Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry Page 27

  “How did Philip and Thomas react?”

  “Predictably. With Jack no longer around to blame for their problems, I became the new bad guy.”

  “It sounds like a thankless job.”

  “ ‘Thankless’ isn’t the word.”

  “They told me you persuaded Jack to stop funding a company they started.”

  Marian chuckled. “Their idea was to put together a team of gamers to go around the world to compete in tournaments. I didn’t cut off the funding. There never was any funding. Jack wouldn’t put a nickel into it.”

  “Marian, would it do any good to tell you how badly I feel for having misjudged you?”

  “Gina, you were protecting somebody you love. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I’m so glad we had this chance to talk.”

  “There’s one more thing we have to talk about.”

  “There is?” Gina asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

  “I’m dying to have an amaretto and I hate drinking alone.”

  “So do I. Let’s make it two.”

  94

  Gina walked into her apartment, dropped her purse and keys on the kitchen table, and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The purpose of the dinner had been to find out what kind of person Marian was. She now had the answer. Gina found herself actually hoping things would work out between Marian and her father.

  For at least the tenth time she opened her phone to the one-word text Ted had sent. Always. It never failed to give her a sense of comfort and belonging. She battled the temptation to call him, just to hear his voice. I can’t do that yet because—

  She found herself at a loss to finish the sentence. Because the investigation I’m doing is more important?

  She sat down, put her elbows on the table, and rested her head on her hands. I just want this to be over, she said to herself. I want my life back. I want Ted back.

  Absentmindedly she tapped her computer and watched the screen come to life. She went to her email account and clicked for new messages. There was a response from Deep Throat.

  Miss Kane,

  I’m sorry not answer more soon. Very afraid.

  Can’t lose my work. My family depend on money I send.

  They did terrible things to young girls. You can make stop.

  I can meet you. You promise never say my name.

  Gina checked the time. The email had been sent a little over thirty minutes earlier. She wanted to respond immediately to avoid giving the sender a chance to change his or her mind—she was convinced it was a her—and use words that would be easy to understand.

  I promise I will never tell anyone your name. I will meet you any place that you feel safe. We have to talk NOW.

  You were right about Paula Stephenson. She did not kill herself. I need you to tell me the names of other girls who were hurt at REL.

  Thank you for being brave. With your help, I will stop them.

  Gina

  212-555-1212 cell phone

  Getting my life and Ted back will have to wait a little longer, Gina thought, as she headed for the bedroom. She was going to see this through.

  95

  Michael Carter was seriously considering getting new office space. He had ended his fling with Beatrice. There was no drama, no fight; there were no speeches. He had just stopped asking her out. When she suggested they do something, his response was always that he was too busy. She had pouted for about two weeks. Her new tactic was to completely ignore him. This morning he had stopped at her desk to report that one of the overhead lights in his office was not working. She never looked up, pretending she didn’t hear him. I need this like I need a hole in my head, he thought to himself.

  He opened his phone. He had put in place a Google Alert to flag any stories about REL News. The headline caught his eye immediately. REL News Executive Found Dead. He clicked on it, and his lower jaw dropped as he began reading.

  Edward Myers was declared dead after police recovered his body from the Harlem River shortly after dawn this morning. Myers, fifty-three, had spent his entire career at REL News and was currently serving as the company’s Chief Financial Officer.

  A jogger who was not identified called police to report a male body floating in the water. According to a department source, initial identification was made when a wallet was found in the deceased’s clothing. A family member, believed to be his wife, confirmed that the body was that of Myers.

  An unnamed source at REL revealed that there was concern among top executives at REL that Myers had been despondent of late. The source suggested that the grueling hours Myers worked preparing the company for its IPO may have played a role.

  Myers was last seen leaving REL’s midtown headquarters the previous evening. Police are reviewing security camera footage from buildings in the area. A department spokesperson stated that the cause and manner of death is pending further police investigation.

  Many industry analysts over the years gave credit to Myers’s deft handling of REL’s finances, particularly in the early years, as having laid the groundwork for the company’s meteoric rise. REL is currently in the final stage of going public. It is not clear what, if any effect, Myers’s death will have on the IPO process or the value that institutional investors will ultimately assign to its shares.

  In addition to his wife, Myers leaves behind a college-age daughter.

  A media relations spokesperson at REL indicated the company will issue a statement later today.

  Carter got up, walked over to the window, and stared down at the vehicles and pedestrians sixteen floors below. When my time comes, he asked himself, will it be an accident or a suicide? A vision of himself splattered on the pavement below filled his mind. He turned away from the window, fighting off a sensation of vertigo and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Why Myers? he asked himself, but then it all made frightening sense. A CEO, even one as powerful as Sherman, couldn’t just wave his hand and have over $12 million of REL’s money sent to an entity such as Carter & Associates. Checks and balances were in place to prevent that from happening. Sherman needed Myers to sign off on sending the money. Who knew what Sherman had told him, or maybe he didn’t tell him anything and just bullied him into doing it.

