Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry Page 23

  Matthews looked surprised and more than a little uncomfortable. Using a remote, he turned off the TV. He broke the silence by saying, “Would you care to join me in a Scotch?”

  Having a drink with Matthews was the last thing Sherman wanted to do. But a little preamble before a difficult discussion might not be a bad idea.

  “Why not?” he said as he slid into a chair opposite the anchor. He reached forward to accept the glass.

  Sherman had repeatedly rehearsed in his mind the conversation he wanted to have. But he was mindful of the quote from the military, The best laid plans go out the window when the first bullet is fired.

  “Brad,” he began, “we both deserve an awful lot of credit for bringing REL News to where it is today. Twenty years ago this place was a backwater, a junkyard of marginally profitable cable TV stations. Now it’s a juggernaut, the envy of the industry.”

  “It’s been quite a ride,” Matthews agreed after taking a sip of his Scotch.

  “Yes, it has, and you and I have been well rewarded along the way. As good as things have been, Brad, they’re about to get a lot better. If this IPO goes as intended, a very lucrative payday awaits both of us.”

  Sherman waited for a reaction. Not receiving one, he continued. “Billions of dollars are at stake. It’s critically important that we avoid any situation that would dampen the enthusiasm of the investment community.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Matthews said amiably.

  “Brad, I’m going to speak candidly. Finding the money to pay settlements to the women you,” he paused, “had misunderstandings with is a greater challenge than we anticipated. Every dollar we spend is being scrutinized by investment bankers to determine just how profitable we are. I’m sure you’ll recall Michael Carter, who met with us at the club. He just told me he needs another six million dollars to continue his efforts. The question is, where do we get the money?”

  Matthews poured himself another drink. Sherman had barely touched his and declined the offer to have it topped off. “Tell me, Dick, what’s the answer to that question?”

  “The six million is going to be used to solve problems you created. That will be on top of the twelve million REL has already anted up. This time, it’s only fair, the six million is going to come out of your pocket.”

  Matthews smiled his anchorman’s smile. He took a long sip and used his finger to wipe his lips. “No, Dick, I don’t think so. When, or should I say, if, this IPO goes through, you are projected to pocket over sixty million dollars. That’s a lot of money. In fact it’s more than twice what I’m slated to get. You’re right. We’ve both got a lot to lose, but you’ve got more at stake. Way more. So if you and your bean counters over in accounting can’t figure out a way to come up with the money, you write the check.”

  Sherman got up to leave, the fury building inside him, and heard a voice behind him.

  “Dick, not so fast.” Matthews grabbed a pen, scribbled on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sherman. “I’ve had some time to think since that ambush you pulled at the golf club. Tell your errand boy Carton to make a deal with these two girls. Now get out of here.”

  Sherman turned and Matthews called to him again.

  “Dick, two more things. Be sure to close the door when you leave. And the next time you want to talk to me in my office, make an appointment.”

  Sherman complied by slamming the door so hard that the window blinds in Matthews’s office gently rattled.

  * * *

  Sherman ordered himself to focus on the task at hand. He picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Ed Myers’s secretary. Wasting time on pleasantries was never his thing. “Is he in his office?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sherman, do you want—”

  “Does he have anybody in there?”

  “No, should I—”

  “Don’t do anything. I’m on my way over to see him.”

  Two minutes later he was at Myers’s door. He entered without knocking and closed it behind him. Myers, who had been on the phone, appeared startled to see him. “Something’s come up that I have to tend to right now. I’ll call you back,” he said as he hung up the phone.

  “Ed, I need another six million to go to Carter & Associates. When will you send it?” Sherman remained standing, looking down on his CFO.

  Myers leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses, and began to chew on one of the rims. “I know better than to ask any questions. The numbers for this quarter are really good. It will be better to take the hit now. I’ll get it moving by tomorrow.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Ed. Thanks.”

  It was a rare expression of gratitude that Myers would have welcomed if the circumstances had been different. As Sherman was heading for the door, Myers asked, “Dick, do you have any idea how much more money this Carter group is going to need?”

  Sherman stopped, turned around, and faced him. In a voice that was devoid of its usual bravado he responded, “I’m hoping this will be it.”

  Myers waited a full minute before he picked up the phone and dialed the extension of Frederick Carlyle, Jr.

  81

  Gina trudged woodenly out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, and unlocked the door of her apartment. To say she was in a daze would have been an understatement. While walking to the subway after her meeting with Geoff, she had been oblivious to a DON’T WALK traffic signal. She had stepped in front of a taxi that swerved to avoid hitting her. The driver had blared his horn while shouting at her in a foreign language. In all likelihood whatever he said was not complimentary.

  She pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and plopped into a chair at the kitchen table. The overwhelming feeling of fatigue that washed over her had little to do with having gotten up early to catch her flight. She felt like a marathon runner who collapses after completing a grueling 26 miles, with only 352 yards to go and the finish line in sight.

  She glanced at her phone and saw that five new emails had arrived. One was from Andrew Ryan, Cathy’s brother.

