Close to You (13 page)

The security chief gave Eliza's assistant a few minutes to transfer the call and then he played it back to hear for himself.

“I love you, Eliza. And I can't live without you.”

If this had been the first call, Connelly would have waited awhile to see what developed. But Paige said she recognized the voice as a man who had been calling every day for two weeks.

Aberrant behavior escalates.
The dictum was etched in Connelly's mind.

He dialed the police department and made a complaint on behalf of Eliza Blake.

The wheels were set in motion. A complaint number and detective were assigned and the Unlawful Calls Bureau, located in Boston, gave Eliza's call a case number.

The phone company would install the “equipment” on the line, setting up an enormously complicated computer program to intercept data pertaining to the calls. To do this sort of thing in a private home was relatively simple. In a place such as the KEY Broadcast Center, with its Centrex system . . . wow!

The Broadcast Center's central number didn't really exist. It was in limbo until the call was transferred somewhere. The operators sat at six consoles with six trunk lines each, thirty-six lines in all, spreading out to various trees throughout the company. Once a call was transferred by the operator to a specific extension, the call was not on the operator's line anymore, making it a nightmare to track.

Connelly swiveled around to his computer to start a new file on this latest threat. As he entered the information, he wished that Paige Tintle had saved those first calls, the ones that had come in during the late-night hours. Not as many calls came into the building late at night, making tracking easier.

If this guy was going to start calling during the busiest hours at the Broadcast Center, he could take months to track down.

There was no time to put on her makeup this morning.

Eliza hugged Janie and hurried out to the chauffeured Town Car which had been waiting at the curb out front for twenty minutes already. As she strode down the driveway, two men in a red tow truck pulled up. A heavyset man with a florid face lowered himself from the high passenger's seat.

“Ms. Blake? I'm Augie Sinisi.”

“Oh, Mr. Sinisi, I didn't expect you to be coming so soon. I just left the message on your answering machine last night.” Eliza reached out to shake the man's hand, but he pulled back.

“My hands are kinda dirty, ma'am, excuse me. What seems to be the trouble?”

“I'm not sure, really. But the oil light is on and I heard a knocking sound when I was driving it yesterday.”

Augie eyed the blue Mercedes sedan parked up near the garage. It wasn't new, he could tell that for certain. It had to be eight or nine years old at least. It was hard to be sure with Mercedes until you got up close. Their classic design didn't change much from year to year.

He had expected Eliza Blake to have a newer, snappier car.

“Not to worry, Miz B. We'll take it in and have a look. With a little luck, we'll have it back by the time you get home tonight.”

“Really? That's great,” said Eliza, relieved and surprised by how easy this was. If this was a sample of service in the suburbs, she was definitely going to like it here. In Manhattan, getting anything fixed was a major hassle. “Hold on a minute, Augie. I'll run in and get the keys.”

Because she was already late, and had to take the time to explain to Katharine and Paul why they would be without transportation for the day, Eliza didn't bother taking the car key off her ring when she came outside again. She just handed the whole thing over to the mechanic.

“We could have a problem here.”

The message summoning Eliza to Yelena Gregory's office at eleven forty-five was waiting for her when she arrived at work. Now Eliza, along with Range and Joe Connelly sat in the news-division president's large office. Joe Connelly, with his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up, was doing all the talking.

“Actually two problems.”

The three listened as Connelly described the series of letters and now the phone calls that he thought should be taken seriously.

“Could they be from the same person?” asked Range.

“Possibly, but I don't think so. The letters are vicious and the phone calls, well, we'll have to see what develops with the phone calls. So far, I only have a recording of one of them, but from what Eliza's assistant tells me, this man's tone has been almost reverential when he's called before. The tone of this latest call was more intense than the others. I think we are dealing with two separate characters.”

“What's being done about this?” Yelena asked brusquely.

“A phone trap is being set up.”

“How long will that take?”

“It's hard to say. The more the guy calls, the better the chances are for catching him.” Connelly paused and looked at Eliza. “Of course, we hope he doesn't call again.”

“And what about the letters?” Yelena snapped.

“I'm sending them to the FBI, to their stylistics department at Quantico. But it may take a long time to get something back. I sent some letters to them six weeks ago that someone in the entertainment division was getting and I still haven't heard anything on them.”

“They check for fingerprints, of course,” said Range.

Connelly nodded. “But don't bet the bank on prints. The guy could be wearing gloves when he writes and the envelope gets handled many times before it gets to us.”

There was silence in the room. The three newspeople took it for granted that they could get pictures from the moon or from the top of Mount Everest. They were unabashed picking up their telephones and being put through to the White House. The idea that they had to sit and wait for others to do their jobs, that they had no power over this situation, didn't sit well with them.

“What should I be doing?” asked Eliza quietly, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. She knew the others were watching for her reaction. She wouldn't whimper or cry. Weakness didn't become an anchorwoman.
Take a deep breath and get a grip.
Joe Connelly had a solid reputation. She had no choice but to let him do his job. She just prayed he would do it quickly.

Over the years Eliza had reported many stories about fans—both male and female—who were obsessed with celebrities. In fact, stalking seemed to come with the territory of being a public figure. Most celebrity-stalkers believed there was a special love relationship between themselves and the celebrities they hounded. Many cases ended with the stalkers being caught and tried and sent off to prison or psychiatric hospitals. At this moment Eliza resolutely pushed from her mind the other, more tragic, violent outcomes.
It wouldn't serve her well to go there now. She had to keep her wits about her.

“The key word here is ‘control,' Eliza,” she heard Joe saying. “It's the common element in all these types of cases. These guys lack self-esteem. They can't control other things, but they think they can control you. They want to freak you out.”

