Читать книгу The Will Of The Wisp - Joseph Sr. Cairo - Страница 3

Melissa Compton tightly gripped the silver cross hanging from her neck. It gave her solace most days, but not today. Her whistle blower lost his nerve two days to air. Six weeks of painstaking preparation up in smoke; not to mention the catastrophic effect on the ratings of Tunnel Vision, the news magazine for which she was feature reporter. Douglas Abbott, executive producer of the program and the man she was about to marry on Christmas day, was turning up the pressure. Marriage or no marriage, during sweeps week, every ass was on the line, regardless of its firmness. Doug had told her, in no uncertain terms, to reel in the son of a bitch whatever it took: cash, women, tickets to the Super Bowl . . . whatever.

But that wasn’t all. The flu bug had bitten her. This year’s importation from Singapore was a particularly virulent strain; she could hardly breathe, watery eyes, unbearable headache, low grade fever—the antibiotic made her feel weak, the cold medication drowsy.

Swiveling her chair toward the window, away from the rolling expanse of ivory Karastan overlaying her capacious office on the 68^th floor of 30 Rock, she gazed downward into Rockefeller Plaza, wondering how she would make it through the day, much less the week. The flags of nations unfurled like a herd of stampeding horses, relentlessly clanking their metal riggings against their freshly painted white flagpoles. The strange cacophony reverberated eerily off the monolithic slate-gray facades, drowning out the montage of Christmas carols blaring out of the cluster of six twelve-hundred watt speakers. She focused on the seventy-foot Alberta fir surrounded by horn blowing angels, then the golden Prometheus then the Channel Gardens. The ice-skaters revolved around the glistening white-smoke rectangular rink like department store manikins stiffened by the harsh December wind slip-streaming through the narrow vertical grooves of the art-deco canyon. Lately, she’d been given to bouts of depression and a shortened attention span. Concentration had always been her strong point. Pre-wedding jitters, she thought. Maybe it was just this damn cold.

“Ringing in the ears,” she said to the nurse, twirling the coiled telephone wire around the index finger of her right hand. She sneezed twice, blew her nose, and threw the crunched-up Kleenex tissue at the soft white-leather upholstered receptacle. Damn! Another miss. It landed amidst a collection of other misguided attempts that were littering the floor. “Stop the medication?” she repeated the nurse’s instruction incredulously. “I can hardly breathe as it is. Put Max on,” she demanded.

Dr. Maxwell Spire, Park Avenue physician of the rich and famous was, arguably, the best doctor in the city, not to mention the most expensive. Took no plans. What you collected from your insurance was your business. He’d better get her well enough to tape the show.

Melissa swiveled away from the window back towards her desk. That’s when she sensed someone standing at the door—huge hulk of a man, six-foot two, maybe more, dressed in stone-washed Levis and a forest green army jacket. New maintenance man, she figured. Taking over for Louis while he’s on vacation. She instinctively pointed at the waste paper basket and the collection of errant missiles scattered around it on the floor. He rushed over, scooped up the tissues, and deposited them into the basket. Then, basket in hand, he scurried out the door.

“Yes, Max. My ears are ringing.” She re-stated her symptom directly to Dr. Spire.

The doctor spoke in a deep-quilted baritone that soothed her nerves, and sported an English accent that was equally reassuring. He explained that the aspirin in the over-the-counter cold medication had most likely caused the ringing in the ears sensation. He advised her to stop the cold medicine and he promised that he’d call in a prescription in its place.

The new maintenance man reappeared with the empty trash basket and placed it back down next to the desk. If it were Louis, she wouldn’t hesitate to ask. What the hell, he was Louie’s replacement after all.

“Can you do me a big favor?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said.

“Would you mind going downstairs to Rockefeller Chemists to pick up a prescription for me?”

He nodded, his smile broadening.

Melissa rummaged through her purse and pulled out a ten and a twenty. “What’s your name?” she asked, looking up into his notably piercing blue eyes.

“Rick,” he replied.

“Okay, Rick. This should cover the cost of the medicine and you keep the rest . . . okay?’

