Do You Want to Know a Secret? (3 page)

“Eliza, thank Christ
you’re still there! What the hell took you so long to answer?” Not waiting for her response, Range Bullock pushed on. “Bill isn’t in yet and I need you to stand by. I don’t know what’s with him lately. He hasn’t called, Jean doesn’t know any of his appointments, and we’re forty-five minutes from air. He’s making me nuts. Anyway, Eliza, can you get down here and start to go over the copy?”

Bullock, executive producer of the
KEY Evening Headlines
, hung up the phone, sighed heavily, and reached for the economy-size bottle of Tums which sat next to the large container of aspirins he kept on his desk at all times. As he popped the chalky tablets into his mouth he thought, This job is aging me. Quickly.

Where the hell was Bill? An unexplained absence just wasn’t like him. At least, not until recently.

Bill Kendall, who had been anchoring the
KEY Evening
Headlines
for twelve years, was reliable, dependable and predictable. Range and the hard-news people knew his routine and admired his discipline. At precisely 6:30 every morning, Kendall called the network assignment desk for a briefing by the overnight assignment editor. After getting a rundown of the mostly foreign stories that happened while the nation slept, Kendall would say invariably, “Okay, I’m going for a run. I’ll be on my beeper.”

Like clockwork, an impeccably dressed Kendall would appear in the newsroom at 9:30, full of amiable small talk for the newsroom staff as he made his way to his office. Once there, he checked with Jean, his secretary, regarding the phone messages and his schedule for the day. Next he finished going through the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, which he had begun in the limousine on the way to work. At 10:30 he listened to, but never spoke on, the national conference call, a multiline conversation between the domestic news bureau managers and the
Evening Headlines
producers. Bill Kendall and Range Bullock always had a closed-door powwow after the conference call, Bill venting his views on the stories of the day and what he thought KEY coverage should be.

At their meeting that morning, Bill had seemed a bit preoccupied again. Bill’s mind seemed to be elsewhere more and more lately. Range tried not to dwell on it. A guy was entitled to an off day once in a while, even Bill Kendall.

Range looked at his watch. He couldn’t stall any longer. He had to call Yelena Gregory, the
KEY News
president, and tell her that Eliza Blake would have to fill in for Bill. If Bill couldn’t make it, Range much preferred Eliza to that idiot from the Washington bureau, Pete Carlson. For some reason he couldn’t understand, Yelena was high on Carlson. She had agreed to a terrific contract for the guy, including the provision that Carlson was Bill’s first-choice replacement. Range was happy that there had been no time to fly Carlson up from Washington that evening.

Range wondered if Eliza had seen the
Mole
story yet. If so, he hoped to God that it wouldn’t affect her performance tonight. What a lousy break! He remembered how hard they’d worked to keep Eliza’s hospitalization confidential. That was four years ago. Why was someone raking the whole bloody thing up now?

Where the hell was Eliza? He wouldn’t need those damned Tums if she was sitting at the anchor desk going over the copy. He had a show to get on the air.

This job was killing him.

Chapter 3

Judge Dennis Quinn
stood in the express checkout at King’s, his cart containing cooked shrimp with cocktail sauce, poached salmon, roasted red potatoes and a large salad. Bad enough he didn’t have a woman to take care of the menial task of grocery shopping, he sure as hell wasn’t going to cook for himself, too.

As he waited, he pulled a copy of
The Mole
from the display rack. He enjoyed reading about other people’s misery.

If you could believe what was in
The Mole
, Eliza Blake, the beautiful network anchorwoman, was a big-time cocaine addict and had been forced, a few years back, to check in as a patient at the Carrier Clinic in Belle Mead, New Jersey. The story spent a lot of time describing the various psychological problems and alcohol and drug addictions treated at the hospital. The article wound up by quoting an unnamed
KEY News
source who said, “The public depends on the mental stability of those entrusted with reporting the news,” and went on to question Eliza Blake’s ability to do her job.

Dennis Quinn threw the paper into his cart. He would read the story to his mother later. She was such an Eliza Blake fan. He didn’t think she knew about this.

He carefully counted out the money to pay for his order and carried his grocery bag out to the parking lot.

“Hello, Judge Quinn.”

Oh, no. It was Amber. Dennis cringed as he watched the smiling woman with the heavy thighs hurrying across the macadam toward him. Why did she persist in wearing those short skirts? Didn’t she know how gross it was to see her legs rubbing together?

