“What time did you get home last night?” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sometime after midnight.”
“Were you working at the office?”
Ethan hesitated—too ashamed to tell her the truth. “Yeah. I was blocking out story elements and putting together the production budget.” He hated lying but knew she’d be furious if she found out he’d spent the night getting drunk at a bar. He quickly changed the subject, hoping she wouldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath or see the anguish in his eyes. “What’s your day look like, babe?”
Sarah yawned—still not fully awake. “I’m dropping Luke off at Brad’s apartment before I go to the office. His mom’s taking the boys to Jones Beach, and the four of us are planning to have dinner when they get back. I’m assuming you’re working late and can’t join us?”
“Probably not. I’m making progress on my story but keep finding things that don’t add up. Something’s off, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she said, pouting. She draped her arms around his neck and flashed a seductive smile. “Got time for a quickie? Would be nice before you disappear again.”
He kissed the end of her nose. “I only wish. Maybe when I get home tonight.”
“You’re no fun.” She punched him playfully, then suddenly grew serious. “Ethan, I got a call from Nancy McGregor. She said she wants to have lunch today and catch up, but she sounded kinda funny on the telephone. Have you had your meeting with her yet?”
“No. I’m scheduled to see her this afternoon.”
“What do you think she wants?” Sarah said, sitting up. “Do you think she’s gonna ask me about your story again?”
“I hope not,” he said, alarmed. “We still haven’t locked in a date for her interview, and we’ve been asking her office for some evidence we can’t find in all those documents she sent over, but I can’t imagine that’s a problem.” He shifted uneasily on the bed, his instincts screaming. “Sarah, please be careful about what you tell her. I have no reason to suspect she’s gonna bail on us, but don’t say anything that might come back and haunt me.”
“Come on, Ethan, you know me better than that,” she said, smiling. “I promise not to give away any of your trade secrets.” She crossed her heart. “Besides, Nancy’s a friend, and I’m sure all she wants to hear about is Luke and what I’ve been doing all summer. Can’t be more than that.”
“Just be careful,” he said, still worried McGregor had some ulterior motive. He reached for his pack of Marlboros and lit a cigarette. “Time to go. I gotta be at the deputy mayor’s in half an hour,” he said, leaning over and kissing her one last time.
“And Ethan, come straight home tonight.”
“I will, babe.”
“No McGlades?”
“No McGlades.”
“Promise?”
“I promise I won’t stop for a quick drink,” he said, feeling guiltier about lying to her.
“Now go say good-bye to Luke,” she said, burrowing under the covers.
Ethan grabbed his briefcase and headed to the kitchen where Luke was munching a bowl of cold cereal and watching cartoons. “Hey, little man, I hear you’re going to the beach with Brad today. Listen to his mom and be careful in the waves.”
“I will, Dad,” he said, putting a spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth.
“And make sure Mom walks Holly before you leave. You won’t forget, will you?”
“No way. Are you coming home early tonight?”
Ethan looked into his innocent eyes. “I don’t know, Luke. I hope so.”
“You gotta work, right? That’s what Mom always says, but I thought I’d ask anyway.” He went back to watching television. “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye-bye, Luke,” Ethan said, hovering a moment in the doorway, wishing he could spend more time with his son and more time with his wife. Life was just too damn short.
• • • • •
A butler was waiting as Ethan stepped off the elevator and into a lavish foyer leading into Bernard Jameson’s multimillion-dollar penthouse on Fifth Avenue. He was wearing a formal black waistcoat, gray flannel pants, perfectly polished black shoes, a starched white shirt, and a fire-engine-red bowtie. Sneering, he introduced himself as Wendell and escorted Ethan down to a parlor bigger than his own living room before dashing out the door in search of the deputy mayor and his wife.
