The Newsmakers (22 page)

“Thanks, Moy, I will be careful. Now let me look into this development in the Barrish case. You may see me soon.”

“Every cloud.”

Erica hangs up and calls Takahashi.

“Erica, you must have some good sources.”

“Starting with you.”

“The DNA results are back on the blood that was found in the trunk of the stolen Lexus. Arturo Yanez is a match. No big surprise there. But we also found some prints and got a match. They belong to
one Miguel Fuentes. Six priors including attempted murder. Member of the Nortenos, one of the most notorious gangs in East LA.”

“So Yanez's murder was a paid gang hit.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a location on Fuentes?”

“We have a last known, but we've already been there and he's long gone. He's probably trying to get out of the country. The airlines, bus companies, and border crossings have his name, picture, and description.”

“I'll be in the studio in about forty-five minutes. Can I get you on for an interview?”

“Call me ten minutes before you're ready to go live.”

“Are you at LAPD headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“I'll get a crew down there ASAP. And listen, would I be in your way if I came out there?” This question is strictly a courtesy—the press can go where it wants—but Erica is developing a relationship with Takahashi and wants to be deferential. It could pay off later.

“A
good
reporter is always welcome.”

Erica hangs up and calls Greg. He'll deal with getting an LA crew to police headquarters. “I may want to fly out there to cover this.”

There's a pause. “I understand why you want to, Erica, but it has to be cleared with Nylan. And as you know, he wants you
elevated
, not out in the field where you're just one of many reporters.”

“Kay Barrish died in my arms. This is
my
story.”

“Agreed. But we have to be very strategic. Figure out the best way to present it to Nylan. Let's talk when you get here. Now let me get that LA crew in place for your Takahashi interview.”

Erica hangs up. Even Greg seems to be backing up Nylan. Even Greg. And that elevator, shuddering and then stopping . . . she was all alone in the dark. Trapped. Is it a trap? Erica steps into a nearby doorway and hugs herself. The fear that she's been fighting—that she's not safe at GNN, that she's being watched and controlled and manipulated
by Nylan and his money and power and sickness, that she's in danger, not safe, not safe—springs to full leering life.

Several passersby look at her, curious. Do they recognize her, the blonde woman huddled in a doorway? An elderly Korean man approaches her. He smiles, a kind smile. “Do you need directions?”

“No, no . . . I'm fine. I was just, um, talking on the phone. I'm going to the subway now, that's all, thank you.”

As Erica crosses the street, she tries to rid her mind of the image of that poor golden retriever burning to death on a suburban street.

CHAPTER 50

ERICA SPENDS THE REST OF
the afternoon and evening reporting on the break in the Yanez murder. She interviews Takahashi and broadcasts Fuentes's mug shot. During a break she confers with Greg about the best way to approach Nylan about her heading back to LA, and they hatch a plan. On her next break she calls him.

“Nylan, I want to do an hour-long piece on the Barrish murder, frame it as a commentary on American culture and our national loss, with a focus on California. I've got a request in with the governor for an interview—his press aide was very receptive. I've lined up the state's most respected historian and a UCLA expert on collective trauma. I've got interview requests out with Streisand, Schwarzenegger, and Spielberg. Their people all responded positively to the idea. I think this could be a fascinating and important piece.” She recalls the words of Archie Hallowell:
Sometimes you have to lie your way to the truth
.

There's a pause. “I like it. But keep the focus on the sociology and the collective trauma, not on the investigation. High-minded. Milk the celebrities for all they're worth. Soft focus. See if you can wring a few tears out of Streisand. How soon can you get started?”

“I thought I'd fly out to LA tomorrow.”

“Can you pull the piece together by the end of the week?”

“Yes.”

“Don't forget we have a date in DC on Sunday night. The Correspondents' Dinner.”

“I can't wait,” Erica says, a shiver of revulsion racing up her spine.

