CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

David didn’t like the way Katie sounded when she called him on the phone to ask if she could come up to his house. He detected anxiety at least, fear perhaps. Perhaps Dobell had killed the idea for the story. In any case, he was always delighted at the prospect of her coming to his house, which he decided needed some cleaning up before she arrived.
       It was a crystal clear early winter’s day in the Hudson Valley, with high scudding clouds and sunshine that reflected off the mantle of sparkling  snow that lay over the Palisades and hills of Orange County. Icicles hung from the eaves of David’s house and he had, fortunately, time to plow his driveway before she arrived on a trip that would take her about two hours.
    David thought about what to make her for lunch. He drove to a nearby market where he picked up some cold cuts, shrimp and a bouquet of flowers. Back home he put a bottle of Trebbiano d’Abruzzo in the freezer for an hour. He shaved and put on a fresh shirt he tucked it into his chinos.
    As she always did, Katie beeped her red Fiat’s horn three times as she approached, and it was one of David’s favorite sounds. He came out to the driveway and opened his arms wide. Katie got out and gave him a hug somewhat firmer than was usual. She was wearing a pea jacket under which she had a black sweater and bluejeans.
    “Come on in,” said David. “It’s freezing out here.”
    They went inside and David took Katie’s coat.
    “Hope you’re hungry.”
    “I could eat. I could also use a glass of wine.”
    “Coming right up,” he said, thinking there was no joy in her request.
    “So, what’s going on?” he asked. “Anything new on the article?”
    “There’s some,” she said. “I had an interesting phone conversation with Donald Trump. Big blowhard, thinks he knows how to charm the press, especially if you’re a woman.”
    Katie told him how the interview went as she sipped the white wine while David started to cook a  dish of spaghetti with shrimp cooked in garlic, oil and lemon.
    “You sound a little down, Katie. Feel all right?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine, but, I have to tell you, I’m feeling a little queasy.”
    “About what?”
    Katie then told David what had happened in the office and how Sheridan insisted he was not going to sell the magazine.
    “Well, that’s encouraging,” said David.
    “Indeed it is. But I’m a little worried as to why someone wants to buy McClure’s immediately and offer so much money for it. Alan thinks it must be some tax dodge that needs to be concluded by a certain date.”
    “Sounds reasonable. What do you think?”
    “I think this somebody wants to buy the magazine in order to stop us from investigating Epstein and his cronies, because for damn sure they all know we’re looking into their activities.”
    “You mean fire you as soon as he gets hold of the magazine?”
    “At the very least.”
    “But you could easily go to another magazine with your story.”
    “That’s what bothers me, David. He needs me gone, permanently.”
    David was not really surprised by her assertion. “He could do that without buying the magazine. But like I’ve said before, killing off a cop or a journalist usually turns out to be bad for business.”
    Katie’s temper flared. “Y’know, I’m tired of hearing that from you. Both of us have almost been murdered five times while we’ve been on a story!”
    All David could muster in response was, “True, but in my case I’m not longer a cop, so I’m fair game. And all those attempted murders were outside the U.S., where the bad guys seem to have a more liberal attitude towards knocking journalists off.”
    “So I’ve noticed,” said Katie, then, “Hey, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just on edge.”
    “I can tell. I mean, it makes sense that these guys don’t want your story to get out, but they don’t strike me as the types that murder people. Not even Epstein, but I could be wrong about him.”
    “What about Vargas acting on his behalf?”
    “I think Vargas is a strong-arm man but he’d probably botch a murder. He sure sent the wrong spider after me.” 
    Katie shook her head and said, “I sure hope you’re right. I’m getting real pissed about people trying to kill us.”
    David said nothing but brought the steaming plates of pasta to the table and poured more wine.
    “Eat. Y’know, once during World War II when Churchill’s people told him the Germans had just bombed Coventry, he is reported to have said, ‛Well, then, let’s have lunch. Everything looks better after lunch.’”
    “Stiff upper lip, eh? Said Katie. “Maybe the wine will help.”
    “So we keep working on this story, right?”
    Katie smiled, “Here’s to us! May no one try to knock us off this time!”
    They clinked glasses and David said, “That would make for a nice change of pace.”
     Katie did feel better and even took a nap on the couch before the fireplace after finishing the wine. David cleaned up the kitchen and just sat down and watched her sleep very soundly, saying to himself, “I’m not going let anything happen to this girl.”               