Of course he hadn’t thought her so gross every Tuesday night after the Westvale municipal court sessions. He’d been only too happy to get some of those chubby thighs. But that was two years ago when he’d just been a town judge, before he had moved on to the Bergen County Superior Court. Amber had been convenient, but she wasn’t classy enough for his larger aspirations.

“How ya doin’, stranger? Long time no see.” Amber was grinning. Bad caps. God, she was chewing gum, too. The cow.

“Hello, Amber. How nice to see you again.”

“Haven’t you gotten my messages? You never call me anymore. A girl would think you didn’t care.” She looked up at him in a pathetic attempt at coyness.

A girl would be thinking correctly, he thought. “Oh, you know how it is, Amber. I’m so busy trying to keep up with all my cases. The courts have such a backlog. I have no time for a social life anymore.”

“I liked it better before.”

“Well, it certainly was simpler then.”

“I was wondering, could you use any help in your office?” Amber asked hopefully. “You always said what a good secretary I was.”

I’d say anything to get what I wanted. “Unfortunately, Amb, there’s a hiring freeze on.” Seeing her mouth begin to turn downward, he hurried on. “I wish I could stay and talk but I have several briefs I have to get to tonight. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know how it is.” Amber stood watching as he got into his black Lincoln Continental with the
JUDGE
decals on the license plates.

Craning his neck, he preened before the rearview mirror as he drove off. Just twelve years out of law school, he was the youngest judge on the Superior Court bench. If you had the funds, anything was possible. The Superior Court was great, but he had bigger plans. He reminded himself he wanted to call Nate Heller again. It wasn’t too early to set up the next step.

As he pulled into the driveway of his long, white ranch, he felt good. And then he remembered. Another payment to Bill Kendall was due.

Chapter 4

Eliza replaced the
receiver in the cradle after Range’s call and wondered if he had seen the
Mole
article yet.

Drug addiction! Cocaine! Dear God!

She felt her heart pounding and her cheeks grow hot. This horrible story could ruin everything! Everything for which she had worked so hard. For herself, for Janie.

Janie.

Thank goodness Janie couldn’t read yet and was still young enough that her classmates wouldn’t be teasing and embarrassing her.

You’ve got to get a grip, Eliza told herself. Everyone is going to be watching you for your reaction. Get a hold of yourself. Hold your head up. Do what you have to do to get through tonight’s broadcast. Take one thing at a time.

She called home and asked Mrs. Twomey to stay with Janie for another two hours.

“I know I’m already late, Mrs. Twomey. I’m sorry.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Blake. My little faerie and I are havin’ a grand time. She’s just finished her supper and I’m after pourin’ the Mr. Bubble into the tub.”

Eliza smiled weakly to herself. “My little faerie.” Mrs. Twomey, born and raised in Ireland, was unaware of the connotation of the expression here. Eliza delighted in the woman’s affection for Janie.

“Go on with ya,” the housekeeper went on. “Do what you have to and stop your worryin’.”

Next, as usual, Eliza thought of John. Whenever anything of moment happened, she thought of John, wished she could still share it with him. She felt the loss, the persistent tug of missing him. She was almost used to it now, four years later. But just because you were used to something didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.

She held the inside of her wrist to her nose and remembered one of the last nights in the hospital. John was dozing as she entered the room and she had watched him, loving him so. All the painful treatments had not worked. He was very thin and flushed with fever. Eliza could see his chest laboring slowly up and down under the thin cotton hospital blanket. She heard his wheezing breath.

John opened his heavy eyes, and his gaunt, pained face cracked into a weak smile of pleasure as he saw her standing there. She straightened, smiled bravely back and went right to his bed, leaning down to kiss him. She felt the heat coming from his emaciated body as he held on to her. Please God, don’t take him from me. Not yet. Not ever.

Then, in his rasping voice she heard him whisper, “Oh, you smell so good.”

She knew she would never forget it. John had known he was near death. Yet, as sick as he was, he had taken pleasure in something as simple, as basic as her perfume.

She would never wear another fragrance.

Stop it! Stop replaying everything!

Eliza rose determinedly from her desk, replacing the gold button earring she had snapped off to call Mrs. Twomey. She walked the few steps to the mirror on the pale gray office wall and looked into it. A thirty-four-year-old face gazed back. It had a look of honesty and intelligence, though most of the written critiques of Eliza Blake’s face had used words like attractive, pretty, engaging. The face that stared back was the face that greeted millions of viewers every morning on
KEY to America
.