Live to Air

by Jeffrey L Diamond

  They drove up a gray pebble driveway to a ten-bedroom, eleven-bath, European-style compound set back on a large landscaped ridge. The main house had an air of elegance with white stucco walls and a terra-cotta roof, the wood trim framing the big bay windows painted aquamarine blue, the front door a titian red. A wide porch appointed with overstuffed chairs and wrought-iron tables wrapped around the first floor, and big clay pots filled with blue hydrangeas and pink and yellow rose bushes added a myriad of colors to the manicured façade.

  Ethan opened the car door and climbed out. “It looks like a movie set, doesn’t it? And the inside’s decorated just like his office—expensive antique furniture, Persian rugs, and original artwork everywhere you go. There’s even a screening room with state-of-the-art equipment in the basement. He gave me the grand tour the last time I was here.”

  Consuela was waiting for them when they reached the front door and ushered them into the house. “Where’s Peter?” Mindy said, staring at an original Picasso hanging over a Louis XIV side table in the foyer.

  “Mr. Sampson’s sitting out back by the pool,” Consuela said. “He’s reading The New York Times. Would you like an iced tea or some lemonade?”

  “Iced tea would be great,” they both said, almost at the same time.

  Consuela led them down a long hallway and out a sliding glass door to a flagstone patio—a cool breeze blowing off the ocean, the sound of the waves rolling up on the beach. Sampson was lying on a lounge chair sipping a glass of iced coffee. He was dressed in a white polo shirt, white shorts, and white sneakers, a pink cotton sweater draped over his shoulders, the arms carefully folded across his chest. Ethan thought he looked more like a tennis pro relaxing before a championship match than the most famous anchorman on television.

  “Ethan, so good to see you,” Sampson said, smiling. “And you too, Mindy. Glad you could both make it. It’s a beautiful day, so I thought we’d work out here by the pool. We’ll get much more done in the sunshine.” Sampson waved them over to a glass table with three director’s chairs positioned in front of a computer and a large monitor. “Ah, here comes Consuela with your iced teas.” He handed her his empty glass. “I’d like a fresh coffee with a little milk and sugar. You know how I like it.”

  “Right away, Mr. Sampson,” she said, setting down the two iced teas and disappearing into the house.

  Ethan looked up at Sampson, all business. “Our interview with Pavel Feodor is next Friday, so I’ve brought you some research to read and a couple of videos to screen. It’s gonna take us a couple of hours to go through everything. So we better get started.”

  Sampson chuckled. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that. Never out of character, are you, Ethan.” He adjusted the sleeves of his sweater. “So what goodies are you giving me while I’m here at the beach soaking up the sun? Are you going to ruin the rest of my vacation?”

  “Sorry, I know it’s a lot, but it’s important.” He handed Sampson a big research notebook. It was almost three inches thick. “Take a quick look, then I’ll walk you through it.”

  “What is this? A copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica?” Sampson said as he thumbed through the first few pages. “I thought this was a straightforward interview with a murderer.” He dropped the notebook on the table with a thud. “Why do I need to read all this?”

  “Because the story’s changing.”

  “What do you mean it’s changing?” Peter said quizzically. “Pavel Feodor’s been convicted and is about to be sentenced. That’s the story, isn’t it?”

  Ethan looked at Mindy, then back at Sampson. “That’s what we first thought, but I want you to screen something. It’ll help explain why you need to read all these documents.” He reached into his briefcase for a disk and loaded the crime scene video into the laptop, the first frame popping onto the screen. “The police shot this the night of the murder,” Ethan said, tapping the monitor. “As far as we know, nobody, except for a handful of cops and maybe the prosecutor, even knows it exists.”

  “Where’d you get it?” Sampson said as Consuela came back with his iced coffee, then scooted over to the pool to soak up some sun.

  “From a source,” Ethan said.

  “A source you trust?” Sampson said, sipping his coffee.

  “Yes.”

  “And where’d your source get it?”

