erica realizes that she’s deep in the Ortiz camp and has to watch her words. But she would love to squeeze some information out of this Lily Lau. “Ortiz’s story is so compelling. And Celeste has been by his side every step of the way.”
“Their marriage is a great love story. He’s her one and only.”
“How does Celeste feel about giving up her own career in international finance?”
Lily takes a sip from her glass, which holds water. Erica can’t imagine this woman taking even a whiff of an intoxicant.
“Celeste has never been about Celeste. She’s a visionary who sees a better world ahead.”
Erica’s cliché alert sounds. Getting anything fresh, interesting, and revealing out of Lily Lau is going to be very tough. She changes tack.
“How did you end up at Stanford?”
“My father was the Chinese counsel to San Francisco. I grew up in the city. When he left the position and moved back to Beijing, I stayed in the States and became a citizen.”
Over Lucy’s shoulder Erica sees Martin Vander lingering near the entrance to the hallway that leads to DeNiro’s office. When the security guard turns to answer a guest’s question, he slips past him.
“And tell me, what brings you to Mike’s fundraiser? Aren’t you compromising your journalistic standards?”
“Hardly. I’m not endorsing Mike Ortiz. I’m doing research.”
“For?”
“I’m putting together profiles of both candidates. I plan to go to a Lucy Winters fundra
iser next.”
“That should be dull.”
“So you’ve known Mike Ortiz almost as long as Celeste?”
“She introduced me to him a month after they met.”
“How do you think his time as a prisoner in Iraq affected him?”
Lily narrows her eyes before answering. “It strengthened him.”
Just then there’s a ripple in the room as DeNiro appears with Mike and Celeste Ortiz in tow. Behind them, Martin Vander slips out of the hallway and back into the throng. He looks perplexed, troubled, thoughtful—and even more keyed up.
DeNiro steps up onto a small makeshift stage and hushes the room. Mike and Celeste stand to the side. Her eyes sweep the room like a searchlight—when she reaches Erica she stops and gives her a warm smile and a little wave.
“I’m very happy to introduce you to a man who has proven he has guts and smarts and a big heart. Let’s hear it for the next president of the United States, Mike Ortiz.”
The crowd is so rich, so famous, so accomplished—it takes a lot to impress them, and their applause is polite but hardly rousing. The truth is this tribe will continue to thrive no matter who wins the White House. They live in Fat City and have an easy familiarity with each other—there are no strangers in the brotherhood of success—that even Mike Ortiz can’t quite crack. In some ways, Celeste’s fortune means more to them than Mike Ortiz’s credentials. After all, at the end of the day, Washington, DC, is at their beck and call.
“I feel like I’m at the Vanity Fair Oscar party,” Mike Ortiz cracks. It’s a great opening line, and the crowd laughs and nods approval. “Some people may call you world-famous celebrities. I call you my base.” More laughter. “Thanks for your support. I know this is an expensive ticket and some of you worked for a good five minutes to earn it.”