Jameson’s press secretary was sitting at a formal seating area, frantically scribbling notes on an iPad. She immediately stood and walked over to greet him. “Ah, Mr. Benson, I’m Sylvia Rosenberg. I see you’ve met Wendell. He intimidates a lot of people, and so does this apartment,” she said, jabbering away without taking a breath. “The Jamesons are megarich and have no problem flaunting it. I’m sure you’ve read about them in all the best magazines, especially since their daughter’s murder,” she continued, wheeling around to face Mindy, who was standing right behind Ethan. “And who is this, may I ask?”
“My associate producer, Mindy Herman,” Ethan said.
“Pleasure to meet you,” the press secretary said, shaking hands. “And I need no introduction to your researcher. David and I have already spent gobs of time together working on your story. Nice to see you again, Mr. Livingston.”
Ethan listened, trying to be polite, as Rosenberg droned on about Jameson’s vast business empire and extensive portfolio of real estate holdings. Mercifully, her monologue was cut short by the sound of footsteps bouncing off the marble floors as Bernard and Sandy Jameson slowly made their way into the parlor. The deputy mayor’s arm was draped around his wife’s waist—providing moral support—as she held a lace handkerchief to wipe away tears welling up in her eyes.
“You must be the producer that Peter Sampson told me about yesterday,” Jameson said, staring warmly at Ethan. “As you can see, Sandy’s had a tough morning. Your visit has brought up a lot of memories, some good, some not so good. She’ll be better in a little while.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jameson,” Ethan said, trying to find something comforting to say. “I can’t imagine what you and your family are going through.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benson.” She patted her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’m still trying to cope with Cynthia’s murder. She was such a wonderful daughter. I miss her all the time.” She slumped into an overstuffed Victorian couch, disappearing into the cushions.
Ethan introduced Mindy and David, and they sat down around an antique coffee table, Wendell the butler asking if anybody wanted tea or coffee.
“Just bring a full service for everybody and make sure to serve some fruit and those wonderful pastries we bought this morning,” Mrs. Jameson said, sniffling.
The deputy mayor gently squeezed her hand. “I’m not sure where to begin, Mr. Benson. I was hoping we could talk about Cynthia and what this senseless murder has done to our family and to all the citizens of this great city.”
Ethan thought he sounded more like a politician than a father, his words measured, his tone insincere. Maybe he was already running for mayor. “Mr. Jameson, why don’t you describe your daughter to me?”
The deputy mayor took a deep breath. “Cynthia was my pride and joy, bright and inquisitive, strong and sensitive. She was a sophomore at Columbia University—an honor student studying political science. She wanted to follow in my footsteps and go into public service after graduation.” He paused, looking off into the distance. “I still can’t believe she’s been taken from us in such a senseless way. It’s tragic. Just tragic.”
Ethan waited patiently, and when he realized the deputy mayor had nothing more to say, turned to his wife. “What can you tell me about your daughter, Mrs. Jameson?”
“She was a beautiful young woman, and we were close. Very close. We went to the theater and to the opera. We attended parties and benefits and ate at all the best restaurants. And we traveled around the world together—just
the two of us—to Europe, Asia, and South America. Oh, I still can’t believe she’s gone.” Her eyes became red and puffy as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Now, now, dear,” Jameson said soothingly. “I know this is difficult for you.”
She stared into her husband’s eyes pleadingly, then back at Ethan. “You have to understand, Mr. Benson, we had no secrets with Cynthia. She always confided in us. Both of us. And she loved her little sister and brother, Susan and Ned, more than you can imagine. She did everything with them. It’s such a loss for all of us.” Her voice trailed off as she sank deeper into the sofa.
“Mrs. Jameson, would you like a moment before we go on?” Ethan said, handing her a box of tissues from the coffee table.
“No. No. I’m okay. Really.” She blew her nose.
“Then maybe you can show us your family photos,” Ethan said, trying to move the meeting forward. “We need to paint a visual picture of your daughter, and Ms. Rosenberg has told David we could take the photos back to our office when we leave today.”
