Ethan peered at the public defender skeptically. “Do you think there’s any chance Pavel will recant his confession when he does our interview and say he didn’t kill Cynthia Jameson?”
O’Malley squirmed in his seat. “I can’t answer that, Ethan. He won’t tell me.”
“And how do we know he’s going to tell us the truth?”
“I can’t answer that, either, and I’m his attorney. But he says he’ll only talk to The Weekly Reporter, and only if he thinks you’re going to help him.”
“Why did he pick us, Mr. O’Malley?”
“Because I told him your news show has the highest rating on television, and he wants to reach as many people as possible. That’s the answer, Ethan, pure and simple.”
“Well, I can assure you I’m gonna get a lot of airtime and do the best job I can to tell his story—fair and square.”
“I know that, Mr. Benson. I already trust you just from the brief time we’ve spent together this afternoon.” O’Malley stood, adjusted his Brooklyn Law School diploma hanging on the wall, then sat back down. “Do you have any more questions? I have another meeting with a new client in a few minutes.”
“Just a couple,” Ethan said, pulling the crime scene photos from his briefcase and handing them to O’Malley. “The district attorney’s office sent me these pictures of Cynthia Jameson’s body, but there are only three of them. I can’t see anything but her arms and legs. Did they send you any others?”
O’Malley thumbed through the photos, then handed them back to Ethan. “I have a more complete set, and some of the images are quite horrifying. Cynthia was really disfigured by the bullet from Pavel’s gun. It blew a big hole in her chest, splattering blood over everything. I’m sure you don’t have those pictures, Mr. Benson, because the DA’s office doesn’t want you airing them in deference to her family.”
“I would never do that,” Ethan said honestly. “Do you still have copies?”
“Of course,” O’Malley said.
“Can I get them from you?” Ethan said hopefully.
“Frankly, I don’t want you seeing them either. They might influence the questions you ask during your interview. And I can’t take even the smallest risk you might show Pavel one of those horrid pictures while your cameras are rolling. Can you imagine how that would affect public opinion, Mr. Benson?”
“Well, I didn’t think it would hurt to ask.”
“It was a logical request, Mr. Benson. You’re a good reporter.” He glanced at his watch again. “You really must go. It’s time for my next meeting. So when do you want to shoot my interview, Mr. Benson?”
“In a couple of weeks. We’ll pick a date that works for the both of us as soon as I set my shooting schedule.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” O’Malley said. “And I’ll talk to Pavel and figure out when we can go see him at Rikers Island.” They stood and shook hands. “Call me if you have any questions.”
As Ethan headed out the door, he felt uneasy. There was something unsettling about Frankie O’Malley. He was too slick. Too polished. Too slimy. Like a snake in the grass. So he decided, then and there, to ask Mindy to run a complete background check on the public defender.
• • • • •
O’Malley stood in the waiting room, listening, until he could no longer hear Ethan’s footsteps echoing down the staircase, then turned to his receptionist. “Cancel my next meeting and hold my calls, Grace. I don’t want to be interrupted.” Anxious, he walked back into his office, locked the door, and punched a number into his cell phone.
“Nikolai, it’s me.”
“Has he left yet?”
“Just now.”
“What’s he like, Frankie?”
“He’s going to be a problem,” O’Malley said, flustered.
“What do you mean?” Nikolai said coldly.
The public defender sat down in an armchair facing the big picture window. Sunlight was shining off the glass tower of the new World Trade Center, the building shimmering in a rainbow of yellows and golds and reds. “He’s smart, and he’s asking lots of questions. He wants to know about the missing page in the confession and asked me for the video. He’s also snooping around for more photos of Cynthia’s body at the crime scene.”
“Does he know what really happened?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s meticulously going through the evidence and digging into the case.”
“And what about Pavel? Do we need to worry about him as well, Frankie?”
“I’m not sure, Nikolai. I don’t know how much longer I can control him.”
“Maybe we need to pay him more money. Will that keep him quiet?”