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss Compton.” He put the thirty dollars in his back pocket and rushed out like a golden retriever.

She stared at the empty doorway. He had an interesting face beneath that three-day growth—sculpted bones with crested ridges contrasted by those haunting eyes. His charcoal black hair was naturally curled and powerfully vibrant, its thickened texture contributing to his markedly virile features. If he shaved off that beard . . . cleaned himself up a bit . . . with that voice he’d make one hell of an anchorman. Funny how some end up on the junk heap and others, like her Doug, on top of Mount Olympus.

She twirled around once again toward the window in her ergonomically designed office chair, sinking back deeply into the soft leather upholstery. She closed her eyes, and massaged her forehead, hoping the buzzing in her ears would subside. She yearned to be home in bed, under her covers. But rest was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not in this business. “That prescription had better work,” she murmured under her breath.

She turned back to her desk and dialed Les Aronson, the associate producer of Tunnel Vision. He in turn dialed Mitchell Clearwater, the whistle blower, for a 3-way conference call. Clearwater was coordinator of quality control at Thayer Farms, the leading producer of cattle feed in the US. Tons of genetically altered feed had been ingested by the nation’s livestock. Clearwater was demanding two hundred fifty thousand up front. Aronson explained that Tunnel Vision could not simply dispense cash as a quid pro quo. But Clearwater advised them that according to his attorney, there was nothing illegal about it; that he knew for a fact that other guests on the program had received monetary compensation in the past.

“Mitchell,” Melissa interjected, taking the liberty of calling him by his first name, “we can’t just fork over the money before the broadcast. Not only does it give the appearance of impropriety, it opens up all kinds of legal pitfalls. After we air the piece, the money is no problem.”

“How soon?” Clearwater wanted to know.

“A few weeks, maybe a month,” she responded. She hated haggling with these quislings. Most of the time they were no better than the scum they ratted on.

Silence. She knew Clearwater was mulling over the offer.

“You have my personal guarantee, Mitchell,” Melissa followed up. “And I’ve checked with the FDA and the Attorney General’s office . . . you’re entitled to one third of the damages . . . the fine could run up to fifty million.”

“That could take years,” Clearwater reckoned. “And if Thayer can cover their tracks I'll never see a penny. No! I want the two-fifty up front.”

Since Doug had already given her the green light, Melissa was about to accede to his demand when the new maintenance man returned. “Hold on,” she excused herself momentarily. “Thank you, Rick.” She took the medicine bag and placed it on the desk. Expecting him to heed a hasty retreat, she was taken aback when he remained, his clenched right fist planted squarely on the crown molding of her white mahogany desk. “What is it, Rick?” she asked, holding her hand over the mouthpiece.

“I don’t feel right taking your money?” he said.

“You don’t feel right? What the hell are you talking about? You did me a big favor and I want you to have it. Yes, yes,” Melissa said, returning to the phone conversation. “I hear what you are saying . . . excuse me, can you hold on just one more second?” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece again. “Rick, anything else?” she asked, looking annoyed.

“Yes, Miss Compton, I’m afraid there is.”

“What's that?”

“I have to apologize for not having introduced myself properly. I’m Rick Mallory, your eleven o’clock appointment? You know, the private detective here to discuss the Stallings kidnapping.” He dug a business card out of his Giorgio Armani wallet.

“Who?”

“Rick Mallory. Perhaps you’ve seen me on Court TV.”

Melissa did a double take—blinking four times in succession. It wasn’t possible. “Rick Mallory?” she repeated the name in amazement. “You don’t bear him the slightest resemblance.”

“I should also apologize for my appearance. I’ve been attending survival training over the weekend, in Fishkill . . . Air Force reserve.”

Melissa shook her head in disbelief.

“I was scheduled to return yesterday, but we were held over by the weather.” He pointed out the window. “I didn’t want to miss our appointment so I was forced to come directly here without going home first. Hope my appearance doesn’t offend you.”

She stared at him intently, desperately trying to reconcile the brawny roughhewn maintenance man standing before her with her image of the suave, urbane commentator she regularly viewed on Justice Today. Those were his eyes. It was Mallory!

