The Means Page 8

  The other man looks the same except his clothes don’t look natural to him. He has on a black button-down shirt, black dress pants, and black leather shoes. He’s dressed like a younger, skinnier man. They both have the same posture, girth, and wide stance.

  With three drinks in, Samantha decides now’s the time to try.

  “Hello, Officer.”

  Both men turn to her and like what they see. They’re cockier than the hotel security guard and used to having a little fun. “Do we have a concerned citizen here?”

  “No, I just love a man in uniform.”

  “Sure you do. You with the press?”

  “That obvious?”

  Both men nod.

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened?”

  “I cannot.” The cop smiles.

  Samantha braces herself. She tries to work out what will be the most fearless and certain expression. “I have it confirmed there was lots of blood at the scene.”

  The cop says nothing and gives an expression to show he’s not impressed.

  “And I have it confirmed there were wounds to the neck of Hugh Brooks.”

  The cop shakes his head. “Exactly who has confirmed this little tale for you?”

  “I can’t say. At this time.”

  “I see.” He smiles again. “I tell you what, little lady. I’m going to introduce you to an important man.” He sweeps his hand toward the man next to him the way a game show host would gesture to a prize just won. “This is Connor Marks.”

  “A pleasure,” says Samantha, and the two shake hands.

  The cop continues. “Connor was a Miami cop. A very good cop who has retired and gone into business for himself. He calls himself a fixer, but as you can see,” the cop points up and down at the man’s clothing, “he’s really what I like to call a fancy boy.”

  “Fancy is such a relative term,” says Connor. “There’s this mope here, and then a very fancy rest of the world.” The two like each other and like giving each other a hard time.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” says the cop. “I don’t want to hear what gets spewed out next.” He walks to the other end of the lobby in the direction of the pool and the cabanas.

  “What’s a fixer?”

  Connor seems confident in delivering an impressive answer without his heckler around. “When people with lots of money get in trouble, they pay me lots of money to get them out.”

  “Like Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction.”

  “Not exactly. I’m more of a consultant. I develop strategies for how to handle cops and lawyers. And the press. Most cops can’t stand when guys like me get involved, but I’m friendly with the cops around here.”

  “And why are you at the Delano?”

  “I’m on the job.” He winks.

  “Meadow Jones hired you?”

  “Can we talk off the record?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Truly? You take care of me, I’ll take care of you. If I have information, I decide which network gets it first. Who are you with?”

  “UBS.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meadow Jones hired me.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Let’s get a drink. On me. I know how stingy the network expense accounts can be.”

  Samantha gets her fourth gin and tonic and Connor gets a scotch and soda. “I’ve seen you before, you know. On TV. Not so easy for a gal like you to go undercover.”

  “I guess not.”

  They talk for a drink and a half. Connor is charismatic and she can see he’s a natural entrepreneur. He’s also not concerned with appearing smart. He’s happy to have his intelligence underrated, though Samantha notices he doesn’t miss anything.

  Connor can see Samantha is smart and looking for a break. “Samantha, here’s what I can tell you. I don’t think Meadow Jones did this. That’s assuming it’s a murder and not self-inflicted. Hugh Brooks did die due to blood loss from knife wounds to the neck, not tooth wounds. Cameras have Meadow leaving through the hotel lobby at five a.m. No blood on her anywhere. She confirms this. She says Hugh was asleep and fine at the time she left. She was going to meet friends at a late-night club who were still partying and her friends confirm this. The coroner’s estimated range of the time of death can’t rule out that Hugh was still alive when Meadow left him.”

  “Is there any evidence of a forced entry or someone else in the room?”

  “They were partying in the cabana all night. Probably a dozen friends plus a dozen strangers who just crashed the party. Probably some damage to the room too. Forensics isn’t in yet, but it’s going to be a mess.”

  “And the knife?”

  “Missing. The wounds line up with what could be a hotel steak knife that the hotel offers with a few of their entrees and several of these were ordered the night of the incident and not bussed until after the body was found.”

  “No cameras on the cabana?”

  “There are some outdoor cameras of the pool area but none that can conclusively rule out a third party entering the cabana.”

  “What makes you think she didn’t do it? The evidence doesn’t rule her out.”

  Connor leans forward. “This is confidential.” He pauses for effect. “She passed a poly.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. It’s something I encourage new clients to do when I take them on.”

  “Who administered the test?”

  “It’s through my organization. It’s legit.”

  “Jesus. This story is getting crazier all the time.” She takes the last sip of her drink. “Will you come on for an interview? Take us through what you know?”

  He leans back. He’s happy. He’s very good at this. “Not now, I can’t. Maybe at some point. I’ll let you use what you have now, but it’s not for attribution. If I see I can trust you, we’ll see about more.”

  “Like what? I’d like to talk to Meadow.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll be fair.”

  “Look, I need to give her the right advice, but my feeling is that she should speak out at least one time. It would be an exclusive onetime sit down.”

