The Candidate (12 page)

THE HIGH LINE IS ONE of New York's newest wonders—a former elevated railroad line that has been turned into a park that stretches some twenty blocks from the former meatpacking district up to Thirty-Fourth Street. It's gorgeously landscaped and offers a banquet of urban viewscapes. But today Erica is too tense to savor its charms. As she waits for Vander she paces, ignoring the surrounding sea of tourists and natives. She hears police sirens in the distance, followed by an ambulance's wail. She sits on a bench, crosses her legs, and watches the left one bouncing; she stands up, never taking her eyes off the staircase that leads up from the street below. It's 3:55.

Four o'clock comes. And goes. Now it's 4:10 and now it's 4:15 and now it's 4:20 and now Erica's anxiety is revved up into overdrive. The presidential election is just months away, the Democratic convention is weeks away, and if Vander has discovered something troubling about Mike Ortiz she needs to build her case quickly. A woman recognizes her in spite of her cap and sunglasses and gives her an encouraging smile. Erica tries to smile back but it comes out closer to a twitch. Thank God New Yorkers are blasé to celebrity; she's not sure she could handle a selfie assault right now.

At 4:30 she takes out her phone and calls Vander. His voice mail picks up, and she leaves a message. “Martin, it's Erica. I'm here at the High Line. Are you all right? Please call me.”

At 4:50 Erica decides to go to Vander's house. She hates to disturb his wife and children, but she needs to make sure he's all right. And, of course, she's burning to hear his news. She races down the steps to Twenty-Sixth Street and heads east. At the corner of Ninth Avenue she sees what caused the police sirens and ambulance wails. A body, covered by a police tarp, lies in the avenue, a good ten feet from the curb. Erica feels a terrible sense of foreboding. She approaches a cop.

“What happened?” she asks. The cop looks at her skeptically and then recognizes her.

“Hit-and-run,” he says.

“Who is the victim?”

“White male. Late middle age.”

“Do you know his name?”

The cop shakes his head and then nods in the direction of a dark-suited Asian man. “Detective Hirata would.”

Erica walks up to the detective, who is taking a statement from a witness. “I'm very sorry to interrupt, but have you identified the victim?”

Hirata shoots her a hard glance. “Sorry, but nobody jumps the line, not even Erica Sparks.”

“I was supposed to meet Martin Vander on the High Line, and he never showed up. I just want to make sure he wasn't the victim.”

Hirata turns to her with a resigned expression. “I'm sorry.”

“It
is
him?”

The detective nods.

Erica takes two steps backward, is afraid she'll topple over.

“Were you friends with Vander?” Hirata asks.

“We were working together. What happened?”

“He was crossing the street with the light when that car”—he points to a late-model BMW—“ran him over. The driver jumped out of the car and fled on foot.”

“There must have been a lot of witnesses.”

“There were, but the perpetrator had on a ski cap and dark glasses, and I'm getting a lot of conflicting descriptions—white, Latino, Asian, a teenager, in his thirties, tall, not so tall. Whoever he was, he could sprint.”

“What about the car?”

“Stolen two hours ago on the Upper West Side.”

“Has his family been informed?”

The detective nods. “A hit-and-run in broad daylight is pretty rare.”

Erica looks down at the cold, impersonal police tarp. Under it lies the mangled body of a man she respected and liked. A man who was helping her. A man who had something important to tell her. Gone. Dead. Murdered?
Was he murdered?
Murdered before he could tell Erica what he had learned? A man she had sought out and enlisted in her investigation. If he was murdered, she was responsible. Erica feels a crashing wave of guilt engulf her.

She gets the detective's card, tells him she'll be in touch, and raises an arm to hail a cab. As one pulls to a stop in front of her, her guilt is joined by determination—a fierce resolve to find out the truth about Mike and Celeste Ortiz. Is Vander's death a warning to back off? If it is, it backfired.

THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY ERICA IS at her desk at GNN. She has a headache and her feet hurt. The last couple of days have been rough. She calls Detective Hirata three times a day, but there have been no leads in Vander's death. There were no fingerprints in the car, so identification of the perpetrator has been stymied. The police have released a sketch, and in it, the man looks . . . generic. Regular features, race indeterminate; the only thing witnesses agree on is that he's of medium build. The fact is the hit-and-run could easily have been an accident. But Erica highly doubts it. If only, if only,
if only
she could find out what it was Vander wanted to tell her.

Adding to her frustration is the lack of any major developments in the Buchanan bombing and subsequent murder-suicide. Although the police don't considerate it particularly significant, Erica is intrigued and troubled by the fact that the whereabouts of both Tuttle and Markum in the week before their respective crimes is unknown. They seem to have both disappeared into the ether. There are no credit card transactions, no sightings, no nothing. Where were they? And maybe more importantly, who were they with?

The only other piece of possibly significant information to come out is that Peter Tuttle had a large life insurance policy that named his wife as the sole beneficiary. She's due to receive three million dollars. Amy Tuttle has admitted that the family is thousands of dollars in debt, and that her husband worried obsessively about the burden it was causing her and their two young children.

It's just after lunch—Erica couldn't choke down anything more than a few bites of cold pizza—and she's going to leave in a few minutes to attend Martin Vander's memorial service. It's being held at the Ethical Culture Society on Central Park West, just a couple of blocks down from her apartment. She sent his widow flowers and a personal note, but she wants to go and honor his memory.

There's something else that's bothering her. Something so painful that she hates to admit it, even to herself. She crosses and recrosses her legs, shuffles some papers around, checks her e-mail. Then her phone rings. She dreads answering it—until she sees it's Moira.

“Hi, Moy.”

“Boy, you sound down.”

“Two words and you can tell?”

“Actually I can tell in half that. What's going on?”

“Vander, of course. I'm sad, shocked, guilty, frustrated. And the Buchanan case, which is going nowhere. Moy, I'm just feeling overloaded and having these terrible thoughts . . .”

“What terrible thoughts? Spit it out. This is me here.”

Erica looks out her office window at the sunbaked city, the city of her dreams.
Beware of answered prayers.

“Oh, Moy, I'm starting to think . . . to think that it was a bad idea for me to get custody of Jenny. I'm never home, I'm missing meals and school events, she's bonding like a house on fire with Becky, which I think is partly passive-aggression toward me, and I just feel . . .” Erica's throat tightens. “I feel like I'm failing at being a mother.”

Moy lets the words hang there a moment before saying, “Oh, sweet baby girl, please know that you are loved. By me, of course, but also
by Jenny. She's not expecting perfection from you. She's a smart kid—after all, she's
your
kid—and she knows you're trying your best.”

“Am I, though? I could probably carve out more time for her if I really tried, but right now I'm consumed by my work. I feel like I can't let up or I'll lose whatever momentum I have.”

“Your love for the job is part of the equation. Jenny understands that. She may not like it all the time, but she gets it. And she admires you.”

Erica takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “The truth is, Moy—oh, this is hard to admit—but sometimes I think
my
life would be easier if she went back and lived with her father.”

“Of course your life would be easier, but it would also be lonelier, much lonelier. And less fun. And less fulfilling. You love that kid heart and soul, Erica Sparks, and she loves you and she is
so
proud of you. Do you mess up at times? Yes, you do. Welcome to motherhood.”

Erica exhales with a soul-deep sigh. She sits up straight as glints of hope and promise flow into her veins like oxygen. Somebody was smiling on her when they sent Moira Connelly—the proud, smart, beautiful daughter of two Boston cops, one black, one Irish—into her life.

“You there, kiddo?” Moira asks.

“What do you know about motherhood? You don't have any kids.”

“And believe me, it's not an accident,” Moira says. “I took all that tuition cash and sprang for a Beemer.”

Erica has to laugh at that. And then Moira laughs. And now the two of them are roaring like kids, laughing in celebration of motherhood and anti-motherhood and friendship and the crazy, complicated contradictory absurdity of it all.

And yes, you are trying your best.

When the laughter finally dies down there's silence, a silence filled with the love between two old friends.

