The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  Now he’s got the crowd eating out of his hands. His performance is so smooth, so polished. Too smooth, too polished. Celeste is standing beside him, beaming. Erica wonders who his joke writer is.

  As Ortiz goes into his boilerplate pitch, Erica makes her way over to Vander, who is watching Mike intently. She leans into him and asks, “Thoughts?”

  “This has been very illuminating.” His eyes are afire.

  “I saw you slip down that hallway.”

  “I was just looking for a bathroom,” Vander says, deadpan.

  “And did you find one?”

  “I thought I had. I opened the door and it turned out to be DeNiro’s office.”

  “And you discovered Mike and Celeste inside?”

  “I interrupted them. They were at the far end of the room. He was sitting. She was standing over him. She had a hand on his shoulder. They were repeating some sort of incantation. It was call and response. He was answering her.”

  “An incantation? What were they saying?”

  “I don’t know. They were speaking Chinese.”

  The party seems to disappear around Erica; all she sees is Martin Vander’s face, all she hears are his words.

  “What did they do when they saw you?”

  “There was a moment of shock. And then they smiled. I acted like I hadn’t heard a thing and then beat a hasty retreat. Listen, Erica, I have to gather my thoughts and write them up while they’re still fresh.”

  “Wait. That’s it?”

  “For now, yes. I should have a better sense of things in a day or two. There’s something I have to search for. That I must find. I’m going to call in all my contacts. It may take a trip to Chinatown.” Then he turns and almost races through the throng and out of the party.

  On the stage, Ortiz is finishing up. “When it comes to political speeches and a crowd like this, less is always more. Thanks for coming. Now let’s have some fun.” He and Celeste are so charming and convincing and casual that for a moment Erica wonders if Martin Vander misheard them. Or maybe they have some innocent Chinese affirmation they repeat before public appearances. Or maybe . . . maybe what?

  Ortiz works the room as a disc jockey starts to spin records, and suddenly it’s a party: the noise level soars; laughter rings out; people start to dance. Erica hasn’t been to a lot of high-end political fundraisers, but she’s been to enough to know that this one is different. It was orchestrated down to the last beat and is definitely more party than policy. Erica sees Lily Lau dancing with Katy Perry and wishes she could film it all for her profile.

  Instead, she makes her way over to Celeste Ortiz, who is surrounded by a mix of celebrities and sycophants. But even as she chats and laughs, her eyes follow her husband as he makes his way through the crowd, glad-handing, laughing, hugging.

  “Hi, Celeste,” Erica says.

  Celeste gives her a big smile and grasps her hand. “Erica, what are you doing here?”

  “My job.”

  “I thought you were an investigative reporter, not a celebrity chaser.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Erica says.

  Celeste laughs—it sounds like shards of ice.

  “I’m doing an in-depth piece on your husband.”

  “Be careful, you don’t want to get in over your head.”

  “You know, the tougher the assignment, the better I like it. If you don’t believe me, ask Nylan Hastings.”

  Celeste laughs again. Then Julianne Moore approaches, and Celeste turns away from Erica and gushes, “Julianne!”

  “Hi, Celeste. I actually wanted to meet Erica Sparks.”

  A look of anger, rage really, flashes across Celeste’s face in the blink of an eye. But Erica didn’t blink—and she and Celeste exchange a glance of mutual understanding. Just like they did that afternoon in Pacific Heights.

  “What a pleasure,” Erica says, shaking Moore’s hand.

  “Your reporting on the Buchanan bombing has been very moving. I actually think you’re helping us all heal. Don’t you agree, Celeste?”

  “There’s no doubt that Erica is very talented. Of course, we all know that talent isn’t enough.”

  “You need luck,” Julianne says.

  “I believe we make our own luck,” Erica says. “Now, lucky me has to go home and make sure my daughter has finished her homework.”

  “How’s she doing at Brearley?” Celeste asks, suddenly all concern.

  “She’s doing just fine.”

  “Are you sure? I know those schools can be tough, especially for a girl coming from . . . public school.”

