Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery

by Tatiana Boncompagni

  Hiro cleared his throat. “I’m sure there would have been a discussion.”

  “Moot point.” Diskin ripped off his glasses. “How could you let GSBC scoop us? It’s GSBC for crying out loud.”

  Not just GSBC, but Ho-stick.

  “You have no other job at this moment than getting this story. Not to mention, Olivia Kravis was your friend.” Diskin continued. “How could you have not known this about her?”

  “I thought our policy was pretty clear on this stuff,” I replied, side-stepping his question. “I think what we should really be talking about is where GSBC gets off outing Olivia and Rachel’s relationship. Since when is it OK for a news organization to do that to a private citizen?”

  “I’ll tell you when,” Diskin said, his voice growing louder than I’d ever heard it. “When that private citizen is no longer living and at the center of a major news story.”

  I knew that. But I also knew that as recently as a day ago Diskin was warning me off reporting on Rachel Rockwell’s rumored affair with the doorman—in case it led to an unpalatable discovery about Olivia. Welcome to the news business, where prerogatives changed by the hour. “Stop me if I’m wrong,” I said. “But I was under the impression you wanted to keep our coverage of the Kravis case PG.”

  “I never said that. What I said is that we had to have corroboration before going public with anything that was remotely scandalous. All the information you’ve brought me so far is secondhand. This is your story. You’re supposed to own it. You should have had the housekeeper, just like you should have had Uffizo. That’s two strikes, Clyde.”

  He was right, and nothing I could say could change the fact that I’d been beat. I shouldn’t have delegated the housekeeper lead to Sabine. I should have known that other networks would be gunning for her and that she might have known about Olivia and Rachel’s relationship. In that regard, I’d let down not only Alex and Georgia, but Olivia as well. My anger disappeared, and now all I felt was shame and resignation. I could have prevented this.

  “The rules of the game have changed,” Alex said gently. “It’s hardball now. Go after every lead, Clyde. I know Olivia was a friend of yours, but we can’t protect her anymore.”

  The disappointment was written on my face. “Can you handle that?” Georgia asked me.

  “If you can’t, I can put someone else on the story,” Diskin added. “I still think you’re the right person for this job, but if you’re not willing to pursue this story through all possible means, you need to let me know now.”

  And lose my chance at decoding what Olivia meant in her text? My shot at catching her killer? “I can do this,” I said, mustering every bit of conviction I had left in me.

  “Good.” Diskin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now go find me Rachel Rockwell. Dead, alive, figure out what happened in that apartment.”

  Alex and I exchanged nervous glances. We had our work cut out for us.

  “And one more thing, before you all go,” Diskin continued. “We’re about to come under even more scrutiny. In about an hour, the network is going to make an announcement. You might as well learn it from me. FirstNews is merging with Maldone Enterprises. Pending government approval, we will be part of their network of companies beginning on January 1.”

  Georgia grabbed me by the elbow as we all filed out of the meeting. “My office.”

  Facing Seventh Avenue and boasting one the best views on our floor, Georgia’s office would have been an impressive space if it weren’t for all the clutter—empty Diet Coke cans, half-eaten bags of Chex Party Mix, and old newspapers piled high on every available surface. Not that Georgia was trying to impress anyone. She did things her way and if someone didn’t like it, it was their problem. At five-two and 130 pounds, she wasn’t physically intimidating. But factor in her wit, her penchant for swearing, and her delight in reducing 200-pound cameramen to tears on a regular basis, and you had a force to be reckoned with.

  Georgia sat at her desk and grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the mini-fridge under her desk. “Close the door behind you,” she clucked.

  I did as asked and took a seat in the one chair facing her desk that wasn’t already filled with a week’s worth of St. John suits in Easter-egg colors. After her last divorce, the network brought in an image consultant who’d managed to convince Georgia that hers needed significant softening. A month later, Georgia was back at work with a ladylike wardrobe and highlighted hair. The media made a fuss over the makeover, which only served to boost ratings.