  How convenient for Sherman, Carter thought. Sherman would have been careful to ensure there was no paper trail linking him to the money. A waterlogged Myers was not going to shed any light on the subject. As far as Carter knew, Sherman was not aware that Junior was privy to what was going on. If all this became public, investigators would track down the money Carter had disbursed from Carter & Associates. No trace of Sherman there. So who was left as the only living, breathing person who could tell of Sherman’s involvement? “Moi,” he said, unconsciously putting a finger to his chest.

  For the second time he thought seriously about calling a criminal lawyer. He was confident that he could explain—and a jury would believe him—that when he sent emails to Sherman about Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson, it was to report his progress toward settlements, not to give Sherman their locations so he could get rid of them. And that was the truth, if that mattered.

  Could he somehow assure Sherman that he’d always keep his mouth shut, that he wouldn’t turn on him? The folly of that idea became clear to him as he tried to imagine the conversation. Hey Dick, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re considering ways to arrange my death, it’s really not necessary. You can trust me to be a good soldier.

  He thought of the old Arab words of wisdom: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He fished through his notes until he found the phone number Meg had provided for the nosy reporter, Gina Kane.

  96

  Brad Matthews was in his office sipping his third Scotch watching himself on that evening’s broadcast. It was almost midnight. He wasn’t happy. Far from it. Whoever set the lighting had made his high forehead absolutely glisten. I look like
Joe Biden, he lamented. Page Six of the New York Post was already making fun of him, referring to him as “Botox Brad.” This will only give them more ammunition, he feared.

  He also didn’t like what they had persuaded him to do with his hair. For years he had parted it on the left side and combed it across his head, the long strands covering much of his increasingly bald scalp. This new comb-it-straight-back look was “more distinguished,” they said. As far as he was concerned, it just made him look older.

  He was having that feeling again. In recent months he’d been able to avoid it either by heading home early, going to the gym, or making a date to meet a friend at a restaurant. But for whatever reason tonight the urge was really strong. He could usually count on the Scotch to dampen it, to put out the fire; this time it had made it stronger.

  He opened the door of his office and looked around. His secretary had long since gone home. The other offices near his were empty. He could see down the hall to the makeup area. The artist on duty, Rosalee, was reading a magazine. At the moment none of the on-air people required her services. Matthews closed the door and went back to his desk.

  He had first noticed her a few weeks ago. She had been promoted from desk assistant in syndication to associate producer on his evening newscast. Opening his top drawer, he pulled out her employment file: from Athens, Georgia, a Journalism major at Vanderbilt. Sally Naylor was petite, with long, dark auburn hair, full lips, and bright white teeth accentuated by a slightly olive complexion.

  He picked up the phone and paused a moment, cataloguing in his brain the myriad reasons why this was a bad idea. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” he said to himself as he dialed her extension.

  “Hi, Sally, this is Brad Matthews. I’m glad you’re still here. I need some fact-checking to be done on one of the stories we ran tonight. Can you come to my office for a few minutes?”

  “Of course, I’ll be right over.”

  Matthews smiled and drained the last of the Scotch in his glass. There’s something about a good-looking girl with a Southern accent that really sends me.

  A minute later he heard three soft knocks on his door.

  97

  Rosalee heard the sound of footsteps moving quickly on the tile hallway, followed by an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a sob.

  “Sally, aquí, here,” she said, mixing Spanish and English as she often did when she was agitated.

  She put her arms around the girl, who began to cry and shake uncontrollably. “Bastardos,” she whispered to herself as she stroked the girl’s hair and felt the moisture of tears on her shoulder. “Hermosa niña pequeña. Lo siento. No he podido protegerte,” she said softly. “Beautiful little child. I’m sorry. I have not been able to protect you.”

  Rosalee held Sally, rocked her back and forth, and ran her hand up and down her back. “Querido Jesús, dime qué hacer. Dear Jesus, tell me what to do.”

  The mal had come back, and this time she was going to do something about it.

  98

  Michael Carter was becoming increasingly distracted, and it showed. He’d spent the morning at a deposition for his client Sam Cortland, who had been sued for violating a noncompete agreement after he left his previous employer. Twice during the interrogatory he’d had to check his notes to remind himself of the name of Sam’s erstwhile supervisor at the firm. It was even more embarrassing when he stumbled over his client’s last name, referring to him as Sam “Kirkland.”

  “Are you all right?” a concerned Sam had asked during a break.

  “I’m fine” was his reply. Truth be told, he was anything but fine.

  Every facet of the REL News situation was taking a toll on him. The previous evening he had delivered a cash honorarium to an administrative supervisor in the New York State Attorney General’s Office. On a Zip drive she had given him transcripts of what was supposed to be secret grand jury testimony—after he had sat cooling his heels in a Starbucks until she arrived three hours late.

