Caught. Part 38

"It's all over the Web. Some of these blogs have been sent to our sponsors. They were threatening to pull their ads."

"It's all lies."

"And furthermore we would like you to sign a release."

"What kind of release?"

"Mr. Garrett is your superior. While I don't think you have a case, you could sue for s.e.xual hara.s.sment."

"Are you kidding?" Wendy said.

He pointed toward the file. "One of those blogs mentioned that you once sued a superior for s.e.xual hara.s.sment. Who's to say you won't do it again?"

Wendy actually saw red. She tightened her hands into fists and fought hard to keep her tone even. "Mr. . . . I'm sorry, I forgot your name . . ."

"Montague."

"Mr. Montague." Deep breath. "I want you to listen to me very closely. Try to pay attention here because I want to make sure you understand." Wendy lifted the file in the air. "These are all lies. Do you get that? Fabrications. The part about me suing an old employer? That's a lie. The accusation that I slept with a superior or a professor? More lies. The accusation that I slept with anyone other than my husband while I was pregnant? Or that I got plastic surgery, for that matter? They are all lies. Not exaggerations. Not distortions. Bald-faced lies. Do you understand?"

Montague cleared his throat. "We understand that's your position."

"Anyone can go online and say anything about anyone," Wendy continued. "Don't you get that? Someone is cyber-lying about me. Look at the date on the blog, for crying out loud. It was posted yesterday and already has all these comments. It's all fake. Someone is intentionally trying to ruin me."

"Be that as it may," Montague began, a phrase that meant absolutely nothing but irritated Wendy like few others, "we feel it would be best if you take a temporary leave of absence while we investigate this charge."

"I don't think so," Wendy said.

"Pardon me?"

"Because if you make me do that, I will make a stink that you'll never get off your s.h.i.+ny suits. I will sue the network. I will sue the studio. I will sue each one of you personally. I will send our beloved sponsors blogs that claim that you two"--she pointed to the white man and the black man--"enjoy having monkey s.e.x on the office furniture while she"--now she pointed to the Asian woman--"likes to watch and spank herself. Is it true? Well, it will be in a blog. Several blogs, in fact. Then I'll go to other computers and add comments, stuff like Montague likes it rough or with toys or small farm animals. Get PETA on your a.s.s. Then I'll send those blogs to your families. Do you get my drift?"

No one spoke.

She rose. "I'm going back to work."

"No, Ms. Tynes, I'm afraid you're not."

The door opened. Two uniformed security guards entered.

"We will have security escort you out. Please do not get in contact with anyone at this company until we have had a chance to look into the matter. Any attempt to communicate with anyone involved in this case will be viewed as possible tampering. Also, your threats directed at myself and my colleagues will be noted in the record. Thank you for your time."

CHAPTER 31.

WENDY CALLED VIC, but Mavis wouldn't put her through. Fine. It would be like that. Princeton was about a ninety-minute ride. She spent the drive time both fuming and thinking about what this all meant. It was easy to scoff at ridiculous and unsubstantiated gossip, but she knew that, whatever happened now, these rumors would throw a dark and probably permanent shadow over her career. There had been whispered innuendos before--pretty much a given when even a semi-attractive female rose to prominence in this industry--but now, because some moron had posted them on a blog, they suddenly took on more credence. Welcome to the computer age.

Okay, enough.

As she neared her destination, Wendy started thinking about the case again, about the continuing links to Princeton, about the fact that four men--Phil Turnball, Dan Mercer, Steve Miciano, Farley Parks--had all been set up within the past year.

One question was, how?

The bigger question was, who?

Wendy figured that she might as well start with Phil Turnball because she had something of an in there. She jammed the hands-free phone cord into her ear and dialed Win's private line.

Once again Win answered in a voice too haughty for this one word: "Articulate."

"Can I ask another favor?"

"May I ask another favor? Yes, Wendy, you I ask another favor? Yes, Wendy, you may may."

"I can't tell you how much I needed that grammar lesson right about now."

"You're welcome."

"Do you remember I asked you about Phil Turnball, the guy who got fired for embezzling two million dollars?"

"I recall, yes."

"Let's say Phil was set up and didn't really take the money."

"Okay, let's."

"How would someone go about setting him up?"

"I have no idea. Why do you ask?"

"I'm pretty sure he didn't steal the money."

"I see. And, pray tell, what makes you 'pretty sure'?"

"He told me he's innocent."