The next morning Katie put in a call to Dobell, asking, “Anything new on the sale of the magazine?”
    “Only that it’s still not for sale. Whatever happens in the next two to three years may change that if these on-line blogs and newsletters cut too deeply into magazine profits. But since McClure’s suitor demanded an immediate sale, I think we’re all pretty safe.”
    “Well, that’s a relief, she said.”
    “You still believe there’s an assassin lurking around to get you? You stock up on Mace?”
    “I don’t know. I talked to David and he made me feel that it’s a possibility, but a remote one. The question is, you want me to continue to research this story?”
    “Hell, yes. It’s still research, not yet a story, but if anyone can put the pieces together, it’s you.”
    Katie thanked Alan and promised she’d do her best.
    From outside Dobell’s office Donna Druley called out, “Katie, there’s a phone call for you at your desk.”
    “They say who it was?”
    “She said her name was Susannah.”   
    “Susannah? It’s Katie Cavuto. What’s up?”   
    “Something you need to know.”      
       Katie opened her notebook and clicked on the recorder attached to the phone.
       “Something bad happened to one of Jeffrey’s girls,” said Susannah, who sounded on the verge of tears and scared.
       “What happened?”
       “This girl I knew, her name was Sarah. Ghislaine recruited her a few months ago from, I think, Texas. She was like sixteen, beautiful blond, blue eyes. And. . . and she was. . . murdered.”
       Susannah broke down in tears, and Katie said nothing until she recovered, then asked, “By one of Jeffrey’s guests?”
       “Yeah, that pig Pierce.”
       “Angus Pierce? The South African?”
       “Yeah, any time he came to the States he’d be with Jeffrey either in New York or Palm Beach.”
       “So how did it happen?”
       “Pierce was into very kinky sex, bondage and shit. Also he drugged the girls, sometimes with angel’s dust or get them like real out of it with pain killers like Oxy. And apparently he overdosed her, and now she’s dead.”
       “How do you know this, Susannah?”
       “Like I said, I knew her pretty well, and we’d talk on the phone like every few of days. So when I didn’t hear from her, I called one of the other girls and she said that Sarah had been murdered by Pierce and Jeffrey had the body removed.”   
       “Do the police know about this?”
       “Not yet. I  wanted to call you first, then I’ll call them. But I’m scared, Katie. If Jeffrey finds out it’s me who called the cops, he’ll come after me. I’m going to need protection.”
       “Have you told Sanchez? Asked Katie.
       “Not yet.”
       “I think that’s what you should do first. Then call this police officer David and I have been working with in Palm Beach, name is  Terry Rush. I’ll call him first if you like.”
       “Maybe you should. Do you have to tell hm my name right away?”
       “No, but I really want you to call him. He’s trying to nail Jeffrey every way he can.”                           Susannah said she’d do that after speaking to Sanchez.
       “And, Susannah, you call me after you speak to Sanchez and Rush, okay? Any time you want to talk to me, day or night.  And what was Sarah’s last name?”
       “Doyle. Sarah Doyle.”
       “And do you know where her parents are?”   
       “I don’t know, somewhere in Texas, maybe Houston.”
       “Okay, I’m going to follow up on what you’ve told me, so sit tight. And I’d try to keep away from Vargas, if I were you.”

       “Oh, I know. If anyone’s going to hurt me it will be him. I think I can stay with Señora Sanchez meanwhile.”

 © John Mariani, 2024