“How many will you need?” the deputy mayor said.
“As many as you’ll share with us,” Ethan said. “We’re planning to run a very long story, and the only way for our audience to fully understand how difficult this has been for you and your family is to see Cynthia during the happier times in her life.”
“Do you want pictures of Susan and Ned, too?” Sandy said.
“We need all of you—a full set of portraits of your family—of Cynthia growing up, going to school, playing with her brother and sister. Pictures that show Cynthia and your family during special occasions that are meaningful to you.”
“And you want them today?” Sandy said, sounding surprised.
“That would be very helpful,” Ethan said resolutely. “We’ll make copies and get them back to you as soon as we can.”
“I don’t see any problem with giving them the photos, Bernard, do you?” she said, turning to her husband, waiting for a reaction.
“No. You can take whatever you want, Mr. Benson.”
“We’d also like some of your home videos,” David said. “The same kinds of moments.”
“That won’t be a problem either,” the deputy mayor said quietly.
Wendell walked back into the parlor holding a silver tray with the refreshments. He placed it on the table next to a single red tulip sitting in a small crystal vase.
“Please serve everybody,” Sandy said, composing herself. “Then go into the library and bring back a good selection of photo albums and home movies. You know which ones are my favorites.”
“Yes, Mrs. Jameson, right away.” He poured coffee and tea and paraded out of the room.
“Thank you,” Ethan said, turning to the deputy mayor. “I have another question for you, Mr. Jameson. Why was Cynthia in the Meatpacking District the night she was murdered? I’ve read accounts in the newspapers and recently asked Edward Jenkins, the lead detective on the case, about it. But as her father, maybe you can fill me in on what she was doing down there.” Ethan paused, reading the pained expression on the deputy mayor’s face. “I know this isn’t easy, but I’ve walked around that neighborhood. Some of the streets are pretty sketchy.”
“We keep asking ourselves that question,” Jameson said quietly, his voice quavering as he struggled with his emotions. “She was dating a nice young man at the time—a student named Jacob Lutz who she met in one of her classes at Columbia. We liked Jacob very much. He was from a good family, a wealthy family—his father’s in textiles, if I remember correctly. Anyway, Cynthia went down to the Meatpacking District that night with a group of friends to celebrate the end of midterm exams, and then she met Jacob for a late dinner at the Standard Grill. It’s a popular steakhouse with the young crowd.”
“Did she go there often with Jacob?” Ethan said as he tried to reconcile the deputy mayor’s account of the evening with what he’d read in the research.
“I’m not really sure,” the deputy mayor said. “All I know is they were there that night, and that Jacob left the restaurant without my daughter at about one in the morning to get some sleep. He wants to be a lawyer and had an early meeting with his college adviser the next day. He told us he kissed Cynthia goodnight, left her sitting alone at the bar, and headed back to his apartment in Morningside Heights. When we called and told him she’d been murdered, he was devastated.”
Ethan pulled on his lower lip reflectively. “What did Cynthia do for the two hours she was alone? Do you have any idea? The police say she wasn’t murdered until sometime around three a.m.”
“It gets a bit fuzzy at this point. The bartender remembers her talking to a few people, maybe having a drink or two, and then leaving by herself just before the gunshots. He says he thought it was a car backfiring and that he didn’t realize what had happened until he heard the police sirens.” The deputy mayor’s voice trailed off, hot anger spreading across his face. “Cynthia was in the wrong place at the wrong time and paid for it with her life. That madman Pavel Feodor shot her down like a dog. Murdered her for no good reason.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Mr. Benson, this is very difficult for me and my wife. Do you have any more questions? I’m not sure we can talk about my daughter any longer.”
“Nothing else that can’t wait,” Ethan said consolingly. “We can stop if you’d like. You’ve been very generous with your time.”
“Thank you, but I do have one last question before you leave, Mr. Benson.”
