Heartless Page 5

  “Subway was late.”

  Kathy nodded. “Have a seat.”

  Kathy’s office was crazily feminine. She’d inherited it from the previous editor-in-chief—a vanilla cupcake of a woman by the name of Marcie Gordon—and had never gotten around to redecorating. Love seats covered in rosy chintz, whispery pink draperies, Monet prints of haystacks, white wicker like it was going extinct . . . The place was bubbly spring water to the boiling oil that was Kathy Kinney. It made Zoe laugh—well, it would have, if she wasn’t so nervous every time she got called in here.

  “So what’s the breaking news?” Zoe said.

  Kathy smiled—a cheerleader’s smile, the bright blue eyes sparkling as they took in Zoe’s outfit—a tank top and skirt she’d gone all the way back to her apartment to switch into. Kathy took a sip from the bottle of water she always kept with her. (Zoe had heard Kathy drank so much water so she’d have to go to the bathroom a lot. Apparently, she got her best scoops from women’s restrooms.) “Too bad you didn’t bring a change of clothes.” Kathy winked. “You would have gotten here a lot sooner.”

  Zoe felt the color draining out of her face. Her mouth was instantly parched. She didn’t like that wink, didn’t like it at all. . . . “What do you mean?”

  Kathy smiled. “Tell me something, sweetie. When were you planning on letting me know you’ve been playing hide the kielbasa with the biggest star on daytime?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Zoe said, without missing a beat. Unfortunately, her voice was a full octave higher than its usual range.

  Kathy got up from her desk, circled around Zoe’s chair. “You’re really going to make me do this.”

  “Do what?”

  She sighed heavily. Like everyone else at Soap Opera Headquarters, Kathy had a TV in her office—a large flat-screen that hung on her wall, over a white wicker dresser with a DVD player on top. Kathy walked over to it. “When I heard Warren Clark was leaving because of a woman,” she said, “I figured, why not find a source of my own?” She slid open one of the top drawers and removed an unlabeled DVD. “I found me a security guard.”

  As she placed the disk inside the player, a deep cringe overtook Zoe’s body—an embarrassment so powerful she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. A security guard . . .

  Kathy hit PLAY, and the screen sparked to life—grainy black-and-white surveillance footage of the inside of an elevator. Warren’s elevator. Yesterday’s date flashed in the lower left corner of the screen. Zoe managed to croak, “Kathy—”

  “Sssh.”

  Before long, they were watching images of Warren and herself . . . black-and-white, yes. Grainy, yes, but oh, so very, very identifiable.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  On-screen, Warren removed his black T-shirt and mercifully threw it over the lens. “Not much to say,” Kathy snickered, “when you’re starring in surveillance-camera porn.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I . . . It really hasn’t been going on for that long, and—”

  “Save the details for the cover story, sweetie.”

  “The cover story?”

  “We’re gonna call it ‘My Red-Hot Nights with Warren Clark.’ A thousand words. You can write it under a pseudonym, but I want every detail down to his shoe size . . . and I want it by Monday, so his leaving the show will still be hot news. We’ll turn ‘Matthias’s Shocking Death’ into a sidebar and . . .”

  Zoe stared at her.

  “What? Don’t like the hed? I’m not married to it. How about ‘My Steamy Trysts with Warren Clark’?”

  “Kathy,” Zoe said, “Warren and me . . . That’s nobody’s business.”

  The sparkling eyes narrowed. “I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

  “I . . . I know it was a conflict of interest. I didn’t intend for it to happen.”

  “The heart wants what it wants.”

  “That’s . . . that’s right.”

  “Know who said that? Woody Allen. Right after Mia Farrow caught him screwing her daughter.”

  “Look, Kathy. I have real feelings for this man, and he’s very private. I can’t just write about—”

  “Let me explain something to you,” Kathy said. “What you’ve been doing with Clark is highly unethical. It’s grounds for dismissal. I’m giving you a chance to make it all right again. You don’t take that chance— fine, that’s your prerogative.” Without removing her gaze from Zoe’s face, she drained the rest of the water bottle and tossed it in the trash. “But it is my prerogative to fire you.”