“I don’t think he cares about money anymore. He doesn’t want to die and thinks if he talks to the press and tells them the truth about that night, it’ll save his ass.” There was a moment of strained silence; the only sound coming through the phone was Nikolai’s heavy breathing.
“Look, Frankie, I’ve taken good care of you since you took the case, and so far, you’ve done a real good job for me. So go see Pavel and make sure he holds up his end of the bargain. I don’t want him talking to the press about us.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
There was another long pause and more heavy breathing.
“Good, Frankie. We have an understanding. Don’t force me to bring this up with the Pakhan. He won’t be happy. Keep me in the loop.”
The connection clicked off.
Frankie sat motionless, staring at a bank of fluffy white clouds hanging over the skyline. Damn. How was he going to convince Pavel not to talk? He couldn’t let that happen, and if he did, well, he didn’t want to find out what the Pakhan would do to him.
He shuddered at the thought.
CHAPTER 8
PETER SAMPSON’S OFFICE WAS tucked away on the southeast corner of the eleventh floor, two doors down from Paul Lang. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, European wallpaper, and expensive oriental rugs complementing the antique furnishings purchased from the best showrooms in the city—a fifteen-thousand-dollar gold-leaf desk, a twenty-thousand-dollar Louis XIV end table, and a thirty-thousand-dollar hand-gilt English armoire filled with dozens of designer suits the anchorman wore when hosting the show. The corporation had spared no expense to keep Sampson happy, his office the most lavish and decadent in the building.
When Ethan walked through the door, Sampson was sitting at his desk dictating letters to his secretary, a stunning young Latina named Consuela Santana who’d been hired more for her beauty than her brains—like most of the assistants, bookers, and researchers who made up his staff. He acknowledged Ethan with a wave of his hand and pointed to a plush red satin couch where he wanted him to sit. Without uttering a word, he continued tweaking his schedule—accepting a lunch date with Katie Couric, declining a dinner invitation with Senator Chuck Schumer, and postponing a meeting with Julie Piedmont, his coanchor, who he never made time for. He rattled on for five minutes, then asked Consuela to bring him a cup of coffee.
“Ah, I see you’ve brought your team—Mindy Herman and David Livingston. Would you guys like coffee?” he said, turning to Ethan.
“No, thanks. We’re all coffeed out,” Ethan said quietly.
“Then maybe a bottle of water?”
“No. We’re good,” Mindy said cordially.
“Fine. Fine. Just one cup, Consuela, in the English china.” He scooted his chair over to his computer. “I just need a few more minutes to go through my email.” Ethan shot Mindy and David a quick glance, then stared at the anchorman’s pink shirt and red suspenders and the bald spot on the top of his head.
After five minutes of silence, Consuela glided back into the room and placed the coffee on his desk. “Is there anything else you need at the moment?”
“No,” he said, typing away, never blinking an eye.
Ethan cleared his throat, hoping to catch his attention. “Peter, are you almost ready for us?”
“Almost there
. Just let me finish my email.”
Ethan leaned back, trying not to scream. Another five minutes. Then Sampson turned and sipped his coffee. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said, checking his Rolex. “I’m going to an important cocktail party tonight and have to leave for my apartment in half an hour to change into a tux. We need to make this quick.”
“Okay, but we have a lot of ground to cover,” Ethan said imploringly.
“Please stop,” Sampson said, cutting him off. “I haven’t forgotten your style. You start every meeting this way. Then you proceed to bombard me with unnecessary information I don’t need to know. It’s one of the many reasons you and I don’t get along, and the main reason I objected when Paul told me you were the producer on this project.”
Ethan hesitated, knowing he had to be careful. The anchorman and the executive producer were like brothers, almost legendary on New York’s high-flying social circuit. They lunched together, partied together, and were in and out of each other’s offices a dozen times a day. Ethan knew that every word he said to Sampson would be repeated verbatim to Paul, and the last thing he could afford was for his boss to pick up any negative vibes about his attitude. That would only exacerbate the delicate truce that now existed between the two of them.
