by Dete Meserve
David wasn’t having any of it. “Let’s see. We’ve got a gunman and another man dead in a veteran’s clinic shooting this morning. There’s a robber targeting elderly women in Koreatown elevators. A homeless man found a dead baby in a Dumpster. And you want to do a story to promote some app that duplicates house keys?”
“We’d show viewers how vulnerable they are to having it happen to—”
“I’ve heard enough.” David pointed at me. “Kate, tell me you have something to pitch on these heists.”
“Actually, one of the billionaire homeowners has hired a private investigator to look into police conspiracy in the heists. He says police are withholding evidence they found at the scene. He’s going to prove that it’s a police cover-up.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s how you pitch a story, Russ. Police conspiracy. Cover-up. Missing evidence. That’s a story. Kate, get on that angle right away.”
The problem was Detective Jake Newton wasn’t answering his texts or returning my calls. I’d even left a message on his home voice mail. When I called his office line without identifying myself, another detective told me he was “out.” But despite peppering him with questions, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give any more information.
I tried sending an e-mail to his LAPD address. When it bounced back as “mail undeliverable,” my mind took a sharp detour. I wondered if Stephen Bening was right about police officer involvement in the heists and Jake was somehow caught up in that.
“Someone is spending a lot of time and money to orchestrate these burglaries, and it may not be for the reasons we all suspect,” he had said. Could that mean police were behind the burglaries? They would certainly have the technology to bypass security systems and manage a sophisticated burglary operation. Is that why Jake had disappeared?
I bounced the theory off of Hannah, who thought about it a moment as she sat in the chair next to mine in the reporters’ bullpen. “If you look at past police officer corruption, it’s always insidious, highly undetectable. It’s never a string of high-profile mega burglaries that are being covered on nearly every news outlet around the country.”
“That’s because there never has been a string of mega burglaries like this before. The Chateau de Soleil owner is so certain police are behind it he’s hired his own investigator.”
She took a slug of coffee from a mug that read: home is where your wi-fi connects automatically. “Police aren’t talking to the media and aren’t sharing any information with the billionaire victims. Does that mean they’re behind it? Or does it mean they have a pretty good idea who’s behind it but saying anything could compromise their ability to catch them? What does your source say?”
“My source has disappeared.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Disappeared as in ‘on vacation’?”
I shook my head. “As in his personal cell phone is disconnected and his e-mail bounces back as undeliverable. And when I call him at his office, they say he’s out and don’t give a reason or a return date.”
Hannah cleared her throat. “I know you can’t say who he is, but I might be able to use some tools on the deep web to figure out what happened to him. That is, if I happened to see his name written down somewhere.”
I looked at her, trying to figure out if I could trust her.
“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said.
I’m not good at trust. Trust the wrong person and you’d get your e-mail hacked, your credit cards stolen, or worse. Lots of people trusted Bernie Madoff and lost millions in his Ponzi scheme. That’s because most people suffer from unrealistic optimism, overestimating the likelihood that someone is trustworthy simply because they behave a certain way. But almost every indicator of trustworthiness—making eye contact, feigning openness, smiling—can be manipulated or faked.
I’d only known Hannah for less than a year and I wondered if she could really be trusted with the name of my source. My instincts were oddly saying yes. On every story we covered together, Hannah was not only resourceful but also loyal. There were plenty of story leads she could’ve given other reporters, but she nearly always came to me first. That counted for something in the trust department. Besides, I needed to trust her in order to find out what happened to Jake.
I scribbled Jake’s name on a slip of paper and pushed it across the desk. “I’m holding you to that promise.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
My cell phone buzzed on my desk, startling me. The call was from David Dyal.
“Hey,” I answered.
“Would you come to my office?”
“Sure.” Before I could say anything more, he’d hung up.
David was more of a “walk and talk” manager, so it was unusual to be summoned to his office by cell phone. Especially since I had seen him in the assignment meeting fifteen minutes earlier.
“Close the door,” he said when I stepped inside his office. “Have a seat.”
I dropped into a chair and glanced over the arrangement of framed photos behind his desk, waiting for him to speak. There were photos of David with his kids on a boat ride, David with a TV celebrity from the 1990s, David posing with the current governor of California, and another candid photo of him standing with a news photographer in front of a tank during what I was guessed was the Iraq War.
I braced myself to hear that he and Bonnie had decided to give Susan the heist story. It was sweeps week after all.
“Something you want to tell me?” he said.
“About the heist story? I’m working—”
His tone was stiff. “About why you’re meeting with Andrew Wright at ANC.”
I hadn’t expected that. “My father set it up. They’re old friends.”
He sat back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “Next time you meet with another network, you might want to choose a more private place. You probably didn’t notice, but the station’s general manager was having lunch in there.”
“Lauren Hultmark eats lunch at a hole-in-the-wall bakery on Melrose Avenue?”
