Close to You (7 page)

Range walked into the office and took a seat on the couch against the wall, staring at Keith intensely.

“How are they coming?”

“Well, I think you'll be pleased with the first one. Eliza has tracked it already and the editing is just about finished.” Keith prayed that the executive producer would be satisfied.
Bullock had a high standard for all the pieces that appeared on his broadcast. But with so much advertising money on the line for these
FRESHER LOOK
pieces, Keith knew that Range was going to be extraordinarily critical.

Range nodded as he ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “That's the one about the child-care night-mares, right?”

“Uh-huh. We've got some really powerful, and bizarre, hidden-camera video of kids being abused by their caretakers, and great sound from overwrought parents. We're also getting into what parents can do to try to make sure it doesn't happen to them.”

“Love it,” declared Range, slapping his hand on his leg. “That's what we want to achieve whenever possible in these pieces. They can't all be ‘feel-good' stories. I want our viewers coming away with a feeling that they want to tune in to us again because we've given them news they haven't gotten before, news that makes them think and reflect. And always,” Range continued adamantly, “I want these pieces to showcase Eliza. We want lots of her on-camera involvement in these stories.”

“Gotcha.”

Range rose from the sofa and put his hand on Keith's shoulder. “You're the right man for this job, Keith. I have confidence in you.”

As he watched Bullock leave, Keith wished he had more confidence in himself. Lately he wasn't feeling like much of a man at all.

“Sinisi's,” answered the man dressed in navy-blue mechanic's overalls. He balanced the phone on his shoulder and grabbed a pencil as he scanned the pages of the oversized appointment ledger that lay on the paper-strewn metal desk.

“Sure, Mrs. Palumbo, we can fit you in tomorrow. Just bring in the car in the morning and I'll have one of the guys drive you back home or, if you want, I can have someone come over and pick up the car.”

Augie squeezed his eyes shut, hoping she would choose the latter.

“Fine.” He pumped his beefy fist into the air. “No, it's no problem at all. We'll be there in the morning. Give me your address again.”

Augie Sinisi had quite a clientele at his service station. Specializing in foreign cars, he had a roster of steady customers who brought in their Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars when it was time for their oil changes and tuneups. He had built his business by having highly skilled mechanics and treating his customers right. Going the extra mile for them, making things as easy as possible for them, ensured they would come back, give him more business and recommend
him to their friends. Friends who also drove expensive cars. Wealthy friends who lived in big houses filled with lots of grown-up toys.

Though Augie pretended otherwise, he knew damn well where the Palumbos lived. Mr. Palumbo usually dropped their Lexus off at the station, taking the car key from his key ring and leaving it in the ignition. After the work was done, Augie had returned the vehicle himself, having one of the boys follow behind to drive him back to the garage.

The Palumbos had a seriously nice spread.

Now, if only Mrs. Palumbo would leave her entire key ring in the car.

It was surprising how many people did that.

Paige recognized the caller's last name immediately.

“This is Samuel Morton. My daughter Sarah has been corresponding with Ms. Blake.”

“Yes, Mr. Morton, of course. This is Paige Tintle, Ms. Blake's assistant. How can I help you?” Paige asked, picking up her pencil to jot down the message.

“Well, Sarah and I were supposed to come into the news studio tomorrow and meet Ms. Blake.” Paige thought the man's voice sounded stressed and it crossed her mind that he might just be nervous about calling the prestigious news organization's anchorwoman. She knew she would have been, had she been making the call as an outsider.

“Yes. We're all set up for eleven-thirty tomorrow,” she answered brightly, trying to put him at ease. “And Ms. Blake has made lunch reservations for after your tour if you and Sarah are available.”

A loud sob burst through the receiver Paige held to her ear. As the man wept, Paige took down his message.

Sarah had died at Sloan-Kettering the night before.

