The Candidate (5 page)

As she puts a red queen under a black king, it hits her—when she asked Ortiz if he would take a couple of questions, the senator looked at Celeste before answering. It was almost as if this man, this war hero, this possible next president of the United States, needed his wife's permission to speak.

IT'S ONE WEEK LATER, A little past nine thirty at night, and Erica is walking home after her show.

Pretty much the whole show was taken up with updates on the search for the Buchanan bomber. Since there were no breaking developments, she had to go over the same ground again and again, trying to find new spin. She interviewed a law enforcement expert, several politicians, a psychologist specializing in trauma, personal friends of the Buchanans. It's called grasping at straws.

So far the FBI has been tight-lipped. Erica replayed footage of the young man in the moments before the bombing a dozen times. He seems to appear out of nowhere, slithering through the crowd like a snake, getting about six feet from the Buchanans, slipping off his backpack, letting it slide to the ground, turning, and disappearing back into the crowd. Blink and you miss him. His face is virtually obscured by the ski cap, dark glasses, and a full beard, but his skin tone is pale and the FBI has determined that the beard is fake. Between twenty and thirty years of age. Approximately five feet nine, weighs about 150. In the sketch released by the FBI, he looks baby-faced, unremarkable, like an assistant bank manager. Forensic analysis has determined that the bomb
was homemade, primitive, detonated by a timer, a cousin to the one the Boston Marathon bombers built.

Until he's identified and caught, the country is on edge, and stories that would usually get a lot of coverage—yet another deadly weather event, the ongoing refugee crisis, a controversial bill in front of Congress—are barely touched on. Erica had to repeat the same information so often she was afraid she would lapse into gibberish. But she kept it fresh and interesting and found perceptive guests. Still, the effort has left her exhausted, and she is savoring this chance to walk and unwind.

It's twenty blocks from GNN to her apartment—up Sixth Avenue, across Fifty-Ninth Street to Central Park West, and then up to her building at Seventieth Street. With her makeup washed off and a baseball cap and nonprescription glasses on, she's unrecognized. Erica loves the anonymity, the chance to watch the parade of tourists and fellow New Yorkers—yes, she considers herself a New Yorker now—as they stroll the nighttime streets. She feeds off the city's energy, the sense of light and movement racing fearlessly toward the future, a drive that seems to slip into a lower gear after dark as workday stresses lessen and the streetlamps and neon signs cast a comforting glow on the sidewalks. She can't imagine living anywhere else.

Erica reaches Sixth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street. There's a crowded bar and restaurant midblock, and she notices that the patrons seem frozen, riveted, with their heads turned toward the three television screens above the bar. They're all turned to GNN and
Breaking News—Buchanan Bomber Identified
is scrolling across the screen below newscaster Carl Pomeroy, who has the hour show following Erica's. She races into the restaurant in time to hear Pomeroy say, “The FBI has just announced that it has positively identified the lead suspect in the Buchanan bombing at Case Western Reserve University. The identification was accomplished using DNA found on a scrap of fabric from the backpack that held the bomb.”

A mug shot of a pale, slightly pudgy man fills the screen.

“His name is Tim Markum. He's twenty-eight years old, a trained accountant with two prior arrests, one for fraud and one for impersonating a law enforcement official. Markum's last known address was a post office box in Tucson, Arizona, which has since closed. That is the only information the FBI has released, and according to knowledgeable sources, that is pretty much all the information it
has.
”

Erica feels an enormous surge of relief, though IDing the perp is just the first step. But at least she has something fresh to report. Erica leaves the restaurant. Out on the sidewalk people have stopped, alone and in small clutches, glued to their smartphones—the whole country, the whole world, is sharing the news in real time. The new normal.

As Erica switches direction and heads back down to GNN, she remembers that she promised Jenny she would help with her book report on
To Kill a Mockingbird
tonight. She stops in her tracks and takes out her phone and calls home.

“Jenny, they've identified the Buchanan bomber.”

