Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry: A Novel

Part I

1

Gina’s apartment was on 82nd Street and West End Avenue. Her mother and father had given it to her after they retired and moved to Florida. Spacious, with two bedrooms and a decent-size kitchen, it was the envy of her friends, many of whom were crammed into tiny one-bedrooms and studios.

After dropping her bags in her bedroom, she checked her watch. 11:30 p.m. in New York; 8:30 p.m. in California. She decided it would be a good time to call Ted. He answered on the first ring.

Well hello, stranger. His tone was deep and loving, giving Gina a rush of warmth. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed you, too.

It’s killing me that I’m stuck in LA for a week.

They chatted for a few minutes. He finished by saying, I know you just got in and you’re probably exhausted. I have a bunch of meetings planned. I’ll call you when things calm down.

It’s a deal, she said.

Love you.

Love you, too.

As she hung up the phone, Gina realized that Ted’s unexpected trip to California was a mixed blessing. On the one hand she wanted to see him. On the other it was a relief to not have to have a conversation she was not ready for.

Stepping out of the shower at five-thirty in the morning, Gina was pleasantly surprised at how she felt so good. She had slept for almost eight hours on the plane and another four after arriving home. She wasn’t feeling any of the dreaded jet lag most people experience after a long west to east flight.

She was eager to get back to work. After graduating from Boston College with a major in Journalism, she had been thrilled to land a job as a desk assistant at a suburban newspaper on Long Island. Budget cutbacks had forced the paper to let many of their senior writers go. Within a year she was writing feature stories.

Her articles on business and finance caught the eye of the editor of Your Money. She happily made the switch to the brash new upstart and had loved every minute of her seven years there. But the declining interest in print publications and slowing advertising revenue had taken their toll. In the three years since Your Money had folded, she had been a freelancer.

While part of her enjoyed the freedom to pursue the stories that interested her, another part missed the steady paycheck and health care that came along with being an employee. She was free to choose what she wanted to write about, but at the end of the day somebody had to buy her story.

Empire Review had been a lifesaver. While visiting her parents in Florida, friends of theirs told Gina about being horrified that their eighteen-year-old grandson had been branded during a hazing ritual at his college fraternity. Using a hot iron, Greek letters had been burned into the back of his upper thigh.

Complaints to the university’s administration were going unanswered. Big donors among the alumni had threatened to withhold contributions if there was a clampdown on the Greek Life community.

Empire Review had agreed to the story immediately. They gave her a hefty advance and a generous travel and expense budget. ER’s exposé caused a sensation. It was covered by the national evening news programs and even prompted a segment on 60 Minutes.

The success of the fraternity story had given her high visibility as an investigative journalist. She was inundated with tips emails from would-be whistle-blowers and people who claimed to have knowledge of major scandals. A few of them had resulted in stories she had pursued and published. The trick was distinguishing between providers of genuine leads versus crackpots, disgruntled former employees, and conspiracy theorists.

Gina glanced at her watch. She was scheduled to meet with the magazine’s editor in chief the next day. Charles Maynard typically began the conversation with So Gina, what do we want to write about next? She had a little over twenty-four hours to come up with a good answer.

She dressed quickly, choosing jeans and a warm turtleneck sweater. After touching up her makeup, she glanced at her full-length mirror. She looked like the early pictures of her mother, who had been homecoming queen at Michigan State. Wideset eyes, more green than hazel, and classic features. Auburn shoulder-length hair made her look even taller than her five foot, seven inch frame.

Satisfied with her appearance, she put a frozen bagel in the toaster and made a cup of coffee. When it was ready, she brought her plate and cup to the table by the living room window. She had a view of the morning sun that was barely peaking over the horizon. It was the time of day when she keenly felt the death of her mother and experienced the feeling of time rushing by too quickly.

Settling at the table, her favorite place to work, she opened her laptop and watched a wave of unread emails unfold on her screen.

Her first glance was at the new emails that had arrived since she had checked while on the plane. Nothing urgent. More importantly, nothing from CRyan.

Next she scanned through the ones that had arrived over the last week and a half, when she had been in one of the few remaining places on earth where WiFi service was not available.

A note from a woman in Atlanta who claimed she had proof that the recycled rubber being used in school playgrounds was making children sick.