Larson Richards pulled his big black late-model Mercedes sedan into the driveway of the home where he had grown up. As he opened the car door, a blast of hot, sticky air met him. He pulled off his soft beige, elegantly cut suit jacket and hung it on the hook in the back seat.

Rolling back the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, he loosened his Hermes tie and wished he had realized that he would be coming to do this today when he dressed this morning. But after the meeting with his investors in his office this afternoon, it was clear that, if he wanted to go through the house one more time before the closing on Friday, today was going to be his last opportunity.

Richards took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the film of perspiration that covered his brow. Things were not going well with this deal. He had organized a syndicate of investors contributing millions of dollars to back him as he attempted to buy and consolidate the individual, small, mom-and-pop owned pizzerias that operated in just about every town in the northern half of New Jersey. Richards had seen an opportunity. If he could buy up all the little pizza parlors and consolidate them under one umbrella, he could turn around and sell the whole package to
a national company, trading as “Jersey Pizza,” making a huge profit for his investors and himself in the process.

Approximately three billion pizzas were sold in the United States each year, but the tomato and cheese pies sold in New Jersey were in a class of their own. Residents who moved away from the Garden State claimed that pizza made in other parts of the country was not nearly as good. Since
The Sopranos,
with its northern New Jersey locale, had become such a cultural phenomenon, Larson was even more convinced his “Jersey Pizza” idea would work. But he had to find a buyer with deep pockets and he needed money to keep his business afloat until he could get to that finish line.

The investors, confident because of their fantastically good luck in the booming stock market, piled on board happily at first. The double-digit profits on Wall Street had made them very wealthy in a relatively short period of time. What Larson Richards outlined for them promised to double or even triple their investments. Who could say no to a business opportunity like that?

But as Wall Street corrected and the pizza deal suffered one setback after another, the investors had become less cocky and more worried. Richards was struggling from week to week to make his payroll. The expensive cars he had leased so that his offices could impress the prospective business sellers sat unused in his company parking lot, as he had had to let some of his people go. But the Mercedes and BMW dealerships didn't give a rat's ass about Richards's economic hard times. The costly leases still had to be paid each month. So did the mortgage on his office building.

He had so much invested now, there was no turning back. He had long ago divested himself of his stock portfolio, taken a second mortgage on his house, and emptied his sizable IRA account, plowing all the money back into the pizza deal. He was convinced that if he could just keep things afloat a few more months, ultimately it would be all right. And he had just spent most of his afternoon trying
to convince his skeptical and angry investors the same thing.

Thank God this house is closing on Friday,
he thought as he let himself in through the front door.
There will be another two million dollars in the bank next week.

He walked slowly from room to deserted room, wondering why he didn't feel sadder or more nostalgic. He had spent his boyhood and teenage years in this house and his parents had tried hard to provide a life for him that was full of happy memories.

But he was angry with them nonetheless. They hadn't been there for him when he really needed them.

He climbed the large, center hall staircase, feeling tired, his feet shuffling heavily on the polished wooden steps. In the upstairs hallway, he walked right past his old bedroom without stopping, heading directly to his parents' room.

It was empty now, the furniture all carted away by the bargain-hunting antiques dealer who had purchased the contents of the gracious home for a fraction of its true worth. But what else could he have done? He didn't have the time to do the calling around and researching necessary to find out how he could get the best prices for his mother's carefully acquired antique furniture collection. His time was better spent trying to hold his business deal together, and the quicker the house was empty and sold, the sooner he would have the big cash infusion he so desperately needed.

The walls of the master bedroom were marked with smudged outlines where the triple dresser and massive four-poster bed once stood. Images of jumping up and down on that big bed as a kid flashed through Richards's mind, but he pushed the memories aside. He didn't want to remember the good times. Those were history. The recent past had not been so kind.

He opened the heavy paneled door and stepped into his mother's walk-in closet. It, too, was empty now. All her dresses and suits were gone, but the smell of her perfume still lingered. He exhaled deeply to clear his mind as he reached for the dial on the wall at the back of the closet.

