Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (7 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning I walked into the lobby of 1730 Broadway while Freddie stayed in his car out front. The high-rise was home to the offices of Ronald Marshall and his prestigious RCM Talent Management.

RCM was the premier management firm for TV newspeople, representing pretty much every big name at the networks and a lot of the pretty faces on cable news.

I wasn’t one of them.

I cleared security and rode the elevator to the tenth floor and spotted the dark wooden doors at the end of the hallway to my left. They were imposing, with “RCM Talent Management, Inc.,” in gold lettering.

When I stepped inside, I was greeted by a young woman behind a desk. She was mid-thirties and serious, like this was a career, not a job. I introduced myself and she made a call, then looked at me the way receptionists always do when they need to lie to you.

“Mr. Marshall is running a few minutes late,” she said.

“I’m sure he’s very busy,” I said.

“I’ll show you to his office, and you can wait there. He’ll be with you shortly.”

I followed the career woman down a hallway and seconds later I was in a big office stuffed with shelves of photos and awards and all kinds of TV memorabilia, like old-time big microphones.

“May I get you something to drink?” the receptionist asked as we stepped inside.

“Is that a camera?” I pointed toward the corner of the office, to where a big, bulky camera from a TV studio of decades ago was sitting.

“Yes. It’s vintage National Broadcasting Corporation.”

“This is like a TV Cooperstown, or something,” I said. “Do I need to pay admission?”

I turned, and she had the same blank expression I used to get when looking at a calculus problem. She was still waiting for my drink order.

“I don’t need anything,” I said, and she disappeared, closing the door on her way out.

It felt like I had been left behind in the museum after hours, so I walked around and admired the memorabilia. There was every award conceivable that an agent could win, including something called the Reppy, given out by some bogus-sounding TV trade group to the top agent representative. There were lots of photos of Marshall with the elite: presidents, Hollywood types, and, of course, all of broadcasting’s beautiful people.

After a few seconds I heard the door open behind me.

“Ahh, Mr. North.”

I turned and saw the distinguished Mr. Marshall.

“Ahh, Mr. Marshall,” I said.

He crossed the office and extended his hand. He was a few inches shorter than me and fit for a guy in his mid-sixties. And well dressed, in a crisp navy suit and one of those Wall Street shirts, light blue with a white collar and cuffs.

“I apologize for the delay. My wife just got my ear and, well, you know how it is. It’s hard to break away,” he said.

“I understand.”

I took a seat in one of the comfy leather chairs facing his desk, which I had just realized was shaped like a set. A TV news set. Kind of crescent-moon shaped, with him right smack in the middle behind it.

“You got everything in here,” I said.

“I am a bit of a TV news buff,” he said.

His demeanor was heavy and serious, and I had no way of knowing if he was like that every day, or if it was because he had lost one of his biggest clients last week.

“Before we get down to the purpose of this meeting,” he said, “I want to compliment you on your work the day of Jack’s death. You handled yourself well.”

“Nice to hear.”

He put on a pair of reading glasses that had been sitting on the set—I mean his desk—and slid a yellow legal pad in front of him. I expected him to check a box or something.

Compliment guest on work. Check.

“Now, I understand you wanted to talk about representation. Is that what brought you here to RMC today?” he asked.

“No, it was a Jeep. A friend’s Grand Cherokee,” I said.

He frowned like he didn’t get it, and I realized he didn’t.

“Ill-fated attempt at humor,” I said. “Bit of an ice breaker.”

“I see,” he said.

“I’ll consider the ice unbroken.”

“Mr. North,” he said.

“I’m not looking for you to represent me,” I said, “so you can relax.”

“Okay.”

“I thought I’d save you the stress of trying to figure out how to say no to me.”

“Indeed.”

“Besides, I’m semi-happy with my agent at the moment,” I said.

“I’m glad it’s working out for you,” he said.

“Well, working out is being kind.”

Marshall put his pen down and folded his hands on his desk. Everything was neat and clean around him, and now I understood how the man won those whopping contracts for his clients. He was calm, steady, in control.

“Would you care to tell me why you’re here?” he asked.

“Robbie Steele doesn’t think Jack killed himself.” I watched for a reaction, but there really wasn’t one. “That’s about as good as I got,” I said. “You don’t react to that, I don’t know what it’s going to take.”

“You’re serious about this?” he asked. “Roberta Steele doesn’t believe Jack committed suicide?”

“She thinks he was killed by someone,” I said.

“Interesting.”

“And she asked me to look into it.”

“So you’re investigating the death of Jack Steele?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Haven’t the professionals—the police—already done so?”

“They have. That’s what we pay them for. You know, our tax dollars and all that,” I said.

“Yet Roberta thinks they, the people who do this for a living, missed something?” he asked.

