“Look, buy yourself two Gs worth of stuff, okay? Get a nice flat-screen TV, whatever. Just take it. It’s a show of good faith.”
Wade was staring at the card long and hard.
“Gimme your ATM card,” he said.
“Even better idea,” I said, and handed over my Citibank card. “You let me take a look at what you got, and I’ll give you the PIN. There’s an ATM a few blocks down. Your stuff is as good as you say, and you can go take out the money right there.”
He considered it and stared straight ahead out the windshield of the car up Sixth Avenue.
“Work with me here, Wade,” I said. “You told Charlie this would hit close to home. I’m not sure what’s going on, but you need us to have this footage, don’t you?”
“Give me your driver’s license, too,” Wade said. “That’ll be your little security deposit.”
I pulled it from my wallet and handed it to him. He held the three cards like he was playing poker, examining them.
“I need a yes or no, Wade,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Get in.”
Chapter Three
I raced around the front of the car and opened the door on the passenger’s side. As I did I saw one of Wade’s big paws sweep across the seat and clear away a pile of trash. There were McDonald’s bags, cups from Dunkin’ Donuts, and Diet Coke bottles all piled on the floor.
I lowered myself onto the seat and put my feet down onto the garbage. The place stunk like cigarette smoke, and I swore I got a whiff of stale beer in there as well. I felt like I had sat down in a dorm room garbage can.
Wade thrust a pair of bulky headphones at me, and I hesitated, uneasy about putting those things over my hair, let alone on my ears. He picked up on my hesitation.
“These go on your ears.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“That’s only if you want to hear.”
Wade’s voice had softened now. It was as if we had gone from adversaries to business partners. Sitting in his car, I felt bad for the man. It was a hell of a way to make a living.
I adjusted the headphones and fitted them over my head, trying to keep them off my hair as much as possible. Wade had his camera on the console between the seats. It was a big old Sony. There was no fancy little model for him; he was old school all the way.
I leaned over and peered into the little viewfinder. I was nervous. I had just committed $2,000 to a large, hairy man dressed for the beach. And my career and bank account felt like they were hinging on this.
Wade hit Play, and the viewfinder sprang to life. The shot started in the dark, the kind of dark you find at two in the morning when the only people out are the ones getting into trouble and those trying to stop, catch, or help them. Wade was crossing the parking area of the little Gulf station at the end of Twenty-third Street at the East River and shooting as he was walking.
The light atop his camera was on, and up ahead in the darkness you could make out two cops standing at the guardrail at edge of the asphalt parking lot with their backs to him. The lights of their radio car flickered dully off to the side. They were looking down into the river, and Wade closed in on them like he had been invited.
One of the cops spun around. She was young, Hispanic, with a chubby but pretty face. Her partner, a young clean-scrubbed kid, wheeled around, too.
“Who the hell are you?” the young male cop asked.
Wade’s voice was muffled. “Press,” you could hear him say.
He moved right in alongside them without waiting for a response.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Straight down,” the kid said. “Wedged in there by those posts.”
Wade was leaning over and shooting down into the black water. There were clusters of posts sticking straight up, some barely above the water, others a few feet higher. All had jagged tops worn down by time and weather.
The camera moved across the water, its dim light searching for the body. The light hit something. It was white, a dress shirt. You could see the body now. It was floating facedown, bobbing on the currents of the river. The body bumped into the maze of posts that prevented it from being swept down the river, through New York Harbor, and out to sea.
“That is one fat son of a bitch,” the kid cop said.
And he was right. The body was big and round, and the dress shirt ballooned out in the water, making the poor bastard look even fatter.
In the distance the low rumbling of an engine could be heard. It grew louder, and Wade left the body and focused out on the river, where you could see a police boat approaching. Its pilot drove it like it was his car, cutting the engines and swinging it sideways as it came close to the posts. It was an old Harbor Unit boat, and you could see the large NYPD painted on its blue side. Floodlights flashed down onto the dark waters now.
The guys in the boat jabbered with the Hispanic gal and the kid next to Wade. Fishing and swimming jokes were cracked while they got to work. Now there was the sound of a truck engine close by, and a few seconds later there was more commotion as the guys from the Emergency Services Unit arrived.
The camera jiggled as someone gave Wade a shove.
“Gonna need some room here, chief. Move over.”
You could hear someone to the side asking about who the guy with the camera was, but everyone was more interested in the body.
The cops got to work, the guys on the boat using a long pole with an open circle on the end to lasso the floater and pull it to the side of the boat. They reached over and tried to hoist it up. It was a struggle.
“Geez, this guy’s a fucking cow,” one of them said.
The body slipped, and they grabbed at it, grappled with it, and started to pull it up again. The two cops on the boat gave a unified try to get it on board, and as they did it rolled over.
It was faceup now, like it was looking into the camera.
My body jerked from shock, and I shot back in my seat.
“Holy crap,” I said.
I heard Wade from the driver’s seat.