  “The district attorney’s office,” Ethan said with no hesitation.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “And you have no doubt it’s real?”

  “I have to second source it, but, yes, it’s real, Peter. It’s been carefully hidden away by somebody in that office. Nobody in the press has seen it. This is our exclusive.”

  Sampson stroked his chin, then said, “Okay, what do you want to show me?”

  Ethan fast-forwarded until a wide shot of a group of CSI sifting through evidence filled the screen.

  “What should I be looking for?” Sampson said, staring at the video.

  “Just watch,” Ethan said, transfixed. “The camera’s panning and locking on a shot of a guy crouching on the ground wearing a fancy overcoat. That’s Edward Jenkins—the lead detective. He’s talking to the lab techs, and see, he’s about to write something on a notepad.” Ethan froze the video. “It’s not a great shot, but I had Joel Zimmerman play with the image in his Avid room, and when you adjust the pixels, move it around, and blow it up, you can just make out what he’s writing. It says, ‘No blood on the body.’ I have the enhanced version of the shot on another disk Joel made for you.”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll screen it later,” Peter said impatiently. “So this detective says there’s no blood on Cynthia Jameson’s body, and he’s the lead detective on the case?”

  “Yup. But when Mindy and I met him last week in the Meatpacking District, he straight out lied to us. Said that Cynthia Jameson was covered in blood—like a soldier butchered in a battle.”

  “What did he write in his police report?” Sampson said, staring at the monitor, the image of the detective writing on his notepad still frozen on the screen.

  “It’s in your research book,” Mindy said, “along with the rest of the police reports. And they all say the same thing—that the bullet that killed Cynthia Jameson left her a bloody mess. That’s what the prosecutor said in court. And that’s what’s been reported in the press.”

  Peter picked up the research book and skimmed through the documents. “So why did Jenkins change his story?” Sampson said. “And why did the other cops all say the same thing?”

  Ethan smiled. “I’ll show you why.” He fast-forwarded the tape a few minutes, then played the video. “There’s Jenkins again talking on his cell phone. It’s just a short conversation, and he’s whispering, so we can’t make out what he’s saying, but keep watching.” He pointed at the screen. “See, he puts the phone into his pocket, then walks to the middle of the parking lot. Now, listen carefully. This we can hear loud and clear.” Ethan cranked up the volume:

  “Okay, everybody, this is important. I just got off the phone with the captain. This is a high-profile case. The victim is the deputy mayor’s daughter, Cynthia Jameson, and the press is going to be all over the murder. So somebody with a much higher pay grade than me is ordering us to send all our paperwork up the ladder for a formal review. I’ve been told to collect all your crime scene reports as soon as they’re finished and pass them upstairs, then I’ll get them back and personally put them into the case file. Am I clear on the protocol for this investigation? Nothing, and I mean nothing, is to be placed into evidence until it goes through me and I get approval from the powers that be. Then, and only then, will I put your paperwork into the evidence locker. Everybody got that?”

  “Stop the video,” Sampson said, sipping his iced coffee. “This certainly puts a twist in our story, Ethan. What does it mean?”

  “Well, I can’t prove anything yet,” Ethan said, popping the disk out of the computer. “I need to get my hands on
some close-up shots of Cynthia’s body and confirm there really was no blood. And so far, nobody will give them to me. But it sure seems like the cops were taking orders from somebody to doctor the crime scene evidence and maybe pin the murder on Pavel Feodor.”

  “But who would order such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said scornfully, “but I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”

  Sampson looked up at the sun disappearing behind a dark cloud, then took off his sunglasses. “Have you told Paul?”

  Ethan nodded. “I screened the tape with him before we left.”

  “And what does he think?”

  “He told me to make sure the crime scene video is real and to find the missing pictures of Cynthia’s body. I’m already working on it.”

  Sampson stared at the empty screen. “Can you leave the disk with me? I want to watch it again when I have more time. This video is gonna be toxic when we air it.”

  “The disk is yours,” Ethan said, dropping it on the table. “We’ve got other copies at the office.”