  “I am sure. She’s fine.”

  “Well, if you and . . . is it Ashley?” Celeste says.

  “Jenny.”

  “If you and Jenny ever have any issues or . . . challenges, do let me know. My cousin Joan is on the board.”

  As Erica walks over to the elevator she feels frustration bubbling in her veins—why does she still let girls like Celeste get to her? She’s proven her worth a thousand times over. And yet they do get to her. They still have the ability to make her feel insecure, like an imposter, someone not quite good enough. As if, no matter how successful she becomes, she can never erase the stain of her childhood.

  At the elevator, she turns and takes a last look at the party. The kitchen and dining area are in a corner, a relatively quiet space. She sees Celeste and Lily Lau huddled there together, deep in conversation. Then, just as the elevator doors open, both women turn and look over at Erica—and she can practically see their wheels turning.

  As the elevator takes her down to the street she can’t get that look out of her mind.

  CHAPTER 24

  IT’S SUNDAY MORNING, AND ERICA and Jenny have just boarded Josh Walters’s cabin cruiser, docked at the romantic, even whimsical, Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin on the Hudson River. The boat’s open stern is home to a picnic table—its benches are two huge, smile-inducing erasers.

  “Welcome aboard!” Josh says with a boyish grin, looking adorable in beat-up khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a sort of hip-hop/Hawaiian shirt.

  Erica has always been a little wary of rah-rah types, especially when they’re over the age of twenty-five—news flash: life is hard—but Josh’s exuberance feels completely unforced, as natural as breathing. And then there’s that mop of curly ginger hair, that conspiratorial smile, and that compact muscular body.

  Jenny and Lisa sit at the table and immediately take out their smartphones and start sharing vlogger videos.

  “Lee-sa, you know the rules,” Josh says. “Fork it over.” Lisa reluctantly hands over her phone. “Jenny, this boat is a phone-free zone.”

  Jenny looks at Erica, who shrugs and smiles. “He’s the captain.”

  “We’re on one of the world’s greatest rivers in the world’s greatest city. Do you really want to keep your nose buried in a tiny electronic device cramming your brain full of useless information and the antics of narcissistic clowns, all of which will still be waiting for you when we get back? That’s a rhetorical question.”

  Jenny hands Josh her phone.

  “Grown-ups too,” Lisa says.

  “Actually, I kind of have to claim reporter’s prerogative here,” Erica says. She’s been playing phone tag with Martin Vander since Friday night’s fundraiser at DeNiro’s. On his last message Martin said he was “very eager” to talk to her. “I’m expecting an important work call that I really have to take.”

  “What do you say, gang, should we make an exception?” Josh asks.

  “I’d like to take her phone, her laptop, and her job and throw them all in the Hudson!” Jenny says.

  There’s laughter all around and then Josh says, “I’m sorry, no exceptions.”

  Erica can’t give up her phone. Can she? It’s only for a couple of hours, and there’s something attractive and reassuring about Josh’s adamancy. His boat. His rules. She looks around at the river, the boats, the sky, the day. Then she takes her phone out of her bag and ha
nds it over to Josh. He stashes it with the others in a small box labeled Freedom.

  Josh pilots the boat out into the river—Erica feels a surge of excitement and adventure—and in no time they’re heading under the George Washington Bridge.

  “Over there, on one of the highest points in Manhattan, you can see the Cloisters, the medieval monastery that was brought over from France in the late 1930s and turned into a museum.” He points across the river to the sheer rock face that lines the other bank. “Those are the Palisades. The Rockefellers bought up the land to protect the Cloisters’ viewscape from development.”

  Josh is a tour guide whose passion is infectious. Erica inhales every morsel of information about her adored adopted city and state. As they make their way upriver, she can’t help but compare Josh to Greg. Sophisticated, ironic, hard-driving Greg. Intense, serious, philandering Greg. Josh is just so guileless, but not like some overgrown boy, like a man who has decided he’s going to enjoy life. In some ways, the balance feels better than it does with Greg. After all, opposites not only attract, they complement.