  Popping open her soda with a diamond-ringed finger, Georgia studied me closely. Dressed in jeans with her blond hair piled in a messy ponytail at the top of her head, she hardly looked like one of the network’s top-earning on-air personalities. The only clues to her monstrous success were swinging from her fingers and twinkling from each of her earlobes. Diamonds, that’s what Georgia loved—that, and nailing rapists, murderers, and child molesters to the wall.

  “Girl,” she said in her oft-parodied twang, “What in the hell were you thinking?”

  I cleared my throat. “About what?”

  “You knew Olivia Kravis was a carpet muncher, didn’t you.”

  “What?”

  She took a swig of her soda straight from the can. “Don’t you dare lie to me. You may be able to get past a blowhard like Diskin, but I know you inside and out. Surer than shit, I do.”

  I bit my lip. “Georgia, I made a promise.”

  “Well, I figured,” she conceded. “But you could have mentioned it. Say, ‘Hey, head’s up you old bag. I’m keeping a secret about Olivia and it’s gonna get me in some deep doo-doo, but I gotta do it.’”

  “Georgia—”

  “I could have protected you up there. Now your job’s on the line and there’s not one fucking thing I can do about it.” She shook her blond curls. “Diskin’s mad as a pig in a bathtub, Clyde, and if things don’t get better real quick, he’s gonna can your ass.”

  “I don’t care about my job.”

  “That’s a bunch of bullcrap.” She wagged her finger at me. “Need I remind you of how far you’ve come? Where you were when I got to this godforsaken place years ago? You were running scripts, Clyde. In skirts so short my five-year-old niece would have the sense not to wear them. No one took you seriously. The fucking interns got more respect. And why? Because you were letting assholes like Mike Fischer have their way with you in the bathroom of Coyote Cinco’s.”

  I winced at the memory. Mike anchored our three o’clock news hour. He was married with three kids, teenagers by now, and kept a big bitch lab named Daisy that he—swear to God—sometimes used to let lick his balls. I’d messed around with him at least a dozen times over a one-year period, mostly at my apartment but, yes, sometimes in places like the bathroom of our closest Mexican cantina, and in all that time he never once said hello to me at the office. He wouldn’t acknowledge me in public, and yet somehow everyone at the office knew exactly what the two of us were doing behind closed doors. “It’s been a long time since I engaged in that sort of behavior,” I said.

  “Two and a half years,” she said, “is not that long a time.”

  “Give me some credit, Georgia.”

  “I love you kid, but you still wouldn’t know a worm if it were staring at you from the end of a fishing pole.”

  “What?”

  “Alex Amori. Admit that you’re attracted to him.”

  “That’s crazy. He’s a great guy. Fun and smart and, yes, pretty damn cute. I’ll give you that. But he’s also a total hound. I know that. And I know enough to stay away.”

  “Who do you think you are talking to? Do I look like a retard? Because maybe my plastic surgeon messed up my face real bad and I ought to be suing Diskin for making me get that shit done.”

  I would have laughed if Georgia hadn’t been glaring at me like I’d just poured her Diet Coke on her head.

  “Listen up, smarty pants. I know you better than you know your own self. I’m giving you one more
chance to get off this train. I can go right now and tell Diskin I need you on another project.”

  I uncrossed my legs and straightened my posture. “No, Georgia.”

  She sighed. “Don’t blame me when you’re crying your eyes out and drowning your sorrows again in booze.”

  “Thanks for having so much faith in me,” I said, crossing my arms at my chest.

  Georgia narrowed her eyes. “How much you drinking every night?”

  “Nothing Georgia. Not a drop.”

  “But you’ve wanted to. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be what I am if I hadn’t.”

  “I tell you once, I tell you a thousand goddamn times, the road to hell is slick with gin.”

  “Georgia, my best friend just died. I think I’m doing pretty fucking great considering the circumstances. How about some positive reinforcement for a change?”

  “OK, how’s this? Good job for not losing your shit so far. Now let’s get you some counseling and pull you off this case.”

  “No.”