  How do you resign from a job you don’t officially have? he asked himself. A letter to Junior saying he was retiring from being REL’s bagman? A letter to Sherman stating he was leaving his position as secret settlement negotiator?

  There was still a million and a half dollars of REL’s money in his attorney trust account. Would returning it raise awkward questions? If he used it for his own expenses, on top of everything else would he face charges of theft? Maybe it would be best to just leave it in his attorney trust account until—Until when? he asked himself.

  The idea that he had been dealing closely with a murderer increasingly unnerved him. Sherman had access to his personnel file at REL. He knows where my family and I live. Anytime he wants to he can—Carter didn’t finish the thought.

  He had reached out to his friend at the credit rating agency yet again. The invoice this time was for double the usual amount. The note in the email explained why. Your boy Sherman has four cards in his own name and two joints with his wife. No charge for the additional info on Gina Kane.

  Hi-Liter in hand, one account at a time, Carter now scanned through Sherman’s charges during the previous eighteen months. Despite himself, he chuckled as he came across numerous charges at Madelyn’s. It was an innocuous-sounding name for a high-end strip club in Midtown.

  When he was finished, he stood up, stretched, and closed his eyes. They felt strained after a sleepless night. He hadn’t found any entries that would put Sherman in the vicinity around the times when Ryan and Stephenson were killed. But the exercise provided little comfort. If Sherman wanted them dead, he had the resources and probably the brains to hire somebody to do the dirty work.

  Sitting back down, he clicked on the attachment that included the most recent three weeks of Gina Kane’s MasterCard charges.

  The American Airlines charge leaped out at him. Gina had flown from LaGuardia to RDU, which he remembered was Raleigh-Durham airport. She had spent one night in a hotel, and there were two Uber charges.

  Two and a half weeks later she went from Newark to ORD, which he recognized as O’Hare in Chicago, and then to OMA. “That’s got to be Omaha,” he said aloud. She had rented a car and eaten at a restaurant. The next day she had paid for a hotel and for gas.

  He opened Paula Stephenson’s personnel file to confirm what he already knew. She had graduated from the University of Nebraska.

  After trekking down to Aruba to investigate Cathy Ryan, this Gina Kane went to Durham to check out Paula Stephenson. And then she went to Omaha, presumably to talk to Stephenson’s family.

  It’s Junior’s company, Carter thought angrily. Let him figure out what we should do. He reached into his travel bag and pulled out the computer he used exclusively to communicate with Junior and Sherman. A four-word email was sufficient. We have to meet.

  99

  “All right. Would you please tell him Gina Kane called?” Gina spelled her last name. “There’s a story I’ve been investigating. I believe American Nation will be interested in learning more about it.”

  “Our policy is that you send an email first. Include a synopsis—”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt you or be rude, but that’s not my policy. Please ask Mr. Randolph to be in touch as soon as he returns from vacation.”

  Gina put the phone down. Putting all my eggs in the Empire Review basket may have been a mistake, she thought to herself. But she had believed it would be easier than this to get started at another publication.

  Cheer up, she told herself. It’s been a really good twenty-four hours.

  An early morning run in the Park had helped clear her head. She was tempted to call another magazine on the list she had made when she heard her cell phone vibrate. The screen identified Charlie Maynard, her former editor.

  “Charlie, what a great surprise.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s not even ten in New York, so it’s before seven in LA. I thought part of being retired was sleeping in.”

  “I’ve been up for a while,” he said. “Gin
a, I’m going to talk fast. They just called my flight. Empire asked me to come back and fill in until they can find a new editor. I accepted. I was going through the stories that are in development and I was surprised to read that you had pulled the story you were doing on REL News.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “That’s what I figured. Do you still like chicken with garlic sauce?”

  “Yes, I do, and egg drop soup,” Gina said, laughing as she recalled past impromptu dinners with Charlie.

  “I’ll get in at three-thirty. I’ve got meetings starting at five. You come over to the office at seven-thirty. We’ll eat and you’ll tell me what’s going on at REL.”

  “I’ll be there, Charlie. It’s great to have you back.”

  “Don’t tell Shirley,” he said, referring to his wife, “but it’s great to be back. Got to go. See you tonight.”

  100

  A big hug from Charlie Maynard was Gina’s welcome when she entered the interim editor in chief’s office. They spent five minutes getting caught up on their personal lives before Jane Patwell brought in the Chinese food. For the next twenty minutes, between bites of chicken, Gina outlined her pursuit of the REL story. Charlie mostly listened, asking a few questions along the way.

  “The CFO at REL, the one they just fished out of the river, how does he fit into all of this?”

  “I have no idea,” Gina said. “Scenario number one: He was the one doing the abusing. Concerned that he might be publicly identified, he commits suicide to avoid the embarrassment. Number two: He wasn’t the abuser, but he was part of the cover-up. Kills himself to avoid public shaming.”