Close to You (12 page)

One of the men chimed in. “Well, I hate to burst anyone's bubble, but everything's not perfect in suburbia. Did you hear that there was another robbery? The Palumbos got back from vacation and found their house totally stripped.”

“How many is that now?” someone asked.

“Six this summer, that I know of,” answered another. “And there hasn't been a sign of forced entry in any of them. Either people aren't being careful enough about locking up when they leave or someone has a key.”

“What about alarm systems?”

“You know how it is around here. Some of these people have lived in their houses for thirty years. They moved out when it was real country and no one even thought of having security systems installed.”

Eliza had been surprised to learn that the Richardses hadn't had an alarm system. Louise had arranged for one to be installed for her, but the company was so backed up with orders that they weren't going to be able to come out for a few weeks.

“Come on, everyone. Come and eat,” Susan called, placing a huge glass bowl full of spinach salad laced with raisins and onions and drizzled with sweet-and-sour dressing on the buffet table. People began to rise from their seats.
Susan scanned the yard to make sure everything was in order for her guests. As she looked toward the fence gate, her pleasant expression changed.

Eliza looked over her shoulder to see Larson Richards approaching.

“Larson,” Susan said coolly. “How have you been?”

“I'm fine, just fine, Susan. I don't mean to crash your party, but I stopped over to welcome Eliza to the neighborhood and was told she was over here.”

How rude of him to come by uninvited. Eliza disliked him even more now than she had at the closing.

Eliza stayed in bed for a while after she woke up Labor Day morning, listening to the quiet and wishing she didn't have to go to work. She resolved to tell Range she would work Columbus Day, but, once the election was over, she was definitely taking Thanksgiving off. Feeling the soft sheets against her bare legs as she shifted position, Eliza thought about a long weekend in London. After that slug Larson had attached himself to her for the rest of the barbecue, she had missed Mack even more.

She glanced at the clock and calculated it was lunchtime in England. She reached for the phone but thought better of it. It might be hard for Mack to talk at the office. She could call him when she got into the Broadcast Center, and, hopefully, he would be back at his hotel.

Better yet, he could call her. That was what she was really waiting for.

Staring at the bedroom wall she noted the marks left by the Richardses' triple dresser peeking out from the side of her own smaller chest. She had to get cracking on getting this place together.

The neighbors had been friendly last night, giving her names of local workmen and a good painting and wallpaper
man. The general consensus was that Bruno Taveroni did the best work around. He was meticulous and always booked.

It might take longer than she had planned to get her new house in order.

Eliza heard the soft murmur of voices coming from downstairs. She should get up and fix Janie's breakfast. But the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon was already wafting from below. Katharine had things well in hand.

She prayed that Carmen Garcia would be as capable and helpful when she started her job. Eliza got up and pulled on her robe, suddenly remembering that Keith would have the
FRESHER LOOK
piece on child care ready for her to retrack when she got to the office.

The piece had to be good. The pressure was on.

Larson listened to the soft clicking sound of the cleats on his golf shoes as he walked across the thin strip of pavement that led from the clubhouse to the first tee. Dressed in a black-and-beige Greg Norman shirt and crisply creased golf slacks, he looked every bit the prosperous country-club member. If these three guys getting ready to tee off with him in the late-summer sunshine only knew the financial trouble he was in . . .

Playing a round of golf was a great way to do business. The camaraderie grew as the foursome traversed the lush green fairways. There were plenty of opportunities to back-slap after the great shots and commiserate after the duds. Today Larson planned to lose and he would graciously and effortlessly peel off the bills from his sterling money clip to pay off his bet.

But after the eighteenth hole, when they sauntered into the Members' Grill for drinks, Larson desperately hoped he would be able to accomplish what he must do. The oncologist, periodontist and divorce attorney had deep pockets and they were always looking for ways to make them deeper. With just the right approach, careful not to push
too hard, Larson's goal was to get them to commit to investing in his business.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell them the business was hemorrhaging.

He carefully positioned the round white Pinnacle on the wooden tee and lined up to take his first shot. As his club made contact he knew the shot would be good and he watched as the ball flew a respectable two hundred yards straight down the fairway. A positive sign of things to come today.

While he waited for the others to take their opening swings, his mind wandered from his business worries to a much more pleasurable subject: Eliza Blake.

God, she was beautiful. And wealthy. He had read in the
Wall Street Journal
about her new KEY contract. Big bucks.

While Eliza hadn't shown him the interest he had hoped for at the Feeneys' barbecue last night, Larson felt confident he could bring her around. There was always some way to get what you wanted. You just had to figure out how.

Larson handed his club to the caddy and climbed into the golf cart.

How to reach Eliza?

As his foot pressed the pedal, he smiled at the answer to his question.

The kid.

The black-rimmed ivory stationery sat blank upon his desk. Samuel Morton was having a very hard time deciding exactly what to write. Such a special person deserved a carefully worded acknowledgment of her kindness.

He pulled out a yellow legal pad to make a first draft of his letter. With a fine-tipped black pen he wrote.

Dear Ms. Blake,

First of all, I want to thank you from the depths of my heart for the kindness that you showed to my Sarah. Every time she received a letter from you, her spirits soared. There was so little for Sarah to be happy about in these last difficult months and the memories of those smiles on my daughter's sweet face as she read and reread your notes are ones that I will always treasure. I am so grateful that you provided her with some relief from the agony she was forced to endure.

I try to comfort myself with the hope that Sarah is at peace now, is not suffering anymore. But I am selfish. I wish that I still had her with me, sick or not. I try not to think of what life will be like without her. I cannot fathom it.

