A Betrayal at Eastwick Page 5

  His editor got that comically hungry look on her face that she always did whenever anyone in the shadow of celebrity or wealth was mentioned. Rick privately thought it was what had drawn her into the gossip mags to begin with, though he was far too smart to ever whisper a word of his suspicions.

  “And in any event,” his editor continued, “you’re not the only boots on the ground I’ve got. I heard that Gina insulted Becks’ wife earlier in the night, didn’t she? Where’s that in the story?”

  “That’s not really how it played out.”

  His editor had smacked her forehead and made a shooing motion with her hands. “If that’s how you’re going to play it,” she said sourly. “Off! Out! Don’t send me anything else until you can work Becks into it.”

  Rick ground his teeth. He didn’t know why he was lying about what Gina had said about Whitney, why he was omitting the potential connection to Becks. Why, for that matter, he wasn’t telling his editor that he had seen the football player cowering by the stairs when the police arrived, right around when the body was found. Rick told himself it was because he wanted to investigate further, to find more information before he was forced to run a story.

  “You’re going to run this one though?” he had asked his editor, as he dipped out of her office. “A dollar per word?”

  “Is that your standard rate with us?”

  “Just about.”

  His editor snorted and waved him out. “For your next piece, about Becks, two dollars a word, if it’s good.”

  Rick shrugged and left. He had heard those promises before. The problem was, his editor deemed nothing “good” when it finally came across her desk. The promise of a scoop was always greater than the actual facts. Truth was always a disappointment.

  And now? Rick shoved his hands in his pockets and emerged out into the cool city street, breathing out plumes of white steam and trying to decide where to go next. He could try to call some old contacts in the police station, but they were traffic cops, mostly, men and women who tipped him off about DUI’s sometimes when they were dealing with a particularly drunk, insensitive jerk. He could try to get an interview with Becks, but that seemed like a highway to nowhere, and Rick wasn’t even certain that Becks understood what happened that night.

  He dipped into a coffee bean roastery, one of those hipster cafés with tubes of green and brown beans that were sucked across the room above the wide-eyed patrons. What he really needed to do, Rick decided as he got in line behind a gaggle of yuppies and an old man in a three-piece suit, was run through the guest list of that night again. Think about who was there, and if there was anything, anything at all, that might make them suspicious. That might mean they had some interest, however small, in Gina Tiller’s death.

  Easier said than done.

  As he waited, Rick felt a familiar wave of insecurity rush through him. Really, who was he to be moving through such circles? Why couldn’t he just go back to the original sports beat that he had been so interested in years ago, that he had thought would be his calling, his bread and butter, his lifetime career? He thought of the 22-year-old freshly minted college graduate, with a girlfriend and a new apartment lease, who was so sure that he was on the up-and-up, who felt that a 3.9 GPA and a professor’s glowing recommendation would lead him down the fast-track. Two local newspapers later, and a failed attempt at interning for a sports radio station (where Rick had been referred to—quite unoriginally—as “Nerd Boy” and pranked early and often), Rick had realized that unless he broadened his horizons, unless he lowered his vision of what “noble” kind of work he would do, he would never be able to make his rent.

  The 22-year-old who had graduated—what would he think of Rick now? He’d be disappointed in the failed marriage, of course. He would probably have thought that he’d become one of those rich bachelors, moving among female sports stars and anchorwomen and models that would of course be somewhere nearby, or else the well-respected family man, with a loving and doting wife and a brood of children that loved him but never bothered him too much. That young kid hadn’t experienced enough of reality to understand what a mistake the marriage had been, what a relief the divorce was—even if it left a gaping wound that Rick never seemed to fill. He would probably look with pity on the figure of Rick as he was today: thirty-four, counting dollar bills out of a crinkled wallet, trying to decide if he could splurge on a latte and if it would mean he needed to skip out on some grocery store extras later.