He knew the combination by heart and methodically he turned the safe's dial back and forth, listening for the sound of the tumblers clicking softly into place. The square panel opened quietly, revealing, just as he expected, nothing inside.

Larson had known the safe would be empty because he had checked it right after his parents' death, removing everything in it at the time. His mother's jewelry, the promissory notes his parents had asked him to sign. This last trip today was a final attempt to make sure that he hadn't missed anything.

Eliza's eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks were blotchy when she showed up in the makeup room a half hour before airtime.

“Honey!” cried Doris, rushing over and putting her arms around Eliza. “What's wrong? What happened?”

“Oh, Doris,” Eliza whimpered. “Remember that girl I told you was writing me? The one with cancer? Well, she died.” The tears began to flow again.

As she held on to Eliza, Doris, ever professional, glanced up at the wall clock. There was a lot of work to do in a relatively short time if Eliza was going to look decent on television tonight.

“Here, sweetie, sit down.” Doris calmly guided the anchorwoman to the chair. As she listened to Eliza's story about Sarah Morton's father's call canceling the meeting, Doris went to the mini-refrigerator under the counter and pulled out an ice pack. It was imperative they get that eye swelling down.

Eliza leaned her skull back against the headrest and Doris squeezed drops of Visine into the anchorwoman's troubled eyes. Closing her heavy lids, Eliza felt the soothing cold of the frozen blue ice mask. She sat quietly for a
few moments while Doris clucked over her and massaged her neck and shoulders, wondering why she was taking this so hard. Eliza hadn't even met Sarah Morton.

“You've got a lot on your plate right now, Eliza,” said Doris gently. “Everything will work out. You'll see.”

Eliza reached back to pat Doris's arm, knowing full well that Sarah's death wasn't the only thing that had put her into such a state. Hearing about the tragedy had just pushed her over the top. It brought up all the old memories of John's death and struck the most terror-filled chord of all. The fear of losing her own Janie. With everything going on in Eliza's life right now, she was vulnerable and she knew it.

Tonight they wouldn't be able to get away with merely airbrushing Eliza's beautiful skin. More corrective measures would be necessary. Doris expertly dabbed at each dark pink blotch that scattered across Eliza's face and then smoothed a creamy foundation to even things out. Blush and powder followed. With the eyes she took even more special care. The ice pack and Visine had only been able to do so much.

Doris brushed taupey eyeshadow over Eliza's lids and outlined them with a fine aubergine eyeliner. The plum color made the blue of Eliza's eyes pop out, taking attention away from the bloodshot white parts. She applied a darker brown powder along the orbs, to give the eyes depth and drama. On the middle of the eyelids, Doris defied the general rule among makeup artists not to use sparkle on television, ever so lightly brushing on a bit of shiny light peach glitter and thereby adding warmth and life to Eliza's tired eyes.

“God, Doris, you deserve an Emmy for the job you did tonight,” Eliza said in wonderment as she looked at the final result of Doris's labors in the brightly lit mirror that covered the wall in front of them.

Eliza rose tiredly from the chair and air-kissed Doris on the cheek, careful not to smudge the lipstick Doris had so
painstakingly painted. Eliza squared back her shoulders and stood erect

In a half hour, she could go home and gather Janie in her arms.

 

As she walked across the studio, Eliza wore a marine-blue dress that covered her knees. Good. Finally she was listening to him.

But the dress was sleeveless. He didn't like that.

“Hey, Meat! How ‘bout another beer here?”

He grudgingly turned away from the television set and grabbed the empty mug from the gleaming bar top. He pulled the lever to fill the glass from the Budweiser tap and he tried to block out the loud conversation that filled the crowded bar. Yeah, he cared about how the Giants were doing in preseason, but from six-thirty to seven, all he wanted to hear was Eliza's voice.