Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 6

  Ashley smiled at the joke. Her father was a bedrock Republican. As the waiter took their drink orders, Ashley’s maternal instincts kicked in and she began examining her father closely. Though Francis Van Buren was in uniform—dark gray flannel suit, white starched shirt, red and black striped tie—she thought he looked tired and pale. Ashley worried about her father. In his late fifties, he lacked close friends in Boston. He spent most of his time working or at home alone. He did focus on Ashley but, like many fathers and daughters, the two had severe lifestyle disagreements.

  As a child growing up in Newton, Massachusetts, an affluent Boston suburb, Ashley felt a constant pressure from her father. Francis Van Buren had extremely high expectations for his daughter and her younger brother, Peter. The children received the best education possible, and enjoyed the many privileges of wealth. Peter graduated from Stanford Law and then migrated west to Los Angeles, where he practiced entertainment law for a large talent agency. In the materialistic environment of L.A., Peter had quickly succumbed to a severe dependency: an addiction to himself. Ashley and her father rarely heard from him. He was always busy “taking meetings.” As for the holidays, well, Peter’s girlfriend didn’t like to fly.

  So it was left to Ashley to monitor her father’s welfare. Her mother’s early death from breast cancer had caused the family tremendous heartbreak. Ellen Van Buren was a sunny spirit, kind and down to earth—the perfect compliment to her sometimes stern father. It had taken Francis Van Buren years to recover from his wife’s death and even now, ten years later, he was still prone to bouts of depression. Ashley knew that she alone could cheer him up, at least most of the time.

  Because she saw her father only once every several months, there was much to talk about. Francis Van Buren ordered for both of them and did his usual excellent job: Escargot, sole with a lemon sauce, and an artery-clogging but delicious soufflé. Then came the question that usually arrived with the appetizer:

  “So, how’s the social life, Ash?”

  “Pretty boring, Dad, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I guess I’m just too busy to find Mr. Right.”

  “Maybe you need some help.”

  “Dad. Please. This is so predictable. Let’s call Peter. He’ll get us parts in a sitcom.”

  Francis Van Buren ignored his daughter’s sarcasm. “Listen, Ash, how are you ever going to meet anyone decent running around this corrupt city writing about criminals?”

  Before Ashley could reply, her father continued: “If you want, I could put a word in at the Times. The metro editor over there owes me a favor. It’s a much more prestigious venue, you know, and you’d meet a much higher caliber of person.”

  “Dad, they don’t cover crime at the Times.”

  “Precisely, my dear. You could become involved with the arts, maybe medicine, religion.”

  “Religion? I’m already well on my way toward becoming a nun.”

  Again no response. Ashley thought her father might not even be listening to her. He continued his monologue. “They write about all kinds of things at the Times, Ash, and they write well.”

  “No, thanks, Dad, I like the Globe.”

  Francis Van Buren gave up. He knew his daughter would not allow him to pull strings to help her. “Okay, Ash, but do me one favor. A young attorney in my firm is coming to New York next week and I want you to go out with him. He’s very bright, Yale Law, a member of the Algonquin Club, and all the girls in the office are mad about him. He’d really like to meet you.”

  Ashley looked at her father. He had tried this before and the dates had been disasters. But if her social life got any worse, it would qualify her for the cloisters, and this guy sounded like he might have potential. Besides, she was getting tired of sitting at home on Saturday nights watching Sisters on the tube.

  “What’s this guy’s name, Dad?”

  “Stanford. Stanford Williamson.”

  “Don’t you know any guys named Vinnie, Dad?” interjected Ashley, smiling. “Okay, have old Stan call me, but tell him no club ties on the first date. Now let’s eat, I’m famished.”

  What Francis Van Buren did not discern from the crack about club ties was that his daughter was fed up with preppy men. She had not had sex for eight months, and was running out of patience with the steady stream of bland guys who wanted to date her.

  Her most recent disaster had been a guy named Brad. On her fourth date with this Ivy League stockbroker, Ashley decided to make her move. Though she knew Brad was definitely not “Mr. Right,” he was handsome enough to be “Mr. Right Now,” so Ashley decided she would get up close and personal with him that evening.