  Josh points out one landmark after another. After about a half hour, Erica hears Lisa mutter under her breath to Jenny, “Welcome to the snooze cruise.” The two of them dissolve into giggles, but Erica can tell that Lisa adores her dad.

  It’s a warm day, but there’s a breeze on the river and the homemade lemonade Josh has served is tart and refreshing. The world looks so different from the water—you get to see views and houses that are inaccessible by land. They pass a rambling, neglected Victorian that looks like Blanche DuBois’s summer place, and then a midcentury modern glass house cantilevered out over the river. There are tiny bank-hugging hamlets that look unchanged from their founding two hundred years ago.

  “We’re now entering the Hudson Highlands,” Josh says as mountains seem to rise straight out of the water on both banks, squeezing the river. “During the Revolutionary War, the British strung chain metal across from one side to the other in an unsuccessful attempt to stop Washington’s navy.”

  They round a bend, and there, tucked into the highlands, is the fortress of West Point.

  A little farther upriver a ruined castle comes into view, sitting on its own tiny island. It’s towering and eerie, like something out of a nightmare—or maybe a Tim Burton movie.

  “And that’s Bannerman’s castle, built by arms dealer Francis Bannerman in 1901 as a storage facility for his armaments. After he died in 1918, the island was essentially abandoned. It now belongs to New York State, which is trying to figure out what the heck to do with it.”

  Even the girls are mesmerized by this apparition, and Josh deftly maneuvers the boat to a large, flat onshore rock. Then he jumps onto the rock and ties the boat to a nearby tree. “Should we do a little exploring and have some lunch?”

  First Lisa and then Jenny take his extended hand and hop ashore. Just as Erica is about to follow, she hears the muffled sound of her phone ringing. Her river reverie is broken.

  “Can I just check and see who it is? If it’s anyone but the important call, I promise I won’t answer.”

  Josh smiles and nods. Erica retrieves the phone. “It’s him . . . Hi, Martin.”

  “Erica, can we meet? I’ve made some disturbing discoveries.” He sounds spooked.

  “Can’t you tell me on the phone? I’m forty miles up the Hudson River.”

  “I’d rather we met in person,” Vander says. “Phones sometimes . . .”

  “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “How about we meet on the High Line at Twenty-Sixth Street at four?”

  “See you then.” Erica hangs up on the call—and on her carefree mood. She could tell by Vander’s voice that he’s deeply unsettled, even frightened, by what he has uncovered. Has he come to some sort of conclusion about Ortiz’s mental and emotional state?

  “Bad news?” Josh asks from shore.

  “Possibly.”

  “Hey, why don’t you girls explore the island while I get lunch set up?”

  Jenny and Lisa eagerly take off. Josh steps back onto the boat. He’s serious now and concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I am. I should probably tell you right now that I have workaholic tendencies. When I’m investigating a story I turn into a single-minded, obsessive, exceedingly boring bulldog. You planned this lovely day, and I’m afraid I’m going to be distracted and pretty poor company for the rest of it.”

  “Erica, I’m not the kind of guy who’s looking for Martha Stewart Lite. I love gutsy women who own their power. So I admire your work ethic and I’m wholly supportive. I’m also wildly curious as to what you’re investigating.”

  Erica would love to open up to Josh, to tell him about Ortiz and Celeste and Lily Lau and her misgivings. She’d value his input—sometimes a fresh civilian eye can offer up helpful suggestions. But she knows from experience it’s better to play her cards close to the vest, especially early on. “I can’t talk about it at this point. It’s in the early stages and I don’t want to jinx things.”

  Josh studies her for a moment, then reaches out and gently runs his hand down her cheek. It’s a tender gesture, a pledge of friendship, and Erica is touched by it. “You can still eat, though, can’t you? We’ve got tuna fish, egg salad, potato chips, and pickles.”

  Josh is just a doll, one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get great guys. Erica feels a real attraction toward him, his generosity, his kindness, his spontaneity, his easy physicality. And the lunch sounds delicious.

