After publicly criticizing me in print, Paulina later ran a story focusing on the sordid family affairs of my ex- girlfriend. It was this story that led to Mya being brutally attacked and nearly killed. I'd spent many hours at Mya's hospital bed, beside her at physical therapy, comforting her mother, who was widowed at the hands of the same killer who nearly took her daughter's life. Though Paulina had fewer friends than O. J. Simpson, her notoriety was entirely part of the game. Brazen, provocative, pushing every hot button as though her life depended on it. Rumor had it Ted Allen, the Dispatch 's editor-in-chief, gave her a five-figure expense account to dress the part, as well. If perception was reality, Paulina Cole was the grand bitch goddess of the news.
I heard audible whispers as I walked up to the Linwood porch. Punk. Asshole. Little shit. I'd taken a beating both in the press and from other reporters since my first few months at the Gazette, and as much as the words stung, sadly, I'd grown used to them.
Screw them.
The Linwood house was a small, Victorian-style dwelling, with jigsaw trim and spindles. It was three stories high, the top floor with a small square window, most likely an attic rarely used. Two unadorned columns were mounted on the front porch, the marble clean. The paint job was an off-white, and looked recently refreshed.
I could see a small swing set around the back, a shovel and pail sitting abandoned. Surprised a reporter hadn't snagged it yet. I stepped up to the porch and took a breath, preparing to ring the doorbell.
Just then the front door swung open, nearly knocking me on my ass, and a caravan of steely-postured suited men and women came pouring out. The first few were all hefty men wearing identical pants and blazers. They wore single wire earpieces, transparent tubing with Star ear-mold devices. They didn't wear sunglasses, but the bulges in their jacket pockets said they would be in a matter of seconds.
I stepped aside. The men paid me no attention, stopping at the bottom of the porch, hands clasped behind them.
When I turned back to knock, I found myself in front of a tall, lean man in his early fifties. He had wavy gray hair, a sharp, equine nose and the slightest onset of crow'sfeet. He wore a smart navy suit and a brilliant smile. I recognized him instantly but tried to hide my surprise. He was talking to somebody inside I couldn't see, but when he turned around, the look on his face confirmed that he recognized me, as well. I swallowed hard.
The man cocked his head, flashed that smile again and put his hand out.
'Henry Parker, right? New York Gazette? '
'Yes, yes, sir.' I was flattered that he'd heard of me.
Either that, or he knew why I was here.
'Pleasure to meet you, Henry. Gray Talbot.'
'Pleasure to meet you, too, Senator.'
Talbot smiled again. 'Walk with me for a moment, won't you, Henry?' It was phrased like the kind of question you couldn't refuse.
I half nodded, then suddenly Talbot's arm was around me, leading me down the steps. His grip was just strong enough to let me know I didn't have a choice, light enough to let onlookers know this would be a friendly chat. Everything about the man spoke volumes of an effortless confidence, a confidence that had captured the hearts and minds of New Yorkers desperate for a politician who deep down wasn't quite a politician.
Gray Talbot was currently in his fourth term as a Democratic New York State senator. In his four elections, he'd averaged sixty-two percent of the vote, and it was assumed
Talbot would hold that seat until he either retired, died or decided he preferred a larger, whiter house. Talbot was currently the third-highest-ranking Democrat in the senate, behind the senate majority leader and senate majority whip. As the current majority chairman on the United
States Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban
Affairs, Talbot was one of the most outspoken proponents of lowering the federal interest rate. 'A home for every
American who wants one' was his slogan. He was often photographed with his trademark plaything, a Rubik's
Cube, constantly fiddling and working out solutions. He was quoted as saying the game kept his mind limber. Every cube he'd ever completed was kept in his home. Rumor was he needed a bookcase to house them all.
In the previous election, three years after Daniel
Linwood's disappearance, Gray Talbot had outdone himself, garnering an unheard of seventy-three percent of the popular vote. And now that man had his arm around me.
Talbot wasn't visiting Daniel Linwood for a simple photoop. The stakes were much higher. Daniel's reappearance wasn't merely a human-interest story, it was important enough that one of the most powerful men in the country made it his business. Yet as we walked, there were no staged photo-ops. No handshakes. No teary hugs with
Shelly Linwood. Gray Talbot, as far as I could tell, was here because he wanted to be.
And he was the kind of man who, if he felt like it, could squash reporters with his pinkie finger.
As Talbot led me across the lawn, I could hear groans of protest as his bodyguards held the throng of reporters back. When we were out of earshot, Talbot took his arm from my shoulder and said, 'I'm glad Wallace chose you to report on Daniel. Shelly and Randy think they can trust you. I'm inclined to believe them.'
'Then can trust me, sir, I promise that.'
'Good.' Talbot turned slightly as the angry catcalls grew louder. 'Ignore the parasites,' he said. 'They're jealous, that's all. Any one of them would trade their press badge to be where you are and do what you've done in such a short amount of time.'
I felt a tingle down my side where a bullet had shattered my rib and punctured my lung just a few years ago, and wondered if that was really true.
'You know I used to live in a place just like this,' Talbot said, his eyes searching the tree line as though looking for a familiar sign. 'Not like it is now, the way it was back when Daniel disappeared. The kind of town where you woke up every day assuming a crash position, trying just to hold on to a sliver of hope. My biggest dream growing up was to just get the hell out and make something of myself before the evil swallowed me whole. The strongest men and women aren't the ones born with everything,
Henry, they're the ones who are born with nothing but fight like hell to get it. I know how hard you've fought. And I know you'll understand what this family has gone through.
To lose a child? To assume your child is dead, that you've outlived your firstborn? I can't even imagine it. So be respectful. Daniel will never get back those years, and his parents will never fully repair that hole in their hearts. If their boy's story is given the respect and honesty it deserves, well, that might go a little way toward helping.
I know you have a responsibility to your job. But your job is also to mend fences when you can. This is not a tabloid story. This is not a family to be exploited. So don't you dare treat them like one.'
'I wouldn't dare,' I said.
'I know that, Henry.' Talbot stopped, turned around, made a brief gesture, and the bodyguards began walking over. A limousine pulled up, a chauffeur getting out to open the door for the senator. He shook my hand one last time, then said, 'You're a fine young man and a terrific reporter. Hopefully Daniel Linwood will have the chance to grow up and find his calling just the same.'
Then he got in and was gone.
I turned back to the house, tried to figure out what to make of the encounter. Gray Talbot was known to be a humanitarian, and his troubled background only solidified his resolve to help those in need. The Linwoods obviously fit that bill, and he was more than happy to put more weight on my story. To make sure I didn't color outside the lines. Not that I planned to, but there's a difference between moral obligation and having a politician flat-out tell you.
I walked back to the Linwoods' house. This time the other reporters were silent. I rang the doorbell, and barely a moment passed before it opened to reveal a woman wearing an apron. She had curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a look of both joy and exhaustion in her face.
The apron was covered with stains of various colors. She smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot and weary, but happy.
'Henry, right?'
'That's right. Mrs. Linwood?'