A request to speak the following month at the ASJA, American Society of Journalists and Authors.

An email from a man who claimed he had in his possession the portion of President Kennedy’s skull that had gone missing after the autopsy.

Even though she probably could have recited its content, she went back and clicked on the email she had received the day she left on her vacation.

Hi Gina, I don’t believe we ever met when we were at Boston College. I finished a few years apart from you. Right after I graduated, I went to work at REL News. I had a terrible experience with one of the higher-ups. (And I wasn’t the only one.) Now they’re afraid I’ll talk about it. I’ve been approached about a settlement offer. I don’t want to put more in an email. Can we arrange to meet?

When she had seen the name CRyan on an email, she had tried to remember why the name was familiar. Had there been a Courtney Ryan at school?

Gina reread the email twice, pushing herself to see if there was anything she had missed. REL News was a Wall Street darling among media companies. Its headquarters were at 55th Street and Avenue of the Americas, or Sixth Avenue as most New Yorkers still called it. In a span of twenty years it had grown from a small group of cable TV stations to a national powerhouse. Its ratings had surpassed CNN and were growing ever closer to the market leader, Fox. Its unofficial motto was REaL News, not the other kind.

The first subject that had come to her mind was sexual harassment. Hold on, she had thought. You don’t even know if CRyan is a man or a woman. You’re a reporter. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Get the facts. There had been only one way to find out. She looked again at the response she had sent.

Hi Mr./Ms. Ryan, I’m very interested in talking to you about the terrible experience you referred to. I’ll be out of the country without access to email, but I’ll be back on October 13. As you probably know, I live and work in New York City. Where are you? Looking forward to hearing from you. Best, Gina.

She had difficulty focusing as she scrolled through other emails. I had really hoped to have more than this, she said to herself as her mind drifted to tomorrow’s meeting at the magazine.

Maybe she left a message, Gina thought optimistically. Her cell phone had been down to one bar when she boarded her flight. It was dead by the time she landed in New York. In the email she gave CRyan her number.

Gina walked quickly into her bedroom, removed her phone from the charger, and brought it back to the kitchen. She tapped the phone to wake it up. A quick glance revealed several messages, but none from unfamiliar numbers.

The first was from her best friend Lisa. Hi girlfriend. Welcome back. Looking forward to hearing all about your trip. I hope we’re still on for dinner tonight. We have to go to a dive restaurant in the Village called the Bird’s Nest. I have a great new case. A slip and fall. My client fell on ice cubes dropped by the bartender when he was shaking martinis. Broke her leg in three places. I want to scope out the joint.

Gina chuckled as she listened. Dinner with Lisa was always fun.

The other messages were solicitations, which she immediately deleted.

2

Gina took the subway four stops to 14th Street. From there she walked the three blocks to the Fisk Building. The third through seventh floors were rented by the magazine.

Good morning, the security guard said as she walked through the detection scanner. A spate of recent threats had led to a policy change at the magazine: All employees and visitors go through the security line. No exceptions.

Gina entered the elevator and pushed 7, the floor reserved for the executive and editorial staff. As she stepped out, a friendly voice greeted her. Hi Gina. Welcome back. Jane Patwell, a longtime administrative assistant, held out her hand. Fifty years old, a little stocky, and always lamenting her dress size, Jane said, Mr. Maynard will see you in his office.

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He has some good-looking guy with him. I don’t know who he is.

Jane was a born matchmaker. It irritated Gina that Jane was always trying to find someone for her. She was tempted to say, Maybe he’s a serial killer. Instead she smiled without replying. She followed Jane to the large corner office that was the domain of Charlie Maynard, the magazine’s longtime editor in chief.

Charlie was not at his desk. He was seated at his favorite spot, the conference table by the window, a cell phone stuck in his ear. About five feet nine, Charlie had a protruding paunch and cherubic face. Graying hair was combed sideways over his skull. Reading glasses were raised on his forehead. In front of Gina a colleague of Charlie’s once asked him what he did for exercise. Quoting George Burns, Charlie responded, I make it a point to walk to the funerals of my friends who jog.

He waved when he saw Gina and pointed to the chair opposite him. Next to him was the good-looking guy Jane had referred to.

