Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (17 page)

Rose had hung up, promising to think about it. She called Ricky's doctor at Rockland Psychiatric Center. He had no clear-cut answer for her, but suggested that possibly Ricky, so fascinated by television, might open up for the camera. It could be beneficial for him. But then again, it might be traumatic. As usual, the decision on what to do with her forty-two-year-old son was up to her.

“Ricky?”

“Yeah, Mom?” her son answered, not looking up from his puzzle.

“I want to talk to you about something, honey.”

Maybe it would help. She prayed it wouldn't hurt.

59

D
ETECTIVE
O
RTIZ WAS
ushered into the executive producer's office and offered coffee by Claire Dowd. He politely refused.

The light that streamed in from the large plate-glass window forced Ortiz to squint to see the three
KEY News
lawyers lined up on the leather sofa. Joel Malcolm was sitting behind his desk, but rose to shake the detective's hand. He gestured to Ortiz to take the seat across from his desk.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“First and foremost, Mr. Malcolm, I am here regarding the claim on your show last night that you have an eyewitness to what happened to Gwyneth Gilpatric.”

“That's correct.”

“Who would that be?”

One of the suits on the couch piped up. “It is
KEY News
policy not to reveal the identities of sources to whom we have pledged confidentiality. Strict adherence to this policy is essential to maintain the trust of potential news sources.”

“We can get a subpoena,” Ortiz snapped.

“We'll resist it in court,” replied Malcolm smoothly. “Our broadcast will air before all the legal wrangling is through. I suggest you be patient, Detective. Tune in next week and your questions will be answered.”

Ortiz knew the cocky producer had him there. The attorneys could easily stall things until next week.

“Withholding the eyewitness for a full week takes away valuable time from the investigation of the case. Would it do any good to appeal to your sense of honor about what is the right thing to do?”

Silence was Malcolm's response.

Son-of-a-bitch.

Ortiz tried not to show his anger. “All right, Mr. Malcolm. I have some other questions to ask you, questions of a personal nature.”

“Shoot.”

Ortiz glanced over at the lawyers.

“They can stay,” said Malcolm.

The detective flipped back a couple of pages of his notebook. “Is it true that Gwyneth Gilpatric was planning to leave
Hourglass?
”

“Yes. Her contract with
KEY News
was up. She wasn't going to renew.”

“Do you know why?”

“She told me that she wanted a change. CBS had offered her the moon.”

“How did you feel about that, sir?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Of course I was sorry to be losing Gwyneth. We started
Hourglass
together and it has developed into a helluva show. But, as you must know, Detective Ortiz, television is a visual medium. Not to be unkind, but Gwyneth was aging. Her best ‘face' years were behind her. I thought it might actually be better for
Hourglass
to get some new blood.”

“So when Miss Gilpatric told you she was leaving
Hourglass,
you weren't upset?”

“No. In fact, I was relieved. I was very fond of Gwyneth.” Malcolm looked over at the lawyers before continuing. “I'm sure you'll hear in your poking around that Gwyneth and I had been romantically involved. But that was over some time ago. I had agonized over the fact that one day soon I would have to let her go from the broadcast. Her decision saved me from that. When Gwyneth told me she was planning to go to CBS, I wished her well.”

Ortiz knew the executive producer was lying and thus he would not be able to trust anything else Malcolm might say. But he went on with the questioning anyway.

“Can you think of anyone who might want to see Miss Gilpatric dead, Mr. Malcolm?”

Joel frowned as he considered his response. “Reporters make enemies, Detective. It goes with the territory.”

“Any
specific
enemies come to mind?”

“Go to the
KEY News
archives, Detective Ortiz. And get the transcripts of just about any investigative piece Gwyneth reported. I'm sure you'll find scores of people who would be very happy if Gwyneth Gilpatric never existed,” Malcolm suggested, a little too nonchalantly for Ortiz's taste.

“And what about here at
KEY News?
” pushed the detective. “Any enemies in the workplace?”

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed armchair. Ortiz stared piercingly at the producer as he waited for his answer.

“Well, there is one situation that I can think of,” Malcolm began, seemingly hesitant to offer the information.

The lawyers leaned forward on the couch. Malcolm was ad-libbing, and they didn't like his improvising on the script that they had worked out.

“Please, go on, Mr. Malcolm”

“We did a story for February sweeps a few years ago, about the mean streets up in East Harlem. We had a confidential source, a young guy who was trying to do some good up there.” Malcolm closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “I can't remember the kid's name right now, but it will come to me.”

“What does this have to do with Gwyneth Gilpatric?” Ortiz pressed.

Malcolm took out a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket, offered one to Ortiz, who shook his head no, and lit up.

“Well,” Malcolm continued, exhaling the white smoke through his nostrils, “the kid gave us lots of great stuff on the El Barrio drug pushers and he was willing to go on camera to tell it. We shot him in disguise, of course. You know, shadowing his face and distorting his voice.”

Ortiz nodded.

“The trouble was, when the edited package aired, one of the shots we used ID'd the kid. Gwyneth's ‘standup' showed her walking through an abandoned lot full of discarded drug paraphernalia. When editing the story, the producer didn't notice that Cordero—now I remember, the kid's name was Cordero—was standing at the corner of the shot.” Malcolm inhaled deeply.

“And?”

“The week after the story aired, Cordero was found dead. The body had a couple dozen syringes sticking out of it.”

Malcolm stamped out his cigarette.

“So where does the Gilpatric–
KEY News
enemy come in?” asked Ortiz.

“As you can imagine, we took a lot of heat for that screwup. It was in all the papers. Management was so worried about a lawsuit that I had a camera crew and half my staff attend the funeral in hopes of mollifying the family,” remembered Malcolm.