“You’re pulling this all together very nicely,” I said.

“Does Roberta have an explanation for the note? The suicide note?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“So we should just ignore that?” he asked.

“For the moment.”

He reached for a bottle of Poland Spring on the side of his desk. With slow, precise movements he opened it, took a drink, put the cap back on, and turned his attention back to me.

“I suspect this … this investigation of yours may end up being a waste of everyone’s time, Mr. North,” he said. He took a breath and leaned forward, and I prepared for some words of wisdom. “Mr. North …”

“Yes.”

“As you’ll no doubt learn, Roberta Steele is very good at manipulating people, but not so good at being smart.”

“You saying she’s not bright?”

“She’s an aerobics instructor,” he said.

“Yoga.”

“Whatever.”

“Here’s the odd thing,” I said. “I start asking people about this—guys like Jerry Drake, Andrew Webber—and all of a sudden some guy appears and hassles me about asking people questions.”

“And this encounter has emboldened you to push onward?”

“What kind of reporter would I be if it didn’t?”

He gave me a small smile and shook his head at my foolishness. “You spoke to Jerry Drake”—he made little air quotes with his fingers—“the Show Doctor?”

“You know Jerry? Great guy,” I said.

“The man is a menace to the industry, and himself,” he said.

“I don’t know, he seemed to have some nice ideas for Jack’s show. Says you kept blocking him.”

Marshall removed his reading glasses and placed them on his desk, then rubbed his eyes, like he found this whole discussion was tiring. Finally, he shook his head, sighed, and tried to talk some sense into me.

“Mr. North.”

“Mr. Marshall.”

“You seemed to have gotten yourself tangled up with two people who don’t exactly have good reputations,” he said. “I suggest that if you’d like to capitalize on the goodwill you gained by your work last week, that you distance yourself from people like Roberta Steele and Jerry Drake.”

“Jerry says you didn’t want Jack going after CEOs. That you didn’t like his Operation Outrage strategy.”

He shook his head again and sighed. I was wearing him down, all part of my plan.

“Look,” he said, “Jerry Drake is not the brightest guy around, understand?”

“Kind of.”

“His little Operation Outrage was cute and catchy, but it was an idea, not a strategy. A strategy implies a well-thought-out plan of attack. This was merely an idea, and an ill-conceived one at that.”

“How?”

“Because after Jack goes after the second or third CEO, they are all going to sound the same to the viewer, Mr. North. So even if the ratings get a little pop at first, eventually we would have been back in the same boat.”

“Possibly.”

“And then the stories would have made us sound desperate. Trying everything and anything to get the numbers up.”

“Us?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Us. You said the stories would have made ‘us’ sound desperate? Were you involved in all the show decisions?”

“I went back a very long way with Jack,” he said. “I was his first TV agent when he came to New York and Liberty.”

“So you take some credit for how successful Jack became?”

That got me another shake of his head.

“I don’t see the point of—”

“Drake says Jack was thinking of dumping you,” I said.

He showed no emotion. Zero. Just sat there and stared at me.

“Yes … no?” I asked.

He smiled. “Oh, now it all makes sense,” he said. “You think maybe I … I killed Jack, right? Because he was going to switch agents or something?”

I held up my hand to slow him down. “Whoa, whoa, I’m not so sure of that,” I said.

“And Roberta has told you that maybe I had a secret meeting with him that night?”

“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that, but—”

“And let’s just keep going,” he said, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe I, what, push Jack into the river and then speed off in a waiting car?”

“Okay,” I said, “now this is getting a little creepy.”

He took a deep breath and got himself back together.

“Mr. North, you need to be very clear on something.”

“I’ll try.”

“Roberta was the worst thing that ever happened to Jack,” he said.

“I’m starting to get the impression you don’t like her.”

“You have to make your own decision, but I certainly wouldn’t risk my career on something she told me.” He paused and then made sure I got it. “You risk damaging your reputation,” he said.

“I’ll remember that.”

“You start chasing after conspiracy theories, and you may hit a point of no return.”

“I appreciate the advice,” I said. “But I got to be realistic here. My career was stuck in neutral before all this started.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but just remember that reporters have second, third, even fourth acts in this business.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“My point to you is that if you get yourself tangled up any more with Roberta Steele, you may find you’ll have a very tough time bouncing back,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

I walked through the lobby and looked out onto Broadway. There was no sign of Freddie out front where I had left him. Just as I pushed through the revolving door, he called. “That’s it? The partnership is over?” I asked. “Didn’t even last a day.”

“Walk down to Fifty-fifth and turn the corner,” he said.

I walked down the block to the corner, turned right, and saw the back of the Cherokee parked three spaces in, next to a hydrant.

“You get chased by a traffic cop?” I asked as I got in.