“That's big news.”

“Yes, yes, it is. I think I should get back to the studio.”

There's a pause and then Jenny says, in a voice tinged with loneliness, “I do too.”

“So you're all right with it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

There's another, longer pause.

“I'll ask Yelena to stay until you get home.”

Erica pockets her phone, and as she races down to the network on a wave of adrenaline, she feels herself pulled backward by a fierce undertow of guilt.

BASMATI RICE. HOW DIFFICULT CAN that be? But when Erica takes the lid off the saucepan the rice looks soggy, and there's still a quarter inch of water in the bottom. Does that mean she should turn off the oven so the salmon doesn't dry out? And what about the broccoli, which is boiling away? Is it going to be green mush by the time the rice is done?

It's Saturday, two days after the bomber was identified, and this was supposed to be a nice evening at home for her and Jenny. And it's an important night—Becky has dropped by before dinner to meet Jenny and see if they have any chemistry. The two of them are in the living room—Erica didn't want to be a hover-mother so she retreated to make dinner.

Great idea, Erica. Takeout was invented for a reason.

The whole world is avidly following the manhunt for Tim Markum, but he seems to have disappeared into a black hole. Erica selfishly hopes he isn't found for at least the next couple of hours; she would hate to be called to duty tonight of all nights.

Becky appears in the doorway and smiles shyly. “I'll leave you two alone.”

“How did it go?” Erica asks.

“Pretty well, I think. We talked all about school. She loves history and hates French, and sometimes she feels stupid because the other girls talk about things like skiing in Switzerland and having three houses, and she wonders if they're only nice to her because you're famous.”

“You got a lot out of her very quickly,” Erica says. “Sometimes I feel like I'm pulling teeth.”

“I've always been the kind of bland, nonthreatening type people feel comfortable opening up to.”

“Becky, you shouldn't sell yourself short.”

“It's just kind of a knee-jerk thing. I'm sorry. Old habits die hard.” She stands up a little straighter, as if willing herself to be confident. “I do think I clicked with Jenny. She's wonderful.”

“Most of the time. This dinner, on the other hand, is a disaster. The rice isn't cooking.”

Becky does a quick assessment. “May I?”

“Please do.”

Becky takes the lid off the saucepan of rice and turns up the heat. “Colander?”

Erica hands her one, and she drains the broccoli and puts it in a bowl.

“Lemon, mustard, butter.”

Erica retrieves all three from the fridge and Becky adds them to the broccoli, mixes it, covers the dish with tinfoil, and puts it on the warming element. Then she takes the salmon out of the oven.

“Spices?”

Erica points to the spice cabinet. Becky opens it and takes out three jars that Erica has never opened—cumin, shallot pepper, and a blend called Turkish—mixes them with a little olive oil, and spreads the mixture on the salmon. Then she sticks the fish back into the oven on broil.

Jenny walks into the kitchen. “What's going on in here?”

“Big doings,” Erica says.

“Can I help?”

“Is the table all set?”

“We still need glasses,” Jenny says, grabbing a couple. “Is Becky staying for dinner?”

There's an awkward moment. Erica hadn't wanted to make the commitment of dinner. What if Becky and Jenny had zero chemistry? Then they'd all be stuck together through a clumsy meal. But now that things are going smoothly, should she tender a last-minute invite? But she was looking forward to one-on-one time with Jenny.

“Oh, I can't stay. I have a lot of research to do tonight. I'm putting together those dossiers you want on Mike Ortiz and Lucy Winters.”

“Anything leap out at you?”

Becky looks down and nibbles the corner of her lip, as if wondering if she should open up. “Celeste Pierce Ortiz is an . . .
interesting
woman.”

“Say more.”

“Well, she's from one of San Francisco's wealthiest and most socially prominent families. But she's had an amazing career in her own right. Until she took a leave, she was one of the world's most successful international bankers, specializing in China. In fact, the president named her a special trade ambassador to Beijing. She's also written a couple of business books, is on at least half a dozen nonprofit and think-tank boards, and is worth an estimated 1.7 billion dollars.”