  Zoe swallowed, blood thrumming in her ears. Five years, she thought. Half a decade of working here, and it comes down to this. “You don’t give me much choice.”

  Kathy nodded. “I’m glad you under—”

  “I quit.”

  Zoe walked to the DVD player. She removed the surveillance tape, placed it into the jewel box and slipped it into her purse. “I can’t believe this,” Kathy said.

  Neither could Zoe. But she tried not to let it show on her face. “Bye, Kathy,” she said. “It’s been interesting.” And with that, she walked out of the offices of Soap Opera Headquarters and left her job forever.

  Within two hours, Zoe was all packed and had changed her travel arrangements online. Within three, she’d stopped her mail, canceled any plans she had for the next three weeks, called her parents to let them know she’d be gone and left a message on Warren’s voice mail, asking him to pick her up at the León airport at seven o’clock that evening.

  Within four, she was in a cab, and within six, she was on a plane bound for Mexico. Only then, when the seat belt sign went off and she lifted the little plastic shade and peered down at the clouds, the rays of the setting sun spilling through them like blood—only then did she think, What the hell am I doing?

  FOUR

  If there was one thing that Steve found more irritating than a slow Saturday in the office, it was a slow Saturday in the office with a hangover. He shouldn’t have had so much to drink the previous night, but when the executive editor is buying—which he was, repeatedly—it’s hard to say no.

  Steve was due to meet Desiree and her on-the-record ex-stripper friend at a nearby Starbucks after work. (The ex-stripper was apparently a huge Star Wars fan; her stage name had been Padmé.) But even though this was the first break he’d had on the bribe scandal in over a month, Steve’s heart wasn’t in it. He kept thinking about Zoe—Zoe, who never read news anymore. . . .

  It was around five and Steve sat in the newsroom in front of his computer. For the hell of it, he ran a Nexis search— Jordan Brink + Warren Clark. But it yielded only one abstract, from a two-month-old Soap Opera Headquarters article written, ironically, by Zoe: American Idol winner Jordin Sparks is slated to guest star on The Day’s End. “We’re thrilled to work with her,” says Warren Clark (Matthias). “Jordin is on the brink of international stardom.”

  Nexis was such an asshole sometimes. Steve would’ve rolled his eyes if it weren’t for the hangover.

  “Doing something on the Brink murder?”

  Without turning, Steve recognized the reedy Southern accent. Glen Campbell. Not the Glen Campbell, of course. This Glen was a new reporter, fresh out of Northwestern’s journalism school and annoyingly eager to please. Glen was Steve’s new BFF since the previous night, which was Steve’s fault. At the height of his intoxication, he’d asked Campbell to sing him a few lines of “Wichita Lineman.” Glen had laughed hysterically, even though it was obvious he had no idea what Steve was talking about. Then he’d spent the whole night sitting next to him, hanging on his every word. If Glen had been a woman, Steve would’ve been trying to chew his own arm off this morning for sure.

  “Kinda busy right now, dude.” Steve hated it when people read his screen, and here, Campbell was ogling his Nexis search like it was Swedish porn. “What are you doing in the office, anyway? You’re not on weekend shift.”

  “Thought I’d see if anybody needed any . . . Wait. Warren Cl
ark? Are you serious? You’re thinking Warren Clark the soap star had something to do with Jordan Brink?”

  “Clark has a place in that Mexican town, and he was there when it happened—that’s all. Thought I’d try and find some leads, see if maybe they knew each—”

  “Celebrity angle. Good thinking. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”

  “Yeah, I rock. Anyway . . .”

  “I want to help.”

  Steve sighed. “That’s nice of you, but I’ve got this one under control.”

  “No . . . I mean I’ve got a great source down there. My roommate from NU—he works at an English-language paper in Mexico City, and they were all over the Jordan Brink story. You want me to call him, see if he knows anything?”

  Steve glanced at him. “Sure. Why not?” At the very least, it would get Glen away from his desk for a few minutes.