“Look, Peter, we haven’t worked together for a long time,” Ethan said deferentially. “Let’s try not to get off on the wrong foot. I just want to bring you up to speed on our story, tell you who I’ve been talking to and who I think we need to interview. It shouldn’t take too long, but it’s important.”
“Good,” Sampson said, “that’s more like it. Short and to the point. I’ve been talking to Paul, and he’s been filling me in. So I have a pretty good idea of the game plan.” He stared from Ethan to Mindy to David and then back to Ethan. “So Paul said you were getting the court docket. Do you have the documents?”
“Yes, and I’ve been plowing my way through them.”
“Anything I should know about?”
“Nothing yet,” Ethan said, deciding it was way too early to tell Peter he was missing some key evidence.
“Let’s move on then,” Sampson said, thrusting out his chin and straightening his tie. “And what about the prosecutor, Nancy McGregor. Is she booked for an interview?”
“Tell Peter,” Ethan said, nodding to his researcher.
“She just agreed in principle,” David said, squirming in his seat. “I’ve set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon to go over the story and answer her questions. We’ll try to get her to commit to a shooting date when we see her.”
“And the public defender, Frankie O’Malley?”
“Ethan met with him yesterday,” Mindy said, jumping into the conversation. “He wants to do an interview. We just need to tell him when.”
“Ah, the illustrious Ms. Herman,” Sampson said with a touch of sarcasm. “I see you’re earning your keep just like Mr. Livingston and my good friend Mr. Benson here.” He put his feet up on the desk. “And what about the centerpiece to our story? Do we have an update on the Pavel Feodor interview?”
“Paul thinks we’re getting close,” Ethan said thoughtfully. “But so far, no decision on whether we can bring cameras into Rikers Island. Hopefully we’ll know soon.”
“Very good, Ethan. Paul just told me the exact same thing. I just wanted to make sure you were in the loop. You’ve passed my test with flying colors. All of you have.” Sampson grinned, then glanced back at his email. “And the deputy mayor? When are we doing his interview?”
“We’re not sure,” Ethan said regretfully. “David’s been trying to book a meeting with him, but so far we’ve had no luck with his press secretary. Do you happen to know Bernard Jameson, Peter?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times at social functions. His family owns the First Mercantile Trust Company—a big investment fund with controlling interest in dozens of steel, insurance, pharmaceutical, and energy companies. The guy’s worth more than a billion dollars. I’ve been hearing rumors that he’s planning to use his vast wealth to run for mayor next year.”
“I’ve been reading the same thing in the gossip columns,” Ethan said. “But I thought the murder had forced him to back-burner that decision.”
“Ah, that’s what you’d think, but he’s a shrewd politician,” Sampson said, finishing his coffee. “I’m sure he’s gonna use the publicity surrounding his daughter’s murder to tap into the sympathy vote, and when the timing’s right, he’s gonna cast his name into the hat. Mark my words, Ethan, he’s gonna run.” Sampson paused a moment, then put down his cup. “Maybe if I call Bernard I can cut through some of the red tape and get you in to see him.”
“Think you can reach him?” David said, furrowing his brow.
“Mr. Livingston, I’m the anchorman of this show. He’ll take my call.” He yelled for Consuela. “Get the deputy mayor on the phone.”
“Right away, sir.” A minute later, she poked her head into the room. “The deputy mayor’s on line one.”
Sampson looked over at Ethan. “Sit there. All of you. He may have a question I can’t answer.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Deputy Mayor, how nice to talk to you.” There was brief silence. “Yes. I’m doing the story about your daughter.” More silence. “Yes. Yes. I’m doing the interview with you and your wife.”
Ethan watched the anchorman, impressed with his charm.
