Flight Dreams (2 page)

“Of course not, but
I’m
not a murderer. Such people do exist, though, and they’re not all as logical as you. Maybe the guy’s dumb. It just
seems
that Helena Carter was murdered.”

Manning tells him, “You don’t
seem
to have produced a body. You don’t
seem
to have come up with a suspect or even a reasonable motive. On the basis of what I do know—not what I think, or believe, or would like to believe, but
know
—I’m convinced that Helena Carter is alive.”

“If you could prove it, you’d be a half-million dollars richer,” Daryl reminds him. “And I know just the man you could spend it on.”

Manning ignores Daryl’s come-on, telling him, “The reward isn’t the only consideration. If I could prove that Helena Carter is alive, there’d be a Partridge Prize waiting for me next year.”

“The coveted Brass Bird,” Daryl waxes rhapsodic, “investigative journalism’s highest award.” Then he beads Manning with a get-real stare. “
If
you could prove that she’s alive.”

They are silent. Both have stated their positions, and it is clear that no convincing has been done.

Daryl enjoys these encounters. He and Manning often engage in such banter, and the cagey sparring implies a sort of intimacy. It is not a physical intimacy—though Daryl has made it plain enough he would welcome the possibility—but simply a professional closeness. Daryl is a journalism student at Northwestern and, in spite of his flighty manner, is committed to making a career of it. He sees Manning as the
Journal
’s star reporter and constantly seeks ways to prove his own potential.

The efforts have not gone unnoticed by Manning, who encourages the kid and treats him more like an equal than a gofer. In moments of honest introspection, Manning also recognizes that Daryl intrigues him. While he feels no particular attraction to Daryl, he admires the young man’s openness. Thirty-nine and still single, Manning wonders for a moment whether his next birthday might trigger something he doesn’t care to face.

Suppressing these thoughts, he curls his lips into a little smile. “Well, enough of that.”

Daryl mirrors Manning’s smile. He asks, “How old was she
… is
she?”

“She just turned fifty-six,” says Manning. “She was forty-nine when she disappeared, a young widow, but most people think of her as elderly—guess it fits the image of a rich North Shore matron. Everything I’ve learned about her, though, paints a picture of a spry, spirited woman.”

Daryl checks his watch and affects a lisp: “Speaking of spry and spirited, you’d better get your ass in gear. Gordon wanted to see you ten minutes ago.”

Gordon Smith, the
Journal
’s managing editor, is not a man to be kept waiting. Manning sits bolt upright and snuffs out his cigarette, asking, “Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

“Well, I did—just now.”

Manning has already shrugged into his jacket. He tightens his tie as he trots down the aisle toward the newsroom’s front offices.

The
Journal’
s previous managing editor opted for a late retirement; it was general consensus that he waited too long. Gordon Smith, as city editor, was heir apparent, so when the promotion finally came, it surprised no one.

Smith has accepted the mantle of authority gracefully, but with little inner joy. Some years earlier, when he became city editor, he yearned for the creative involvement of a reporter. “Reporting is what newspaper work is all
about,
” he confided to his wife when she wondered aloud one night why his success had brought on a mild despondency. Now that he is managing editor, he misses the duties of city editor, and reporting seems all the more removed from his life.

Nonetheless, he enjoys playing the role in which he now finds himself cast. He has acquired a wardrobe of three-piece suits, which he wears at all times. Arriving at his
Journal
office, he hangs up his jacket, unbuttons his vest, and rolls up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. He has become the picture of a “working editor” and once joked to Manning that he planned to get suspenders and arm garters.

When Manning enters Smith’s office, though, he senses at once that there will be no joking today. The editor sits peering at a blank computer screen. His expression is sullen, his complexion ashen.

“What’s the matter, Gordon?” Manning asks him, forgoing any small talk.

“You know, Mark, it’s funny.” Smith vacantly motions for Manning to sit down. His gaze wanders out the window to the cool autumn sky arching over Lake Michigan. “You’d think it would be enough for a man to sit in his tower office, secure in the knowledge that he presides over the most respected news organization in the Midwest, leaving day-to-day reporting and editorial matters to the best staff in the business.” Smith’s voice, barely audible, trails off to nothing as he continues to study the sky.