  But the only thing Erica has an appetite for right now is Vander’s information.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE HIGH LINE IS ONE of New York’s newest wonders—a former elevated railroad line that has been turned into a park that stretches some twenty blocks from the former meatpacking district up to Thirty-Fourth Street. It’s gorgeously landscaped and offers a banquet of urban viewscapes. But today Erica is too tense to savor its charms. As she waits for Vander she paces, ignoring the surrounding sea of tourists and natives. She hears police sirens in the distance, followed by an ambulance’s wail. She sits on a bench, crosses her legs, and watches the left one bouncing; she stands up, never taking her eyes off the staircase that leads up from the street below. It’s 3:55.

  Four o’clock comes. And goes. Now it’s 4:10 and now it’s 4:15 and now it’s 4:20 and now Erica’s anxiety is revved up into overdrive. The presidential election is just months away, the Democratic convention is weeks away, and if Vander has discovered something troubling about Mike Ortiz she needs to build her case quickly. A woman recognizes her in spite of her cap and sunglasses and gives her an encouraging smile. Erica tries to smile back but it comes out closer to a twitch. Thank God New Yorkers are blasé to celebrity; she’s not sure she could handle a selfie assault right now.

  At 4:30 she takes out her phone and calls Vander. His voice mail picks up, and she leaves a message. “Martin, it’s Erica. I’m here at the High Line. Are you all right? Please call me.”

  At 4:50 Erica decides to go to Vander’s house. She hates to disturb his wife and children, but she needs to make sure he’s all right. And, of course, she’s burning to hear his news. She races down the steps to Twenty-Sixth Street and heads east. At the corner of Ninth Avenue she sees what caused the police sirens and ambulance wails. A body, covered by a police tarp, lies in the avenue, a good ten feet from the curb. Erica feels a terrible sense of foreboding. She approaches a cop.

  “What happened?” she asks. The cop looks at her skeptically and then recognizes her.

  “Hit-and-run,” he says.

  “Who is the victim?”

  “White male. Late middle age.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  The cop shakes his head and then nods in the direction of a dark-suited Asian man. “Detective Hirata would.”

  Erica walks up to the detective, who is taking a statement from a witness. “I’m very sorry to interrupt, but have you identified the victim?”

  Hi
rata shoots her a hard glance. “Sorry, but nobody jumps the line, not even Erica Sparks.”

  “I was supposed to meet Martin Vander on the High Line, and he never showed up. I just want to make sure he wasn’t the victim.”

  Hirata turns to her with a resigned expression. “I’m sorry.”

  “It is him?”

  The detective nods.

  Erica takes two steps backward, is afraid she’ll topple over.

  “Were you friends with Vander?” Hirata asks.

  “We were working together. What happened?”

  “He was crossing the street with the light when that car”—he points to a late-model BMW—“ran him over. The driver jumped out of the car and fled on foot.”

  “There must have been a lot of witnesses.”

  “There were, but the perpetrator had on a ski cap and dark glasses, and I’m getting a lot of conflicting descriptions—white, Latino, Asian, a teenager, in his thirties, tall, not so tall. Whoever he was, he could sprint.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Stolen two hours ago on the Upper West Side.”

  “Has his family been informed?”

  The detective nods. “A hit-and-run in broad daylight is pretty rare.”

  Erica looks down at the cold, impersonal police tarp. Under it lies the mangled body of a man she respected and liked. A man who was helping her. A man who had something important to tell her. Gone. Dead. Murdered? Was he murdered? Murdered before he could tell Erica what he had learned? A man she had sought out and enlisted in her investigation. If he was murdered, she was responsible. Erica feels a crashing wave of guilt engulf her.

  She gets the detective’s card, tells him she’ll be in touch, and raises an arm to hail a cab. As one pulls to a stop in front of her, her guilt is joined by determination—a fierce resolve to find out the truth about Mike and Celeste Ortiz. Is Vander’s death a warning to back off? If it is, it backfired.