ERICA GETS OFF THE ELEVATOR and is facing the mirthless receptionist and the suited security guard.
“Mr. Hastings is expecting you.”
Erica heads down the hall and walks into Nylan’s office. Fred Wilmot is standing there, alone, holding a manila folder.
“Erica,” he says without a smile.
“Hello, Fred. Where’s Nylan?”
“He’s not in the room at the moment, is he?”
“I’m here to see him.”
“The morals clause in your contract specifically states that there is nothing in your past that could adversely affect your public image. By failing to disclose your aberrant and criminal actions, you’ve given us due cause to terminate you. The public will forgive a lot of behaviors. Kidnapping your daughter and then driving drunk with her in the car isn’t one of them.”
“I did not kidnap her.”
Wilmot opens the folder and reads: “. . . Unauthorized removal of Jenny Sparks from her father’s house in Dedham, Massachusetts. I’d call that kidnapping. You then drove your daughter to the Monticello Motor Inn in Framingham where you rented a room and immediately abandoned her alone in the room while you went out in search of a liquor store. On Route 9 you rear-ended a Toyota Tacoma truck and suffered cuts, contusions, and sprains. Your blood alcohol level at the time of the accident was .31 percent, almost four times the legal limit.”
The cold hard words, the cold hard truth, make Erica queasy. A bead of sweat rolls down from her left armpit.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Wilmot demands.
Erica wills herself to stay composed. She doesn’t want to give him any satisfaction. Yes, she made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t commit acts of terrorism and murder. “We all have to answer for our behaviors, Fred. Sooner or later. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
Nylan strides into the room, casual as day. “There she is, our superstar.” He gives Erica a big smile and sits at his desk. “Please have a seat.”
Erica remains standing.
“I am over-the-moon excited about your show. Three First Ladies. Every other network is pulling their hair out. How did you do it?”
“Dumb luck.”
“Dumb like a fox.” There’s tense silence, he runs his hand over his glass desktop, grows serious. “You know that we’ve become privy to your court records.”
A bead of sweat rolls down from Erica’s right armpit. The sun is pouring in the room, it’s too warm, almost stifling. “Yes.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn about your past. You paid a price for your actions and you had every reason to believe you could move on. That’s what I want to do. Move on. We expect your opening show to set ratings records. You inspire us all, and I want us to be a team for many years to come.” The good cop is on a roll. “I want to demonstrate my faith and commitment by paying you a five-million bonus on the first anniversary of your show. All taxes paid.”
What? Erica is thrown off balance. It’s a bribe, but a seductive one. Her salary is paid monthly, and taxes take a fat bite. A year from now she’d be a rich woman. Secure. Safe. She flashes to her high school days, the exhausting hours working at Burger King, trying to find a quiet corner to work on her homework during her breaks, leaving with the stench of cheap beef and rancid oil clinging to her clothes.
“There is one thing I’d like in return,” Nylan says.
Here it comes. “What’s that?” Erica asks as sweat breaks out on her brow.
Nylan leans back and smiles, ignoring her question, switching gears. “GNN is building our bench, creating the next generation of stars. I’m about to hire a brilliant young reporter named Laura Gordon, who anchors the evening news at our Tucson affiliate.”
Wilmot takes an 8x10 photograph out of his folder and hands it to Nylan, who holds it up for Erica to see.
“Isn’t she pretty? And so bright—and only twenty-four. She’s very popular, our ratings have spiked down there. She reminds me of you, although she’s very confident.”
Did Nylan turn the heat on? The office is starting to feel like an oven.
He hands the photo back to Wilmot. “Listen, Erica, with so much riding on your shoulders, I need you to pull back completely on any investigative work and concentrate on the show.”
Erica decides to force his hand—but can she keep her voice steady? “What specific investigation are you referring to?”
Nylan leans toward her, lowers his voice. “The whole country was traumatized by Kay Barrish’s death. Since it happened on my network, I feel a sense of responsibility. I know you do too, and that, in fact, you’re conducting an informal investigation. I think it’s time to leave it to professionals. I’ve hired the best private detective in the world.” Nylan stands up, crosses to the front of his desk, and leans against it, just a few feet from Erica. “I’ve given him carte blanche to take any actions he feels may be necessary to find Barrish’s killer or killers.”
Wilmot walks out of the room and returns moments later with a well-groomed man of around fifty, his thinning hair slicked back, his muscular frame encased in an expensive suit.
“Erica, I’d like you to meet Ed Spellman.”