The Candidate (11 page)

ERICA IS DRESSED DOWN FOR DeNiro's fundraiser in a simple little black dress and a pair of clip-on sapphire earrings—she doesn't want to draw attention to herself. She's hired a car and driver for the evening, and she picks up Martin Vander at his apartment building in Chelsea. Vander cleans up pretty nicely for an academic—his beard is trimmed and his black suit fits well. He's also keyed up—eyes alight, gestures fidgety—eager to see his subject up close.

“I've become obsessed with Mike Ortiz. And his wife,” he says as the car makes its way down to Tribeca. “I've been devouring every word I can read on them. And watching every video I can find.”

“And?”

“I'm still not ready to make any definitive judgments, but I do think there's something, for lack of a better word,
unnatural
about them.”

“Say more.”

“If you study their body language, you can see that for every move one of them makes, the other makes a countermove. Their bond is extraordinary. And she seems to be the dominant player. He's submissive. It's subtle but, once you start looking for it, undeniable.”

“This should be an interesting evening.”

The car pulls up in front of an old factory that is now home to priceless loft condos. There's a small phalanx of security guards in front.

Erica and Vander get out of the car, and she walks up to a man with an iPad. He recognizes her, smiles, and ushers them both in. The elevator is manned and it lets them off directly into DeNiro's loft, which has high ceilings and banks of metal-mullioned windows and seems to stretch on forever. The place is crowded and buzzing with that electric New York energy that never fails to recharge and renew Erica.

There's Beyoncé. And Jay-Z. And Sarah Jessica Parker. And Anna Wintour. And George Clooney. And Taylor Swift. And Andy Cohen. And on and on. Erica doesn't have to worry about being recognized in this crowd. In fact, she feels almost B-list. That is, until Beyoncé waves and smiles. Erica manages a wave back, thunderstruck by the singer's beauty.

Vander seems completely nonplussed by the glittering crowd. He unabashedly devours the artful hors d'oeuvres being offered by the army of waitstaff. Erica scans the room and sees no sign of the Ortizes, but she knows from experience that the candidate often doesn't appear until after an introduction.

And then she sees DeNiro, looking handsome in a suit, chatting intently with a tall Chinese woman who is without a doubt one of the most striking women Erica has ever seen. She looks about five nine, lean as a pole, wearing a stunning black suit with bright-orange silk lapels. Her jet-black hair is slicked back, her skin as pale as a winter twilight, her glistening red mouth as bold as a dare.

Erica heads over to the two of them.

“Thank you so much for letting me crash your party,” she says to DeNiro.

“My pleasure. Lily Lau, Erica Sparks.”

Lily narrows her eyes and looks at Erica with a knowing smile. Then she extends her hand. “I watch you almost every day.”

“You must love being bored.”

“I love being informed. And you're never boring. In fact, you get more interesting all the time.”

“Where is the guest of honor?” Erica asks.

“They're hiding out in my office,” DeNiro says, indicating a hallway at one end of the loft. A security guard stands at the front.

“It's all about making an entrance,” Lily says.

“I'll leave you two ladies while I go play host,” DeNiro says, heading into the crowd.

“Do you know Mike Ortiz?” Erica asks Lily. Even though she knows the answer.

“I'm one of the campaign's chief fundraisers. I also advise the candidate. And I run Pierce Holdings. For Celeste Ortiz.”

“So you know them well.”

“Celeste and I met at Stanford. She's going to be an extraordinary First Lady.”

Erica realizes that she's deep in the Ortiz camp and has to watch her words. But she would love to squeeze some information out of this Lily Lau. “Ortiz's story is so compelling. And Celeste has been by his side every step of the way.”

“Their marriage is a great love story. He's her one and only.”

“How does Celeste feel about giving up her own career in international finance?”

Lily takes a sip from her glass, which holds water. Erica can't imagine this woman taking even a whiff of an intoxicant.

“Celeste has never been about Celeste. She's a visionary who sees a better world ahead.”

Erica's cliché alert sounds. Getting anything fresh, interesting, and revealing out of Lily Lau is going to be very tough. She changes tack.

“How did you end up at Stanford?”

“My father was the Chinese counsel to San Francisco. I grew up in the city. When he left the position and moved back to Beijing, I stayed in the States and became a citizen.”

Over Lucy's shoulder Erica sees Martin Vander lingering near the entrance to the hallway that leads to DeNiro's office. When the security guard turns to answer a guest's question, he slips past him.

“And tell me, what brings you to Mike's fundraiser? Aren't you compromising your journalistic standards?”