“Told you.”
In the viewfinder Wade zoomed in on the face, and it was staring right back.
One of the harbor cops yelled.
“Holy shit, man.”
Then the kid on shore.
“Guys, that’s fucking Jack Steele.”
Chapter Four
“Four minutes out, Sam,” the voice in my earpiece crackled.
It belonged to Steve Townsend, the director of Liberty’s morning show, and he was back in the control room. It was almost five a.m. and I stood in the dark at the edge of the parking lot where Steele’s body had been pulled from the East River.
Charlie was in front of me, camera on his shoulder, and we were ready to go. Except for one minor detail. No one had officially confirmed Jack Steele was dead.
“Sam,” another voice said in my earpiece, “you got to pin this down.” It was Blake Jennings, the napping assignment editor.
“Blake, for the fiftieth time, ask Cal to talk to Robbie Steele. Hell, she’s his wife, and he’s the president of the damn network, between the two of them they should know if the man is dead or not.”
“Cal says he can’t reach Robbie; she’s not answering her phone. And no one answers Jack’s cell.”
“Listen, you saw the footage, Blake. Two of the cops recognized him. I recognized him. You recognized him. It’s Steele.”
“Yeah, but we can’t take a chance with this, Sam,” Jennings said. “What if it’s, like, the fat guy from accounting somewhere? You know, the guy who everyone always said looked just like Jack Steele?”
“I’m not getting beat on this,” I said into the mic.
Townsend was back in my ear.
“Three minutes out, Sam.”
“Crap,” I muttered.
My phone vibrated with an incoming call and I glanced at the number.
Unknown.
I shut off the mic and answered on the second ring.
“Pep?”
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“You must want something,” Pep Rinaldi said.
His voice was scratchy and dry, like this hour of the morning did not sit well with him. And he was angry, bothered that he had been bothered.
“The three calls gave it away?” I asked.
“There were four. You didn’t leave a message on one.”
“This is why you’re a detective.”
“Let me guess, this is this about a popular broadcaster?” he asked.
“More top-notch detective work.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Was that Jack Steele you guys pulled out of the East River a few hours ago?”
“Jack Steele. News with a point of view. That’s what the billboard on the West Side Highway says.”
“So it was Steele?”
“How come you don’t have a billboard, Sam?”
“Pep?”
“Yes?”
“I’m supposed to go on national TV in three minutes to either break the biggest news of my career or make an ass of myself.”
“Can it be both?”
“Yes, that’s a possibility. But how about we stick to the question. Jack Steele. Dead or not dead?” I asked.
“What were the choices again?”
Townsend’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Two and a half minutes, Sam.”
“Pep?”
“Not my case, Sam.”
“But you know about it?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“It was Steele,” he said.
“So why doesn’t his wife seem to know?”
“Couples just don’t communicate anymore, Sam. It’s a real problem. Everybody’s crazy busy.”
“Thank you. You do understand what little is left of my career is on the line here?”
“That’s why I told you to go into police work years ago. Much less pressure and you don’t have to worry about your hair.”
“My hair is fine.”
“Sure. If you say so,” he said.
“Has his wife been told?” I asked.
“You ever see her, Sam? Quite the looker. A yoga instructor. Page Six calls her the Yoga Babe.”
“I need you to focus, Pep,” I said.
“How come I don’t have a wife like that?” he asked. “Half my age and a yoga babe.”
“Has she been told yet?”
“Yup. Guys practically tripped over themselves to get uptown and break the news to her.”
“Any idea what happened here?”
“Well, if I had to make a guess, I’d say Steele’s lungs filled up with water.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem.”
“For real now.”
Rinaldi paused before speaking. “You going to protect me on this one, right, Sam?” he asked. “This is so frigging high profile, it’s not funny.”
“Consider yourself protected,” I said. “What happened?”
“From what I hear, there were no signs of a struggle or anything like that.”
“Accident?”
“Yeah, maybe he tripped over his ego. Or his wallet.”
“There has to be something more, Pep. Come on.”
Rinaldi went quiet for a moment.
“I’m not going to screw you,” I said.
Townsend was in my ear. “Ninety seconds, Sam. You got to get set.”
“Word is they found a note,” Rinaldi said.
“Suicide?”
“No, a thank-you. To the cops, for pulling his fat ass out of the river.”
“You got to be kidding me. Jack Steele killed himself?” I asked.
Charlie poked his head out from behind the camera and stared at me.
There was no answer from Pep, which I took as a bad sign.
“Pep, I’m going to say police found a suicide note. That works, right?”
“Yeah, you’re good. I haven’t seen the note, but we found one in the apartment.”
“What’d it say?”
“Good-bye, cruel world.”
Townsend was frantic now. “One minute away, Sam. You got to turn that mic on. We need an audio check.”
“I got less than a minute, Pep. Anything else? Who called it in?”
