Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(94)

* * *



Gina felt her chest heaving up and down after jogging the seven blocks from the police precinct back to her building. It was two minutes before ten o’clock. She wanted to see if the recording was in the phone, but she also wanted to be waiting outside when Carter arrived. Her attempt to turn on the phone was unsuccessful. If the Record mode had been left on, that would have run down the battery.

She spotted the doorman behind the desk and hurried over to him. “Miguel, you use an iPhone, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you keep a charger handy?”

“Right here,” he said as he pulled it out of a drawer, plugged it in, and extended it to her. She attached the phone and waited. Nothing. She unplugged and tried again. Same result. She looked at her business card attached to the back of the phone. Some of the ink was smudged. It must have been in water, she said to herself. It’s ruined.

Trying to stave off her disappointment, she shoved it in her jacket pocket and went outside to wait.





106





Gina looked at her new phone. Ten o’clock. If she’d had more time to plan, more time to think things through, she probably would have insisted on conditions before agreeing to this meeting. Maybe at a quiet table in a public place such as a Barnes & Noble, or she would have insisted on bringing somebody with her. But every fiber of her being wanted to bring this investigation to a conclusion. She wanted to stop Brad Matthews before he could prey on another young woman. Another reason, she admitted to herself, was personal. Once the story broke, she could bring Ted back into her life forever.

A black Lincoln Navigator proceeded slowly down her block before coming to a halt in front of her building. An African-American man who looked like a football player stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked toward her.

“Gina Kane?”

She nodded.

He opened the rear door, allowed her to climb in, and then closed it behind her.

A console separated her from the other passenger. The man, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, was in the backseat on her opposite side. He had on a white collared shirt. His tie was loosened at the neck. In his hands was a legal pad atop a manila folder. Her eye was drawn to the cuff link at his left wrist. Even in the dim light she was certain the initials on the link were a small “F,” a large “C,” and a small “V.” The “C” could be Carter, but the other initials did not match.

Gina felt the car begin to move. The feeling that something wasn’t right grew stronger, but she forced herself to stay calm. We’re probably going over to the REL building to talk there, she reassured herself.

It was clear that if the silence was to be broken, the burden fell on her to do it. “Mr. Carter, I appreciate your reaching out to me. I want the story I’m going to write to be as accurate as possible. Our talking now can go a long way to make that happen.”

He turned and looked directly at her for the first time. She wasn’t sure why, but she was certain he looked familiar. “Before we talk, let’s establish the rules of the game. No recording permitted,” he said crisply. “Hand over your cell phone.” He extended his hand, palm up, across the console.

The alarm bells in Gina’s brain grew louder. The Michael Carter she had spoken to on the phone had a thin, nasally voice with a distinct New York accent. He would have said, “yaw” cell phone. The man in the car with her now had a cultured voice that was closer to a baritone.

“All right,” Gina said. She had begun to shift in her seat to reach into her back pocket when she stopped. Reaching instead into her jacket pocket, she pulled out the phone she had retrieved from the police and handed it over. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as the man slipped it into a bag at his feet.

“We’ve established we’re not recording,” Gina said, trying to maintain an even tone in her voice. “I’d like to start by asking—”

“What they tried to do to my company is an abomination!” he snapped, clearly trying to contain the anger he felt building inside him.

“My” company, Gina repeated to herself. His next words confirmed her suspicion.

“My father worked his whole life to build REL. It is my destiny to guide it to its place among the world’s great news organizations. Can’t anyone understand why that is so important?”

It was Frederick Carlyle, Jr., who was sitting across from her. He never looked at her as he spoke. He had the air of a Shakespearean actor in a soliloquy, trying to resolve a consuming internal dispute.

Gina glanced out the window. They were driving east, heading toward Central Park. Clearly they were not taking the most direct route to the REL building.

“Mr. Carlyle,” Gina began. If he had any reaction to her now knowing his identity, he didn’t show it. “There’s no question that the company your father,” she paused and in an attempt to pacify him added, “and you, built is an extraordinary achievement. It’s natural you want that to be recognized. But a light also has to be shined on horrible things that happened at your company. Innocent young women—”

“The women were treated fairly,” he said. “They were generously compensated, including those who didn’t even ask for money. No harm came to any of them who stuck to their agreements.”