Freddie held out his phone for me. On it was a picture.

“Holy crap,” I said as I stared at it.

“That the guy?”

On the phone was a picture of my friend from Starbucks. He was walking toward the revolving doors of the building with Marshall’s office.

“Go to the next shot,” he said.

I did. It was a picture of Fedora pushing through those same revolving doors.

“Walked in about five minutes after you did,” he said.

“How’d you spot him?” I asked.

“Saw some round guy with a hat coming down the street in my side-view mirror,” he said. “Remembered how you described the guy.”

“He make you?”

“Can’t say for sure. Don’t know if he followed you here, or maybe he knew you were coming here.”

“That’s a lot of yous in there,” I said. “I prefer ‘us.’ You know, maybe he followed ‘us.’”

“I prefer you. Maybe we keep my ass out of this.”

“Too late, champ,” I said.

“Great, now I got to worry about some doughy-looking white guy with a bad hat.”

“I kinda like the hat,” I said.

“Figures.”

I stared at a third photo of Fedora leaving the building through the revolving door.

“You got him leaving too?”

“Yup. I drove around the corner here, then went into the Citibank there on the corner and pretended to be taking care of business but kept an eye on the doors.”

“You’re good at this,” I said. “I may have to make you a full partner.”

“Notice something about him in that shot?” he asked.

I stared at the picture. Fedora was coming out of the revolving doors, but he kind of looked like he did yesterday, with one exception.

“The sharp-looking sports coat?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he’s wearing a light blue shirt, not the navy one. So he changed his shirt and went with a jacket.”

“If you say so.”

“Jacket is kind of odd, being that’s it’s about ninety out.”

“You wore yours into your meeting,” he said.

“But mine is a nice lightweight gray plaid,” I said. “He has the basic navy-blue thing going.”

“Okay, let’s forget the whole fashion debate,” he said. “Just look at the jacket.”

“I am.”

Freddie looked over at me like I was dense. “How’d you get to be on TV, man?”

“Don’t need to be licensed, you know.”

He looked at the phone. “Tap the screen to zoom in.”

I did and the picture zoomed up, and I was tight on Fedora as he went through the door. His hand was on the bar of the revolving door, and his jacket was slightly askew as he pushed.

“Is that a …”

“Now you see why he’s wearing a jacket, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, to hide the gun,” I said.

Chapter Nineteen

It was close to three in the afternoon on Thursday when Daniels sent word that he could see me.

Word came via his secretary, Susan, who made the trip down from the floor above and walked over to my desk. I was reading a story on the
Journal’s
Web site about the deep hole Liberty News was in now that it didn’t have its number one star, Jack Steele.

There were many quotes talking about how Steele solidified the prime-time lineup and brought in more ad dollars than the next two highest-rated shows combined.

“The king will see you now,” Susan said.

I looked up to see her standing next to me.

“Would that make you the queen?”

“Please, never speaketh that way again.”

“I like it,” I said, getting up. “Would it be all right if I called you fair maiden, Susan?”

“You can call me anything you like, so long as you call.”

I walked through the newsroom with her. As the long-time assistant to Daniels, she probably knew more about what was going on here than anyone else. She was in her mid-forties, with a husband and kid out on the Island, and was flirty by nature and able to put up with the demands for working for Daniels.

“And what type of mood will I find the boss man in when I go in there?” I asked.

“If I had to choose between, say, horrible, lousy, and downright hostile, I’d go with hostile,” she said. “Would you like to know one of the reasons I came down to get you instead of calling?”

“I just assumed it was to share a few quality minutes with me,” I said.

“My idea of quality minutes with you doesn’t involve walking through the newsroom,” she said.

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” she said as we got to the top of the exposed stairs leading to the executive offices. “You are penciled in the number one spot on his shit list at the moment.”

“It’s good to shoot for the top,” I said.

“I’m not kidding, Sam. He’s in a pissy mood to start with, but he’s saved an extra-special dose of nastiness for you,” she said.

“I feel special.”

“What’d you say to Ron Marshall?” she asked.

“Uh-oh.”

“He called before. He sounded all bent out of shape about something, and I heard your name come up.”

“Maybe he told Cal I need a super-big contract, and he wants to negotiate it for me even though he’s not my agent.”

“Speaking of which,” she said.

“My agent?”

“If that’s what you call him,” she said.

“Kenny Slattery, the premier TV news agent. That’s how his Web site refers to him.”

“Cal keeps blowing him off,” she said.

“He’s used to it.”

“He called twice in last few days, and Cal hasn’t gotten back to him,” she said.

We were upstairs now, walking down the hall toward Daniels’s office.

“Hmm.”

“Just giving you a heads-up on what you’re walking into,” she said.