“Are you talking about Nathan Cain?” asks Manning, referring to the
Journal
’s publisher.

“Who else?” Smith turns in his chair to face Manning across the desk. “Nathan has more drive and vision than any newsman I know. When he set up our foreign bureau in Ethiopia, lots of folks laughed at the idea—but now they’re picking up
our
wire stories covering the hostage crisis there. Say what you will about him, but Nathan is a ‘big picture’ kind of guy.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. The
Journal
has never been stronger than it is right now with Cain at the helm. Hell, he
is
the
Journal.
”

“Exactly,” says the editor, at last looking Manning in the eye, “and that’s what makes all of this so … sticky.”

Apprehension colors Manning’s voice. “All of what, Gordon?”

“All of this business about the Carter woman. You’ve once again drawn the conclusion in print that she’s alive, while the rest of the world seems convinced that she was murdered. Nathan feels that your position is an embarrassment to the paper. He must be taking some heat from his buddies.”

“What buddies?”

“Who knows? Probably the guys he rubs elbows with at United Way board meetings. Isn’t Josh Williams on that board?”

“Ah, yes,” says Manning. “Josh Williams, publisher of the
Post,
happens to be married to Humphrey Hasting’s sister.”

“Bingo.” Smith swallows hard, then exhales before continuing. “Whatever the reason, Nathan wants the
Journal
to fall in line. He wants you to reverse your position.”

“I can’t do that, Gordon. I …”

“Mark, I agree with you. I told him so. But he’s made up his mind.”

“For God’s sake,” says Manning, exasperated, “why don’t you just
edit
my stories to fit whatever policy he wants?”

“Why not, indeed. Or I could simply assign the story to someone else. I suggested that to Nathan, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s always had that odd streak—a perverse sense of gaming. He insists that the turnaround come from you personally.”

“He can’t
force
me to write something I don’t believe.”

“Of course not, but he can—and did—issue an ultimatum. Nathan Cain told me this morning that you are to reverse your Carter position in the next edition. If you don’t, and if Carter doesn’t reappear by New Year’s, you’re
out
of here. To make his wishes all the more compelling, he threatened that you’d never find work at another paper. As you’re well aware, he has the power to make good on that promise.”

“But
why?”
asks Manning. “What’s behind his sudden interest in this story? Nathan Cain doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who’ll lose sleep over a bit of razzing from his colleagues.”

“I don’t have any answers,” Smith tells him with a frustrated shrug. “Yes, Nathan’s orders seem groundless, and I tried to dissuade him, but my opinions don’t count—not this time. I’m just an overpaid messenger. And the message is: He calls the shots.”

Stunned, Manning mumbles, “My entire adult life, I’ve struggled to build a reputation based on reason and integrity …”

Smith doesn’t mince words. “Integrity isn’t worth shit if you wind up losing your job—a job you’re supposedly good at.”

Manning thinks for a moment, but only a moment, before asking, “He doesn’t leave me much choice, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then I’d better get to work and find Helena Carter.”

Manning rises to leave, but pauses. With a feeble smile, he turns to ask his editor, “Did you think I’d knuckle under?”

“I hoped not, but I didn’t know. Cain was sure you’d give in, but the ultimatum is no bluff. Having taken up the gauntlet, you’ve got to deliver.”

“I know that, Gordon. I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“Good luck, Mark.”

M
ANNING GLANCES AT THE
Roman numerals on his watch. It’s nearly noon. Twenty-four hours have passed since Gordon Smith delivered their publisher’s ultimatum, and Manning has wasted no time setting up a lunch date with Roxanne Exner, a lawyer—one of many—who deals with the Carter estate. He needs her help.

Michigan Avenue is already swamped with office workers who have sneaked out to enjoy the weather. Manning jostles through the crowd along the fashionable boulevard, then turns onto the shadowed side street that leads to his favorite Armenian restaurant, quickening his pace against a chilly east wind that blows from the lake.