“They're doing a pretty good job.” Eliza managed a weak smile.

“Look, I don't want to scare you”—Connelly kept his voice even—”but I don't want to lessen the impact of what I'm telling you. Trust your instincts. If you feel something is wrong, it probably is. You've got to watch yourself. Be aware of everything around you.”

Abigail finished screening the approved first
FRESHER LOOK
piece, which Keith Chapel had delivered to her office. Now she sat down to the task of coming up with the twenty-second script for the promotion that would air after the broadcast this evening, teasing the audience to watch tomorrow's show.

Millions of Americans leave their children in the care of others as they go out to make a living each day. But how do you choose the people you entrust with those you hold most precious? How can you be sure that your child is safe? Eliza Blake will share with you what she's learned on
A FRESHER LOOK.
Tomorrow on the KEY Evening Headlines.

Abigail read what she had written. Anyone who had heard or read about Eliza's experience this summer surely would want to tune in. Abigail hoped that her copy was catchy enough to pull in the others. Even more, she hoped that Eliza would be pleased.

“Uh-oh. What's wrong?”

Doris stood with her back to the lighted mirrored wall as Eliza took a seat in the makeup chair and peeled back the orange wrapper of a jumbo Butterfinger.

“What could be wrong?” Eliza shrugged. “There are at least two maniacs out there obsessed with me and the one person in the world I really
want
to be obsessed with me is three thousand miles away and hasn't called me. I'm the luckiest woman in the world.” She bit off a big chunk of the chocolate candy bar. “I thought I'd just really make the perfect picture complete by downing a couple hundred extra calories.”

“Whoa, girl. Back up. What do you mean there are two maniacs out there?”

Eliza recounted the morning meeting as Doris nervously lit up a Marlboro Ultra Light.

“You're not supposed to smoke in here,” Eliza said automatically, though she couldn't have cared less. The fact was she wanted a cigarette herself.

Doris ignored her.

“Well, what are you supposed to do?”

“I'm supposed to be careful.”

“That's it?”

“Mm-hmm. Watch myself and trust my instincts. If I feel something is wrong, it probably is.”

“Oh, baby.” Doris threw her leopard-print long-sleeved T-shirted arms around her friend. “And Mack hasn't called either? I can't believe it. Maybe he's out on some story.”

“He's not. I checked the foreign insights. He's listed as being in the London bureau today.”

Doris wanted to spit out,
Bastard,
but she didn't. She also decided not to tell Eliza that Abigail Snow had come into the makeup room today, sniffing around and bringing up the subject of Eliza. She had heard Eliza had moved out of the city. Did Doris know where she was living? Was Eliza still involved with Mack McBride? She even asked exactly what Doris used to make Eliza's eyes look the way they did on air. Doris had thought it strange, since she had never seen Abigail wear any makeup.

She had heard through the grapevine that Abigail was gay. And if Doris was to trust
her
instincts, she would say that Abigail had a thing for Eliza.

But that was the last thing that Eliza needed to hear or worry about now.

Uncharacteristically for an English hotel, the room was too hot. Mack threw off the covers and lay on the bed, eyes wide open, staring up in the darkness. It was just after midnight and, exhausted by the last several nights of fitful sleep, he was desperate to get some rest.

His conscience wouldn't allow it.

He knew that the
Evening Headlines
had just finished airing in New York, but he couldn't bring himself to call Eliza. Yet when he imagined how puzzled and hurt she must feel at his withdrawal, he felt guiltier still. She hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't deserve such treatment.

Mack turned over and pushed his face deep into his pillow. He still couldn't believe he had done it. How could he be so stupid? More importantly, how could he have so quickly betrayed the woman he professed to love?

He did love Eliza. Of that he was certain. He had such hopes for their future together. His working in London while she was in New York wasn't going to be the end of things between them. While it was difficult to manage, many couples were able to sustain a commuter relationship.

If both
were true to each another.

Now the question was, Should he tell her that he had been unfaithful?

He imagined what that would be like and groaned into his pillow. Angrily pushing himself up from the bed, he walked to the window and pulled back the blackout curtain. Hyde Park was spread out tranquilly beneath him, illuminated by soft lamplight.

It was a beautiful park—the largest, though probably the least formal of London's royal parks. A picturesque place to stroll along country paths, hold hands while sitting on a cast-iron bench, picnic on the lawn, rent a boat on the Serpentine. A place Eliza would love.

You fool!

That fact was established. Now, what was he going to do about it?

He could tell her, he supposed, as he dropped the curtain and returned to the bed. That would be honest, but he knew full well that nothing would ever be the same again. And who did the confession really serve? He might feel better for unburdening himself; Eliza, on the other hand, would be terribly wounded.

Of course, there was a good chance that Eliza would find out on her own. In this business, sooner or later, everyone seemed to know who had slept with whom. He didn't want her to hear about it through the grapevine. It would crush her and she had already been through too much.

But there was no way he was going to tell her on the phone. This was something that had to be talked about face-to-face. Maybe he could explain that he had been drunk, that he had been feeling miserable about the prospect of living every day without her near him for what would probably be at least the next two or three years—that he was despondent about the real chances of their relationship making it in this situation.

A shrill ring blared from the phone on the bedside table. For once in his journalistic life, he wished it would be the night desk editor calling to tell him to get out of bed, take a car out to Heathrow and fly to some godforsaken corner
of the world, somewhere he would be out of pocket for a while. Work was the great way to avoid personal problems.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Eliza! How are you, honey? I was just lying here thinking about you.”