“Hardly. I'm not endorsing Mike Ortiz. I'm doing research.”

“For?”

“I'm putting together profiles of both candidates. I plan to go to a Lucy Winters fundraiser next.”

“That should be dull.”

“So you've known Mike Ortiz almost as long as Celeste?”

“She introduced me to him a month after they met.”

“How do you think his time as a prisoner in Iraq affected him?”

Lily narrows her eyes before answering. “It strengthened him.”

Just then there's a ripple in the room as DeNiro appears with Mike and Celeste Ortiz in tow. Behind them, Martin Vander slips out of the hallway and back into the throng. He looks perplexed, troubled, thoughtful—and even more keyed up.

DeNiro steps up onto a small makeshift stage and hushes the room. Mike and Celeste stand to the side. Her eyes sweep the room like a searchlight—when she reaches Erica she stops and gives her a warm smile and a little wave.

“I'm very happy to introduce you to a man who has proven he has guts and smarts and a big heart. Let's hear it for the next president of the United States, Mike Ortiz.”

The crowd is so rich, so famous, so accomplished—it takes a lot to impress them, and their applause is polite but hardly rousing. The truth is this tribe will continue to thrive no matter who wins the White House. They live in Fat City and have an easy familiarity with each other—there are no strangers in the brotherhood of success—that even Mike Ortiz can't quite crack. In some ways, Celeste's fortune means more to them than Mike Ortiz's credentials. After all, at the end of the day, Washington, DC, is at their beck and call.

“I feel like I'm at the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party,” Mike Ortiz cracks. It's a great opening line, and the crowd laughs and nods approval. “Some people may call you world-famous celebrities. I call you my base.” More
laughter. “Thanks for your support. I know this is an expensive ticket and some of you worked for a good five minutes to earn it.”

Now he's got the crowd eating out of his hands. His performance is so smooth, so polished. Too smooth, too polished. Celeste is standing beside him, beaming. Erica wonders who his joke writer is.

As Ortiz goes into his boilerplate pitch, Erica makes her way over to Vander, who is watching Mike intently. She leans into him and asks, “Thoughts?”

“This has been very illuminating.” His eyes are afire.

“I saw you slip down that hallway.”

“I was just looking for a bathroom,” Vander says, deadpan.

“And did you find one?”

“I thought I had. I opened the door and it turned out to be DeNiro's office.”

“And you discovered Mike and Celeste inside?”

“I interrupted them. They were at the far end of the room. He was sitting. She was standing over him. She had a hand on his shoulder. They were repeating some sort of incantation. It was call and response. He was answering her.”

“An incantation? What were they saying?”

“I don't know. They were speaking Chinese.”

The party seems to disappear around Erica; all she sees is Martin Vander's face, all she hears are his words.

“What did they do when they saw you?”

“There was a moment of shock. And then they smiled. I acted like I hadn't heard a thing and then beat a hasty retreat. Listen, Erica, I have to gather my thoughts and write them up while they're still fresh.”

“Wait. That's it?”

“For now, yes. I should have a better sense of things in a day or two. There's something I have to search for. That I
must
find. I'm going to call in all my contacts. It may take a trip to Chinatown.” Then he turns and almost races through the throng and out of the party.

On the stage, Ortiz is finishing up. “When it comes to political
speeches and a crowd like this, less is always more. Thanks for coming. Now let's have some fun.” He and Celeste are so charming and convincing and casual that for a moment Erica wonders if Martin Vander misheard them. Or maybe they have some innocent Chinese affirmation they repeat before public appearances. Or maybe . . . maybe
what
?

Ortiz works the room as a disc jockey starts to spin records, and suddenly it's a party: the noise level soars; laughter rings out; people start to dance. Erica hasn't been to a lot of high-end political fundraisers, but she's been to enough to know that this one is different. It was orchestrated down to the last beat and is definitely more party than policy. Erica sees Lily Lau dancing with Katy Perry and wishes she could film it all for her profile.

Instead, she makes her way over to Celeste Ortiz, who is surrounded by a mix of celebrities and sycophants. But even as she chats and laughs, her eyes follow her husband as he makes his way through the crowd, glad-handing, laughing, hugging.

“Hi, Celeste,” Erica says.

Celeste gives her a big smile and grasps her hand. “Erica, what are
you
doing here?”

“My job.”

“I thought you were an investigative reporter, not a celebrity chaser.”

“The two aren't mutually exclusive,” Erica says.

Celeste laughs—it sounds like shards of ice.