  The truth was, Rick didn’t think he was cut out for the kind of journalism that paid. He was good at it. That was why he had gotten the nicknames—the Rat, the Mouse, the Snake. At least the last was somewhat flattering, since it was more predatory, fierce. And since he didn’t, with his close-set eyes and longer nose, resemble it like he did the other two.

  But Rick also hated the way that people looked at him when they found out who he was and why he was somewhere. He hated the people who sidled up to him, whispering gossip and favors into his ears, hoping to gain a little bit of that power that he had, to influence him, to manipulate him, to use him. He hated the people who didn’t sidle up to him, but instead looked at him as though he were the lowest vermin, as though they would prefer to be picking gum off the bottom of their shoe or prepping for a colonoscopy. Most of all, he hated the people who emailed him after he wrote a story, who somehow found a way to reach out and ask him why he had done something, why he had ruined their family, why he had no common decency at all.

  Rick knew good gossip journalists. They had thick skin; they somehow better balanced the needs of the story with their responsibilities as a human being. Or at least, felt less guilty when they didn’t balance them. Rick’s skin was thin. He wanted people to like him. The problem was, that number had dwindled to just about zero over the years—and it wasn’t looking up.

  Rick ordered a honey lavender latte when he got to the front of the counter. Why not? He counted out the money recklessly, leaving a two-dollar tip. What did it matter? He was a month away from being broke. He had counted on the Becker & Miller opening party to give him fodder for half a dozen snarky articles, sold to various sites, but he found himself unable to stomach more than that single commissioned piece for City Celebrities Daily. He had to do something, find something, on the Gina Tiller murder. He could use the money, and then—and then, once all of that was settled, he’d find a way out. He’d do something else, be someone else.

  He just needed to get the scoop first.

  Chapter 17

  “Sam!”

  Sam O’Nally grinned sheepishly at Whitney. “Mind if I come in?”

  Whitney blinked at him, bewildered. She looked tired today, no makeup, hair in a messy bun. Sam wished he had a wife who would look that way when she worried about him. He wouldn’t mind any wife at all, really—someone to do his laundry, cook his meals, and tend to any other physical needs.

  “Daniel is napping,” Whitney said, still not moving away from the door. “Perhaps it’s best—”

  “Naw, I wanted to talk to you, actually.” He took a step closer, and that seemed to do the trick. Whitney fell back, and Sam walked inside, whistling a little as he went. The place was nice—boy, was it nice!—and Sam felt a little burst of envy. He wouldn’t mind a house like this. Nice street, not too close to the neighbors but not too far, two-car garage with manicured hedges out front. And the inside—“Professionally designed?” Sam said, not able to help the note of whimsy that entered his voice.

  “What?” Whitney said tightly, following him as he walked towards the kitchen. “These rooms? No. I did it myself.”

  “Nice taste,” Sam said, letting his hand rest on one of the crystal statues inside—some sort of globe suspended on a pillar. Whitney rushed towards him, fussing about, talking about balance and delicacy and the like. Sam grunted and moved forward. The house was all blue and silver and white, emphasis on the white—the granite countertops were a pale white streaked with silver, the cabinets bright white with silver h
andles, and the brick fireplace he could see through the open doorway—of course—a crisp white.

  “What did you want to talk about?” Whitney said uneasily.

  “You got anything to drink around here?”

  “We have water.”

  Sam blushed. Some hospitality, he thought. He drummed his fingers on the countertop. He should have had a house like this, he thought. If his coaches weren’t so stingy. If the team doctor hadn’t suggested those three little initials, CTE, and then thrown up his hands defensively when Sam had confronted him.

  “What?” the doctor, a weasel-faced man of forty-two, had said to him. “It might explain your alcoholism, Sam. I didn’t say anything about that.”

  Sam definitely thought he could use a drink. He looked about and pulled up a chair to the large island counter, rubbing his temples with his hands. Fine, he wasn’t above asking. “You got any wine? Vodka? Something like that?” He wanted whiskey, but the others seemed more polite to ask about.