CHAPTER 51

ON THE FLIGHT TO LA
, Erica sits in her first-class seat, laptop open, perusing the websites of New York's best girls' schools: Chapin, Spence, Brearley. She thinks Jenny would do better without boys around, one less distraction. She also feels strongly that Jenny needs continuity and stability in her life; she'd like to find a school that's a good match for the long term, a place Jenny can put down some roots and flourish all the way until college.

There's something intimidating about the schools, with their history and traditions, their impressive alumnae, their websites bursting with positivity, good works, and academic promise. Many of her snootier Yale classmates went to these schools or others just like them. And now—she thinks with no small satisfaction—she'll be sending her daughter to one. If, of course, she's able to gain custody. Big
if
. Big and potentially ugly
if
. But Erica has been in touch with Morris Ernst, one of the country's best child-custody lawyers. He told her that with her profile, he believes she can gain custody—that they can reason with Dirk, make it clear to him that with her resources, Erica can provide Jenny with so many advantages that Dirk, with his teacher's salary, simply can't.

Erica clicks off the Spence site and onto Stribling real estate. It's time for a little guilty pleasure—she looks at several apartments on the Upper West Side, which is close to work and schools and bracketed by two beautiful parks. The prices are staggering—a million dollars buys you a nice one-bedroom. She'd love to be in a prewar co-op and lingers over the photos of a two-bedroom on West Eighty-First facing the Museum of Natural History—it has a large living room, lovely views of the museum and the small park that surrounds it, a fireplace, wide hallways, a sense of solidity and space.

She imagines Jenny coming home from school, rushing down the hallway to fill Mom in on her day. The two of them in front of the fireplace on winter Sundays, Jenny doing homework and Erica working her way through the Sunday
Times
. Tucking Jenny in at night, the twinkling park lights out the window. Both of them in a safe place. A safe place. The apartment is 1.75 million. She can hardly believe she can afford it. But she can.

She's on an early flight—it lands in LA at nine thirty a.m.—and as the flight attendant brings her a small tray of exquisite breakfast pastries, Erica feels ready for what lies ahead. There's a lot on her shoulders, but maybe that's a good thing—there's no room left for that fiery demon that likes to perch there and hiss in her ear . . . “
You can't ever, ever change where you come from. And deep down, you'll never be better than any of us
.”

Erica picks up her rental car and drives to Moira's house in Los Feliz. She finds the fake rock tucked under the cactus in the side yard, slides it open and takes out the key, and lets herself into the house. There's a note on the dining room table that reads
Mi casa es su casa
and a bouquet of fresh flowers in her bedroom.

Erica unpacks, washes off all traces of makeup, changes into sweat pants, running shoes, and a shapeless top. She tucks all her hair up under an unflattering canvas hat and puts on a pair of clunky sunglasses.

Driving southeast from Los Feliz through Silverlake and Echo Park and into downtown LA is like moving through the layered strata
of ancient rock. The large houses and perfect landscaping give way first to modest bungalows, and then to neglected apartment houses and rundown commercial buildings, and finally to teeming Skid Row—down-and-out in LA—thousands of people who are some combination of poor, addicted, struggling, defeated, crazy, or lost. It's a great sea of humanity and they're all drowning—in the shadows of the gleaming towers of the city's revitalized downtown business district.

This is the neighborhood of Miguel Fuentes's last known address. Erica drives slowly, searching the faces. She's looking for Fuentes, of course, but she's also fascinated by this raw underbelly of Los Angeles, in part because she sees her own parents, her own childhood reflected here in an urban mirror. The sidewalks are lined with tents, mattresses, shopping carts, cardboard boxes, clothing, sleeping dogs, and nodding people. She sees a little girl, no more than five, sitting on a garbage bag full of clothing. She's eating cookies out of a huge package; she and her clothes are filthy, but the little girl looks happy, savoring each bite of her lucky find. Then a man walks by and snatches the package out of her hands, and the girl starts to wail and wail. Nobody comes to comfort her.