He nodded. “Her favorite. Andrew knows it too.” I frowned. Had Andrew set me up? “I don’t like getting my ass chewed out by Lauren Hultmark—”
“The lunch was no big deal. He invited me to come on James Russell’s show and talk about the estate burglaries. He told me he was going to call Bonnie to get her okay.”
“Which he did. And Bonnie is livid.”
“So she’s not going to approve me going on the show?”
“No, she’s going to let you do it. It’ll be great promotion during sweeps.”
I rubbed my eyes, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Few assignment editors get the position because they have great management skills. A lot of them got to be executives by being top reporters, a career path that isn’t always a great training ground for managing other reporters. David was that kind of executive. He had an almost superpower instinct for news, honed by years of reporting from the field, but he wasn’t the best at the people part of the gig.
“I don’t get it. What’s this about?”
He took a sip of his green goo and grimaced. “We all know what Andrew is up to. He spots talent, talks to them about their aspirations and goals, then reels them in by bringing them on one of his shows. He knows you’ll get a kick out of it and jump ship from wherever you are. He’s a master at recruiting.”
“He’s not going to ‘reel me in’ by bringing me on one of his shows.”
He laced his fingers behind his head and sat back in his chair. “You don’t get it, do you? In Andrew’s eyes, you are quintessential media royalty. Through your father, you have a recognizable name and connections to the most powerful people in the world. Recognizable names sell advertising and Andrew knows it. Look at Chelsea Clinton or Jenna Bush Hager—”
“So this meeting is about you reminding me how valuable I am to Channel Eleven. So I don’t even think about going to work for Andrew and ANC.”
He shuffled some papers on his desk, then looked up at me. “No, it’s about being smart, Kate. If you’re going to meet with a poacher like Andrew, at least give me a heads-up. That way, I can act like I know what the hell is going on around here.”
“Got it,” I said, then stood, readying for my exit. His words stung, but I didn’t want him to know he’d gotten to me. It was better to acknowledge it and move on.
He motioned for me to sit back down. “We’re not done yet.” He swiveled his laptop toward me. “Have you seen this?”
On his screen was a photo of me with Eric at last night’s party at Chateau de Soleil. The photo was snapped by the cabin in the olive orchard. In the silvery light, Eric had his arm wrapped around my shoulder and we were beaming at each other, laughing at something, a fraction from a kiss.
“No doubt you two look good together,” David said drily. “Because of that, it will definitely get a lot of play in the media. Already is. My point here is that you are, again, not showing good judgment.” He pointed toward the caption, which read:
“Senate Majority Leader Hale Bradley’s daughter, Kate Bradley, sneaks away from a fundraiser for Congressman Alan Blair with an unknown partygoer. The $10,000-per-person event at Stephen Bening’s Chateau de Soleil featured a talk by the vice president. Bradley is a reporter for Los Angeles Channel Eleven.”
“This is tabloid crap,” I said, noting the Globe banner at the top.
But even as I tried to brush it off, it rattled me that Eric and I had been followed and photographed in the orchard that night. Worse, my dad was not going to be happy. This photo made it look like I was some privileged party girl.
“If you want to be taken seriously in this business, Kate, you’re going to have to be more careful.”
“It’s not what it looks like. It’s not like I ran out of the party with some random guy.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? Because people will interpret it how they want to. As a senator’s daughter and a Channel Eleven news reporter, you’re subject to public scrutiny. And like the billionaires being robbed, people are going to make judgments about you. Because of the privilege you enjoy, most of the judgments won’t be in your favor.”
The rest of the morning became a huge time suck as several newsroom staff—and a few crew members—pointed out the post or asked me about it. What had been a beautiful and intimate moment between Eric and me had became the subject of light teasing, casual inquiries about the “unidentified partygoer” in the photo, and other prying questions that put me on edge. My private life had never been the subject of discussion or gossip before, and while I was proud of Eric, the whole situation had taken an uncomfortable turn.
My father’s call came at noon. I grabbed my cell phone, slipped into the small conference room at the back of the newsroom, and closed the door.
“Dad,” I said wearily, slumping in a chair.
“You already know what I’m going to say, so I’ll make this quick. You know better. Someone else might be able to get away with wandering around Bening’s estate, but as my daughter, you won’t.”
I sighed. “I know.”
“I don’t want to scare you, but I think this was a warning.”
“A warning?”
“That photo was planted to send you—and me—a very loud message. I suspect the people who leaked it don’t like how you’re reporting on the heists.”
“How I’m reporting on the heists? My reporting is not much different from any other reporters’.”
“You’re a senator’s daughter. Someone who’s grown up with privilege. They expect you to speak out and condemn the criminals. But instead, your stories about the opulent wealth and extravagance are fanning the fires against the rich.”
I felt a headache coming on. “There are hundreds of reporters on this story, some of them with much bigger audiences than I have. Why target just me?”
“Because you’re my daughter. As the chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, what is the biggest hot-button issue I’m wrestling with? Tax reform for the rich. Because of your reports, voters are demanding tax hikes on the wealthy. And the wealthy—some of whom are donors to my campaign—obviously don’t want higher taxes and will do whatever it takes to make sure I know it. Think about that when you file your next report.”