  “I want it. Obviously. Connor, I’m here, I’m scrapping for the story. I’m getting the facts before anyone, I’m a lawyer, I know this stuff, I’ll be fair.”

  “Easy, easy. Listen, use what you have for now. A source close to the case. For now. And just like you said, be fair. You be fair, then I’ll be fair to you.”

  She needs to put together her report and call David Mueller and Ken Harper. They exchange mobile numbers and agree to talk the next day.

  Two hours later the news division gives her the green light. They send a camera crew over from their local affiliate and bong into the ten p.m. programming on UBS-24 with breaking news from Samantha Davis, live outside the Delano.

  “I’m standing outside the Delano Hotel on a beautiful, seventy-­degree evening in Miami Beach and what is now the scene of a possible murder investigation. This hotel was restored in the nineties to its original ninteen-thirties art deco feel and has since been one of the iconic hangout spots in South Beach. With the discovery of the dead body of Hugh Brooks two days ago in one of the luxurious poolside cabanas, the hotel has become more of a tourist attraction than ever. At twenty-one years old, Brooks was already a Hollywood legend and bankable star, earning twenty-two million dollars for his last picture. Brooks and his offscreen and onscreen girlfriend Meadow Jones had taken a cabana here at the hotel. Once hotel management found the body, speculation has ranged from suicide to accidental overdose. Multiple sources now tell me another possibility exists. Murder. These sources also say that the scene in the cabana was very bloody and that there were strange wounds to the neck of Hugh Brooks.”

  S
amantha pauses for the anchor to create a dialogue. “My goodness, Samantha. Do they have a suspect? Is Meadow Jones a suspect?”

  “Authorities have not communicated that this is a murder investigation yet. A source close to the case confirms this is the direction they are headed. It also appears that Meadow Jones is cooperating with authorities and has complied with their request to remain available.”

  A crowd is forming around the front of the hotel on Collins Avenue. People are drawn in by the camera and the live shot, then stunned by Samantha’s report. People come up from both directions on Collins as well as come out of the hotel in hurried walks. It looks like a nineteenth-­century political stump speech.

  The UBS-24 program cuts to a few still shots of the cabana lined in yellow police tape. Samantha has one more piece of information that she’s been considering whether or not to use. Screw it, she thinks. It’s all unconfirmed. “This same source tells us that Meadow Jones may have taken and passed a private polygraph regarding the murder. I emphasize this is an unconfirmed report.”

  The anchor signs off from Samantha and chaos breaks out. In the next ten minutes, more than 250 airline tickets for Miami are booked by five television news organizations. Every news channel ends its ten p.m. broadcast with a mention of possible new developments from Miami Beach. The AP releases a wire announcing the possibility of foul play in the death of Hugh Brooks.

  The Miami chief of police slams down his phone and shouts, “fuck.” He calls an immediate press conference and wonders how that good-looking bitch got in front of his investigation. He thinks he should have gone public with more information sooner but he wanted the full forensics report back first to know whether the wounds could be self-­inflicted. TV sets around South Beach turn off and people walk out their doors to the Delano to see if they can get a look. Number 1685 Collins Avenue turns into a block party. Many come dressed as vampires as a tribute to Hugh and Meadow.

  Samantha heads back to her own hotel to prepare for a wall-to-wall day of reporting. It’s the biggest celebrity crime story in years and it’s hers. She’s a day ahead of the rest of the industry.

  14

  Samantha has always been able to sleep when afforded the time to do it. This was useful practicing law when she was never afforded much time. She’s sound asleep when her mobile phone rings at 5:30 a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Connor Marks. I wanted to get you before you run off to do the morning show. Your report got a lot of pickup.”

  “I know.”

  “The police announced a murder investigation last night.”

  “I saw that.” She’s almost all the way awake now.

  “I’ve read only the Washington Post and the New York Times so far. Both credit you with breaking the story.”

  “Good, I’ll check that out.”

  “I believe thank and you are the two words you’re looking for. And you’re welcome.”

  She laughs. “Thank you for the scoop.”

  “You did a nice job and you looked great out there. And you were fair to us.”

  “I went with what I had. The police are probably a little ticked off with me.”

  “Screw them. I have another gift for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Katie Couric would pay us a million bucks for this, you know.”

  “Meadow Jones made twenty-two million bucks her last picture. She doesn’t need the money.”

  “Exactly. We’re giving it to you. Just you and a single cameraman. Four p.m. today, pretape. Undisclosed location, nearby and I’ll call you at three p.m. with the address. You should be sitting in your car at three p.m. when I call. I’ll see you in person by three thirty and we’ll review a few ground rules.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Samantha.”

  “Yes.”

  “You ain’t never had a friend like me,” he says in a Robin Williams voice.

  “It feels like a first.”

  “See you this afternoon, Sam.”

  Samantha hangs up and for a moment questions why this gift has come to her but she’s a child star and beautiful and smart and she’s used to success both earned and unearned. She doesn’t question the gift again and she puts a call in to David Mueller to give him the update and make sure she has the resources she needs. The tape will go right to Mueller and be ready for prime time that night. Samantha is already booked on the network morning show, then has a hit at the top of every hour throughout the day on the cable channel. Everyone wants to hear her set the scene, describe the hotel and the change in atmosphere now that it’s known to be a murder.