Instinctively, she flipped a handful of her honey-blond hair over her left shoulder. “Fine, assuming you are who you say you are, why the devil are you investigating the Stallings case? The kid was kidnapped over eight years ago. I should think the trail has gone a little cold by now. Don’t you?”

“What’s that Miss Compton?” Clearwater interrupted.

“I’ll call you right back," she replied, hanging up abruptly.”

“His mother was in to see me a couple of weeks ago,” Mallory informed her. “She hasn’t given up hope of finding her son.”

“So she came calling on the Super Sleuth,” her voice derisive, mocking.

“Yes, Miss Compton,” Mallory replied, sidestepping the cynicism.

“I should think you would have had the decency to inform her that your reputation with regard to solving insolvable mysteries is mostly hype. You’re very good at reading your lines, but we both know the nature of this business.”

“I told her I would take the case,” Mallory replied resolutely.

“C’mon Mallory,” Melissa exhorted, her carefully modulated voice had risen to a decidedly sarcastic tone. “Aren’t you taking yourself a bit too seriously? Do you really expect me to believe that a non-rated, non-tournament player could beat the world chess champion at speed chess? And that episode of Truth and Anarchy with Tynan Wesley where he was cuffed and arrested had to be scripted by staffers at CTV. I know their style. Some of them worked for me before they left to work over there.”

“Play down my accomplishments if you like, but I assured Mrs. Stallings that I was going to help find her son. I was hoping you might give me your perspective on the case, since you covered the case when it went down.”

“The combined police forces of three states . . . North Dakota, Minnesota, and Montana, not to mention the FBI, couldn’t find the kid after years of painstaking investigation, turning over every rock and bramble on the drift prairie. You ever been to North Dakota, Mallory?” Her ears were ringing even louder now; she felt like her head was about to implode but despite her malaise, her juices were flowing.

“No, Miss Compton, never,” he confessed.

“Yet you think, after eight long years have gone by that you ‘re just going to waltz in and pull the kid out of a hat?”

“Maybe they missed something. One key fact, overlooked, can turn an investigation around.”

“And just how are you going to find that fact when at least fifty of the best law enforcement agents couldn’t?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. So far, I’ve read the newspaper accounts, the police depositions by the parents and neighbors, and I’ve viewed most of the TV footage. But, I’m especially interested in your take on the story.”

“Mr. Mallory . . .” Melissa's fuse had short-circuited. She was tired of playing cat and mouse with this oversized egotist. She wouldn’t answer any more of his questions. If anything, she’d be the one asking the questions. She held up her hand like a stop sign, “I’m very busy at the moment. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“I made this appointment over a week ago,” Mallory pleaded.

“Sorry, Mallory, but something came up and I really can’t help you.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding resignedly. He turned to leave.

When he got to the door, Melissa called after him: “Every expert concluded that Robbie Stallings’s abductor was probably a sexual deviant, who abused the boy and murdered him within 24 hours of his abduction. Best you can hope for is to find the killer and that isn’t likely.”

“The Stallings boy is alive,” Mallory asserted, without turning back to face her.

“And just how do you know that, Mallory?” she demanded.

“Because his mother said so and I believe her.” Mallory left, gently easing the door shut behind him.

Melissa was enraged. Who the hell did this son of a bitch think he was? He had a lot of nerve exploiting the situation, profiting at the expense of the family. There was no finding the kid and he knew it. The phone rang. Aronson again. “Is Doug willing to fork over the money?” he asked.

“Yes. He got the okay from the sponsors. You can give Clearwater what he’s asking, but only if you have to. Just make sure that he’s here this afternoon. Taping’s at one o’clock. Afterwards we’ll call Thayer. . . show them what we have . . . give them a chance to respond.”

Melissa rocked back in her chair, and took her compact out of her purse. “Christ, I look horrible,” she murmured. Her eyes ranged ravenously over her crowded desk till she caught sight of the now famous edition of People that featured her on the cover. She could hardly recognize the tall, spindly blond in the picture. Her softly textured silky blond hair flowed freely in the breeze. She appeared glamorous, but not complacent, reflective, but not insecure, cautious, but not fearful. It hadn’t been that long ago, perhaps a year . . . not even. Had it been that long since she had been relaxed enough to feel beautiful?