As she walked to the table, the newcomer stood up and extended his hand. Geoffrey Whitehurst, he said with a slight British accent. He was about six feet tall, with even features dominated by piercing dark brown eyes and equally dark brown hair. Combined with his face and athletic build his manner suggested an air of authority.

Gina Kane, she said, feeling that he already knew her name. He looks mid to late thirties, she thought, as she sat in the chair he had pulled out for her.

Charlie clicked to end the phone conversation. Turning to him, she said, Charlie, I’m so sorry I missed your birthday while I was away.

Don’t worry, Gina. Seventy is the new fifty. We all had a great time. I see you’ve met Geoffrey. Let me tell you why he’s here.

Gina, before Charlie begins, Geoffrey intervened, I want to say I’m a big fan of your work.

Thank you, Gina said, wondering what would come next. What came was a shock.

After over forty-five years in the magazine business, I’ve decided to call it quits. My wife wants us to spend more time on the West Coast with the grandkids and I’ve agreed. Geoff is in the process of taking over for me and he’ll be working with you from now on. The change will be announced next week and I will appreciate your keeping this confidential until then.

He paused to give Gina time to let his decision sink in, then added, We were fortunate to snatch Geoff away from the Time Warner group. Until now he’s spent most of his career in London.

Congratulations to both of you, Charlie and Geoffrey, Gina said automatically. She took comfort in the fact that Geoffrey had already said he liked her work.

Please call me Geoff, he said briskly.

Charlie continued. Gina, your investigations usually run several months to completion. That’s why I invited Geoff here for the initial meeting. Clearing his throat, he said, So, Gina, what do we want to write about next?

I have a couple of ideas, Gina said as she pulled a small notebook from her purse, and would like to hear what you think. The statement was addressed to both of them. I’ve exchanged a series of emails with a former aide to a New York State senator. The aide and the senator are currently retired. The aide claims she has evidence of bid rigging and granting contracts in exchange for cash payments and other favors. But there’s a problem with this one. The aide wants twenty-five thousand dollars upfront to go on the record and tell her story.

Geoff jumped in first. My experience is that people who want to be paid to share what they know are not generally reliable. They embellish and sensationalize the story because they want the money and publicity.

Charlie chuckled. I think even the most avid fans of Albany corruption are starting to find the subject tiresome. And I agree that paying a source is rarely a good idea.

Gesturing toward Gina’s notebook, Charlie asked, What else have you got?

Okay, Gina said while flipping the page. A longtime employee in the Admissions Office at Yale reached out to me. He claims that the Ivy League schools are sharing with each other the amount of aid they plan to offer individual applicants.

Why is that a problem? Geoff asked.

Because it’s right on the edge of price fixing and collusion. The student is the loser. It’s similar in some ways to when Silicon Valley companies made a gentleman’s agreement to not poach each other’s engineers. The result was that companies profited because they did not have to pay more to keep their top talent. The engineers earned less than they would have if they could have sold their talents to the highest bidder.

I believe there are eight Ivy League schools, is that right? Geoff asked.

Yes, Charlie said, and they average about six thousand undergrads. So that’s forty-eight thousand of the country’s twenty million college students. I’m not sure many of our readers are going to care about a handful of Ivy Leaguers who might have gotten stiffed on their aid package. If you ask me, I think they’re wasting their money on those overpriced places.

Charlie had grown up in Philadelphia and gone to Penn State. His allegiance to state schools never wavered.

What a great way to make an impression on the new boss, Gina thought while flipping the page. Trying to sound animated, she said, This next one is literally at square one. She told them about receiving the email about the terrible experience at REL News and the response she had sent.

So it’s been ten days since you answered the email and you haven’t gotten a reply? Charlie asked.

Yes, eleven counting today.

This CRyan who sent the email. Have you been able to find out anything about her? Is she credible? Geoff inquired.

I agree with your assumption that CRyan is a woman, but we can’t be sure of that. Of course the first thing that came to mind when I read this is that it may be a MeToo situation. No, I don’t know anything more about her than she put in the email. My instinct tells me this is worth pursuing.

Geoff looked at Charlie. What do you think?

If I were you, I’d be very interested in finding out what CRyan has to say, Charlie answered. And it will be much easier to get her to tell her story before she reaches a settlement agreement.