  While they shared a huge bowl of pasta primavera in a small Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, Brad’s end of the conversation centered around his experiences on the Princeton crew. For the umpteenth time in her dating career, Ashley found herself enduring a lecture on the merits of rowing. It was a great sport, she thought, but she’d heard more than her fair share about it growing up in Boston.

  Still, Ashley invited Brad back to her large one-bedroom apartment, which was a designer’s dream; she had decorated it herself in early Martha Stewart. A floral patterned couch filled with fluffy dark green pillows dominated the living room and faced a large screen TV. Ashley flicked it onto VH1, got Brad a beer, and excused herself for a moment.

  Standing at the foot of her queen size bed, Ashley Van Buren removed her sky-blue silk blouse and unsnapped her bra. Her unrestrained breasts were full and firm and she slipped a tight, white tee shirt over them. It was the kind of shirt that skinny models wore in the Victoria’s Secret catalogues. Ashley’s breasts swelled the cotton fabric, and her nipples were clearly outlined underneath.

  Next, she took off her jeans, replacing them with blue silk shorts. Her freshly waxed legs reflected light in the full-length mirror nearby. Ashley checked her teeth, smoothed her blond hair, and licked her lips. If old Brad didn’t like this package, she thought, he must have taken an oar to the head at Princeton.

  “Would you like another beer, Brad?” Ashley said as she walked back into the living room. Brad was playing around with Ashley’s personal computer, which stood on a small wooden table in a corner of the room.

  “No thanks, hon,” Brad said smiling. “I don’t want to get out of control.”

  “That might not be so bad,” Ashley replied with a forced giggle that almost made her gag. She felt slightly uncomfortable. She was standing there in a very provocative outfit, and Brad had this vague look on his face.

  “So what do you want to do, Ash?” Brad said while looking around the apartment. Ashley thought he should be looking at her.

  With an inaudible sigh, Ashley walked over to the couch and sat down, crossing her legs so that her shorts rode high up her legs. She’d break this guy yet, she thought.

  “Sit here next to me, Brad.”

  Brad walked over and sat down. Ashley got ready for the broker to make a move. He was staring at Ashley, smelling her expensive perfume. She turned her head to him and heard him ask, “Aren’t you cold in that outfit, Ash? You hardly have anything on.”

  Ashley looked at her date in amazement. The guy truly didn’t get it. And wouldn’t be getting it. She leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. What was going on? Why was she continually striking out? A wave of insecurity enveloped her, but she fought it off. Smiling insincerely, Ashley looked at her date, platonically patted his hand, and thought, If this keeps up, I’m calling K.D. Lang.

  When the phone rang, Tommy O’Malley was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. It was Saturday morning, his day off. He didn’t want to answer the damn thing, so he let the answering machine click on. “You have reached the man who could be your worst nightmare. Think carefully before leaving a message.” Tommy was getting tired of his poor attempt at wit. The beep annoyed him, as it always did. The voice after the beep annoyed him even more.

  “Tommy, I know you�
��re there, pick up the phone.”

  O’Malley put his large hands over his face. It was his beloved ex-wife. Talking to her would be a major mistake, he knew, but he lifted the phone off the receiver anyway. “Hi, Angela, how’s it going?”

  “Not good, Tommy. You owe me money.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been working my butt off. I’ll mail the check today.”

  “One more time and we’re back in court.”

  “That will make your lawyer very happy, Angela, and probably you too.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Tommy. I can’t believe I married you.”

  “I can’t believe it either, Ange. How lucky can one guy be?”

  “You better hope I get the check by Friday.”

  “I’ll hope and I’ll pray.” Without saying goodbye, Tommy put the phone back on the receiver.

  Tommy O’Malley knew his last remark would rankle Angela Rufino. When they had first met five years before, Angela was a dark haired Italian-American princess with a thick Long Island accent and the largest brown eyes Tommy had ever seen. She was a selfish woman, but great fun. The two of them went out to expensive restaurants and clubs three times a week. And the sex afterward was the best Tommy had ever experienced. Angela was passionate and wild. Then they got married.