Ortiz studied the executive producer's face.

“But Cordero's family didn't sue,” Malcolm continued. “They said that they were proud of their son for doing what he did, and they didn't want to profit from his death. Refreshing, huh?

“Still, we had to look like we were doing something. We felt that someone had to take the fall. Gwyneth was adamant about it. She felt her reputation was on the line.”

“Who took it?”

“The producer, Mike Schultz. He was fired.”

60

D
AMN!
T
HE MAID
had seen them walking out of Gwyneth's apartment on their way to the roof. And she wanted money to keep her mouth shut.

Even if the payment was made, she would still be out there, knowing what she knew. Blackmail never ended.

Since Delia Beehan's phone call, the mind had been racing, the heart pounding.

This is no time to panic. Breathe deeply. Get a hold of yourself. Think. You can figure this out. You've come too far to blow it now.

You had the presence of mind to agree to a meeting right away. That was smart. Take care of this immediately, before Delia has second thoughts and goes to the police. The maid was ashamed enough to agree to meet after dark. What a dope.

Those shiny scissors would be as good a way as any to do it.

61

S
INCE
K
ITZI WATCHED
Hourglass
alone the night before, she had been dreading her next meeting with Joel. They were going to have a major fight over this. She was sure of it.

Eliza Blake's announcement had caught Kitzi unaware. It had actually taken her a few minutes, through her alcoholic haze, to realize that it was she that
Hourglass
was promising would “tell all” next week.

Kitzi had been stunned as she sat on the sofa, transfixed by what she saw on the television screen. She had long since known that Joel put
Hourglass
above everything, including his wife. But with this, he had gone too far.

Kitzi made sure that she was already in bed in the guest room, feigning sleep, when Joel got home from the Broadcast Center last night. She would confront her husband when she had her wits about her, not when she was tired and had been drinking.

Now the clock in the hallway chimed seven. Joel would be home soon, since it was early in the
Hourglass
production week. The late nights came a night or two before the actual broadcast.

She ached to pour herself a drink, but she mustered up considerable willpower to refrain. Kitzi checked her hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror and dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrist pulse points. She needed to go into this battle armed.

The door in the entry hall clicked shut.
Show time.

Kitzi walked slowly to the living room. Joel had made a beeline to the bar.

“Want one?” he offered, dropping ice cubes into a double-old-fashioned glass.

“No, thanks.”

Joel looked up quizzically. “What's wrong? Aren't you feeling well?” he asked sarcastically.

Kitzi cocked her head to the side, considering his question. “Actually, I'm feeling quite well for a woman whose husband wants to hang her out to dry for the sake of his horrific ego and all-consuming ambition.”

“Oh, Kitzi. Don't start with me.” He poured the Glenfiddich generously over the crystal cubes. “I'm not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood? That's rich. What about
my
mood? You want me to go on national television and tell the world—not to mention some sick killer out there—that I saw Gwyneth Gilpatric pushed off her roof! Believe me, Joel, that doesn't leave me in a good mood.” She could hear her own voice approaching a scream.
Calm down,
she told herself.
You've got to stay in control.

“Sit down, Kitzi,” Joel commanded. “Let's talk about this.”

“There's nothing to talk about. I'm not going to do it.”

“Oh,
yes,
you are, and I'll tell you why. If you
do,
I will give you your divorce and make sure that you are set for life in the style to which you have so expensively become accustomed. If you
don't,
I will make sure that our divorce proceedings are a living hell. I'll make sure you waste years of your life with lawyers and depositions and courtrooms. You're not getting any younger, Kitzi. Don't waste the good years you've got left with such a financial and emotional drain. Better you spend the time finding some other rich schnook.”

“It would be a waste for you, too, Joel.”

Joel savored his argument along with his single-malt. “You forget something, my dear. I relish that kind of a fight.
You
don't have the stomach for it.”

Why had she thought she could ever win with him? If she wanted to salvage what was left of her dignity, she had to get out of this marriage. But she was not about to start worrying over money at this stage of the game. Joel was a bastard, and he had an appetite for conflict. Kitzi knew she was no match for his viciousness.

“Even if I agreed to do the interview, Joel, I can't imagine what you think I'll be able to say. I've already told you what I saw. Only shadows. I couldn't see faces. I couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman up there with Gwyneth.”

Joel knew he had won.

62

O
N THE WAY
home from work, Laura stopped at D'Agostino's to pick up a few groceries. She was in the mood for some linguine and white clam sauce. The canned version would do just fine.

As usual, once she was in the market, she realized that she needed other things, so when she reached her apartment lobby, her arms were laden with grocery bags. She would come down and check her mailbox later.

The answering machine was blinking in the darkened apartment as she entered, but she hung up her coat, put away her purchases and started a pot of water to heat on the stove before she pushed the button to see who was trying to reach her.

The voice was a pleasant one, with a slight Hispanic accent. Laura recognized it immediately.

“Miss Walsh. This is Detective Alberto Ortiz. We met the night of Gwyneth Gilpatric's death. I would like to speak with you, Miss Walsh. Would you please call me tomorrow?”

Laura scribbled down the number he left, her chest tightening.
What did he want?

As she stirred the boiling pasta, she tried to recall what she had said as the police questioned everyone left at the party after Gwyneth's fall. No, she hadn't noticed that Gwyneth wasn't out on the balcony with everyone else. No, she couldn't remember specifically who was or wasn't outside. She had just been enjoying the fireworks.

Laura ate her dinner sitting on the couch, the television on before her, though she paid little attention to it. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. She would have to call Detective Ortiz first thing in the morning because she and Matthew were going out to New Jersey to shoot for the Palisades story all day. She was nervous about that, too. The interview with Emmett was first on their agenda.