  After Glen left, Steve looked at his watch. Less than an hour and a half from now, he’d be meeting Padmé. It occurred to him that he had no idea what kind of person she was, what type of approach would yield the most information about her ex-boss. He checked to see if maybe she had a MySpace page, but no such luck. . . . Talking to sources is like dating, Steve. You get a lot farther if you have something in common. Steve called up Google and started researching all five Star Wars movies, wishing that Zoe had half a clue how good she was.

  After about ten minutes, Steve heard, “You’re not going to believe this!”

  He turned to find Glen, grinning like the proverbial sated cat, so keyed up he was practically bouncing. “Are you about to tell me that Warren Clark did know Jordan Brink?”

  “No.”

  Steve exhaled. “Okay, well then—”

  “I mean, he might have. . . . But this is even more interesting. . . .”

  “What?”

  “The thing is, we can’t run it yet because no one will confirm. My friend thinks she paid off the cops to keep her name out of the press. But listen. . . . She was questioned by the police in the Brink investigation.”

  “Who is she?”

  Glen’s smile got even bigger. He glanced around the room to make sure no one was listening. Then he leaned in close, brought his voice down to a whisper. “Ever hear of Vanessa St. James?”

  Naomi rapped on her aunt’s bedroom door. “Would you mind turning the music down, Aunt Vanessa?” she said.

  No response. Her Sweet Baby James CD kept playing at top volume. Naomi sighed. Back when her mother was alive, Naomi would never in a million years have guessed that this was where she’d be when she was going into her senior year of high school—stuck in a foreign country, surrounded by adolescents in their fifties and sixties who knew as much about raising kids as they did about . . . God, anything.

  James Taylor’s voice shook her aunt’s closed door. “ ‘I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain!’ ”

  Big whoop, sweet baby James. I’ve seen a boy with his heart cut out. And really, that was what annoyed Naomi more than anything else about her aunt. Here she was, wrecked—both her body and her mind. Her sunburned skin was peeling off in sheets. It stung whenever she bent her knees and her lips hurt so much she could barely manage a glass of water. And while she was okay when she was with other people because she had to be, every time she shut her eyes, she had these nightmares, these awful visions. . . .

  Vanessa had taken Naomi to the doctor’s today. She herself had heard Dr. Dave say the visions could be post-traumatic stress and yet still . . . still Vanessa had managed to make this all about her. Naomi’s aunt could be self-absorbed, yes, but this was insane.

  It made Naomi think, There’s something about Jordan she isn’t telling me.

  By all accounts, Vanessa had completely freaked out when Corinne and Sean had come by the house the morning after the bonfire, asking if Naomi had ever gotten home. Vanessa had bribed and badgered a couple of police officers until they’d taken her into the desert in their squad car, and when they’d finally found Naomi, the look of relief on her aunt’s face had been so pure and Naomi’s head had been so screwed up that at first, she’d confused Vanessa for her mom. Naomi had fallen on Vanessa, never happier to see another human being.

  When she’d taken Vanessa and the police to Jordan’s body, though, Vanessa had acted strange. She’d gone white and still—which was understandable, considering what she was seeing. But—and this was what got Naomi—Vanessa wasn’t looking at the maggots. She wasn’t looking at the darkly dried blood, or the gaping hole in the chest, like a cannonball had gone through it, or even the heart, which lay a foot up from Jordan’s head like a gruesome idea bulb. What she was looking at, what she was staring at, was Jordan’s hands.

  They had been placed at his sides, palms open to the sky. Naomi hadn’t noticed this when she’d found the body but following Vanessa’s gaze, she saw . . . in each palm, someone had placed a long, daggerlike leaf. The spine of a century plant. As the police officers approached Jordan’s body and radioed the station—Es un muerto . . . Un joven . . . Diez y nueve o veinte años . . . corazón sacado . . . Vanessa had stood behind them, staring at those spines without moving, without blinking. And then she had mouthed a word: Grace.

  James Taylor was singing about lonely times when he could not find a friend, the bass in his voice vibrating the terra-cotta floor under Naomi’s feet. What was Vanessa doing in there? Naomi pressed her ear up to the door. It was the most delicate pine, tailor-made for eavesdropping, yet still Naomi heard no words, no movement . . . nothing other than her aunt’s beloved JT, and how he always thought that he’d see you again. . . .