“As a matter of fact, I’m sitting here with my producer. His name is Ethan Benson, and he’s really quite good once you get to know him,” Sampson said. “No. No. You haven’t met him yet, and that’s why I’m calling. I was hoping to set up a time when he could come by and meet you and Sandy.” Sampson placed his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Ethan. “He’s checking his schedule but thinks he may be free first thing tomorrow morning. Does that work for you?”
Ethan nodded. “All I’ve got tomorrow is McGregor. Everything else can wait.”
“That works for my producer,” Sampson said when Jameson came back on the line. “Shall I have him call your press secretary to work out the details? Good. I’ll make sure they talk.” There was a short pause. “Yes, I know this has been terribly difficult for you and your family. I’m sorry for your loss.” Another pause. “Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you too, Deputy Mayor. Thank you for your time.”
He hung up the phone.
“Now that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” Sampson said as he reached for his suit jacket. “Well, I’m out of time and must go.”
“Have we missed anything?” Ethan said imploringly as he glanced at Mindy and David.
“We need to go over the production schedule,” Mindy said helpfully.
“Ah, you’re full of surprises, Ms. Herman,” Sampson said, a gleam in his eye. “You just reminded me of one last thing we need to talk about before I head off to my cocktail party. I can’t do any shooting until after Labor Day. I start vacation next week and will be out at my weekend house in East Hampton for the rest of the summer. I’m open to doing an occasional meeting, but you’ll have to drive out to me. I won’t be back in the city until after the holiday.”
“But Paul’s thinking of running our story in the middle of September,” Ethan said, dumbstruck. “When will we schedule the field work? How will we get ready for the interviews? Where will we write and edit the story if you’re not here?”
“Those are your problems, not mine,” Sampson said, pushing his chair away from his desk. “You figure out some way to get me ready for production and then let me know how you plan to do it.”
Ethan stared at Sampson, furious, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. “Okay, Peter, I’ll talk to Consuela and schedule a trip out to East Hampton when you’re not too busy. That way we can at least keep the story moving forward.”
“Good. Glad we’ve cleared that up.” Then Sampson buttoned his suit jacket and hurried out the door—stopping briefly to check in with Consuela—before vanishing down the long red hallway and onto an elevator.
“Jeez, that was much worse than I expected,” Mindy said, aggravated.
“Yeah, Peter’s pretty pompous and self-centered,” Ethan said soberly. “But I gotta give him credit, he knows much more about this story than I thought. We should be okay if we keep him in the loop and don’t let him get to us.”
“But how are we gonna make the airdate if he won’t work until after the holiday?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Ethan said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Look, I’m goin’ to McGlades for a quick drink before heading home. You guys wanna join me?”
“I’ll take a pass,” Mindy said.
“Me too,” David said. “I need to call the deputy mayor’s press secretary and make a plan for our meeting.”
“So I guess I’m drinking by myself,” Ethan said, disappointed. “See you in the morning.” Then he hopped on an elevator and rode down to the lobby, crossed Fifty-Seventh Street, and headed straight to the bar for one quick pop to take off the edge.
That’s all he needed.
Or so he thought.
CHAPTER 9
ETHAN LAY SPRAWLED ON A loveseat, his feet propped on a well-worn ottoman, staring at Sarah still snuggled under the covers sound asleep. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temple, his nerves frayed, his head pounding like a bass drum. His quick drink at McGlades had turned into a marathon, one shot of scotch after another, until he’d staggered home three sheets to the wind, well after Sarah had turned in for the night. Standing, he headed to the bathroom, flipped on the lights, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot. After popping a couple of Motrin, he brushed his teeth and climbed into the shower.
Feeling better, he toweled off and slowly got dressed.
Sarah began to stir, and he sat down beside her, stroking her hair, gently kissing the nape of her neck. She purred softly. “What time is it, Ethan?” she said, rolling over on her side.
“Almost eight. I gotta leave in a couple of minutes. Mindy and David are meeting me in the lobby. We’re scheduled to preinterview the deputy mayor and his wife in about an hour.”
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