  “Sam, it isn’t even noon.”

  “Day after a party. Hungover. Hair of the dog, and all that. Aw, come on, Whit, don’t look at me like that.”

  “I’m—I’m not,” Whitney said, blushing. She rubbed her eyes. Rough night for her, too, Sam thought.

  “Then come on. What do you have, eh? I’m not picky.”

  Whitney shook her head. “Water, Sam. I’m sorry. We don’t keep alcohol in the house. I might—I might have a can of soda, somewhere.” When he didn’t reply, she opened the fridge and dug into it, her long black skirt shimmering with her motions. Whitney had always had a nice figure, Sam thought. Tall, willowy, but solid, too, not like those stick girls that did something on social media involving posing with giant hamburgers on tropical beaches (though he did follow his fair share of such accounts).

  “Here.” Whitney deposited a small can in front of him. Grape soda. Sam shrugged and, to be polite, opened it and took a long sip. “Now,” Whitney said, “what did you want to talk about?”

  “Gina Tiller.”

  Whitney’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”

  “You know what happened with me and her, don’t you?”

  “That you pushed her outside a bar, yes. She fell on some broken glass, got cut up.”

  “Hey, I didn’t put that there,” Sam said, reddening. He took a deep breath, feeling a surge of something—satisfaction? embarrassment? power?—at the look of fear on Whitney’s face. “Anyway, yeah. She started mocking me outside at the bar that night. Told me to go home, that I had had enough, that I needed to get my head checked before I drank any more alcohol.” Sam wiped a bead of sweat off of his forehead. “Told me to come back when I didn’t have Swiss cheese for brains.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Sam. That’s awful for her to say. But why are you telling me this? I can’t do anything about it now.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t want you to do anything. I just want to say, she was a pretty bad person, you know? I was going to sue her, actually. Defamation. She was the one who started yapping about CTE after she got up. She was bleeding from her elbows and she just started screaming at me, about how my head was messed up. Made it so that no one wanted to offer me a job—not football, obviously, I was already done with that, but you know, sports anchor jobs and such. Gina made it sound like my head was messed up, and poof! Gone.”

  He didn’t like the look that crossed Whitney’s face next. Something like pity. “But Sam,” she said, “you do have it, don’t you? Wasn’t that one of the reasons that you retired? It’s not Gina’s fault that—that other people knew. I’m sure that’s not why…”

  “It is why,” Sam said fiercely. He really wanted a vodka tonic. Or just some straight vodka. “And anyway, why do you care? I’m trying to help you.”

  Whitney stiffened. “Help me,” she repeated dubiously.

  “Yes. Look. We all know that Gina had to go, right? She wasn’t a good person. She was—she was hurting everyone, all around her. It was in a lot of people’s best interest for her to go.”

  “Sam—”

  “And I know you didn’t like her, either. She was talking about CTE earlier that night, wasn’t she? And what she said to you on that stage…I know that must have made you pretty mad.”

  “Sam!”

  “So I was thinking, maybe just a little money my way, that would help a lot. You know, with my lawsuit against Gina’s estate. Get some justice done. Served. Whatever.”

  Whitney just stared at him, aghast. Her eyes seemed to be calculating everything, processing. Good, thought Sam. Let her see it my way.

  “So,” Whitney said slowly. “You’re either blackmailing me because you think I had something to do with it and you want money to stay silent, or you’re asking for payment because you killed Gina and think you deserve a little reward money for it.”

  Sam was silent for a few moments. “I just,” he said finally, “want a little starter money. For my lawsuit. You get that, don’t you?”

  “Get out of my house,” Whitney said. “If you try to come back, I’m calling the police and telling them everything that you told me today.”

  Sam sneered at her. She was just like all the rest. He suppressed the building rage within him; all he needed to do was get Whitney to see sense, see that they were actually on the same side.

  But when she picked up the phone, he rose.

