The Anonymous Source (32 page)

DENVER BICE
LEANED
back in his black leather chair. He took five breaths with his eyes closed, then opened them and took five more. He looked down at the copy of
The Times
on his desk, pounded his fist on it, then picked up the phone and dialed.

After five rings he left a message. “Laurence, it’s Denver. Are you avoiding my calls? We can still fight this. There’s more we can try. Call me back. I’ll be in the office all day.”

He pulled the small key from his pocket and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out the gun and the flattened NYU hat and placed them on the desk. From the back of the drawer he pulled out a tattered Polaroid photograph and placed it face down on the hat. He was staring at it when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Denver, it’s Gathert.”

“Yes, hello Chairman Gathert. Before you say anything, just let me say that we can fight this, it’s—”

“Denver. It’s over. The deal is off. You’re out.”

Bice looked down at the gun. “Chairman, this is just a bargaining tactic. Nation Corp. wants us to lower the price. It’s not over.”

“Denver, you’re out.”

He picked up the gun.

“Look,” Gathert continued. “You’ve done a helluva job for us, and no one believes the crap they’re saying about you, but we can’t go forward with you at this point. I think you understand.”

Bice closed his eyes. “I understand,” he said. He saw his father’s body on the edge of the stream behind their house. Blood pooling in frozen shoeprints.

“Good,” Gathert was saying, “it’ll be easiest for everyone if you just clear out quietly today. We’ve got to put a new face on this as soon as we can.”

Bice opened his eyes and hung up the phone. He still had the gun in one hand and he picked up the photograph with the other. He heard the thud of Hollinger’s head hitting the sidewalk.
When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
He breathed deeply and turned the photograph over in his hand. Bice as a young man stood smiling on a vast green lawn, his arm around the shoulders of a beautiful young woman with a striking smile and long dark hair. “Martha Morelli,” he whispered. He smelled cedar trees and mist and saw the blue Camry sliding off the road. He passed the gun from hand to hand, then slowly lifted it up to his head.
When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.

He pressed it hard into his temple, his index finger on the trigger. He heard the roar of the river again, the thud of Hollinger’s head, and the screams of Alex’s mother, trapped in the car as it burned. “Martha Morelli.” He smelled cheap Scotch and felt belt lashes on his back.
When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.

His finger pressed slightly on the trigger.
I deserve to be punished.

He looked down at the NYU hat and his finger relaxed. He set the gun down on the desk.

He put the hat on, tucking his ears in carefully. He put the gun in the drawer and pulled out a headset and a small black box with two silver wires running from it. He connected the box to the back of his cell phone. He put on the headset and connected it to his phone.

He dialed Alex Vane.

“
EVEN FOR
A PRE-SEASON
game, Madison Square Garden is the best,” Lance said as they rode the escalator down into Penn Station. Alex and Camila stood in front of him, Malina, Tyree, and James behind him.

“Can we look around the station before we go to the game?” Malina asked. “Little Tyree has never been here.”

They all walked toward the center of the station. When Tyree saw the soaring ceiling and giant schedule board, he tugged at Malina’s hand. “Look,
Muppā
ṭṭ
i
. Look how high it is. Can we go under it?”

Malina turned to Lance, who was walking next to Alex. “Is it okay?” she asked.

Both men nodded and they all followed the little boy as he ran toward the center of the station. A dog led by two officers sniffed at his heels as he ran by.

Lance turned to Malina. “Is this his first game?”

“Yes,” Malina said. “Mine, too. And thank you. I do appreciate the invitation.”

“Thank Alex.” Lance said. “It was his idea.”

“But Lance’s tickets,” Alex said. He turned to Malina. “It’s the least I could do. I promised Demarcus I would get him onto the floor.”

They walked in silence for a moment, then Lance turned to Camila. “What about you? This your first game?”

Camila nodded. “I used to watch football with my dad a little,” she said, “but I’m not much of a sports lady.”

Lance laughed. “A sports lady? Is that what they call them these days?”

Camila wrapped her arm around Lance’s. “Oh, be quiet,” she said.

They stopped in the center of the station. “I’ll buy you a hat when we get in there,” Alex said, “then you will be a
real
sports lady.”

Camila crinkled her nose at Alex, then wrapped her other arm under his.

“Look what he’s d-doing,” James said, pointing at Tyree. He was jumping toward the schedule board thirty feet above him and swiping his hand as though it was just inches away.

* * *

They took their seats courtside—James on the end, Lance next to him, Alex in the center, Camila next to him, and Malina at the end with Tyree on her lap.

A hot dog vendor came by. “Who wants one?” Alex asked. “I’m buying.”

They all nodded and Lance said, “I don’t know. Are the hot dogs carb-neutral, dolphin-safe, and all that crap?”

“No,” Alex said, handing the vendor the cash, “but I’m making an exception today.”

Alex gave everyone a hot dog, sat down, and took a big bite. He turned to Lance. “You don’t think the Knicks have
any
shot at making the playoffs?”

“You can scratch that dream. Only upside is maybe they’ll be bad enough to get that Lebron kid in the lottery next year.”

James said, “Maybe you oughta write a p-piece on it. You know, ‘Ownership Guts Franchise to Save a Buck.’ Four years ago we’re in the finals, and now this?” He waved his hand at the players who were warming up on the floor. “I think the sports press needs a wake-up call.”

Tyree got off Malina’s lap and stood right at the edge of the court, jumping up and trying to reach the scoreboard fifty feet above him.

The stands were filling and James pointed across the court to the front row on the opposite side. “L-look who it is.”

Alex turned and saw Daniel Sharp laughing next to a tall blonde woman. He wore jeans and a black blazer with a Knicks hat.

