“That being?”
“Why was he visiting the dean of students at his alma mater?”
“I have no idea.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
Jenna thought about it. “You plan on finding out?”
“I do.”
“It might have destroyed our marriage.”
“Might have.”
“Or it might have nothing to do with anything.”
“More likely,” Wendy agreed.
“I think Dan killed that girl.”
Wendy did not reply to that. She waited for Jenna to say more, but she didn’t. Admitting that had sucked the energy out of her. She sat back, seemingly unable to move.
After some time had passed, Wendy said, “You’re probably right.”
“But you still want to know about the dean?”
“I do.”
Jenna nodded. “If you find out what it was, will you let me know?”
“Sure.”
CHAPTER 30
WENDY GOT OFF THE ELEVATOR and headed to Vic’s office. On her way, she passed Michele Feisler—the new young anchorwoman—working at her cubicle. The cubicle had photographs of Walter Cronkite, Edward R. Murrow, Peter Jennings. Again Wendy thought, Oy.
“Hi, Michele.”
Michele was busy typing. She gave a half-wave, no more. Wendy peered over the woman’s shoulder. She was Tweeting on Twitter. In this case, someone had commented: “Your hair looked great on last night’s broadcast!” Michele was re-Tweeting it to her followers with a “Using a new conditioner—will tell more soon. Stay tuned!”
Edward R. Murrow would be so proud.
“How’s that guy who got both knees shot?” Wendy asked.
“Yeah, it’s your kind of story,” Michele said.
“How’s that?”
“Seems he’s something of a perv.” She turned away from her computer, but only for a moment. “Isn’t that your specialty—pervs?”
Nice to have a specialty, Wendy thought. “What do you mean ‘pervs’?”
“Well, you’re our resident sex perv, aren’t you?”
“Meaning?”
“Oops, can’t talk now,” Michele said, back typing away. “Busy.”
Standing there, Wendy couldn’t help but notice that Clark had been right: Michele did indeed have a gigantic head, especially in contrast to that wisp of a body. It looked like a helium balloon on the end of a string. It looked like her neck might collapse under the weight.
Wendy checked her watch. Three minutes until twelve sharp. She hurried down the corridor to Vic’s office. His secretary, Mavis, was there.
“Hey, Mavis.”
This woman too barely looked up at her. “What can I do for you, Ms. Tynes?”
First time she’d called her that. Maybe someone had sent down a directive to be more formal since her firing. “I’d like to speak to Vic for a second.”
“Mr. Garrett is not available.” Her tone, usually so friendly, was pure ice.
“Will you tell him I’m headed up to the sixth floor? I should be back soon.”
“I will let him know.”
She made her way to the elevator. Maybe it was her imagination but there seemed to be a weird tension in the air.
Wendy had been in this building—the network offices—a zillion times, but she had never been on the sixth floor before. Now she sat in an office of startling white, a cubist wonder, with a little waterfall running in the corner. One wall was dominated by a painting of black-and-white swirls. The other walls were empty. The swirls were facing her and very distracting. Across the glass table, in front of the swirls, sat three suits. Two men, one woman—all lined up against her. One man was black. The woman was Asian. Nice balance, though the one in charge, the one who sat in the middle and did all the talking, was the white man.
“Thank you for coming in to see us,” the man said. He had introduced himself—had, in fact, introduced all three—but she hadn’t been paying attention to names.
“Sure thing,” she said.
Wendy noticed that her chair was at least two inches lower than the others’. Classic—albeit amateur—intimidation move. Wendy crossed her arms and actually slid lower. Let them think they have the advantage.
“So,” Wendy said, trying to cut through this, “what can I do for you folks?”
The white man looked at the Asian woman. She took out a sheet of paper and slid it across the glass tabletop. “Is this your signature?”
Wendy looked at it. It was her original employment contract. “Looks like it.”
“Is that your signature or not?”
“It is.”
“And you’ve read this document, of course.”
“I guess.”
“I don’t want you to guess—”
She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I read it. So what’s the problem?”
“I would like you to refer to section seventeen point four on page three.”
“Okay.” She started turning pages.
“It references our strict policy about romantic and/or sexual relationships in the workplace.”
That made her pull up. “What about it?”
“You’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand it?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” the white man said, “it has come to our attention that you broke this rule, Ms. Tynes.”
“Uh, no, I assure you that I did not.”
The white man sat back, crossed his arms, and tried to look judgmental. “Do you know a man named Victor Garrett?”
“Vic? Sure, he’s the news manager.”
“Have you ever had sexual relations with him?”
“With Vic? Come on now.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“It’s a big-time no. Why don’t you bring him in here and ask him yourself?”
The three of them started conferring with one another. “We plan on doing that.”
“I don’t understand. Where did you hear that Vic and I . . .” She tried not to look disgusted.
“We’ve received reports.”
“From?”
They didn’t answer right away—and suddenly the answer was obvious. Hadn’t Phil Turnball warned her?
“We aren’t at liberty to say,” the white man said.
“Too bad. You are leveling a serious accusation. Either you have some evidence to show me or you don’t.”