  Aunt Vanessa, did you just say “grace”?

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, Naomi.

  It sounded like you—

  I told you. I said. Nothing.

  “Aunt Vanessa? Are you okay in there?”

  Not a sound. Not even the creak of the bed. Naomi tried the door. It swung open easily, and the next song, “Blossom,” knocked her back like a tsunami. Who listens to James Taylor at this volume?

  “Aunt Vanessa, that is not good for your ears!” shouted Naomi, amazed that she was actually saying this to anyone, let alone her legal guardian. It took her a few seconds to register the room—which was empty. Naomi turned off the stereo. “Vanessa?”

  She walked to the master bathroom, knocked. . . . The door drifted open, but there was no one there either. “Vanessa!”

  Naomi heard a rush of movement on the first floor, someone jogging up the staircase. She hurried into the hallway and ran right into her aunt’s tiny maid, Soccoro. “Su tía se fue,” Socorro said, catching her breath.

  “She left?” said Naomi. “¿A dónde se fue?”

  Soccoro shook her head. “No sé.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Dijó que va a regresar en dos o tres horas”

  Naomi looked at Soccoro. If her aunt had decided to leave the house for at least two or three hours, why hadn’t she told Naomi? Why had she left the stereo on?

  As if she was reading her mind, Soccoro told Naomi that Vanessa had received some kind of urgent phone call, she thought maybe from Señor Clark.

  Naomi rolled her eyes. If anyone could make Vanessa jump and run, it was Warren. “Figures,” she said.

  “¿Cómo?”

  “No es importante.” But then Naomi thought, Maybe it is. . . . Would Warren be able to tell her why Vanessa was acting so weird? Would he understand what she’d meant by grace?

  Naomi pictured herself asking him these things and cringed. She found Warren hard to talk to—there was something about him that scared her a little. But maybe she could suck it up, give him a call. . . .

  Like a comeback, every telephone in the house shrieked. Soccoro started for the one in Vanessa’s bedroom, but Naomi told her that was okay. She’d get it.

  The landlines in this town didn’t have caller ID, but that didn’t stop Naomi from looking at the phone anyway before she picked it up. A habit from her old life with her m
om, back in Chicago—she still had a few of them. “¿Bueno?”

  The voice on the other end was male, and spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. “Vanessa St. James?”

  Naomi started to say No, this is her niece, but the caller didn’t seem interested, or maybe he didn’t understand. “I am calling about Jordan Brink,” he said, all coldness, all business. “I am with the police.”

  The flight to León was long and irritating. Zoe had a window seat, but she was stuck next to a teenage boy who seemed to believe it was his God-given right to take up as much space as was humanly possible. For the entire flight, he sat with his legs four feet apart and his hands clasped behind his head, his thick arms fanning out like elephant ears, his right leg pressed into both of Zoe’s knees. She had to scrunch down in her chair in order to avoid the elbow in the eye, which she would have complained to him about, if he weren’t sound asleep.

  No sooner did the plane take off than this mammoth teen started snoring—not a soft purr like Warren’s, but a phlegm-fueled locomotive, annoying everyone in the vicinity and making Zoe the object of countless pitying looks.

  After trying to negotiate her way around the kid’s limbs in order to reach the in-flight magazine, Zoe finally gave up and fell into a light, troubled sleep, her dreams filled with surveillance tape images and bloody human hearts. . . .

  She woke up to an alarmingly bumpy descent, the plane riding the clouds like an eighteen-wheeler. No fan of even the mildest turbulence, Zoe pushed the teenager aside, yanked her seat belt tighter and gripped the armrests, as if this were any type of defense against plummeting toward earth, trapped like canned meat in a doomed, helpless piece of metal.

  The teenager yawned and stretched, his forearm thwacking Zoe in the mouth. “We there yet?”

  Man, she wanted to sock this kid. “Not. Yet.”

  After a seemingly endless series of bumps and jolts, the plane touched ground and rolled to a halt. There were gasps and applause. And when the captain said, “Welcome to Mexico,” Zoe was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.