“Garbageman. Private hauler. Stopped there to take a piss in the river and saw it,” he said.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, guy makes a living pissing on people and gets pissed on when he goes. Little irony for you, huh?”
Townsend and Jennings were both screaming in my earpiece as panic reigned in the control room. I ended the call with Rinaldi and with thirty seconds to go, Townsend went over the plan a last time.
“We’re coming to you right at five, Sam. No anchors, no intro. No nothing. A cold open,” he said. “Commercial ends and boom, you’re up.”
I took a deep breath and Townsend counted me down.
“In ten … nine …”
It was seconds to five a.m., and my head throbbed.
“Eight … seven …”
The collar on my dress shirt was damp with sweat and matted against the back of my neck.
“Six … five …”
I heard the dull thumping of a traffic chopper overhead and prayed no one else was onto this.
“Four … three …”
I turned my head to try to loosen the muscles of my neck.
“Two … one …”
I took a breath and locked on the camera as Townsend yelled in my earpiece.
“Go!”
Chapter Five
“I’m Sam North on the East Side of Manhattan with breaking news. Liberty News anchor and host of Steele Yourself, Jack Steele, is dead.”
I paused for a beat and hoped I was right. Hoped this wasn’t actually the fat guy in accounting somewhere.
“A New York City Police Department source confirms that Steele’s body was found floating in the East River here at the end of Twenty-third Street early this morning.”
I turned and walked back the few steps to the edge of the parking lot, and Charlie moved with me. He went past me and shot straight down into the dark water so people could see the rotting pilings as I spoke.
“Steele’s body was found floating right here in this spot among those posts you can see sticking up out of the water. The body was discovered by a private sanitation worker.”
Charlie came off the river, took a few steps back, and I was again on camera.
“The recovery of Steele’s body was recorded by a freelance cameraman who arrived on the scene. Liberty News has obtained that footage and will air it now. But this exclusive footage contains graphic images.”
Townsend was in my ear. “Video is up.”
I spoke and allowed enough time for the video to run twice, as planned.
“A New York City Police Department Harbor Patrol unit responded, as did an Emergency Services crew, and Steele’s body was pulled from the river. Jack Steele was pronounced dead a short while later.”
Townsend cued me. “You’re back up.”
I took a breath and tried to phrase this perfectly, knowing this was the part that could come back to bite me in the ass.
“As for the circumstances surrounding the death of Jack Steele … a police source tells Liberty that a suicide note has been discovered in Steele’s Manhattan apartment where he lived with his wife, Roberta. No further details are available at the moment.”
I stood there and let it sink in, then wrapped and tossed it to the morning anchor team in the studio.
“Once again, New York City Police Department sources confirm that Liberty News anchor Jack Steele has been found dead. His body was found floating in the East River at approximately two-thirty this morning. On the East Side of Manhattan, I’m Sam North. We go now to Liberty’s New York studios, where Kelly Hunter and Dan Miller are standing by.”
I waited for Kelly or Dan to speak up, but all I heard was something that sounded like a sob off in the distance. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Finally, Hu
nter broke the silence.
“Sam, it’s Kelly. This … this is shocking …”
Miller chimed in from next to her on the couch back on the set.
“Truly shocking …” Miller said.
We now had it confirmed by both anchors that Steele’s death was shocking.
“This … this … note the police say they have, Sam. It’s a suicide note?” Hunter asked.
Of all the info Rinaldi had given me, this made me the most nervous. I hadn’t seen it. Rinaldi hadn’t seen it. It was a rumor at this stage and a mighty big one at that.
“Kelly, as I said, a police source tells us that a note, and they are terming it a ‘suicide note,’ was discovered. We don’t know much more at this stage.”
“Any idea what specifically the note says, Sam?” Miller asked.
“Dan, at this point, that is all the information we have,” I said.
Hunter’s voice was choked by sobs.
“I … I just saw Jack yesterday,” she said.
“Me … me, too,” Miller said, not to be outdone.
Viewers now knew that, yes, many of the people at Liberty did in fact see one another at work. After a few more questions, Miller called this a “tragic, tragic event,” and the live shot was over.
I stood there with sweat coating my forehead and waited for Townsend to clear me. Overhead, the dull thumping of helicopter blades filled the air. My phone vibrated with incoming calls and texts.
“You’re clear,” Townsend said.
Before I could move, Jennings was in my ear.
“Don’t move, Sam. We’re going to need you back on in sixty seconds, Kelly and Dan are sobbing on the goddamn set. You’d think they could at least pretend to be professional.”
I looked at Charlie, who stood there shaking his head.
“We’re screwed, Sam. You know how much ad revenue Jack brought in?”
There were more choppers in the sky now. Within minutes it was going to get very crowded over here.
Jennings screamed in my earpiece. “Need to get you back on. Fast. They’re a mess.”
My phone vibrated again, and I looked at an incoming number I didn’t recognize.
“Yeah,” I answered over the din.
“Is this Sam North?”
Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery Page 2