  She threw her hands in the air, her bangles clanging against one another. “Best-case scenario, we ride this Kravis case out and you somehow stay off the hooch. You’re going to be working long hours with Alex, side-by-side, alone, in dark rooms, sometimes in hotel rooms. Honey, we all know how this is gonna end. You fall for him. He breaks your heart. You drink yourself back to rehab. Don’t put yourself in a situation you can’t handle.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous. And frankly I don’t have time for this. Alex has no interest in me and I have no interest in him.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “It’s true. When he’s not taking out Penny Harlich, he’s putting the moves on one of my PAs.”

  “Let me guess, it’s what’s-her-name?” Georgia snapped her fingers three times. “You know, eraser nipples?”

  “You’re thinking of Sabine Weller. She’s doing research for me.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Whatever.”

  “The point is you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Georgia selected a newspaper from the stack on her desk. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “You do.”

  “Fine, smarty pants. Let’s talk Kravis case. What’s your next move?”

  I slumped back down in my chair. “I’m not convinced Rachel Rockwell did it, but that’s where the coverage is headed. I’m taking the team out to her house in Connecticut as soon as I leave here. We can go live from there for Topical Tonight.”

  “Along with every other network. What are we going to say that the others aren’t?”

  “They’re all going with Rachel as the prime suspect. We take a different tack. Use our exclusive video of Andrey running away from our cameras and the affair he was having with Rachel that had him fired from his job. We then spin out the scenarios, and motives: sex, jealousy, money. The other networks will be focusing on one suspect, we’ll have three: Rachel, Michael, and Andrey.

  “That’s good, Clyde. We can promo the shit out of that.”

  “Right.”

  “But I’ll need a studio guest.”

  “Olivia’s stepsister, Delphine Lamont. Maybe she’ll want to respond to the lesbian stuff.”

  Georgia knew that was a long shot. “Who else?”

  “My source on Rachel’s affair with her trainer. Her name is Vanessa Cox. She’s the picture of a Greenwich trophy wife. I could try to wrangle her for tonight’s show.”

  “Keep me posted.” Georgia scratched her skull with a pencil tip. “We need to nail it tonight. This isn’t just about you, you know. The show is on the line, Clyde. Golden boy’s half hour is gonna come out of somebody’s time.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Surely you’ve heard the rumors about Alex getting his own show?”

  I shrugged. I had.

  “Well?”

  “They can’t cut Topical.” I stood up and began pacing the room.

  “They will if ratings don’t pick up.”

  I stopped mid-stride. “What will you do?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a pretty little offer from HLN sitting on the table.”

  I covered my hand with my mouth. “Georgia, I had no idea,” I said between my fingers.

  “Shit, I’ll be fine. I just want you to remember, there’s a lot riding on this story. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” I said.

  “All right, now get on out there.” She pointed to her door.

  I made my exit. “Stay off the fucking sauce,” she yelled after me.

  By the time I got back to the bullpen, someone had turned up the volume on a television monitor. CNBC was on, announcing Maldone Enterprises’ pending acquisition of the FirstNews Network in a cash-for-stock deal valued at $4.6 billion. The anchor was talking about the underlying fundamentals of the deal and the unlikelihood of antitrust officials trying to scuttle the merger. Wall Street liked the news, too: Maldone Enterprises’ share price had spiked following the announcement. A guest analyst likened FirstNews to the missing jewel in the Maldone crown and predicted that the stock would continue to see big gains, thanks to considerable synergies. My coworkers let out a collective groan. Synergies meant redundancies and more layoffs. Before the anchor transitioned to another subject, he made a passing comment about Olivia’s murder, and how the companies had opted to announce the deal via a press release instead of a news conference out of respect for the Kravis family’s recent loss.