  “And where’s the disk of the shot your editor cleaned up for me? I want to screen that one too,” Sampson said, “so I can see exactly what Detective Jenkins wrote on his notepad.”

  Ethan fished it out of his briefcase, along with a copy of Feodor’s confession. “You should look at this, too. It’s the clip of the confession Nancy McGregor showed the jury. It’ll give you a good sense of Pavel’s speech patterns and how he carries himself when he’s talking. Should be helpful before you do the interview.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d found that,” Peter said, grabbing the disks and his research book. “Now I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Billy Joel’s coming over for a game of tennis and a late afternoon swim.” He started to get up, but sat back down. “Is there anything else in this research book that’s important, besides the police reports?”

  “The entire book’s important,” Ethan said, exasperated. “Read my memo and the interview questions first. Then go through the newspaper articles and the additional documents. The book is your bible. It’ll give you all the background you need before you sit down with Feodor.”

  “What about all the arrangements for my trip to Rikers Island?” Sampson said, turning to Mindy.

  “There’s a preliminary schedule in your notebook as well, right after the interview questions,” Mindy said. “I’ll email Consuela updates and a final itinerary the day before the shoot.”

  “Anything else we need to go over, Ethan?” Sampson said, checking his watch. “I’m really out of time.”

  “Just the airdate,” Ethan said, waiting for an explosion.

  “What about the airdate?”

  “Paul moved us up in the schedule after he screened the crime scene video this morning. He wants to run our story to kick off the new season.”

  “When’s that?”

  “The Thursday after Labor Day,” Ethan said.

  “Not gonna happen. I’m not back from vacation until right after the holiday. I already told you that. Get Paul to change it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Ethan said, knowing Paul would never change his mind. “But if I can’t get him to push us deeper into the schedule, I’ll figure out some way to get everything done.”

  “You do that, Ethan, but I’m not gonna do anything—and I mean anything—beyond the interview with Feodor. No additional homework. No additional traveling. And no additional shooting. I’m on vacation and don’t forget it. Now please excuse me, but you really must go.”

  Ethan didn’t say another word until they were back on the highway and heading to New York. “Well, that went much better than I expected.”

  “Jeez, Ethan, how can you say that?” Mindy said incredulously. “Peter’s refusing to lift a finger for our story except for the Feodor interview.”

  “I’ll get him to change his mind,” Ethan said confidently. “He’s really just a pussycat—all bluster and no bite. Besides, our meeting was a smashing success. We got through everything on our checklist. We screened the crime scene video, we gave him the confession video and the research notebook, and he seems to be into the story. If he does the reading and the prep work, we should be good to go.”

  “That’s a big if, Ethan, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. But you gotta have faith,” Ethan said, snapping his fingers. Then he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Man, Peter Sampson’s a real piece of work, he thought, smiling to himself. But, you know, he’s smart and perceptive and powerful. Maybe Paul’s right. Maybe Peter is the best choice for this story.

  CHAPTER 17

  DAVID LIVINGSTON WAS STANDING on the corner when Ethan arrived at the entrance to the Fourteenth Street Union Square subway station. Their meeting with Lloyd Howard and his junkie informants was going off as planned at a coffee shop in Coney Island called Rocco’s—Ethan hoping to second-source Feodor’s connection to the Russian Mob and learn what role the syndicate played in Cynthia Jameson’s murder. They hopped onto the Q Line for the forty-five-minute ride and sat down in the last car. “Did you bring the Panasonic DV cam?” Ethan said, turning to his researcher who was rummaging through a heavy shoulder bag.

  “It’s in here,” David said as he pulled out the instruction manual for the digital camera.

  “Which one is it?”

  “The small two-chip.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “I’ve shot with it a couple of times,” he said as he leafed through the first few pages of the booklet. “It’s got a wide-angle lens and works great in available light. I just need to white balance the colors and make sure the computer is set up properly.”

  “Did Howard tell you how many junkies are coming?” Ethan said, suddenly worried they were heading off on a wild goose chase.