“Must be phase two of his mayoral marketing campaign,” Lance said. “Start pretending to care about the Knicks and Yankees.”

Alex laughed. “Maybe I should go see if he wants to go on the record about Bice.”

One of the players came over and slapped Lance on the shoulder. He was a light-skinned black man in his late thirties, with specks of gray in his short hair. “You gonna write some nice stuff about us this year, fatty?” he asked.

“Don’t work for
The Standard
no more,” Lance said. “And aren’t you too old to be playing basketball? I thought you’d be an assistant coach by now with your old rickety ass.” He handed the player a card. “News-scoop.com.”

The player looked at the card and tucked it into the pocket of his warm-up pants. “Who are these folks?”

“Alex and James—work with them at the new venture. Camila Gray, she teaches at NYU. And that’s Malina and Tyree Downton. They’re Demarcus’s kin. Everyone, this is Ben Davis, but we call him Chicken Legs. Came up in Brooklyn six or seven years behind Demarcus.”

“He used to school me in the park,” Ben said to Malina. “One time—I’ll never forget it, I was ten years old—he jumped over my head for a lob dunk. In a game. Never seen anything like it.”

Ben walked over to Tyree, who was still jumping toward the ceiling. He grabbed him out of the air. “You wanna play here someday?” Ben asked him.

“I don’t know. Can you touch the scoreboard?”

Ben held Tyree in his left arm and reached up with his right arm, leaning forward onto the tips of his toes. “Not quite,” he said.

“Can anybody jump that high?” Tyree asked.

“Your granddad could. He could have jumped up and grabbed on.” Ben put him back down and jogged onto the court.

Alex smiled at Tyree, then looked down at his phone and froze. He had one missed call. The caller ID read
000-0000
. His voice mail beeped and he dialed. He shot a look across the court at Daniel Sharp, who was chatting with players.

As Alex listened to the message, his mouth opened slowly.

“You have made Bice pay for
some
of what he has done.” The voice was weak and slow but still tinny and distorted. “He has done more. Terrible things. And he deserves to be punished.
You
were supposed to catch him,
you
were supposed to punish him.”

An announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Madison Square Garden and a new season of New York Knicks Basketball!”

The crowd applauded as Lance sat next to Alex and patted him on the shoulder. “Get off the phone, man.”

Alex pressed the phone to his ear, his head spinning. “Remember that he who hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal. And he who loveth his life shall lose it. Have you figured out what it means, Mr. Vane?”

The message ended.

Alex sat up and Camila took his hand. “Who was that?” she asked. He turned to her but said nothing. Confusion spread across his face, then fear. “What’s wrong, Alex? Who
was
that?”

“The source.”

“Who?”

He met her eyes. “I have no idea.”

Watch for the sequel to
The
Anonymous
Source
:

Uneasy
lies
the
head
that
wears
a
crown.

Summer 2016

To my dad: for modeling the curiosity, persistence, and joy it takes to write a novel.

And to my wife, Amanda: my first editor, my greatest supporter, and the love of my life.

Before beginning
The Anonymous Source
, I’d heard that writing a book was, to some extent, a collaborative process. And as I read through the final draft, I recalled with fondness and gratitude the support, encouragement, and advice I received from the following people and organizations over the two and a half years it took to complete this book.

For offering a wonderful place to teach for the last four years: the students, staff, and faculty of Northwest Indian College and the Port Gamble S’Klallam and Suquamish tribes.

For providing support to a diverse community of writers, including me: the Pacific Northwest Writers Association.

For providing a quiet, clean, lovely place to work: the staff at the Kitsap Regional Library.

For providing support to me and so many other writers: Booktrope.

For their lessons and encouragement, three English teachers who were especially important to me: Sonya Brooks, Judith Stickney, and Naomi Schwartz.

For their support over the years: Willa, Jeanne, Marie, and Hameed.

For their brilliance and mentorship: the professors of the NYU School of Journalism. (The dead professor in this book is not based on any of you). And special thanks to Professor Michael Norman for teaching me how books work.

For being the book’s first reader and first fan: Teri Fink.

For their feedback and encouragement early in the process: Susan Simmons, Josie Foster, Lisa Lenz, Susi Korda, Cliff McCrath, Michael Lassoff, Cherie Martin, and Cody Raccoon.

For providing necessary feedback at a critical time: my early editor, Aviva Layton.

For valuable feedback toward the end of the process: Denise Anderson Foreman, Melanie Hart Buehler, and Pam and Stan Birch.

For connecting me with my publisher, offering excellent feedback in the final hours, and being a friend through it all: Ina Zajac.

For her tireless work guiding this book across the threshold: my amazing editor, Julie Molinari.

For her quick and excellent work: my proofreader, Maggie Dallen.

For capturing the book in a way I couldn’t have imagined: my cover designer, Greg Simanson.

For providing great advice about marketing and social media: Sophie Weeks and Kathy Marks.

For her talent, energy, and spirit: my early book manager, Jamie Green.

For believing in this book and working tirelessly to bring it into the world, Stephanie Konat and Jennifer Karchmer.

For all their support, encouragement, and babysitting: my extended family of Fullers, Allens, Cosbys, and Andersons. Special thanks to Fred and Diana Allen.

For providing mentorship, advice, and good books: Robert Dugoni.

For their support and advice down the home stretch: the members of my Launch Team.

For inspiring and teaching me something new every week: the authors, agents, journalists, and publishing professionals who have appeared on the WRITER 2.0 Podcast.

For letting me go to sleep early so I could get up and write: my daughter, Arden, and son, Charles. I couldn’t have done it without you!

Finally, to the readers for whom I wrote this: My hope is that you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it
.

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