He ducks under the tentlike awning and in through the door, his nostrils drinking in the warm smells of garlic, grape leaves, and sesame. Pausing a moment while his eyes adjust to the near-darkness of the cramped dining room, he notices Roxanne waving her fingers at him from one of the deeply coved booths.

“I’m surprised you’re here already,” he says while sliding in next to her.

She leans toward him, offering her cheek for a kiss, which Manning delivers. She tells him, “I don’t normally lunch this early, if at all. But your call sounded rather desperate, and—as you know—I enjoy your company. I had to reschedule a few meetings, so it seems that you’re indebted to me.” She flashes him a sly smile, lifting her Scotch and soda in a perfunctory toast.

Manning now notices that his usual vodka on the rocks already sits before him. They touch glasses, then sip. He tells her, “For a pushy broad, you’re awfully alluring.”

She has to think about that one. She reflexively bristles at the mention of “broad,” but she likes “pushy,” and “alluring” is a bonus. On balance, she takes it as a compliment.

While she analyzes his comment, Manning studies Roxanne. They have slept together once—or was it twice? A few years younger than Manning, about thirty-five, she is single, stylish, undeniably attractive. She’s a climber, a talented attorney who was recently named partner at one of the city’s more prestigious firms. She occasionally provides tips or legal advice for Manning’s stories. She is a friend.

Roxanne spreads a copy of the morning
Post
on the table in a pool of light cast by a Moroccan-style lantern overhead. She jabs at a story with her index finger. “Did you see this latest crap?” she asks Manning. “I’ve read more substantial reporting in
school
papers.”

“Predictable,” he answers.

“Just listen to this headline:
POLICE APATHY PLAGUES CARTER CASE
. Then in italic:
Will Public Ever Know Whole Story?
Byline, naturally: Humphrey Hasting. Opening paragraph: ‘Deputy Chicago police superintendent Earl Murphy admitted in an exclusive interview with the
Post
that lack of incriminating evidence has hampered police efforts to find missing airline heiress Helena Carter’s murderer. When asked what direction renewed efforts might take in this case, Murphy revealed that the department is currently consulting with a number of psychics and clairvoyants who have been flown to Chicago to help locate the body. The long-overdue measure is undoubtedly meant to appease a frustrated citizenry, increasingly weary of the investigative bungling that has characterized this case…’”

Disgusted, Roxanne pushes the tabloid across the table and lets it flutter to the floor. “Mark, this pompous ass is just beating the bushes for a headline.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Roxanne—I
know
he’s a hack. But he does have a knack for stirring people up, and that makes him dangerous.”

“And powerful. My God, now he’s got the Chicago police squirming. What’s
their
interest in this case? Carter disappeared in Bluff Shores.”

“The Chicago Archdiocese stands to inherit nearly a hundred million dollars, remember, so you can bet that Archbishop Benedict has made a few phone calls to some folks in high places. Besides, the suburban police don’t have the resources to mount a credible investigation. The FBI was called in at one point, but they got out fast because no one could prove that money—or a corpse—had crossed state lines. The question of jurisdiction has put a tricky knot in this case, but the underlying problem is lack of evidence.”

“Lack of evidence is
your
handicap too, Mark. If you have nothing to go on, what makes you think you can find the old gal in time to save your job?”

“I’m not at all sure I can, but I wasn’t left with much choice—I have to try. Will you help me?”

She reaches over their menus to pat his hand. “Of course,” she tells him in a mock-soothing tone. Then, coolly, “I honestly think you’re barking up the wrong tree, but if you’re determined to make a martyr of yourself…”

“Look, Roxanne.” He’s annoyed. “I have no intention of sacrificing myself—whether to journalistic integrity or to the public’s ‘right to know.’ I’m in this mess because the alternative is untenable. I’d appreciate your help.”

She nods, all business now. “I understand, Mark. I’ve brought my files, and I see you’ve brought some too. What have you got?”

He spreads several manila folders on the table. “These are from the
Journal’
s morgue. They contain clippings of every story we’ve run about Helena Carter, as well as every photo we’ve shot of her. It’s all dated on the back. I’m surprised there’s so much—not only my own stories from the last seven years, but also a heap of material from before her disappearance.” He stops short, noticing something in one of the folders.