  “He’s not sure,” David said, adjusting the autofocus on the back of the camera. “He’s been talking to four or five of his informants who routinely work with the police, and who he says are reliable.”

  “Will they all be there?”

  “Probably not. They’re addicts, Ethan. He’s hoping two or three will show up and be straight enough to carry on a conversation.”

  “Well, if they give us permission, I’ll want you to roll the camera. Who knows, maybe they’ll say something about the murder we’ll use in the story.” Ethan pulled out his iPad and reread the notes from his first meeting with the private investigator. “Did Lloyd give you background on any of his sources?”

  “Only on one,” David said. “A guy named Leonid Karloff—a street pusher busted in an undercover sting operation a couple of years ago.”

  “Don’t tell me. A sting Lloyd Howard helped set up.”

  “Yup, you got it. Howard told me Karloff’s arrest made all the newspapers. So I looked him up on LexisNexis and found a bunch of stories about him. Give me a second. I’ll send you the best one from my iPhone.”

  Ethan waited for the article to land in his mailbox, opened the message, and started to read. It was two columns in the New York Post, dated two months before the beginning of Feodor’s trial. About halfway down, Leonid Karloff’s name popped into the body of the story. “This is interesting. It says right here that Karloff is a small-time hood the Feds have been watching for quite some time, and that he’s a known associate of Nikolai Stanislov. That’s the guy in the Russian Mob Howard told us about.” Ethan kept on reading, hoping the article would somehow link Karloff to any drug deals in the Meatpacking District. But there was nothing.

  “Does Karloff know Feodor?” Ethan said, clicking off his iPad.

  “Howard says he does.”

  “What’s his connection?” Ethan said.

  “Karloff’s going to tell us tonight,” David said. “Lloyd thought it would be best if we heard it directly from him.”

  “Do you think we can trust this guy?”

  “I don’t know, Ethan. We just have to wait and see how stoned he is when we meet him. Then we can make a decisio
n if we can use him as a source or include him in our story.”

  Ethan shrugged his shoulders and absentmindedly looked out the window as the train rumbled along, passing small two-story commercial buildings and squalid single-family homes sandwiched between great mounds of garbage. After fifteen minutes, they pulled to a stop at Coney Island–Stillwell Avenue and got off the train, hurrying down a crumbling flight of stairs and onto the street, the subway roaring out of the station and down the El, headed to the next stop. “How far is the coffee shop from here?” Ethan said, peering up and down the block.

  “Not too far. Rocco’s is right on the boardwalk.” They started walking, the streets mostly deserted, the stores mostly boarded up and out of business. Abandoned cars, furniture, and old refrigerators littered the sidewalks and pockmarked the alleyways. “This whole neighborhood is fucking creepy,” David said, disgusted.

  “What did you expect?” Ethan said. “We’re in the perfect home away from home for Brooklyn’s junkie population. I’m sure that’s why we’re meeting here and not on Park Avenue.” They continued walking, past a Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, a Subway Sandwich Shop, and a 7-Eleven where two addicts in ragged clothes were sleeping in the filth. When they got to the corner of West Nineteenth Avenue, they stopped and searched for the coffee shop. “There it is,” Ethan said, “on the next corner.” They hurried across the street and pushed their way through a grimy glass door and into the restaurant. Ethan choked on the smell of heavy grease—a short-order cook slinging home fries on a dirty grill behind a cluttered serving counter.

  He stopped and looked around the restaurant.

  Lloyd was sitting in the back with two men slumped over the table, shoveling food in their mouths. They were both white, in their early twenties, and on first glance, relatively clean and well-dressed for heroin addicts.

  “David, go talk to the cook and ask him if it’s okay for us to shoot pictures in his restaurant. Tell him who we are and show him the camera.”

  “Sure thing, Ethan.”

  Ethan walked over to the table and sat down next to Howard. The two men looked up but didn’t say a word. “How’s it going, Lloyd? Who are your friends?”