“She's a powerhouse, no doubt about that. I'll see her on Monday at the Buchanan funeral.”

“Will you have a chance to interview her?”

“Doubtful. But I'm fascinated by her too. And her relationship with her husband.”

“Plates?” Becky says to Jenny, who hands her two. Becky deftly plates the now perfectly done rice, the broccoli, and the glistening salmon.

Erica is impressed—Becky rolled up her sleeves and dived in. The girl is a worker, no doubt about that. She salvaged dinner without breaking a sweat. And her insecurity, which could be off-putting at times, was starting to look more like a becoming modesty.

“You didn't learn to cook like this at Burger King,” Erica says. Becky looks at her in surprise and Erica says, “I'm a fellow alum.”

“Wow, small world.”

“I can still smell the grease,” Erica says.

“Me too. Say what you will, though, Burger King taught me discipline, and compared to home it was a safe haven.” Becky immediately adds, “I'm sorry. That was too personal. I just meant that we didn't have a lot of money, and there were other . . . issues.”

The two women look at each other—they share a similar past, a similar struggle. They're not spoiled rich girls, not middle-class or even working-class girls. They're girls who've worked their way up from nothing, from less than nothing. Erica feels a wave of respect and affection for Becky.

“I'll leave you two to dinner,” Becky says, gathering up her bag.

Erica walks her to the front door. “Thanks for coming over.”

“It's my pleasure, and privilege, really. I probably shouldn't say this, but I just have so much admiration for you, Erica. You saved the world from a madman. You showed real courage and integrity.”

“I'm going to stop you right there, Becky. I appreciate the kind words, but I'm not interested in being put on a pedestal.”

Becky looks like she might burst into tears. “I'm sorry.”

Erica puts a hand on her shoulder. “I think we're both well advised to focus on our work. Burger King taught us that.”

Becky's eyes open wide and she nods her head, looking like a schoolgirl. “Gotcha. I'm sorry. I've only been in New York for a couple of months and I'm still—”

“I
forbid
you to ever say ‘I'm sorry' to me again.”

Becky makes a zipping-my-lip gesture and Erica laughs. Then she leaves and Erica shuts the door behind her.
That girl has a lot of growing up to do
.

“This salmon is de-lish, Mom,” Jenny says as Erica sits down at the kitchen table.

“Becky's a whiz in the kitchen.”

“No more potato dumplings for moi.”

“So you liked her?”

“I did. She's really nice and smart. And I think she'll probably spoil me.”

They laugh. Erica has noticed a growing confidence in her daughter, an opening out. In spite of her troubles at Brearley, the school is good for her. The girls are bright and the teachers challenge them, and Jenny is rising to the test. Her classmates may be privileged, but a little bit of privilege can be a good thing, especially if it's backed by hard work.

“I guess I'll hire her, then.”

“Can we go to the movies tomorrow?”

“Depends on your homework situation.”

“That's under control.”

“Is there anything you're dying to see?”

“The new Ryan Gosling.”

“I smell a crush.”

“Oh please, Mother, I'm not just some drooling fan. I'm his future wife.”

They laugh again, and for a brief moment Erica feels suffused with happiness. She did it; she really did it—she brought Jenny home. To a good home. A place where her daughter can feel safe and nurtured and can blossom. Has Erica finally been able to free herself from the legacy that defined her own childhood? All those frigid Maine nights spent shivering under a Dollar Store Elmo blanket that felt like it was woven out of recycled six-pack holders, listening to the drinking and drugging and screaming on the other side of the prefab's cardboard walls?

And for her part, is Jenny finally forgiving her mother for all those times she saw her stumbling around in a vodka haze—and then that terrible dark night when it all came crashing to a head.

“There's a new
Dateline
murder mystery on tonight,” Jenny says.

“I'm not sure I like you watching those shows, honey. They're morbid.”