  She’s the best-informed reporter anywhere on this story and that comes through in her energy and confidence during her broadcast. Every other reporter on the scene projects a silent admission that they’re late to the story and merely rebroadcasting another’s work.

  Samantha finishes her last hit outside the Delano at 2:10 p.m. then takes a short taxi ride back to her hotel to prepare for Connor Marks and Meadow Jones.

  Charlie Keating is waiting for her in the lobby, sitting on a green felt couch that has the kind of acceptable mildew smell that comes from twenty years of sea air in a budget hotel lobby. He has two black canvas bags full of camera and lighting equipment. They’ve never met but he recognizes Samantha and stands to greet her.

  “Samantha, I’m Charlie.” Charlie’s about sixty and has been either deep-sea fishing or working a camera in the Miami bureau for thirty years. His hair is blond and gray and his face is wrinkled and tanned except where his sunglasses usually are. The skin of his body is tan and loose over sinewy muscles.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Charlie.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You know the area well?”

  “Very. Been here since before Space Shuttle Challenger.”

  When the hell was that? Vague childhood memories. “Okay, good. I’m not sure where we’re going yet but it should be less than thirty minutes’ drive. Let’s get loaded up in the car and ready to go.”

  They get settled in the PT Cruiser with Charlie behind the wheel and at 2:59 p.m. Samantha’s phone rings.

  Connor gives an address on Fisher Island. Then he says, “And Samantha, just you and the cameraman and you keep a low profile. Pull your baseball caps down to your eyebrows. You’re coming to the house of a friend of mine. There’s a garage and the garage door will be open. Don’t get out of the car until you’re in the garage and we close the door behind you.”

  “Got it.”

  “Samantha, you better haul ass. You need to catch a ferry to get here.”

  “On my way. Bye.” She hangs up.

  Samantha repeats the address for Charlie. “Fisher Island? Very posh.”

  “Yeah? Never been.”

  “Oprah Winfrey has a house there. Julia Roberts too. It’s that kind of place and only about two hundred homes. Private.”

  “I guess it’s a good place for Meadow Jones to hide out. Connor Marks is a full-service consultant.”

  Charlie pulls the PT Cruiser onto Fifth Street. He wants to impress Samantha with manly driving but when he pins the gas pedal the engine pops to a high-pitched whir that feels unconnected to the slow rise of the speedometer needle. “Car’s a little underpowered.”

  Samantha agrees. She likes Charlie and she wishes she knew him a little better so she could mock him.

  Fifth becomes MacArthur Causeway, then they turn onto Terminal Island. They’re weeks from the shortest daylight of the year and Samantha guesses they have about ninety minutes left of sun. She doesn’t have a baseball cap but keeps her forehead rested against an open palm.

  They pull up to a terminal dock where a ferry is waiting with two men holding lines and ready to cast off. She wonders if Connor arranged this as well. Charlie steers onto the ferry that has no other cars and the two men
cast off the lines.

  The ferry looks like a mini aircraft carrier. There’s a raised bridge in the back for the captain and the rest is flat area, enough for six car lengths end to end and about four cars wide.

  Charlie takes out his wallet and waves to one of the men. “I’ll expense this. I think it’s about thirty-five bucks for a car.”

  The man arrives at Charlie’s window. “No fee today. It’s been taken care of.”

  A few minutes later they tie up at the dock on Fisher Island. Charlie finds the house and pulls into the open garage. The house is Mediterranean and looks like the houses around it. White stucco on the outside with a red clay tile roof. Samantha looks up as a door from inside the garage opens. Connor Marks steps into the garage and presses a button on the wall. The door closes behind them.

  Connor’s energy has changed from their last encounter. He’s no longer calm and humorous. He’s now all business and urgent but still in control. He pulls Samantha into a massive living room with white tile floors and white area rugs. He puts Samantha down on a white sofa and before addressing her, he addresses the cameraman. “Set up there,” he says, pointing to a corner of the room. “Samantha will be right here and Meadow in this chair next to her.” The room is breezy and getting the last of the dusk light as well as the interior lighting that Connor has already turned on.

  Connor gets down on one knee so he’s eye level with Samantha. His speech is clipped and fast. “She’s not doing well. She’s distraught and taking medication to stay calm and keep it together. I don’t know if we can pull this off but we’ll try it. I’m going to give you ten minutes but if she starts to lose it at any point, I’m going to step in and end it. You get ten minutes, max.”

  “Alright.” Samantha is playing catch-up with the rush of events and his energy. She can’t get her thoughts out in front of the moment.

  “If this is going to work we don’t have much time and we’re going to have to start right away. I don’t want any talk about murder investigations. She’s too fragile for that. Ask her what she remembers happening, ask her how she’s holding up. That’s it. Got it?”