Nowhere to Run (8 page)

Maybe a commuter pass was in order. This was the second train ride in less than a week out to Maplewood.

Annabelle could be thanked for spreading the word around the office that Jerome was sick enough to go to the hospital, and a phone call confirmed he had been admitted. The green light for another trip to New Jersey. It had to be done tonight or it would be too late. Once the hospital figured out what was wrong with Jerome, the health department and the police would be called in, and surely Jerome’s house would be searched.

The path from the station to Highland Place was now a familiar one. The streets were quiet, and none of the few people passing by paid any attention to the visitor. Walking with assurance, as if belonging there, the visitor went around to the back of the unlit house. The first window was locked, but the second one slid right open.

Trusting fools, these suburbanites.

It was a struggle to get through the ground-floor window. The mask and gloves were donned as a precautionary measure. Though the tube in the coat pocket was carefully wrapped, there was no way of knowing exactly where Jerome had opened his cheery birthday card.

The flashlight cast its yellow glow around the kitchen, then into the dining room and through the living room. The beam led the way up the stairs to the small bedroom that served as an office. A computer sat amid the clutter on the desk. After it was switched on, it took only a few minutes to find the right file and just a little while longer to erase it. All that work, pages and pages of manuscript, obliterated with just the tapping of the Delete key.

Jerome must have printed out a hard copy as well—there it was in the top desk drawer. The folder was taken from its berth and replaced with the test tube.

The police would find the anthrax and think that Jerome had exposed himself.

How was anyone to know that a bit of the tube’s contents had been put aside just in case it was needed? You need so little to do so much damage.

November 21

Joe Connelly spent the night in one of the soap opera dressing rooms, wanting to be nearby if the worst-case scenario played out and the preliminary tests were wrong. If it turned out that anthrax had contaminated any part of the Broadcast Center, he needed to be there to deal with it.

After a night of restless half-sleep, he took a quick shower in the tiny bathroom, dressed in the fresh shirt and underwear he kept in his office for emergencies, and stopped in the cafeteria for a hot cup of coffee to carry back with him to the security command post.

Station Break was quiet at this early hour, but Edgar was already at work, stocking the coffee trolley.

“Mornin’.” The food service worker smiled.

“Good morning, Edgar. How’s it going?”

“Fine, sir. Just fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He watched the security boss stop to leave money at the register, as the cashier wasn’t in yet.

An honest person.

But they weren’t all like that. Some people thought it was fine to take tea bags, cereal, soda, juice—even cheese, right off the salad bar—without bothering to pay. Last week, someone he couldn’t believe had actually gone right into the kitchen and poured out a cup of powdered sugar. Edgar had pretended, as he always did, not to notice.

And he didn’t want any trouble.

Annabelle preferred to take the subway to work but, at this early hour, a taxi seemed safer and a lot more convenient, even if it was more expensive.

It was still dark when her cab pulled up in front of the Broadcast Center. She paid the driver and got out just as a blue Lincoln Town Car slid to the curb. Annabelle knew that one of the
KTA
hosts would be in the backseat. The hired cars that brought them to work at this ungodly hour came with the jobs. She was delighted to see it was Constance Young rather than Harry Granger stepping from the rear door of the car.

“Am I glad to see you,” Annabelle said, bussing her friend on the cheek.

Constance gave Annabelle a hug, her hand petting the plush brown fur that covered Annabelle’s arm.

“New jacket, huh?” she observed, squinting in the dim light that streamed from the lobby windows onto the sidewalk.

“Don’t even go there—I’m waiting for the animal rights activists to spray me with red paint any minute,” said Annabelle. “And it’s not new. It’s fifteen years old. Let’s call it ‘vintage,’ shall we?”

The two pushed through the revolving door and swiped their ID cards across the electronic scanner. In the lobby light, Annabelle marveled at how beautiful Constance was even without her makeup. Her alabaster skin was flawless.

“I missed you yesterday. How was your trip?”

“Good,” Constance affirmed. “The shoot went well, and I was even able to squeeze in a late lunch with my old boss at the Boston affiliate. But I’ve got to tell you, I hated leaving right after the show to fly up there. What did I miss?”

Annabelle filled her in on the interview with the FBI and the meeting with Yelena. “Our president is not a happy camper, Constance. I sure wouldn’t want to be in John Lee’s shoes right now.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want to be in Yelena Gregory’s either.”

Her muscles aching with tension, Yelena stood beneath the shower spray and let the needles of hot water pound against her ample body. It would be nice if she could closet herself in the shower stall all day, she thought, but there was too much to do, starting with watching
KTA
from the very beginning this morning.