She picked up the prescription bag from her desk and took out the bottle of cough medicine. “One teaspoonful every four to six hours.” If one teaspoonful could do the job, two teaspoonfuls should do it better. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get the bottle open. Damned safety tops.

“Sally, come in here please,” she barked over the intercom.

Sally Cummings, Melissa’s administrative assistant, came rushing into the office—perky little brunette, with narrow eyes, curvy eyebrows, and a low-pitched voice. She was wearing that skin-tight mini skirt, two inches above the knees, that Melissa had specifically made a point of warning her about just last week.

“Sally, haven’t I warned you to dress more appropriately?” Melissa’s voice had become raspy, and seemed like it was about to give out.

“You’re right, you have. But I couldn’t get to the dry cleaners on Saturday to pick up my clothes, and this was the only thing I didn’t send out. It won’t happen again.”

Melissa was still annoyed but too sick to continue the discussion. She’d revisit the subject of her administrative assistant’s dress code another time. For now, she thought it best to accept her explanation at face value. In spite of it all, she was very fond of Sally. Besides being a fellow alumnus of North Dakota University, graduating just three years after Melissa, she had excellent office skills and meshed well with Melissa’s compulsive personality. Sally saw to it that everything got done, and got done right. And she always held an ear open for Melissa to talk about her often times rocky social life. Over the past couple of years, Melissa had grown to depend on Sally for moral support.

“Can you open this for me, Sally?” Melissa asked politely, handing her the bottle.

Sally placed her palm firmly on the screw-top as she simultaneously pushed down and twisted. Then she poured the dose into the measuring cup the pharmacist had provided.

“Two teaspoons, Sally,” Melissa demanded.

“It says one, Miss Compton.”

“Two,” Melissa insisted.

Sally carefully measured two teaspoonfuls and handed the dose cup over to Melissa who drank it down in a gulp, wincing as she swallowed.

“Sally, can I ask you something?” Melissa inquired. Her voice seemed re-energized by the syrup.

“Yes, Miss Compton.”

“Why didn’t you announce Mr. Mallory?”

“I did announce him, Miss Compton.”

“Oh! My ears are ringing . . . clogged, I must not have heard you. Did you know that was Rick Mallory, the commentator who appears on Court TV?”

“I don’t watch Court TV,” Sally confessed.

“What are your impressions of him, Sally?”

“Very strong, yet gentle,” Sally said, gazing dreamingly out the window.

“Get me Mr. Abbott on the telephone,” Melissa ordered, veering swiftly away from the subject of Rick Mallory.

Douglas Abbott, Melissa’s fiancée, a major player in the network news business was a seminal genius, never kowtowing to the media moguls. He had a slate of successful programs, starting out as associate producer of Saturday night Star Trek reruns on WNEP out of Scranton, Pa. The Network picked him up as producer of the local news in Pittsburgh, and he quickly demonstrated his metal, quickly bringing the broadcast to the top of the ratings. After a string of successes in local markets, he hit the national networks in the early nineties, producing The Nightly Report, with Edgar White. It instantly took off, surging past the competition. He introduced Tunnel Vision as a secondary vehicle to air the features that couldn’t make the nightly news. But the program exceeded his expectations, turning out to be a bonanza. Hiring Melissa as feature reporter was a stroke of genius; the first news bunny to assume the role of anchor on a news magazine. Featuring a crack investigative staff, the show was first rate. Tunnel Vision soon became the top-rated program on television and sustained its position for six years running.

