The Newsmakers (16 page)

Erica's wheels start racing, she replays the minutes before the interview in her mind. “In the food, it must have been in the food. But lots of people ate the food. Wait—there were those individual tamale pies.”

“I want you on-air ASAP.”

“Of course. Poor Kay. There was the caterer and that boy, that
Mexican intern. But why would
they
murder Kay Barrish? I saw the boy hand her the tamale pie, right from the oven.”

“So did I. I'm sure the LA police are going to send a detective east to question us.”

“Greg, the coincidences here are unnerving me. The ferry crashes when I'm there, and now this. Do I attract disaster?”

“It's disturbing, I understand. But the terrorists were planning that crash for a long time. And Kay Barrish had political enemies. There are a lot of people who didn't want to see her in the White House. They saw an opportunity and took it. It has nothing to do with you.”

Greg is right. Isn't he?
“I'll see you in a few,” she manages.

Erica hangs up and stands there. She's gained so much from tragedy. It almost feels as if she's made a pact with the devil. Then she sees Kay's face as she died, the terror in her eyes. She hears the screams from the ferry. And then Mark's battered face. Evil. Evil did that. There's evil in the world. Everywhere.
But you knew that, you grew up with it.

Grow up. Grow up.

Erica feels light-headed, her throat tightens, she's going to faint, she's going to fall, fall on the sidewalk and crack her head open. She looks around wildly—there's a church, a small redbrick church squeezed between two apartment houses. A sign reads: Church for All Nations
.
Erica ducks inside. The sanctuary is modest, with plain walls and wood trim. There are a couple of solitary worshipers in the pews, and it's so quiet, hushed, the only sound is the gentle
whoosh
of the broom the elderly custodian is pushing down the aisle.

Erica slips into a back pew. The sanctuary smells clean and slightly woodsy with the comforting acrid tang of half-burned candles. And that gentle, rhythmic
whoosh
of the broom. She's in a safe place, where good people aren't mugged and poisoned, where kindness lights the way. She closes her eyes and feels that goodness within herself, her best self, and she knows that as long as she holds on to that she'll be okay.

Slowly her breathing returns to normal, her head clears. Has she gained from some terrible coincidences? Yes, she has. But that only
strengthens her resolve to pay back her good fortune, to make a difference. Is she in danger? Quite possibly. But danger demands courage. She has to find that courage.

All her life Erica has felt like she was running on quicksand, with nothing to save her but her own speed and strength and determination, and no one to pull her up should she start to sink. When she finally found faith—through acts of kindness both simple and profound by teachers and strangers and Archie Hallowell and Moira O'Donnell and fellow addicts she met in rehab—she found herself on firmer footing for the first time in her life. Her faith is her bridge over the quicksand.

The custodian comes up the aisle with his broom—its soft
whoosh
is the most soothing sound Erica has ever heard, and she smiles at him and he smiles back, and in that moment she finds the grace to go on.

CHAPTER 34

AS ERICA LEAVES THE CHURCH
and rushes to work, her phone rings.

“This is Erica.”

“Nylan Hastings here.”

Erica stops, holds the phone close to her ear, and covers her other ear with her fingers. “Nylan.”

“I want you to come to the White House Correspondents' Dinner with me,” he says. The dinner is the most glittering journalistic event of the year, drawing the biggest names in media and a flock of Hollywood stars. “Jimmy Fallon is the MC, Meryl, Brad, and Denzel are all confirmed.”

Erica feels slightly disoriented for a moment. Sure the dinner is a big deal, but what about Kay Barrish's murder? And does he consider this a date of some kind? Because that's out of the question. “Um, of course, Nylan, I'd love to come.”

“Spectacular. I can get Harry Winston to loan you some diamonds.”

“Nylan, you've heard about Kay Barrish?”

“Terrible.”

“And sad and horrifying and disturbing.”

“I want you to fly out there today. You own this story. Our ratings are going to go through the roof.”

“Lesli told me you've worked with that caterer, Lisa Golden, before?”