“You're my guardian angel,” Erica says finally.

“Oh please, you know I'm schmaltz-phobic. I just called to rave about these Louboutins I scored online for sixty bucks.”

“Text a pic.”

“It's been sitting in your box for ten minutes. Why do you think I called in the first place?”

As Erica hangs up, grabs her bag, and heads out to Vander's service, she thinks,
Saved by the shoe.

THE ETHICAL CULTURE SOCIETY IS located in a handsome redbrick and limestone building, built in 1910, on the corner of Sixty-Fourth Street and Central Park West. Erica makes her way to the meeting room. It's a soaring wood-trimmed space. She slips into a back pew. All the seats are filled and Vander's family is onstage. His wife, Margaret, is an attractive woman in her forties who looks like she's drowning in grief, but is dry-eyed, clearly marshaling her resources, determined to get through the service without breaking down.

Erica listens as one speaker after another talks about Martin Vander's integrity, his intelligence, his scientific mind leavened with wit and compassion. Sitting there, Erica is moved, but she can't shake her guilt. Would he still be alive if she hadn't enlisted him in her investigation? She pushes aside the futile conjecture. It won't bring him back, and he
agreed
to help her. He was excited by the prospect of exploring whether Mike Ortiz was somehow . . .
altered
after his time as a prisoner in Iraq.

The atmosphere in the room is sad, hushed, and comforting—it feels something like a sanctuary to Erica. Ever the journalist, she notes that there's little makeup on the women, lots of uncombed hair on the
men, and that their clothes run to the understated, even dowdy. Erica is reminded that New York is home to scores of colleges and universities, including Columbia, Barnard, and NYU. This is a tribe of New Yorkers she rarely sees—intellectuals, humanists, academics—curious and caring, carrying on learning traditions that harken back centuries and speak to man's nobler pursuits. It's another world from the pressure-cooker atmosphere of GNN, and from the celebrity worship, ravenous ambition, and worship of wealth that seems to pervade so much of the city's zeitgeist.

The service ends with Vander's teenage son and daughter singing “Knockin' on Heaven's Door.” When they finish there isn't a dry eye in the house. Erica remains seated as the mourners make their way up the aisle. She wants to say a few words to Margaret Vander, who is down in front of the stage accepting condolences.

When the room has almost emptied out, Erica makes her way to Margaret, who stands alone as the gathering ends and the future looms. Erica waits until Margaret sees her and smiles wanly.

“Thank you for coming,” she says.

“I wanted to pay my respects. Your husband was such a lovely man.”

“Wasn't he?”

“He was helping me with a project.”

“Yes, he mentioned it to me. He was enjoying it, found it challenging. And Martin loved a challenge. So thank you for brightening his final days.”

“He brightened mine.”

“His enthusiasm was infectious, wasn't it?”

Erica nods.

“I thought you might come today, and I'm glad you did. I know Martin was on his way to meet you when he was killed. He had something for you in his briefcase. I brought it with me.”

Margaret Vander takes a small package out of her bag. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.
For Erica
is written in marker on the outside. Margaret hands it to her.

“I have no idea what it is. But it's yours.”

“Thank you. If there's anything I can do now, ever, please let me know.” Erica grasps Margaret's hand just as tears start to roll down the widow's cheeks.

BACK AT HER DESK, ERICA gently unties the string on the package and opens the brown paper. There's a book inside. It looks ancient—the paper is foxed and brittle and looks like it could crumble into dust at any second. And the book is in Chinese. Erica gingerly opens it in a few places. The characters are graceful and beautiful, but of course she has no idea what they mean.

Why did Martin Vander want Erica to have this? What could it possibly have to do with Mike Ortiz? And what is the book
about
?

Erica Googles “Chinese languages,” and several Chinese alphabets come up. She tries to match the characters on her screen with the ones on the book. It's hopeless. She knows China has many regional languages, and with a book this old she hasn't a clue where to begin. But clearly Martin Vander thought this text was important in understanding Mike and Celeste Ortiz.