Erica finds the address where Fuentes lived. It's on the far edge of Skid Row; the streets are marginally less chaotic and filthy here. The building itself is a two-story 1950s motel-style apartment house with outdoor walkways, way past whatever prime it may have had. There are lowlifes loitering around, and a sense of malevolence pervades the air. Erica parks in front and heads toward the stairs. Fuentes was in apartment twenty-one.

“Save your time, the cops have been crawling all over the place.” Erica turns to see a skinny old woman sitting in a lawn chair, greedily sucking down an unfiltered cigarette, swimming in a muumuu, her lips painted a florid red. “That kid took a powder weeks ago.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I'd say ‘to hell'—but he was already there.” She laughs at her witticism, showing perfect movie-star dentures.

“Did he live here alone?”

“That place was a revolving door. I'd say never less than five or six of them were living there at any time.”

“Do you think they were fellow gang members?”

“No, they were the string section of the LA Philharmonic.” She laughs again. “I was assistant prop master on
Father Knows Best
. I'm Old Hollywood. What do you think of them apples?”

“Are they all out of the apartment?”

“Yeah. The landlord is renovating the unit. Granite, stainless steel, spa tub.” She laughs again. “I
am
having it fumigated.”

“You own the building?”

“Bought it fifty years ago. I'm a smart cookie, got into real estate. I like renting to gang members. They pay in cash. Or drugs, if I'm in the mood.” She cackles again, then narrows her eyes. “Are you looking for drugs?”

“I'm looking for Miguel Fuentes. Can you help me out? Anything that sticks in your mind? Anyone who might help me find Miguel?”

The woman makes an exaggerated
I'm thinking
expression. “The air conditioner in unit sixteen is on the fritz. I'd tell them they're on their own but there's a baby in there. Poor little tidbit in this heat.”

Erica came prepared. She pulls a wad of cash out of her pocket, peels off a hundred.

“I said
air conditioner
, not fan,” the woman says.

Erica hands her another hundred.

“He had a sister. She stayed about a week, was right over the border. Pretty girl, classy as hell. Smart. Always carrying books. I think she was a schoolteacher back in Mexico. They were fighting all the time—she was screaming at him to get back in school. She got outta here fast. Like I said, she was smart.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Samantha.”

“How long ago was this?”

“It's been awhile, four months, maybe six. Time bleeds at my age.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“They didn't ask.”

When she gets back to Moira's, Erica 411.coms
Samantha Fuentes.
There are seven listed in LA, but the site only lists landlines, and what kid has one of those nowadays? Then she does a Google search, and LinkedIn pulls a Samantha Fuentes who is a twenty-five-year-old tutor in West Los Angeles specializing in Spanish, English, reading, and writing. There's a phone number and Erica calls.

“This is Samantha Fuentes.”

“Hi, Samantha, this is Erica Sparks, reporter from GNN.”

There's a chill on the line and then, “Yes?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your brother. I was hoping we could meet for coffee.”

“I have nothing to say about my brother. If he had anything to do with that murder, I hope he's sent away for many years.”

“You can help make that happen.”

“How?” she asks warily.

“A public plea to him to surrender would be one way. How about that cup of coffee?”

There's a pause and then, “I would like to help. Okay.”

“Would this afternoon work for you?”

“Yes. I'm out in Pacific Palisades. Meet me at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in an hour.”

“See you then.”

Erica heads out to Pacific Palisades and finds that the California Dream is alive and well—the cushioned enclave is so sparkly, lush, and lovely that you could almost forget that things like deceit, murder, and evil exist.

Erica has changed out of the sweatpants—one of the least flattering garments ever invented—and gone with a cap instead of the canvas hat, but otherwise is covered up enough not to draw many glances of recognition. Of course, in a celebrity-thick neighborhood like this, she's small potatoes.

She walks into the coffee shop, and a young woman with a lovely, open face waves her over to a table.

“Samantha.”

“Erica.”

“I guess we're both psychic.”