  Hi Gina, I’m sorry to reach out to you again. My mother calls me twice a week to ask if there’s anything new in your investigation of Cathy’s death. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t tell you how grateful my parents and I are to you. No matter what you find, it will be a great comfort to know what really happened to my beloved sister. You have our eternal gratitude. Andrew

  Geoff’s pulling the plug on the REL News story denied her the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration that results from being the first to see what no one else saw, the privilege of shining a light on truth that had been left to rot in a dark, anonymous grave. She had imagined the accolades that would flow in her direction when the REL News saga was published. More than once she’d fantasized about a Pulitzer Prize. Andrew’s email was a sober reminder of the young women whose lives had been unfairly taken or irreparably altered by a monster sheltered and protected by a corporation, and now they might never get justice.

  Gina glanced around the small kitchen. The new appliances and quartz countertops and shiny, glass-tiled backsplash had given her unit a brighter and more modern look. The new master bathroom was an absolute joy with its walk-in shower and new tiles. But these amenities had not come cheap. While adding to the value of the apartment, the improvements had significantly diminished her savings.

  Geoff had said he had “another project for her.” When would that start? Next week? Next month? Three months from now? This was the first time she had been shut down in the middle of an investigation. It was ambiguous how much she would be paid for the work she had done. With everyone fretting about Friedman’s bankruptcy, clearly now was not the time to ask. Some of the advance she had been given was not yet spent, but that was to work on the REL story. The balance would have to be returned.

  Empire Review is not the only game in town, she thought to herself. Several other magazines published investigative journalism. A few had reached out to her in the past. But the way forward would be tricky a
t best and fraught with difficulties. She would have to disclose that she had developed the story while working for Empire. Why did ER pass on the story? Would an editor at a different publisher choose to see things the way Geoff had: an accidental death and a suicide, period.

  Another question occurred to her that made the situation even more murky. ER had given her a monetary advance. Even though the magazine declined to pursue the story, did it retain any ownership interest? She was tempted to call the lawyer Bruce Brady and ask him to clarify the situation, but she decided against it. Brady was a nice guy, but at the end of the day he worked for ER. His job was to protect and get the best outcome for his client.

  Assuming the REL News story belonged to her, would it be feasible to pursue it on her own? When she thought about it, there was only one lead that would cost some money to follow. Did Paula Stephenson’s parents know anything that might be helpful to her? The paperwork from the Durham funeral home indicated that Paula’s body had been shipped to Xavier, Nebraska. A quick search on her phone revealed Xavier was an agricultural community seventy miles from Omaha, the nearest major city. It would be plane fare, a rental car, and maybe one night in a hotel, she thought to herself. Why is it so easy to spend somebody else’s money and so difficult to part with your own?

  Gina knew her father wouldn’t hesitate to lend her money, but she didn’t want to go that route. With extra time on her hands, she wanted to take a close look at Marian Callow’s background. The thought of borrowing money from her father and using some of it to investigate his girlfriend gave her a queasy feeling.

  “God, I miss talking to him,” she said aloud as she stared at the small, round, solitary refrigerator magnet. Ted’s mother had given it to her after they visited his parents at their vacation home in Cape Cod. She had snapped the picture as Gina and Ted were standing on the deck overlooking the bay, watching the sunset. Even though Ted was gone, the picture offered a faint hope. Despite everything that had happened, at some point in the future they would hold hands and watch the sun slowly dip below the horizon.

  82

  There were no direct flights to Omaha. She chose a Delta flight out of Newark that included an eighty-three-minute layover at O’Hare in Chicago. By departing at eight-thirty in the morning, she could get to Omaha by three-thirty. By the time she picked up her rental car and drove seventy miles to Xavier, she would arrive around five o’clock. That gave her a half-hour cushion before she was scheduled to meet Paula Stephenson’s mother at five-thirty. It would be too late to fly back the same day. She decided against booking a hotel room in Omaha. Not knowing what to expect, she wanted the flexibility to stay in the Xavier area.

  “God, I hope this isn’t a waste of time and money,” Gina said aloud as she finished inserting her credit card information. She stared at the blue box that read “Book This Flight.” In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought as she tapped on the box and Expedia processed her $831 reservation. Before I die, I wanted to be sure to see Nebraska, she mused.

  Twenty minutes earlier she had spoken to Lucinda Stephenson. Paula’s mother had been initially hesitant when Gina said she was a journalist. Her mood brightened considerably when Gina used the word “reporter.” “Yes,” Lucinda responded in answer to Gina’s question, Paula’s personal items, including clothes and papers, had been boxed and shipped to Xavier and she had not gone to Durham. A nephew in the Marine Corps who was stationed at nearby Camp Lejeune had taken care of cleaning out the apartment and getting it ready to sell. No, she had not had a chance to go through the boxes he had sent. She had no problem letting Gina look through them. It was agreed that Gina would pick her up and they would go to dinner.

