Hide Yourself Away (17 page)

“Is Sam around?” asked Linus, taking his companion’s hand and winking at her.

“Just left,” Beth answered, smiling at the policemen.

“Good. I’m not about to be bullied by some rinky-dink cops. I’ve stood up to the feds; I can certainly stand up to the Newport Police. They can talk to Sam all they want
after
the show tomorrow.”

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52

He pulled up the toilet seat and did what he had to do. As he pushed down the flush lever, Sam thought he heard something outside the closed door, but when he came out of the bathroom there was no one to be seen.

He stood in the doorway of the gatekeeper’s cottage, looking out at the satellite truck, hoping the driver wouldn’t be gone too long. He needed to plan what he was going to say in the morning. It would be best to be natural and conversational and tell it just as he’d seen and heard it, omitting the part about being loaded and barfing under the tree.

The violent struggle and the piercing scream.
Poor Madeleine Sloane.

Sam let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes as he pictured it again. He hadn’t actually seen the attacker’s face, but at least he could give a general description of body size and what the killer had been wearing. That was something to go on. Maybe not as much as Linus Nazareth was hoping for, but Sam hadn’t wanted to reveal that in advance. Let Linus think he had something
huge to tell. Something that warranted being interviewed on national television. It was still news, wasn’t it, that he had witnessed a murder?

Sensing a movement behind him, Sam turned and finally did see the face of Madeleine’s killer in the split second before the tire iron came down directly on his head.

  CHAPTER  
53

She’d dressed in white shorts and her white KEY News T-shirt so she’d be more visible in the darkness. With her long, black braids flapping against her neck, Zoe jogged along Bellevue Avenue, retracing the path she had taken this afternoon when she left the media frenzy at the Forty Steps to get to her self-imposed assignment at Touro Synagogue. She felt at ease as she ran past the mansions on the boulevard, which was well lit by electrified gaslights.

Zoe marveled as she passed the conspicuous examples of wealth. Wealth built on the backs of cheap labor, both black and white. But the whites had been, for the most part, immigrants
who had chosen to come to America in search of a better life. The blacks, by contrast, had been captured like animals, shackled, and forced to leave their homelands. Once they were here, their skin color determined their dismal fates. Rhode Island may have been the first state to pass an antislavery law, and the American Civil War may have technically freed the slaves, but when these mansions were built, people of color were still second-class citizens.

Zoe trotted right past the intersection with Narragansett Avenue, having no desire to head to the Forty Steps, the scene of Madeleine Sloane’s demise, at the end of the block. Four intersections later, she saw the sign for Victoria Avenue. On impulse, she turned left, to explore the street whose name reminded her of England.

Her trainers pounded against the macadam on the quiet street. There wasn’t much to see. The lighting was much poorer than it had been on Bellevue. Halfway down the long block, Zoe was about to turn back when she heard the noise. It sounded like someone was closing the bonnet of a car.

The headlights flashed on, blinding her. The car screeched from the curb, headed right at her. Zoe ran off the road into the grass and strained to see the driver who was in such a hurry. The automobile passed by so quickly, it was impossible to get a good look inside. But the license plate was illuminated, and Zoe managed to make out the first three letters before the car swerved to the left and out of sight.

S-E-A.

The driver had been much luckier. In the glare of the headlights, the killer had clearly seen all the letters of the last name emblazoned above the KEY News logo on Zoe’s shirt.

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54

Inside the brown paper bag were a bottle of aspirin and three cans of cold beer. That should be enough to get him through the night.

Scott opened the door of the satellite truck and was surprised not to find the kid inside. The surprise turned to anger when he checked the gatehouse. It was empty.

“That little s.o.b.,” Scott muttered. The kid had taken off and left the truck unattended. If anything happened to that truck, that irresponsible jerk’s ass would be grass. He went back out again and checked the truck over.

Thank God, everything seemed to be in order.

MONDAY

—— JULY 19 ——

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55

A large, white tent had been set up on The Breakers’ lawn to shelter the
KTA
hosts and their guests, but there was no need for it. As the first light peeked over the ocean’s horizon, it was clear that there would be no rain. The weather for
KEY to America’s
first broadcast from the City by the Sea was going to be picture perfect. Constance Young and Harry Granger would be able to conduct the show under the open sky.