Erica stands up and paces, feeling pressure to prepare for tonight's show—which is going to include segments on the drought in the West, the spread of the West Nile virus, and updates on the Buchanan bombing. But she feels a pulsing urgency to make some sense of this book. The nominating conventions are just around the corner. Once Mike
Ortiz is the official nominee, her investigation will only become more difficult. And Lucy Winters will be the only thing standing between Ortiz and the Oval Office.

Erica grabs her phone and calls Becky. “Listen, Becky, can you do some research for me?”

“That's what I'm here for.”

“I need to find a scholar of ancient Chinese texts.”

“Sounds fascinating. May I ask what for?”

Becky has become
so
inquisitive.
Of course she has, she's a budding journalist.
Still, some instinct tells Erica to hold back. “Oh, just a segment I'm considering about China's global economic clout. I want to tie it to their history, traditional financial customs, so forth.”

“I see. So you need a scholar to explain their ancient customs to you.”

“Ah . . . yes. Exactly. I'd like to find the best, of course.”

“I'll get right on it,” Becky says.

Erica hangs up and gets to work on her follow-up to the Buchanan bombing. She's growing obsessed with the missing week in both Markum's and Tuttle's chronology. They both disappear, and when they reappear they commit horrific crimes. Almost as if they were programmed to kill and then set loose. She could certainly discuss this theory on tonight's show, but she's hesitant. She wants to keep her suspicions sub rosa for now. The fewer people who know what she suspects, the safer she feels. Head down, one foot in front of the other, keep probing. But where? She walks into the kitchen for no reason and then walks back into her office, pacing, feeling stuck, stymied, stifled—buried under a barrage of questions whose answers seem out of reach.

Erica slips out of her dress, into yoga pants and a T-shirt, and does twenty minutes of strenuous Tae Kwon Do. When she finishes she feels stronger, more in control. Something will break open—and if not, she'll kick it open. The truth is her lodestar, and she won't rest until she reaches it.

Becky calls back. “Harvard's Department of East Asian Languages
and Civilizations is considered one of the best in the world. There's a professor there who has written extensively on ancient Chinese texts. His name is George Yuan. From my research he's the tops in the country. I also have a half dozen backups if he doesn't work out. The full list, with all contact information, should be in your in-box.”

“Good work, Becky, thank you. And I'm sorry so much of the job has been the care and feeding of Jenny.”

“That's okay, really. In fact it's been, and continues to be, a total pleasure. But I am eager to prove my journalistic props.”

“Of course you are.” Erica hangs up and calls George Yuan's office at Harvard.

“This is George Yuan.”

“Hello, Professor. My name is Erica Sparks. I'm a journalist.”

“I know who you are, of course. And I'm George.”

“I'm calling because I've been given a book, a book in Chinese. It looks very old. Of course I can't read Chinese so I have no idea what it's about. I was wondering if you had the time, or inclination, to take a look.”

“Who gave you this book? Can't that person tell you what it is?”

“I got it from Dr. Martin Vander, who you may know.”

“I know his work, yes. And I saw his obituary in the
Times.
Very sad.”

“I have reason to believe the book is related to an investigation I'm conducting.”

“Interesting. Can you text me a picture of the book?”

“Hold on a sec.” Erica takes a picture of the cover and texts it to Yuan.

“Got it. Let me just take a look . . .”

There's a pause, a long pause.

“Are you there . . . George?”

When he answers, his voice is charged with excitement and gravity. “What exactly is your investigation centered on?”

“I would rather not get into that, especially on the phone.”

“I see.”

“Can you tell me what the book is about?”

“If you're worried about the phone, I should also keep my counsel. Can you come up to Cambridge and bring the book with you?”

“Of course. With my newscast, I can't come until the weekend. Does that work for you?”

“When something intrigues me, I make the time. And I am
very
intrigued.”

“And I'm intrigued as to why you're so intrigued.”

“Then we will be a good team. I can tell you that Dr. Vander uncovered an exceedingly rare—and important—manuscript.”

Erica hangs up and books a seat on the Acela to Boston on Saturday. Then she remembers she promised Jenny a trip to the Cloisters that day.