“I think they're interesting. I might want to be a lawyer.”

“Really?”

“No, I just said it so you'd let me watch those morbid shows. Come on, Mom, admit it—murder is fascinating.”

“It can be. But you know as well as I do that it's
always
the husband who did it.”

“I've seen a few where it was the wife. Women can get weird too.”

“Women
can
get weird, can't they?” Erica's phones rings, and she glances at the caller ID. “This is Moira.”

“Say hi for me. I'll put the plates in the dishwasher.”

“Thanks, honey . . . Hi, Moy.”

Moira Connelly is Erica's best friend, a fellow reporter who stuck with Erica during her slow, sad fall and her final blackest hours up in Boston—and drove her to rehab on her day of reckoning. Moira now works as an evening news co-anchor on a local LA station.

“How are you, amigo?” Moira asks. Just hearing her voice has a calming effect on Erica—she'd trust the woman with her life.

“Hanging tough. Or trying to. You?”

“I'm good. Any thoughts on the bomber?”

Erica stands up and walks down the hall and into her office—she doesn't want Jenny overhearing any of this. “Aside from the fact that he's a coward and a psychopath? He's a smart cookie, evading capture this long. I just hope they find him soon. Then the big question becomes, did he act alone? You hearing anything out there?”

“Nobody wants to say it out loud, but people are asking who gained the most from Buchanan's death.”

“You don't mean Mike Ortiz?”

“It cleared the field for him. That was a poor choice of phrase, but . . .”

“I suppose it's the truth. But it's pretty farfetched.”

“So was the idea that Nylan Hastings poisoned Kay Barrish. Erica, we're journalists. Speculation can be the first step on the road to the truth. And it's not
Mike
Ortiz people are whispering about.”

“Celeste?”

“Bingo.”

“What's the word on her?”

“Once you get past that charming overbred exterior, she has a reputation for being an icicle, a ruthless icicle. And she's tight as glue with a woman named Lily Lau who runs Pierce Holdings, the company that manages Celeste's assets. And Celeste has
a lot
of assets.”

“Say more.”

“Lau is also Ortiz's chief fundraiser and a key campaign strategist. She and Celeste are considered the powers behind the throne. Power can do strange things to people.”

The words hang in the air a moment—
power can do strange things to people
—and then Erica says, “You know, Moy, I think I'd like to do a segment on the candidates at home. Try and get up close and personal, see what I find.”

“I smell a reporter's instincts kicking in.”

“We
are
journalists.”

Erica's work in nailing Nylan Hastings led her into the heart of darkness. Man is capable of unthinkable acts of evil and depravity. She walks over to the window and looks out at the glittering lights of Central Park, their radiance turning the leafy canopy into a sea of iridescence. “Meanwhile, I'm consumed with the bombing story. Every federal law enforcement agency is working 24/7 to find this guy. Let's hope there's a break this week.”

Erica hangs up and flashes back to the moments before the bombing, the look in Mike Ortiz's eyes when he turned to his wife for permission to speak. Her short hairs stand up. Suddenly she feels chilly. Has the temperature dropped outside? She walks out to the foyer to grab her favorite red scarf from the row of hooks on the wall beside the coat closet. She always puts her scarves there when she walks in the door. But she doesn't see the red scarf. She fingers through them. Definitely not there. She opens the coat closet. No scarf.

She walks down the hall and into the kitchen. “Jenny, honey, have you seen my red scarf?”

“Uh-uh.”

Erica scans the living room and her office, then heads into her bedroom. No scarf. A certain neurotic compulsion kicks in when she can't find something, especially something she was sure she knew the location of. She distinctly remembers putting the scarf back on one of the hooks when she wore it the day before yesterday. She walks quickly back to the front door and checks again. Nope.

Scarfs don't just dematerialize. What is going on?

Erica takes a deep breath and wills herself to cool it. It's only a scarf. She must have left it at the office. Of course. That's what happened. Right?

Then she triple-checks the locks on the front door.