Chapter Seven
I’m not an extension of my father. I make my own decisions, political and otherwise. And although I grew up in a household full of rules about what not to say to the media or how to behave so you don’t end up in the tabloids, my father had raised me to be an independent thinker.
Until now. I wasn’t sure what to do about my father’s request, but it weighed on my mind the rest of the afternoon as I filed updates on the heist story. I became suddenly aware and self-conscious about what I wrote, thinking about how each choice of phrase would be perceived by the people who leaked the photo. All of it was giving me a bad case of writer’s block.
And it was making me worried. My father and I had both experienced the dangers of his being a powerful name in public office. We rarely talked about it much anymore, but back when I was in elementary school, a militant group tried to set off a bomb outside my bedroom window. The bomb didn’t explode because the city was experiencing rare below-freezing temperatures. After that, my father had a bodyguard trail me to and from third grade. I knew this event was on his mind even if he didn’t say it.
But there was no doubt he was right about the growing backlash against the wealthy. Later that afternoon, photos of the fireflies in Bening’s orchard went viral on social media with this caption: “Billionaires spent over $150K to have thousands of lightning bugs flown in and released when the vice president arrived at $10,000-per-person fundraiser for Congressman Alan Blair (Calif.) at Silicon Valley entrepreneur Stephen Bening’s Bel Air estate. #TheTroubleWithBillionaires”
I tried to ignore all the social media posts and focus on writing a heist update for the station website, but it wasn’t working. I was relieved, then, when Hannah waved at me from across the newsroom.
“You’ve got to see this.” She pointed at her monitor.
I hurried over to her desk, grateful for the interruption. Her face was tense in the glow of the computer screen. On her monitor was a grainy video of a fire. “This is cell phone video of a house fire on Delfern Drive. I know we wouldn’t normally cover a house fire, right? But what makes this one special is where it’s located. Holmby Hills. This is an estate designed by Wallace Neff.”
“Wallace Neff?”
“You need to bone up on your LA history.” She ran her fingers through waves of thick brown hair. “Neff was old Hollywood royalty. The first ‘starchitect,’ famous for designing Pickfair, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks’s estate. This one doesn’t have an exotic name like the others, but it’s one of the most expensive estates in LA. Eight acres of rolling lawns, tennis courts, and pools. A Wall Street broker named Thomas Speyer bought it for fifty-five million dollars.”
“You think this is another heist?”
“All they’re talking about is a fire on the scanner. But I’m willing to bet a month’s salary there was a burglary too.” She handed me a Post-it note. “Here’s the address.”
“Any word on the deep web search you’ve been doing for me?” I said, lowering my voice.
She shook her head. “Nothing. He’s completely disappeared from all social media when before he was pretty regularly on Twitter. Looks like he had mostly tweeted about sports, particularly football, and now…it’s like he’s gone off the grid.” When she saw my panicked expression, she added quickly, “I’ll keep looking. We’ll find something.”
I had no doubt her reporter’s intuition was right about the Holmby Hills fire, so I convinced dispatch to assign Josh to work on the story with me. Minutes later, we jumped into the news van and raced to the address Hannah had given us.
Holmby Hills is a neighborhood west of Bev
erly Hills, with some of the largest properties in the city. We drove winding streets studded with English-style streetlamps and named after places in Great Britain—Dalehurst, Strathmore, Westholme. But once we reached Holmby Park, ringed by a stand of mature sycamore trees, traffic came to a standstill. Up ahead we saw police cars, their lights flashing, blocking the street. I jumped out of the van and jogged past the line of cars to get a glimpse of what was happening. Farther ahead, police were instructing drivers to make U-turns.
“What’s going on?” I asked a sandy-haired officer in a navy blue Beverly Hills Police Department uniform. I have a theory they hire the Beverly Hills police officers as though they were casting a TV series, because all of them are as beautiful and handsome as the police heroes we see on TV. Seriously, I have never met a Beverly Hills police officer who wasn’t good looking. And this guy was no exception.
“Fire up in the hills,” he said, laying a pair of piercing blue eyes on me.
“I’m with Channel Eleven. Any way you can let me through?”
His blue eyes were all business. “All access is closed. No one’s allowed up there except fire and police.”
I surveyed the scene. After my success sneaking past police lines on the Metrolink disaster, I was looking for a way to get past the blockade here too. But there were so many officers and squad cars in the immediate area, I couldn’t see a way around them all.
“I hear there was a robbery as well,” I said, stalling for time while I continued to scan for a way in.
“Don’t know anything about that. But please get back in your car. It’s not safe standing here in all this traffic.”
Reluctantly, I headed back to the van and texted Jake. Holmby Hills fire? Access?
No response. Where was he?
A few minutes later, dispatch sent Chopper Eleven to fly over the fire, and the news desk slotted our live report to open the four o’clock cast. Standing in front of a legion of police squad cars barricading the street, I delivered my report.