  I picked up the phone and told the troops to meet me at the van in five. Then I popped a few Tums from my purse and dialed Delphine’s number from my cell. Predictably, it went straight to voicemail. After the beep, I began speaking. “Delphine, it’s Clyde Shaw. I know you don’t want to do any more press, but when you feel up to it, please call me.” I paused to search for the right words. “I think I can help with how everything is playing out in the media. And I can assure you; I am committed to reporting on Olivia’s death with not only accuracy, but also the utmost degree of sensitivity. You can call me anytime.” Then I left all my various numbers and hung up.

  Rachel Rockwell’s home was another mob scene. There were satellite trucks from GSBC, CNN, and ABC News lining the length of the street, news helicopters flying overhead. Ever since the news of Rachel’s affair with Olivia had broken, the feeding frenzy had reached a new level, with ABC reporting a rumor that the police knew where Rachel was, and CNN positing that her arrest was imminent. While Aaron and Dino set up their equipment, I sent Jen and Alex to Vanessa Cox’s house. I figured if anyone could coax her into repeating some of what she said to me on camera, Alex could. “Be charming,” I told him.

  He threw up his hands. “Flirt. Don’t flirt. You know I’m not some light switch you can turn off and on.”

  “Oh please.” I rolled my eyes. “Just go over there and do that thing you do.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, that squinty, glittery-eye thing.”

  He laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Jen caught my eye. “Do you think?”

  “No way, he totally knows what he’s doing.” I dug a roll of breath mints out of my bag and tossed it to Alex.

  “What are these for?”

  “Just in case.”

  He gave me an incredulous look.

  “I’m just kidding,” I said. “But we do need this one.”

  He pocketed the mints and took a step toward me. “You got a date for Monday?”

  “You’re doing the eye thing right now.”

  He wiped away a grin and took another step closer. “Well, do you?”

  I pushed him away. “Quit clowning around and go get us an interview.”

  About fifteen minutes after they left, I made a call to Panda to see if there was any truth to ABC’s report. Panda picked up on the first ring.

  “What’s the deal with Ra
chel Rockwell?” I asked. “Have you guys upgraded her to suspect yet?”

  “Can you meet?” Panda asked.

  I explained that I was in Connecticut, staking out Rachel’s house with virtually every other news outlet on the face of the earth. We made a plan to meet for breakfast the following morning, but before he hung up I asked Panda if the PD had any clue where Rachel could be hiding.

  “She’s missing, Clyde.” His voice was serious.

  “Missing as in she’s on some yacht in the Caribbean or missing as in she’s dead in a ditch off the New Jersey Turnpike?”

  He hesitated. “I can’t comment further.”

  “Can’t you give me something?”

  “What do you think I just did?”

  “I need more than that.”

  Panda heard the desperation in my voice. “You OK?”

  “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

  There was a long pause. “Frank Uffizo just filed a missing-person report on behalf of the family. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  I showered Panda with a million thanks and hung up.

  I texted my team to meet back at the van after they were done with Vanessa, then I emailed Georgia’s executive producer and Diskin to let them know we had to alter our game plan.

  The missing-persons report was a good start. But I wasn’t done yet. First I called the task force’s information officer and told them what I’d heard. Predictably, they refused to help. Since Rachel Rockwell wasn’t under twenty-one, they didn’t have to abide by federal laws and report the case to the National Crime Information Center, nor did they have to confirm to me, or any other network, that the family had indeed filed such a report.

  No problem. If there was one thing I knew about missing-persons cases, it was that family members welcomed media attention. I found Frank Uffizo’s number in my call history and pressed send. Michael Rockwell wouldn’t go on air, but Rachel’s parents might. Especially if they knew media pressure could get their daughter reclassified from person of interest to missing person. Uffizo didn’t pick up, so I left a message. “All I want is to provide Rachel’s family with a public forum so that they can get the word out about her as quickly as possible.” And because I knew how Uffizo’s mind worked, I added, “They can still do the Today show tomorrow morning. No one over there is going to fault them for wanting to get a jump on the coverage, and Georgia’s the best you can do in her time slot.” Then I told him I was going to report the missing-person angle whether he confirmed it or not. “You’ve got a sympathetic producer, here, Frank. If I were you, I’d jump on this.”