“
I
don't work with caterers, Erica. I have people who handle that. Listen, I'll arrange a few appointments with designers. Do you have any favorites? Jason Wu, Tom Ford, YSL? You just let me know. Even I'm putting on a suit. We'll make a beautiful couple.”

“Nylan, I'm going to represent the network,” she says firmly.

“Touchy-touchy,” Nylan says. Then he laughs.

Erica is creeped out—and shocked. He doesn't really care about journalism, about truth—they're just a means to an end. And that end is ratings and parties—and
power
. And what about Kay Barrish herself, the woman, and the hopes she held for the nation?

“Best for last: George Clooney is at our table.”

Erica hangs up and picks up her pace. To even mention designer clothes and movie stars in the same breath as the murder of Barrish. The man has ice water in his veins.

Still, she must admit, the Correspondents' Dinner is a big deal. All her idols will be there: Diane Sawyer, Katie Couric, Barbara Walters. But swathed in diamonds? Not her style. She has been told, however, that sapphires do wonders for her eyes.

CHAPTER 35

MOIRA IS RENTING A SMALL
Spanish-style house in Los Feliz. She greets Erica at the door and the two friends share a hug. It's just after noon. Erica's flight out of New York landed forty minutes ago and she had her driver take her right to Moira's. A visit with her old friend, no matter how short, always centers her.

“I just got back from the station ten minutes ago, but I managed to whip up some amazing Vietnamese takeout.”

“Superwoman.”

“Look who's talking.”

“My pod is picking me up here in half an hour. Lesli, my field producer, flew out with me.”

“We're just two busy career gals.”

Their friendship is just so easy—no matter how long it's been since they last saw each other, they immediately pick up where they left off. They walk into the charming house with its terra-cotta tile floors, arched doorways, and decorative tiles.

“LA agrees with you,” Erica says. Moira—tall, with beautiful café-au-lait skin and improbable amber-green eyes—looks terrific, toned
and glowing. Her father is Irish-American and her mom is black, and they met at work—two Boston cops.

“I've become one of those annoying yoga freaks.”

“Namaste, baby.”

Erica follows Moira into the kitchen, where her friend spoons the Vietnamese food into dishes and carries them out to the dining room.

“So bring me up to the minute on the Barrish story,” Moira says.

“The caterer has been cleared. Arturo Yanez, her apprentice, had only been working with her for a couple of weeks, but she swears by his character. Well and good,
but
. . . she took her dog out for a walk and left Arturo alone in her kitchen for twenty minutes. A trace of cyanide powder was found on the kitchen backsplash in the exact spot where he made the tamale pies. Then he disappears the same night. The math ain't tough.”

“So finding Yanez is the next step.”

“Yes. I'm not optimistic about the prospects. Alive, at least.”

“This whole town, the whole state really, is in shock. That woman was loved.”

“I'm obsessed with solving this, Moy.”

“Don't get
too
obsessed, Erica,” Moira says, a cautionary note in her voice.

“Thanks. I'm feeling pretty solid these days.”

“You know where I live.”

“What about you? Work life? Love life?”

“Work is great. I'm no Erica Sparks, but we've known that for a while. As for a man—affirmative. We're having fun but it's too soon to tell. And you?”

“I've been seeing a little of Greg Underwood.”

“Eri-
ca
, mixing business and pleasure is a recipe for combustible.”

“I'm taking it
very
slow.”

“Listen, you've gotten very famous very fast. Mostly good. Mostly fabulous. Entirely deserved.
But
. . . people are going to want a piece of
you now. I'm serious about this. Fame buffers you from reality. I see it in this town all the time. I want you to take
everything
slow.”

There's a knock on Moira's front door.

“My pod has arrived. Duty calls.”

Moira reaches across the table and squeezes Erica hand. “You have me on speed dial.”

“I love you, Moira.”

“Oh shut up and get to work.”