The flowers you sent to our home were beautiful. I am pressing them, keeping them with your letters that Sarah saved. I fear that I will be holding on to everything that was Sarah's for far too long. I cannot give her up.

That was enough, he thought as he reread what he had written. Eliza Blake would think he was a nut if he poured out any more of his aching feelings.

Samuel carefully copied his words onto the heavy bonded paper.

As Eliza drove over the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, she noticed with concern that the dashboard oil light popped up bright yellow. By the time she got to the Seventy-second Street exit of the Henry Hudson Parkway, she was sure she heard a knocking noise coming from somewhere under the hood of Poppie's car.
Oh, brother, now this has to be fixed. Please, just let it get me back home tonight.

The halls of the Broadcast Center were deserted as they always were on holidays, a skeletal staff manning the broadcasting ship. Eliza walked through the
Evening Headlines
studio, stopping at the Fishbowl and checking in before going up to her office. With Range taking Labor Day off, David Carter, one of the senior producers, had been bumped up to executive for the day.

“It's fairly quiet. Thank God that hurricane turned and swerved out to sea.”

“What are we leading with?” asked Eliza, peering over Carter's shoulder to look at the rundown on his gray computer screen.

‘Travel nightmares. Big delays at airports and backedup
highways as Americans return from their last summer weekend.”

“See? I knew there was a bright side to working this weekend. We could be stuck out in all that,” Eliza said with a wry smile. “I'll be upstairs if you need me.”

The telephone was ringing as she switched the light on in her office. She picked up the receiver in time to hear the click of the caller hanging up. Was it Mack?

He might be back in his hotel by now. She dialed the hotel, got the front desk, and asked for Mr. McBride's room. The shrill buzzer rang a dozen times until Eliza heard a very English voice say that the party she was calling was not answering. Did she care to leave a message?

For some reason she didn't.

Instead she dialed her new telephone number. Paul answered on the third ring.

“Everything okay out there, Paul?”

“Yes. We're all fine. Janie is out in the pool with that new friend of hers.”

“James?”

“Yeah. They're really getting along well. He seems like a nice little kid.”

“Great, but if it gets to be too much for you and Katharine, tell Janie that playtime is over.”

“It's no problem, honey. Besides, that Mrs. Feeney said she was only going to let James stay for an hour. She'll be back to pick him up in a few minutes.”

“Okay, then, Paul. I'll see you later.” She remembered the oil light and the funny sound. “Oh, and when Susan gets there, would you get her phone number and ask who she uses as a mechanic for her car?”

“What's wrong with the car?” Paul asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” she lied. Why give him something to worry about? “I'm just trying to get my list of suppliers together.”

She looked up to see Keith Chapel standing in the doorway.

“I've got to record a track now, Paul. I'll be home right after the show.”

Bats.

Now she wanted him to look into bats.

Keith sighed deeply as he sat beside Joe Leiding in the editing booth.

“What's the matter? You don't like the way the shot looks?” asked the editor. “I'll change it.”

“No, no. It's fine just the way it is,” said Keith, glancing at the image on the television monitor stationed on top of the editing bay. “I was thinking of something else.”

Leiding looked at his producer skeptically. They had been teamed to put these
FRESHER LOOKS
together and would, over the months to come, be spending hours and hours side by side in the cramped editing booth. He wasn't in the mood for Keith to be thinking of anything other than the piece they were working on right now.

Sure, the guy had a lot on his mind with his first baby coming and the pressures of this new series. But he better suck it up and stay focused.

The editor cued up the new section of narration Eliza had just recorded and inserted it into the middle of the child-care piece. Joe was pleased with the way the story
was turning out, but it would be great to feel a little energy coming from Keith.

Instead the producer was doodling on the lined paper on his clipboard.

“Eliza wants to do a story on bats,” Keith murmured glumly.

Joe shrugged. After two decades in this business nothing fazed him and he had long since stopped trying to figure out why some stories were produced and others weren't. He did know one thing, though. If the anchor of the broadcast wanted a story done, the story was done.

“She found one in the bedroom of her new house the other night,” Keith continued.

“Nice housewarming.”

“Yeah. Lucky for me the wildlife controller had to inform Eliza that bats are helpful little creatures. Eliza thinks people would be interested in knowing the real skinny on bats and that we should dispel some of the gruesome myths about them.”

“What are you gonna do?” asked Joe as he loaded another beta tape into the editing deck.

“I'll be damned if I know. I guess I'll start by calling the Bronx Zoo tomorrow and asking for their bat expert. They must have one.” Keith groaned tiredly, slouched down in his chair and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine Eliza in her bedroom in the middle of the night, confronting the beady-eyed bat.

He wondered what she had been wearing.

The Friday-evening phone message had been bothering her all weekend and the first thing Paige did when she arrived at work Tuesday morning was call the security office.

“Just transfer the message down here to me, Paige. I'll take care of it,” Joe Connelly instructed.

“I'm sorry I didn't save those other calls, Mr. Connelly,” Paige apologized. “They always sounded harmless before this one.”

“Don't worry about it. If this guy is really dangerous, he'll call again. When he does, let me know and transfer the messages to me. And, Paige, make sure you mark down what time the calls come in. Be as exact as possible. There could be dozens of other calls coming into the Broadcast Center at any time. It helps a lot to have a precise time.”

Connelly had saved hundreds of calls over the years, but he girded himself to begin the painstaking procedure to determine who this latest caller was. Executing a successful phone trap was not as easy as it looked on
Law and Order.

It was simple enough to order the trap but increasingly more difficult to pull it off. There were very few “hard wire” telephone lines anymore. Satellites, prepaid phone cards, cellular accounts, unlisted and blocked numbers, had
made tracing much more complicated. The phone companies had outsmarted themselves.