“I'm doing an in-depth piece on your husband.”

“Be careful, you don't want to get in over your head.”

“You know, the tougher the assignment, the better I like it. If you don't believe me, ask Nylan Hastings.”

Celeste laughs again. Then Julianne Moore approaches, and Celeste turns away from Erica and gushes, “Julianne!”

“Hi, Celeste. I actually wanted to meet Erica Sparks.”

A look of anger, rage really, flashes across Celeste's face in the blink of an eye. But Erica didn't blink—and she and Celeste exchange a glance
of mutual understanding. Just like they did that afternoon in Pacific Heights.

“What a pleasure,” Erica says, shaking Moore's hand.

“Your reporting on the Buchanan bombing has been very moving. I actually think you're helping us all heal. Don't you agree, Celeste?”

“There's no doubt that Erica is very talented. Of course, we all know that talent isn't enough.”

“You need luck,” Julianne says.

“I believe we make our own luck,” Erica says. “Now, lucky me has to go home and make sure my daughter has finished her homework.”

“How's she doing at Brearley?” Celeste asks, suddenly all concern.

“She's doing just fine.”

“Are you sure? I know those schools can be tough, especially for a girl coming from . . .
public
school.”

“I am sure. She's fine.”

“Well, if you and . . . is it Ashley?” Celeste says.

“Jenny.”

“If you and Jenny ever have any issues or . . .
challenges
, do let me know. My cousin Joan is on the board.”

As Erica walks over to the elevator she feels frustration bubbling in her veins—why does she still let girls like Celeste get to her? She's proven her worth a thousand times over. And yet they
do
get to her. They still have the ability to make her feel insecure, like an imposter, someone not quite good enough. As if, no matter how successful she becomes, she can never erase the stain of her childhood.

At the elevator, she turns and takes a last look at the party. The kitchen and dining area are in a corner, a relatively quiet space. She sees Celeste and Lily Lau huddled there together, deep in conversation. Then, just as the elevator doors open, both women turn and look over at Erica—and she can practically see their wheels turning.

As the elevator takes her down to the street she can't get that look out of her mind.

IT'S SUNDAY MORNING, AND ERICA and Jenny have just boarded Josh Walters's cabin cruiser, docked at the romantic, even whimsical, Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin on the Hudson River. The boat's open stern is home to a picnic table—its benches are two huge, smile-inducing erasers.

“Welcome aboard!” Josh says with a boyish grin, looking adorable in beat-up khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a sort of hip-hop/Hawaiian shirt.

Erica has always been a little wary of rah-rah types, especially when they're over the age of twenty-five—news flash: life is hard—but Josh's exuberance feels completely unforced, as natural as breathing. And then there's that mop of curly ginger hair, that conspiratorial smile, and that compact muscular body.

Jenny and Lisa sit at the table and immediately take out their smartphones and start sharing vlogger videos.

“
Lee
-sa, you know the rules,” Josh says. “Fork it over.” Lisa reluctantly hands over her phone. “Jenny, this boat is a phone-free zone.”

Jenny looks at Erica, who shrugs and smiles. “He's the captain.”

“We're on one of the world's greatest rivers in the world's greatest
city. Do you really want to keep your nose buried in a tiny electronic device cramming your brain full of useless information and the antics of narcissistic clowns, all of which will still be waiting for you when we get back? That's a rhetorical question.”

Jenny hands Josh her phone.

“Grown-ups too,” Lisa says.

“Actually, I kind of have to claim reporter's prerogative here,” Erica says. She's been playing phone tag with Martin Vander since Friday night's fundraiser at DeNiro's. On his last message Martin said he was “very eager” to talk to her. “I'm expecting an important work call that I really have to take.”

“What do you say, gang, should we make an exception?” Josh asks.

“I'd like to take her phone, her laptop, and
her job
and throw them all in the Hudson!” Jenny says.

There's laughter all around and then Josh says, “I'm sorry, no exceptions.”

Erica
can't
give up her phone. Can she? It's only for a couple of hours, and there's something attractive and reassuring about Josh's adamancy. His boat. His rules. She looks around at the river, the boats, the sky, the day. Then she takes her phone out of her bag and hands it over to Josh. He stashes it with the others in a small box labeled
Freedom
.

Josh pilots the boat out into the river—Erica feels a surge of excitement and adventure—and in no time they're heading under the George Washington Bridge.

“Over there, on one of the highest points in Manhattan, you can see the Cloisters, the medieval monastery that was brought over from France in the late 1930s and turned into a museum.” He points across the river to the sheer rock face that lines the other bank. “Those are the Palisades. The Rockefellers bought up the land to protect the Cloisters' viewscape from development.”