CHAPTER 36

“
THIS IS ERICA SPARKS REPORTING
live from outside the apartment building in East Los Angeles that was home to Arturo Yanez. Yanez is the seventeen-year-old high school student who is suspected of serving Kay Barrish the cyanide-laced food that killed her last Saturday. Yanez did not return here after leaving Governor Barrish's house that night. His current whereabouts are unknown. Yanez, who is an undocumented immigrant from Juarez, Mexico, shared a one-bedroom apartment with three cousins and two unrelated persons.” The camera pulls back. “Standing next to me is one of his cousins, Felipe Munoz. What can you tell us about your cousin?”

“Arturo was worry for long time. Very worry.”

“What was he so worried about?”

“His mother. In Juarez. She's sick.”

“Sick?”

“Cancer. In her stomach.”

“Has he been back to visit her?”

“No, Arturo is afraid to go. If he goes, he maybe not get back into States. He wants to stay here. Work in a restaurant. He's a good cook. He feeds all of us.”

“Did he have any unusual visitors? Any meetings? Did you notice any change in his behavior recently?”

“He's happy to be with Recipe for Success. But he worries. So much worry for his mother.”

Lesli, Erica's producer, is standing behind the camera. Her phone vibrates. She steps out of earshot and answers it.

“Have you spoken to Yanez's mother?”

“I call her. But she is very sick. Too sick to talk.”

Lesli, still on the phone, listening intently, motions Erica to wrap it up,
fast
.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Munoz. And now we'll go back to GNN headquarters in New York.”

The camera and lights are turned off. Lesli rushes up to Erica. “I just got word from the LAPD. A hiker came across a dead body out in the desert near Joshua Tree. Hispanic teenager. Description sounds like a match for Yanez.”

“Let's head out there.” Erica helps her pod load the van. As soon as they're on the road, she turns to Lesli and says, “Book us a flight to Juarez.”

CHAPTER 37

THE CALIFORNIA DESERT IS AN
alien landscape to Erica. They leave teeming Los Angeles behind and head southeast, driving through a barren pass lined with hundreds of slowly spinning windmills—they look futuristic, surreal. As the city recedes and they get further into the desert, there are giant rock formations, cactuses, and spiny-leafed Joshua trees.

They reach an unmarked track and turn onto it. They drive deeper into the desert and within minutes civilization seems like a distant dream. As far as the eye can see, it's sand and sun, sun and sand, broken only by the huge rocks looming up from the desert floor—all of it shimmering and wavy in the heat. It's stunning, but so bleak and forbidding. Erica wonders how anything—or anyone—could survive out here.

And then, in the distance ahead of them, looking at first like a mirage, are the red lights of police cars and an ambulance. As they get closer, they see police tape forming a rough circle, and inside the circle a lifeless body lies on the ground.

They park and Erica gets out of the van. The air is like a furnace, a searing, dry heat she has never felt before. A masculine Asian woman
in a dark pantsuit with a detective badge on her belt seems to be in charge. Erica walks up to her.

“The first vulture is here,” the woman cracks. She has short black hair and a tough face with a turned-down mouth and darting dark eyes.

“Happy birthday to you too,” Erica says. “I've got a job to do.”

“As long as you don't interfere with mine.”

“How about we cooperate?”

“I've had investigations compromised by sloppy reporting.”

“Thanks for the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to do whatever I can to find the people behind Barrish's murder. You want to stand in my way or help me?”

The woman narrows her eyes and looks at Erica, softens a little, kicks at the sand. “Detective Sergeant Betsy Takahashi, California State Police. And I know who you are.”

Erica looks over at the body—it's sprawled facedown, with a single gaping bullet hole in the back of the head. “Where do things stand?”

Takahashi points to a somber Hispanic man who is speaking to another detective. “That's Martin Alvarez, the head of Recipe for Success. He just identified the deceased as Arturo Yanez.”

“How long has the body been here?”

“Approximately seventy-two hours. He was killed elsewhere and dumped here.”

“Any leads?”

“Not so far. We'll be removing the body shortly and taking it to the lab for a complete forensic analysis. Dead bodies have a way of giving up information.”

“What are you thinking?”