She turned off the water and forced herself from the shower. Standing on the soft white bath mat, she dried herself off, still careful when she came to the old hysterectomy scar, the symbol of the children she was never meant to have. Yelena had always thought there was going to be time to have children, once she got her career on track, once she met the right man. But the career had become all-consuming, the hours long, her time dictated by the unpredictable turns of breaking news. The men she had met found it difficult to play second fiddle to her work. They didn’t like having plans canceled because news happened, forcing her into the office. And as she rose in the news hierarchy, the only men Yelena seemed to come in contact with were the ones she worked with. Her one foray with an office romance had been disastrous. Pete Carlson had only used her to help his own career goals. She still hadn’t recovered emotionally from that fiasco.

As she looked in the mirror and applied moisturizer to her face, Yelena was all too aware that the years had slipped by, good years, productive years, sometimes exciting years, but years filled with memories of KEY News—not of a fulfilling personal life. At fifty-three, she knew with certainty there would be no children or grandchildren, and she seriously doubted that she would ever get married. But that was all right, she told herself, because she had KEY News. KEY News was her baby. KEY News was the child she cared for with all of her intellect and passion.

And now, her baby was threatened. With its reputation on the line, Yelena was determined to do anything she could to ensure that KEY News kept its place of honor in the broadcasting world. Absolutely nothing mattered to her more.

The organization was only as good as the people who staffed it, and KEY had many intelligent and creative minds working in its offices around the world. Yelena paid careful attention to the people she hired, searching out the most talented individuals and luring them into the ranks of her news force. The
KEY Evening Headlines with Eliza Blake
was progressing nicely in the ratings—no small feat against the likes of Rather, Jennings, and Brokaw.
Hourglass,
with Cassie Sheridan, after major contract negotiations, finally in the news-magazine anchor chair, led its prime-time hour slot. And
KEY to America
was blowing away the morning competition with its winning two-hour combination of news, consumer reports, business updates, softer entertainment stories, and book and movie reviews.

Still, theirs was an ego-driven business, and some were not team players. Linus Nazareth certainly fell into that category. He ran
KTA
as his own personal candy store, confident that, as long as he brought in the ratings, his place at KEY was secure. Yelena thought him obnoxious and disrespectful. She disliked his bravado and disapproved of the way he treated his subordinates. Mostly, she kept him on because she didn’t want him to go over to the competition. But with a damaged reputation and a loss of credibility, ABC, CBS, and NBC wouldn’t want him either.

Yelena pulled her bathrobe from the hook and slid her thick arms into the sleeves.

If she gave Linus enough rope, he would hang himself.

Time wounds all heels.

With the final word still not in regarding the possible contamination of the
KEY to America
studio, the decision had been made to do the Friday morning broadcast from the
Evening Headlines
set. Unit Manager Beth Terry saw to the arrangements.

It had been a slow news cycle, so Linus could go through with his plan to milk the anthrax story, leading with Dr. Lee. Annabelle watched from the control room.

“Yes, Constance, there was a lot of excitement around here yesterday. But all’s well that ends well. My aim was to let the public know of the danger that surrounds us, and I think we have done just that.”

The host looked at the notes in her lap. “Authorities want to know where you obtained the anthrax. What are you telling them?”

Lee kept the serious expression on his face, though he felt like smiling in smug satisfaction. “I am not going to reveal where I got it. A reporter must protect his sources. If he doesn’t, he loses all credibility. Sources have to know they can trust journalists.”

Annabelle was nauseated as she listened to the doctor-turned-journalist pontificate, but a glance at the other side of the control room showed that Linus was loving it.

Had Linus felt her eyes upon him? Was that why he looked her way?

“Coming to the party Sunday, Annabelle?” he called over the din of the control room.

It was as if he was trying to put her on the spot, trying to embarrass her. Linus didn’t particularly like her, Annabelle knew, and he couldn’t care much one way or another if she was a guest in his home. But every staffer was well aware that the annual party at the executive producer’s apartment was a command performance. Staffers were afraid not to attend and socialize while watching the football game on the wide-screen TV. Annabelle had heard of the snubs and more-than-coincidental lousy story assignments that followed a missed football party.

“Yes, Linus. I’ll be there,” she called back and turned her eyes to her clipboard, pretending to be engrossed in her notes.

This was her first party at Linus Nazareth’s home. It didn’t matter that she’d rather spend a precious Sunday afternoon and evening at home with Mike and the twins. Linus’s party was part of the job.