Constance and Harry arrived early, just as they did at the Broadcast Center in New York, giving them time to scan the major morning newspapers and look over last-minute notes and prepared questions for the upcoming interviews. They joined scores of KEY News employees milling around the grounds of the estate, each executing the editorial and production tasks that needed to be done to get the broadcast on the air. When the opening theme music was played over the network and Constance and Harry welcomed America to Newport, it would all appear seamless, the hundreds of staff hours that went into producing two hours of television unbeknownst to the viewers at home.

Grace observed the bustling activity with excitement. These were the preparations for
live
television. Professional, well-thought-out, well-executed plans. Yet the
KTA
staffers were always aware that the unexpected could happen at any time while millions of people watched.

That was one of the primary reasons Constance and Harry were paid the big bucks. If something went awry on the air, the cohosts were the ones who had to handle it with grace, aplomb, and lightning-quick wit. It wasn’t easy to do, but they made it look as if it were. Most times, the audience never even knew that something had gone wrong.

With the start of the broadcast a scant forty-five minutes away, the exclusive interview subject had not shown up. Repeated phone calls to Sam’s room at the hotel had gone unanswered.

The executive producer was yelling across the lawn to anyone who would listen. “Where the hell is he? Where in the hell is the kid? The intern. Sam Watkins.”

Feeling she might have something to offer, with trepidation Grace walked over to Linus. “Sam left the newsroom last night to bring some cable to the satellite truck, and he told me he was coming right back to go to bed,” she said.

“Well then, check with the truck operator, will you?” Linus’s face was reddening. “See if he knows anything.”

Grace followed the yards of electrical cable out to the gravel driveway where the truck was parked. The operator’s recollection didn’t paint Sam in a flattering light.

“Yeah, the kid brought the cable and that’s the last I saw of him. I’m not surprised he hasn’t shown up like he was supposed to this morning. If you ask me, he’s not reliable. Sam said he would watch this truck for me last night, but when I came back from running an errand, he was nowhere to be found.”

“For God’s sake, will somebody go back to the hotel and try to find him?” Linus barked as he paced the lawn. “I’m gonna kill that goddamn kid.”

The executive producer looked around frantically. Who wasn’t needed to do a particular job as the minutes ticked away until the start of the broadcast? His eyes fell on Grace again. “You. He’s your buddy. Go see if you can find him.”

There was no answer.

Grace banged on the door and called Sam’s name, knowing that she was making enough noise to wake up the guests who still tried to sleep in other rooms up and down the hallway.

Sam couldn’t possibly be sleeping through this racket, could he?

She was about to look for the hotel service phone to ask if someone could come up to open the room when she noticed the maid’s cart turn into the hall. Izzie O’Malley was pushing it.

“Oh, Izzie. Do you remember me? Room two-oh-one?” Grace barely waited for Izzie to nod in recognition. “I have an emergency. I have to see if one of our interns is in his room. He’s supposed to be on the show in just a little while. Can you possibly open the door for me?”

The chambermaid hesitated for a moment before taking the master key card from her pocket.
What the hell?
She wouldn’t be working here much longer. And who would even know? Yes, Grace had helped her; now she would help Grace.

Izzie inserted the card in the lock, watching for the blink of the green light. Together, the two women entered the quiet room.

The bed had not been slept in.

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56

Someone noticed that the car Sam had borrowed occupied a space in The Breakers’ tourist parking lot. The news staffers buzzed with speculation. Maybe Sam really had nothing to say, maybe he really hadn’t seen anything and the whole thing was an act of fraternity-house bravado. Maybe Sam had gotten scared that he would be caught in a lie, or maybe the intern was afraid that telling what he did see would put him in jeopardy.

Grace arrived back at The Breakers just in time to hear Linus yelling.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what the kid’s problem is. Sam Watkins is off this show.” Linus slammed his clenched fist into his open palm. “Nobody makes an ass out of me,” he bellowed. “We promised an exclusive, and we damn well better give them something that can make good on that promo. Think, everybody. Think fast.”