Josh is a tour guide whose passion is infectious. Erica inhales every morsel of information about her adored adopted city and state. As
they make their way upriver, she can't help but compare Josh to Greg. Sophisticated, ironic, hard-driving Greg. Intense, serious
, philandering
Greg. Josh is just so guileless, but not like some overgrown boy, like a man who has decided he's going to enjoy life. In some ways, the balance feels better than it does with Greg. After all, opposites not only attract, they complement.

Josh points out one landmark after another. After about a half hour, Erica hears Lisa mutter under her breath to Jenny, “Welcome to the snooze cruise.” The two of them dissolve into giggles, but Erica can tell that Lisa adores her dad.

It's a warm day, but there's a breeze on the river and the homemade lemonade Josh has served is tart and refreshing. The world looks so different from the water—you get to see views and houses that are inaccessible by land. They pass a rambling, neglected Victorian that looks like Blanche DuBois's summer place, and then a midcentury modern glass house cantilevered out over the river. There are tiny bank-hugging hamlets that look unchanged from their founding two hundred years ago.

“We're now entering the Hudson Highlands,” Josh says as mountains seem to rise straight out of the water on both banks, squeezing the river. “During the Revolutionary War, the British strung chain metal across from one side to the other in an unsuccessful attempt to stop Washington's navy.”

They round a bend, and there, tucked into the highlands, is the fortress of West Point.

A little farther upriver a ruined castle comes into view, sitting on its own tiny island. It's towering and eerie, like something out of a nightmare—or maybe a Tim Burton movie.

“And that's Bannerman's castle, built by arms dealer Francis Bannerman in 1901 as a storage facility for his armaments. After he died in 1918, the island was essentially abandoned. It now belongs to New York State, which is trying to figure out what the heck to do with it.”

Even the girls are mesmerized by this apparition, and Josh deftly
maneuvers the boat to a large, flat onshore rock. Then he jumps onto the rock and ties the boat to a nearby tree. “Should we do a little exploring and have some lunch?”

First Lisa and then Jenny take his extended hand and hop ashore. Just as Erica is about to follow, she hears the muffled sound of her phone ringing. Her river reverie is broken.

“Can I just check and see who it is? If it's anyone but the important call, I promise I won't answer.”

Josh smiles and nods. Erica retrieves the phone. “It's him . . . Hi, Martin.”

“Erica, can we meet? I've made some disturbing discoveries.” He sounds spooked.

“Can't you tell me on the phone? I'm forty miles up the Hudson River.”

“I'd rather we met in person,” Vander says. “Phones sometimes . . .”

“I'll be back this afternoon.”

“How about we meet on the High Line at Twenty-Sixth Street at four?”

“See you then.” Erica hangs up on the call—and on her carefree mood. She could tell by Vander's voice that he's deeply unsettled, even frightened, by what he has uncovered. Has he come to some sort of conclusion about Ortiz's mental and emotional state?

“Bad news?” Josh asks from shore.

“Possibly.”

“Hey, why don't you girls explore the island while I get lunch set up?”

Jenny and Lisa eagerly take off. Josh steps back onto the boat. He's serious now and concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I am. I should probably tell you right now that I have workaholic tendencies. When I'm investigating a story I turn into a single-minded, obsessive, exceedingly boring bulldog. You planned this lovely day, and I'm afraid I'm going to be distracted and pretty poor company for the rest of it.”

“Erica, I'm not the kind of guy who's looking for Martha Stewart Lite. I love gutsy women who own their power. So I admire your work ethic and I'm wholly supportive. I'm also wildly curious as to what you're investigating.”

Erica would love to open up to Josh, to tell him about Ortiz and Celeste and Lily Lau and her misgivings. She'd value his input—sometimes a fresh civilian eye can offer up helpful suggestions. But she knows from experience it's better to play her cards close to the vest, especially early on. “I can't talk about it at this point. It's in the early stages and I don't want to jinx things.”

Josh studies her for a moment, then reaches out and gently runs his hand down her cheek. It's a tender gesture, a pledge of friendship, and Erica is touched by it. “You can still eat, though, can't you? We've got tuna fish, egg salad, potato chips, and pickles.”

Josh is just a doll, one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get great guys. Erica feels a real attraction toward him, his generosity, his kindness, his spontaneity, his easy physicality. And the lunch sounds delicious.

But the only thing Erica has an appetite for right now is Vander's information.