The Will Of The Wisp. Joseph Sr. Cairo
The Will Of The Wisp
A Romance Mystery Novel
by
Joseph Cairo
Copyright 2011 Joseph Cairo,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0280-2
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Chapter 1
An Eleven O’clock Appointment
Melissa Compton tightly gripped the silver cross hanging from her neck. It gave her solace most days, but not today. Her whistle blower lost his nerve two days to air. Six weeks of painstaking preparation up in smoke; not to mention the catastrophic effect on the ratings of Tunnel Vision, the news magazine for which she was feature reporter. Douglas Abbott, executive producer of the program and the man she was about to marry on Christmas day, was turning up the pressure. Marriage or no marriage, during sweeps week, every ass was on the line, regardless of its firmness. Doug had told her, in no uncertain terms, to reel in the son of a bitch whatever it took: cash, women, tickets to the Super Bowl . . . whatever.
But that wasn’t all. The flu bug had bitten her. This year’s importation from Singapore was a particularly virulent strain; she could hardly breathe, watery eyes, unbearable headache, low grade fever—the antibiotic made her feel weak, the cold medication drowsy.
Swiveling her chair toward the window, away from the rolling expanse of ivory Karastan overlaying her capacious office on the 68th floor of 30 Rock, she gazed downward into Rockefeller Plaza, wondering how she would make it through the day, much less the week. The flags of nations unfurled like a herd of stampeding horses, relentlessly clanking their metal riggings against their freshly painted white flagpoles. The strange cacophony reverberated eerily off the monolithic slate-gray facades, drowning out the montage of Christmas carols blaring out of the cluster of six twelve-hundred watt speakers. She focused on the seventy-foot Alberta fir surrounded by horn blowing angels, then the golden Prometheus then the Channel Gardens. The ice-skaters revolved around the glistening white-smoke rectangular rink like department store manikins stiffened by the harsh December wind slip-streaming through the narrow vertical grooves of the art-deco canyon. Lately, she’d been given to bouts of depression and a shortened attention span. Concentration had always been her strong point. Pre-wedding jitters, she thought. Maybe it was just this damn cold.
“Ringing in the ears,” she said to the nurse, twirling the coiled telephone wire around the index finger of her right hand. She sneezed twice, blew her nose, and threw the crunched-up Kleenex tissue at the soft white-leather upholstered receptacle. Damn! Another miss. It landed amidst a collection of other misguided attempts that were littering the floor. “Stop the medication?” she repeated the nurse’s instruction incredulously. “I can hardly breathe as it is. Put Max on,” she demanded.
Dr. Maxwell Spire, Park Avenue physician of the rich and famous was, arguably, the best doctor in the city, not to mention the most expensive. Took no plans. What you collected from your insurance was your business. He’d better get her well enough to tape the show.
Melissa swiveled away from the window back towards her desk. That’s when she sensed someone standing at the door—huge hulk of a man, six-foot two, maybe more, dressed in stone-washed Levis and a forest green army jacket. New maintenance man, she figured. Taking over for Louis while he’s on vacation. She instinctively pointed at the waste paper basket and the collection of errant missiles scattered around it on the floor. He rushed over, scooped up the tissues, and deposited them into the basket. Then, basket in hand, he scurried out the door.
“Yes, Max. My ears are ringing.” She re-stated her symptom directly to Dr. Spire.
The doctor spoke in a deep-quilted baritone that soothed her nerves, and sported an English accent that was equally reassuring. He explained that the aspirin in the over-the-counter cold medication had most likely caused the ringing in the ears sensation. He advised her to stop the cold medicine and he promised that he’d call in a prescription in its place.
The new maintenance man reappeared with the empty trash basket and placed it back down next to the desk. If it were Louis, she wouldn’t hesitate to ask. What the hell, he was Louie’s replacement after all.
“Can you do me a big favor?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“Would you mind going downstairs to Rockefeller Chemists to pick up a prescription for me?”
He nodded, his smile broadening.
Melissa rummaged through her purse and pulled out a ten and a twenty. “What’s your name?” she asked, looking up into his notably piercing blue eyes.
“Rick,” he replied.
“Okay, Rick. This should cover the cost of the medicine and you keep the rest . . . okay?’
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss Compton.” He put the thirty dollars in his back pocket and rushed out like a golden retriever.
She stared at the empty doorway. He had an interesting face beneath that three-day growth—sculpted bones with crested ridges contrasted by those haunting eyes. His charcoal black hair was naturally curled and powerfully vibrant, its thickened texture contributing to his markedly virile features. If he shaved off that beard . . . cleaned himself up a bit . . . with that voice he’d make one hell of an anchorman. Funny how some end up on the junk heap and others, like her Doug, on top of Mount Olympus.
She twirled around once again toward the window in her ergonomically designed office chair, sinking back deeply into the soft leather upholstery. She closed her eyes, and massaged her forehead, hoping the buzzing in her ears would subside. She yearned to be home in bed, under her covers. But rest was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not in this business. “That prescription had better work,” she murmured under her breath.
She turned back to her desk and dialed Les Aronson, the associate producer of Tunnel Vision. He in turn dialed Mitchell Clearwater, the whistle blower, for a 3-way conference call. Clearwater was coordinator of quality control at Thayer Farms, the leading producer of cattle feed in the US. Tons of genetically altered feed had been ingested by the nation’s livestock. Clearwater was demanding two hundred fifty thousand up front. Aronson explained that Tunnel Vision could not simply dispense cash as a quid pro quo. But Clearwater advised them that according to his attorney, there was nothing illegal about it; that he knew for a fact that other guests on the program had received monetary compensation in the past.
“Mitchell,” Melissa interjected, taking the liberty of calling him by his first name, “we can’t just fork over the money before the broadcast. Not only does it give the appearance of impropriety, it opens up all kinds of legal pitfalls. After we air the piece, the money is no problem.”
“How soon?” Clearwater wanted to know.
“A few weeks, maybe a month,” she responded. She hated haggling with these quislings. Most of the time they were no better than the scum they ratted on.
Silence. She knew Clearwater was mulling over the offer.
“You have my personal guarantee, Mitchell,” Melissa followed up. “And I’ve checked with the FDA and the Attorney General’s office . . . you’re entitled to one third of the damages . . . the fine could run up to fifty million.”
“That could take years,” Clearwater reckoned. “And if Thayer can cover their tracks I'll never see a penny. No! I want the two-fifty up front.”
Since Doug had already given her the green light, Melissa was about