“Please, call me Ethan.”
“Okay, Ethan. I’ve been hearing from the district attorney’s office that you’re planning to interview Pavel Feodor.”
“Yes. We’re working on the logistics and ground rules.”
“So let me ask you. Why in God’s name do you want to put that piece of scum on television? My wife and I find it very disturbing that you’re planning to give him any airtime at all. We just don’t understand what the world gains from listening to someone who’s so blatantly evil.”
Ethan sensed he was treading in delicate waters and didn’t want to upset the deputy mayor or his wife or give them any reason to back out of the interview. “I think it’s important journalistically,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Pavel Feodor reached out to us through his attorney and says he has new information about what really happened that night, and to me, it’s important for our viewers to hear what he has to say. I know he’s been found guilty and is about to be sentenced, but he didn’t take the stand during his trial and has never talked publicly about the murder. Maybe he’s finally ready to open up and bare his soul.” He looked from the deputy mayor to his wife. “And I promise you we won’t just ask him softball questions or give him an opportunity to make excuses. We’ll be tough on him. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Fair enough,” the deputy mayor said cordially. “I can’t say I agree with you, but I understand your reasoning.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” Ethan said.
“No. That was the one thing my wife and I were most worried about.”
“Anything else we need to go over, Mindy?”
“Just one more thing,” Mindy said, turning to Sylvia Rosenberg. “We were hoping to say hello to Ned and Susan while we were here today. Have you had a chance to discuss this with the deputy mayor and his wife?”
“We’ve been talking about it all morning,” Rosenberg said. “What do you think, Mrs. Jameson? Are the kids up for it?”
“No, not today,” Sandy said, sighing. “Susan’s still having a tough time getting over Cynthia’s death, and Ned has withdrawn into a shell and won’t tell us what he’s thinking or feeling. My husband and I are more worried about him than our daughter.” She grabbed the deputy mayor’s hand for support. “We’ll make a decision when you come back with your cameras. Maybe then you can meet them.”
“I understand,” Ethan said as they all stood up. “Thanks for your time this morning. You’ve been very helpful. I have a much bet
ter sense of how you’re doing and how to plan the questions for your interview.”
“And thank you, Ethan,” the deputy mayor said, once again sounding like a politician. “Please say hello to Peter Sampson for me. It was very kind of him to call yesterday. We’re both looking forward to seeing him at the interview.” Jameson smiled broadly, then spun around to his press secretary. “Sylvia, give Mr. Benson a quick tour of the apartment and help him pick a shooting location. Make sure to show him the great room. That might be perfect for his cameras. And Ethan, don’t forget Wendell is gathering the family photos and home videos. Take whatever you want.”
Then the deputy mayor walked out of the parlor, his arm resting on his wife’s shoulder as he led her through the apartment and up a majestic staircase to the living quarters. Ethan thought they looked broken, unable to move beyond the tragedy that had irrevocably changed their lives, and tried putting himself in their place, wondering how he’d feel if he somehow lost Luke in a random act of violence. Trembling ever so slightly, he followed the press secretary down a long hallway and into the great room.
CHAPTER 10
TWO HOURS LATER, ETHAN WAS sitting in a yellow cab on the FDR Drive, heading to his meeting with Nancy McGregor at the Manhattan District Attorney’s office. The traffic was at a standstill, a car having flipped over at Forty-Second Street, its front end smashed like an accordion, its tires shredded like confetti. Nobody had been seriously injured—the passengers stood about surveying the damage as police cars and tow trucks slowly inched their way through the sea of humanity crawling along the highway. “Who’s meeting us when we get to the DA’s office?” Ethan said, craning his neck as they approached the scene of the accident.
“My contact, Nelson Brown,” David said, checking the time. “He works with McGregor and is in charge of all the evidence in the case.”
“Is he the guy you’ve been calling about the crime scene photos and the ballistics report?”
Live to Air Page 8