  “There’ll be a time when you’ll want my help,” Sam said, pushing away the grape soda. “And good luck to you, because you won’t get it.”

  He left, feeling Whitney’s narrowed eyes following him out.

  Chapter 18

  Rick waited outside of Joey’s Physical Therapy, a nondescript-looking warehouse on the outskirts of the city whose modesty was a tool of its discreetness: the place was a hotbed of professional athletes and recovering sports stars, catering to the elite of the elite who wanted a private, top-notch recovery program.

  It was one of his old buddies who worked there that had given Rick the tip; Rick would have to pay him later, and just hope that the article made good on it. It was noon when he saw Eliza Vorne pull into the parking lot, checking the building’s front door before turning into a spot. Her manicured fingers tapped on the steering wheel, and she seemed to huff as she continued to wait.

  Rick got out of his car and approached. He tapped on the driver’s side window.

  Eliza glared at him. He could tell that she wanted to ignore him, but whatever she was guilty about got the better of her. She opened the window, eyes wary but curious.

  “What do you want?” she spat.

  “Morning, Eliza. Good to see you here.”

  “Save it, Fales. What do you want?” As she spoke, her fingers typed quickly on the phone—probably warning whoever was inside not to come out.

  “Just wanted to update you on some things I found out,” Rick said, trying to keep his tone light. “I got the chance to talk to some of Gina’s family members.”

  Eliza visibly stiffened but said nothing. She tossed her hair back and slid on a pair of giant tortoise-shell sunglasses.

  “Gina’s father, in particular.”

  “So?” Eliza snapped.

  “He had a lot to say on the matter.” Rick paused, giving Eliza space to fill something in. She didn’t. “He’s devastated, obviously.”

  “Not too devastated to stop him from talking to the press.”

  “He knows media attention will only help the community focus on the issue.”

  Eliza snorted. “He has money to do that. He just wants to burn everything to the ground.”

  “Then why’d you apply to work for him, two months ago?”

  Eliza snorted. “Really? Is that what he’s concerned about? His daughter dies, and he wants to know why I wanted to work for him a while back?”

  “And then you sued him when you didn’t get the job.”

  “I didn’t,” Eliza hissed. The transformation was rapid, and entire. Her whole body whipped towards Rick, and her fingers dug into
the steering wheel. “I never did. You know nothing.”

  “Eliza?”

  Rick turned. Aaron Williamson stood behind him, athletic bag thrown over one shoulder. He looked from Rick to Eliza and back again, bewildered. “What’s this about a lawsuit?”

  “Nothing. Get in, Aaron. This guy is wasting my oxygen.”

  “Eliza?”

  “Get in!”

  Aaron cast one more suspicious glance at Rick. Then he climbed into the passenger side of Eliza’s SUV, just as Eliza’s window finished rolling up. The two began talking rapidly and gesturing. Arguing, Rick thought, though he could tell Eliza was making an effort to subdue her emotions while he remained.

  He stalked back to his car and watched them from there. They sat in the parking lot another three minutes, still arguing. Rick had a pit in his stomach. However all of this ended, he thought, wouldn’t be good. Not for him, and not for anyone.

  Chapter 19

  Evan paced the length of his downtown condo, trying to think.

  Becks hadn’t signed the papers that night. It had been Evan’s stupid idea, to hold off on signing the official documents until the night of the party, making a big deal of the fact that the guests would be able to witness the legal start of the business, the moment when Becks and Evan signed on the dotted line to become official partners. It had sounded great at the time, but of course, he hadn’t anticipated a murder.

  Evan rubbed his temples.

  Now the documents sat in his desk, unsigned and useless. If he didn’t get them signed that week, his whole projected timeline for Q2 would be thrown off. But Whitney had called him that morning, telling him Becks was feeling nauseous and not up to signing the papers that day.

  “Whitney. You know this is important,” he had pleaded.

  “It can wait a day or two.”

  “Whit—”

  “It’s not up for discussion, Evan. I have to be careful with him. You know that.”