  Tommy’s mother was not thrilled with the union but went along with it because her son could do little wrong. The fact that Angela was twenty-six and immature worried Mary Elizabeth O’Malley, but Tommy had always known what he was doing. Tommy was the strength of the family and had taken care of her and his sister ever since his father had died two years earlier. Tommy’s older brother, Brendan, was a drinker and therefore not much help.

  Three years into the marriage, Tommy called his mother and broke the bad news. Angela had been born again. Had found Jesus in a Roman Catholic Church on Long Island. Had become a “charismatic Catholic.”

  Tommy knew nothing about charismatics but quickly learned that they take Jesus very seriously. He is on their minds at all times and they make that fact known to whoever is around them. Angela Rufino O’Malley attended church five times a week, quit her job in public relations because it interfered with her mission, and began donating ten percent of Tommy’s take-home pay to the church.

  Tommy did not entirely understand. It wasn’t that he objected to religion. Having been raised an Irish Catholic, he respected the Church. But he was wary of some of the clergy, and fanaticism on any level disturbed him. He wanted the immediate return of the woman he had married. That woman, Angela told him, was dead. By the grace of God, she had been born again.

  Their defining battle took place in the bedroom where Angela informed Tommy that she would “perform her duties as a wife” as Jesus had instructed. But forget about any of the kinky stuff. In addition, Tommy should let her know well in advance when her “wifely duties” would be needed so that she could “mentally prepare” herself. Tommy digested that piece of information and moved out three hours later. The marriage was over.

  Tommy O’Malley got out of bed this Saturday morning and walked into the bathroom. He lived in a crummy one-bedroom apartment on 88th Street, between Second and Third Avenues. It cost him $950 a month, and the bathroom was so small he could hardly fit into it. The apartment featured charming extras like paint peeling off the ceiling and a toilet that cleared only after three flushes. He loathed everything about the place.

  His ex-wife, on the other hand, lived in a fairly nice house in Westbury, Long Island. Not a palace, but considerably better than the dump where he was currently residing.

  The divorce had left Tommy feeling like a failure. He was resigned to being alone, and to putting up with Angela’s weekly calls from hell. But he did hold out some faint hope. Maybe if the Pope finally allowed priests to marry, Angela could find the man for her. He figured the Church would give Angela an annulment on the grounds that Tommy and Satan were best friends.

  If Angela didn’t remarry soon, Tommy thought, he would be bankrupt. With lots of overtime, he made about eighty thousand dollars a year, but had exactly $1,438 in his checking account. As his father had told him over and over: “You pay dearly for any mistakes you make in this world.”

  As Tommy stepped out of the shower, the phone rang again. It was his boss, Lt. Brendan McGowan.

  “Tommy, I know it’s your day of rest but we got two stiffs down at the East River and 125th. Can you get right over there? I’ll authorize the overtime.”

  “Cause of death, Mac?”

  “Shots to the head. How unusual, right? By the way, the assistant D.A. stopped by yesterday. Bad news. They don’t want to prosecute this Robo Melton. Say it’s not worth the city’s time and money for five rocks of crack. It’ll be a merry-go-round. The jerk-off will be assigned to drug rehab. You know the drill. And Tommy, the guy is screaming you broke his thumb.”

  “He was putting the gorilla on me, Lieutenant, and we had trouble cuffing him,” Tommy replied. (To “gorilla” someone on the streets of New York is to be disrespectful to them. The term derives from the eight hundred pound gorilla who can do whatever he wants.)

  “Well, I know how troublesome that can be. Anyway, get that Melton paperwork cleared by tonight, okay, so I can get this lady prosecutor off my back.”

  “The guy is a killer, Brend.”

  “Prove it, Tommy, and we’ll break his balls as hard as his thumb. See ya later and thanks for helping me out.”

  “No problem,” said Tommy. And it wasn’t. He didn’t have anything better to do anyway.