I thanked Susan, and she went back behind her desk, I rapped on the closed office door then walked in to see Daniels at his desk, reading glasses on and was looking over some paperwork.

“I’m here for my checkup,” I said.

He never looked up from the paperwork as he spoke. “Pretty chipper for a guy who’s pissing everyone off,” he said.

“It’s what I do well.”

“Maybe a little too well,” he said as he pushed the papers to the side of his desk. “Sit.”

I took my usual spot in one of the visitor chairs facing his desk.

“I’m going to give you a chance to beg for your spot on the morning show back,” he said.

“I’ll pass.”

“Not a wise move. Kate Wallace is doing a hell of a job. She has good chemistry with Kelly and Dan.”

“Maybe she can do her spots in a swimsuit to really boost the chemistry.”

“It’s been suggested,” he said.

“By her, I’m sure.”

“You don’t get this, do you?”

“Depends on what you’re talking about.”

“Your career,” he said. “Are you trying to wreck it?”

“I haven’t even told you what I got,” I said.

“You don’t have shit,” he said. “And you know how I know that? Because I just got a call from Ron Marshall asking me what the hell you’re doing. Says you lied your way into a meeting with him and started implying all kinds of crazy things about Jack’s death.”

“I just had a few questions,” I said.

“And Marty tells me the same thing. You’re going around trying to find out if anyone had a reason to kill the man.”

“Just due diligence, that’s all,” I said. “I told you what Robbie Steele told me, about how she thinks something may have happened to him. And you said take some time and see what you find.”

“Well, time’s up, and this stops. Now.”

He glanced over at the wall of TVs to see what Liberty was doing versus the competition. After a few seconds his attention returned to me, and he was still hot. He shook his head as he repeated my offenses.

“Ron Marshall is the single most influential agent in the business, and you go and lie your way in to see him and then start interrogating him about Jack’s death. That alone would get you fired at most places.”

“I didn’t interrogate him,” I said.

“It’s one thing to sniff around a bit to see if Robbie Steele’s onto something, or simply delusional, as most of us believe, but it’s another thing to go around accusing people.”

“I didn’t accuse anyone,” I said.

“That’s what Marshall said.”

“He’s wrong. Plus, you gave me the green light, remember?”

“Yes, I gave you some time, which, as I said, is up.”

“I need some more,” I said.

He looked at me like I had lost my mind. “What?”

“I need more time. Just a bit.”

“You don’t have it,” he said.

“Just a few days.”

“No.”

“I think there’s something here,” I said.

“You’re making an ass out of yourself and damaging the reputation of this network. This ends now.”

“I think Robbie is right,” I said.

He slammed his fist onto the desk. “Damn it, Sam. Don’t be an ass. I’m giving you a chance here. When I got off the phone with Marshall, you were done. I had every intention of calling you in here to tell you I wasn’t going to renew you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I was going to fire you right now. But you know what, you did a hell of a job the day Jack died, and I felt like I owed you at least something for that,” he said.

“Well, thanks.”

“So I was going to give you another chance. I’d mistakenly assumed you were going to tell me the only thing you discovered in your little investigation was that Robbie Steele was nuts and that you’d love to resume your duties on the morning show,” he said. “But no, you come in asking for even more of this network’s time to waste on this.”

“You want to know why I need more time?”

“No, I really don’t—”

“Because somebody doesn’t want me asking around.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Some guy has either been following me or knows exactly who I’ve been going to see. He came up to me yesterday and basically told me to back off.”

“Who was he?”

I shook my head. “Don’t know. It’s not like we traded IDs.”

“Go on.”

“He told me I needed to be careful. Then he told me if I kept bothering people, he wasn’t going to be so diplomatic next time.”

“And you have no idea who this was?”

“None.”

“You think it’s related to something with the show?” Daniels asked.

“Don’t know,” I said. “All I’ve found out is that IT&E was pretty pissed with Jack.”

“Should be, the way he went after them.”

“Buck McConnell’s flack spent a lot of time shooting off nasty e-mails every time Jack mentioned the company,” I said.

“The man wants to run for president, of course he’s going to be a little sensitive,” he said.

Daniels exhaled and glanced at the monitors and muttered. “Son of a bitch. This is the last frigging thing I need.”

“That’s why I want more time.”

He looked back at me, and I could see the stress on his face. “It took me ten minutes to convince Ron Marshall that you weren’t insane and at one point were actually a pretty good reporter.”

“Thanks for the endorsement.”

He sat back and exhaled a long, tired breath.

“I damn near promised Marshall I was going to let you go. He told me you were a menace, and honestly, I didn’t need a lot of convincing.”

“I don’t get threatened if there’s nothing to find out.”

“That’s what worries me,” he said.

“What? That I was threatened, or that Robbie Steele could be right?”

“Both.”