  She glanced at the time on her phone: 7:30 p.m. After sulking at the kitchen table this morning, she had actually managed to put together a productive day. The receipts for the Aruba and Durham trips and car rentals to see Meg Williamson had been tallied and submitted to the magazine. She had put a check in the mail to return the advance money that hadn’t been spent.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Gina had sent another email to Deep Throat. Some sources had to be nurtured and coddled. The time for that was over.

  Empire Review is no longer supporting my efforts to pursue the REL News investigation. They claim the evidence that Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson were murdered is not strong enough. I have not given up and for the time being will continue on my own. If you have information that will help me, I need it NOW. I’m trusting you and expect the same in return. It’s critically important that we meet.

  If Deep Throat didn’t respond, she could always go back to Meg Williamson, Gina decided.

  She had also spent time laying the groundwork for her discreet inquiry into the background of Marian Callow. Jack Callow’s obituary had been in the New York Times. Survivors included his beloved wife, Marian, and two sons, Philip and Thomas. No mention of any surviving parents or siblings, she noted. Jack and Marian had been living in Short Hills, New Jersey, at the time of his passing.

  Jack was sixty-three. His sons were probably late twenties to early thirties. They could be anywhere. Whitepages.com was no help. Most people in that age group don’t bother with landline phone numbers. Gina’s source inside New Jersey’s Department of Motor Vehicles had recently retired. If the boys had New Jersey driver’s licenses, he would have been able to help her find them.

  Telling herself the worst he could do was hang up on her, she had called a friend of Ted’s who was an investment banker at Goldman Sachs. After exchanging a few awkward pleasantries that included no mention of Ted, she asked a favor. He called her back twenty minutes later. Former employee Jack Callow’s personnel file included two emergency contacts, a Marian and a Philip Callow. He gave her both numbers.

  A late afternoon run in Central Park had helped clear her head. Gina was tempted to ask Lisa about meeting for dinner but decided against it. She was already feeling the effects of her early start this morning. Tomorrow was going to be a long day that would begin with her alarm set for 5:30 a.m. She went into the bedroom and replaced the clothes she had used in Durham with fresh items. After a dish of pasta and a Chardonnay, she called it a night.

  83

  Corn, beef cattle, corn, dairy cows, corn, and then more cornfields was the view that greeted Gina as she sped west along pancake-flat Interstate 80. Her flights had been on time and she had been able to doze a little on the way to O’Hare. There had been no wait at the car rental counter. Now she was enjoying the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limits, a rarity in the Northeast. She glanced every few minutes at her phone to assure herself the Waze app was working. It was. The silent message was, just keep going straight.

  It was a mixed blessing that Paula Stephenson’s mother had not gone through the boxes sent from Durham. It would be more work for Gina to sift through them, but it reduced the chance that any key evidence had been thrown away. What exactly was she hoping to find? She didn’t really know. If Paula was communicating with somebody about increasing her REL News settlement, Gina was crossing her fingers that at least some trail still remained.

  She exited off the highway and came to a sign welcoming her to Xavier, population 1,499. A mile later she came to a downtown area comprised of a diner, several granaries, two gas stations, and a small grocery store. While stopped at what appeared to be the lone traffic light, she looked at a two-story office building to her left. Two doctors, two lawyers, one dentist, one accountant, and one insurance office peacefully coexisted under one roof.

  Gina glanced at her phone. It was a few minutes before five o’clock. She decided she would drive the remaining three-quarters of a mile to locate the house before doubling back to the diner for a cup of coffee. She wanted to be alert when she spoke to Paula’s mother.

  The downtown area ended almost as quickly as it began. Small houses, most in need of paint jobs, were spaced widely apart on each side of the road. Pickup trucks of varying sizes rested on the unpaved driveways.

  The voice
from the navigation system announced, “You have reached your destination.” Gina slowed to a halt and glanced to her right. A small home that looked like an oversized packing box was set back about seventy-five feet from the road. Three uneven steps led up to a covered porch that spanned the front width of the house. The front lawn, if the term applied, looked as if it had not seen a mower in months. To the right of the front door the number “8” was hanging straight while the number “2” dangled at an odd angle. An ancient pickup truck, rust protruding from its crooked back fender, was hibernating at the top of the gravel driveway.

  The door opened and a stocky woman with straight gray hair stepped out onto the porch.

  “Are you Gina?” she yelled as Gina lowered the passenger’s-side window.

  “Yes,” Gina answered as she shut off the engine.

  “You’re early,” the woman shouted back. Before Gina could apologize, the woman continued. “Give me about ten minutes,” she said as she disappeared back into the house.

  There goes my cup of coffee, Gina thought to herself, as she pressed the button to put the window back up.

  Fifteen minutes later Lucinda Stephenson walked down the driveway, pulled open the passenger’s front door, and slung herself into the seat. She pulled the door shut and with effort scrambled to extend the seatbelt over her substantial frame. Her straight graying hair hung loosely to her shoulders. Despite the chilly weather, she had no topcoat. She wore a faded Cornhuskers sweatshirt adorned with the University of Nebraska logo. Soiled blue jeans and worn black sneakers completed the ensemble. Whatever tasks had taken fifteen minutes inside her home, applying makeup was not one of them.