  * * *

  7

  MANHATTAN

  OCTOBER 1994

  The Global News Network had its international headquarters in a Japanese-owned high rise just a few blocks up Sixth Avenue from Rockefeller Center, the home of NBC. Personnel for GNN’s nightly newscast, The News Tonight, took up the building’s entire fifth floor, with the rest of the network’s apparatus on the sixth and seventh.

  Anchorman Lyle Fleming’s magnificent office—complete with large bathroom, shower stall, massage table, and refrigerator—looked out over the Avenue. Just outside Fleming’s door was a huge room which contained “the oval,” a large round table where the anchorman sat with the producers and writers who worked on The News Tonight.

  Mounted on the white walls surrounding “the oval” were framed, color pictures chronicling GNN’s long history of reporting. Winston Wilcox, the legendary anchorman whom Fleming replaced, was featured in three of the photos. Lyle himself could be seen in ten of them. The wall of fame, as it was called, never failed to impress visitors who gazed admiringly at Lyle Fleming’s various poses: Lyle atop a camel dressed in Arab robes. Lyle with Gorbachev pointing out over Red Square. Lyle scrutinizing a captured Scud missile. Lyle had apparently seen it all.

  Sitting on built-in shelves above the photo gallery were two dozen fifteen-inch television monitors. Half of the monitors were programmed to display videotape being transmitted to GNN by satellites from all over the world. The other dozen TV screens were tuned to the competing networks and cable stations so that nothing on the American airwaves would escape the attention of GNN news personnel.

  At the far end of the room, about fifty feet away from the oval desk, was the secretarial pool. The men and women there took all calls coming into The News Tonight, passing along information and messages to the producers and correspondents. Lyle Fleming had his own personal secretary, Lanie Sharp, whose desk was right outside his office. If you wanted to talk with Lyle for more than thirty seconds, you had to see Lanie. That was the unwritten rule.

  The actual set of The News Tonight, where the show was broadcast each weekday at 6:30 eastern standard time, was upstairs on the sixth floor. Outsiders were often surprised when they saw just how small the set actually was. On television, with the anchorman holding court, it looked large and bright. In reality, it was a small blue desk with just Lyle’s chair, and God help anyone who sat in it. Lyle was superstitious. His chair was for him and him alone.
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  The background of The News Tonight set was an actual newsroom, where assignment editors, researchers, and production assistants sat and worked. Bulletin boards lined the walls displaying maps from all over the world. Wire machines, devices that print and transmit news reports, were stationed throughout the floor and were closely monitored around the clock. The people at GNN were determined that nothing should happen in the world without their knowing about it.

  Directly behind the newsroom were fifteen comfortable offices for the New York–based news correspondents and field producers. These were the men and women who traveled outside the building, actually witnessing and gathering the news. Competition for the best stories was extremely intense among the correspondents. As a result, there was not a lot of camaraderie going on in the corridor outside their offices. Most of the field people preferred to keep to themselves.

  The seventh floor of GNN headquarters was reserved for the News executives, with the largest office inhabited by William Foster, the President and virtual dictator of GNN’s worldwide news organization. Foster was rarely seen outside his lavish suite. He was not a man to mingle. This strategy helped make Foster a mystery figure: feared and inaccessible. Few knew what Foster was thinking, and that was just fine with him.

  GNN’s Vice President of News Personnel, Hillary Ross, had her office five doors down from Foster’s. Hillary was also right next to the office of her best friend, Northeastern Bureau Chief Randi Klein, who supervised news-gathering from Philadelphia to Boston.

  Ross was a tall, thin, unattractive woman whom her detractors—just about everybody working at GNN—nicknamed “Olive Oyl.” Like the character in the Popeye cartoons, she had long limbs and huge feet. Her face, which was dominated by a weak chin, was elongated. Mousy brown hair completed the look.

  In addition to Hillary’s physical shortcomings, she was mean. She had risen rapidly through the executive ranks at GNN because she was willing to do the dirty work. Which is exactly what she was doing when Randi Klein walked into her office.