The relationship between Doug and Melissa had been completely platonic. Doug, ten years her senior had a wife and two children. Episcopalian, from central Pennsylvania, he was staid, proper and unbending. Yet, his harsh exterior belied a sensitive interior. Those close to him grew to worship him not only for his exceptional business acumen but also as a person. He was a moral force in the industry, both feared and paradoxically, adored. Melissa, a Catholic from the mid-west was his young protégé. The paternal shield that Abbot placed between them at the outset all but dissolved over the years of their close association. Melissa’s allure was too much to resist, even for the staunchest of Sunday church-goers. Blond, blue-eyed, ivory skinned, the five-foot seven long-legged beauty outshined most cover girls when it came to glamour. The confidence she received from Doug put her on even footing with the elite intelligentsia of the New York media, with whom she sparred in feisty hard-hitting interviews, never giving and inch. Over time, the familiarity between them blossomed into love. Doug divorced his wife four years ago; he then pursued Melissa with the same intensity that he pursued television ratings. Their partnership, in the immensely successful Tunnel Vision, was the aphrodisiac that propelled their public and private lives and was about to culminate with their wedding. Three presidents adorned the guest list, as well as every network executive and major CEO of every media conglomerate in the country. More like a coronation than a wedding: the king and queen of network news would have a world class wedding bash, followed by a two-week honeymoon on Grand Bahama Island at Abbott’s private estate then assume permanent residence in the Garden of Eden, his penthouse atop 300 Central Park West.

The loutish aspect of that oversized egotist, Mallory, presented a stark contrast to the sedate iconoclast she was about to marry. Mallory had youth, boyish charm, and an animal magnetism that he projected with an annoying lack of subtlety—Doug, maturity and power. The age difference between them had never entered her mind. It was a non-issue. She worshipped Abbott’s idealism, sense of purpose, and capacity to reduce corporate giants to sniveling sycophants. It was just that she was caught off guard by Mallory. Mistaking him for the maintenance man had set things off in the wrong direction. For the first time in a long time she had exited her public persona and reanimated the farm girl from Fargo. Why had she been so contentious with the man? True, his self-confident manner had rubbed her the wrong way . . . but he had a certain allure . . . a likable smile with eyes that pierced her armor. Why then had she felt this overbearing compulsion to send him on his way?

The sound of Abbott’s voice immediately put her at ease, refocusing her attention to the business at hand. “Line up Clearwater?” Abbott asked.

“Yes. We’re taping this afternoon,” she replied. She paused purposely. “I had a strange visit, this morning—from Rick Mallory. You know him?”

“The Super Sleuth. I should say so. I hired him,” Doug revealed.

“You hired him?” Melissa was stunned.

“You know that we own a piece of Court TV. I got a glimpse of him being interviewed after the Code of Samuel Case. I sent my people over and offered him the spot on Justice Today. He was an immediate hit. It’s one of the top rated shows on cable. I was thinking of bringing him over to the network.”

“He wants to investigate the Stallings kidnapping. He came by to get my impressions.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” Doug replied. “We’ll do a feature on Tunnel Vision. If he comes across well, we’ll make him a full-time correspondent.”

“What the hell do you think he is he going to turn up after all these years?”

“Does if really matter? Do a retro piece. Bring it up to date. If he does uncover something it’ll just be a bonus. I’m calling Burns at CTV. I want to set up an appointment with him this afternoon. Meet with him. Give him whatever he wants.”

“I have the Clearwater interview this afternoon, remember?”

“Then meet him afterwards.”

“I thought I’d go over to Thayer Farms. Give them a chance to respond.”

“Let them chew the cud for a day. I want you to meet with Mallory as soon as possible. I’m very excited about this.”

“Sure, Doug. I won’t disappoint you. I’ll deliver him to you as a wedding present.”

“If you can deliver Mallory, I’ve got a real surprise for you.”

“What?”

“How would you like to be the first woman to anchor election night?”

“What about White?”

“You heard me didn’t you? The first woman to anchor election night.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“How’s that cold of yours?” Doug inquired.

“A lot better. A lot better,” she lied.

“Call me later. Let me know how it goes with Mallory.”

Melissa hung up, more unsettled than before. Instead of placing distance between herself and this self-styled egomaniac, she would have to interact with him again. And on his own turf!

“Sally, call Rick Mallory’s office and see if you can get me an appointment for this afternoon.”

“Should I come along?” Sally asked.

“No, Sally. No need. I’ll meet with Mr. Mallory alone.”