"Oh, well, that settles it."

"There's more to it than that."

"I'm listening."

"Well, why, if Phil stole two million dollars, isn't he in jail or even asked to pay the money back? I don't want to go into details right now, but there are other guys--his college roommates, actually--who've been involved in bizarre scandals recently too. In one case, I may have been a patsy."

Win said nothing.

"Win?"

"Yes, I heard you. I love the word 'patsy,' don't you? It denotes or at least suggests giving feminine characteristics to the act of being duped."

"Yeah, it's great."

Even his sigh was haughty. "What would you like me to do to help?"

"Could you look into it a little? I need to know who set Phil Turnball up."

"Will do."

Click.

The abruptness didn't surprise her quite as much this time, though she wished there'd been time for a follow-up, a crack about quick endings being his specialty, but alas, there was no one on the other line. She held the phone in her hand for another second, half expecting him to call right back. But that didn't happen this time.

Lawrence Cherston's home was washed stone and white shutters. There was a circular rose garden surrounding a flagpole. A black pennant with a large orange P P hung from it. Oh, boy. Cherston greeted her at the door with a two-hand shake. He had one of those fleshy, ruddy faces that make you think of fat cats and smoke-filled back rooms. He wore a blue blazer with a Princeton logo on the lapel and the same Princeton tie he'd had in his profile pictures. His khakis were freshly pressed, his ta.s.seled loafers s.h.i.+ned, and of course he wore no socks. He looked as though he'd started for school chapel this morning and aged twenty years on the walk. Stepping inside, Wendy pictured a closet with a dozen more matching blazers and khaki pants and absolutely nothing else. hung from it. Oh, boy. Cherston greeted her at the door with a two-hand shake. He had one of those fleshy, ruddy faces that make you think of fat cats and smoke-filled back rooms. He wore a blue blazer with a Princeton logo on the lapel and the same Princeton tie he'd had in his profile pictures. His khakis were freshly pressed, his ta.s.seled loafers s.h.i.+ned, and of course he wore no socks. He looked as though he'd started for school chapel this morning and aged twenty years on the walk. Stepping inside, Wendy pictured a closet with a dozen more matching blazers and khaki pants and absolutely nothing else.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said. He offered her a drink. She pa.s.sed. He had laid out finger sandwiches. Wendy took one just to be polite. The finger sandwich was awful enough to make her wonder whether the moniker was also an ingredient list. Cherston was already jabbering on about his cla.s.smates.

"We have two Pulitzer Prize winners," he said. Then leaning forward, he added, "And one's a woman."

"A woman." Wendy froze a smile and blinked. "Wow."

"We also have a world-famous photographer, several CEOs of course, oh, and one Academy Award nominee. Well, okay, it was for best sound and he didn't win. But still. Several of our cla.s.smates work for the current administration. One was drafted by the Cleveland Browns."

Wendy nodded like an idiot, wondering how long she could keep the smile on her face. Cherston broke out sc.r.a.pbooks and photo books and the graduation program and even the freshman face book. He was talking about himself now, his total commitment to his alma mater, as though this might surprise her.

She needed to move this along.

Wendy picked up a photograph alb.u.m and starting paging through it, hoping to spot any of her Princeton Five. No such luck. Cherston droned on. Okay, time to make something happen. She took hold of the freshman face book and flipped through it, heading straight for the M Ms.

"Oh, look," she said, interrupting him. She pointed to the picture of Steven Miciano. "That's Dr. Miciano, right?"

"Why, yes, it is."

"He treated my mother."

Cherston may have squirmed a bit. "That's nice."

"Maybe I should talk to him too."

"Maybe," Cherston said. "But I don't have a current address on him."

Wendy went back to the face book, summoning up another fake gasp of surprise. "Well, well, look at this. Dr. Miciano roomed with Farley Parks. Isn't he the one who was running for Congress?"

Lawrence Cherston smiled at her.

"Mr. Cherston?"

"Call me Lawrence."

"Okay. Isn't Farley Parks the one who was running for Congress?"

"May I call you Wendy?"

"You may may." Shades of Win.

"Thank you. Wendy, perhaps we could both stop playing this game?"

"What game?"

He shook his head, as though disappointed in a favorite student. "Search engines work both ways. Did you really think I wouldn't, at least out of curiosity, Google the name of a reporter who wanted to interview me?"

She said nothing.

"So I know you already signed up for the Princeton cla.s.s page. And more to the point, I know you covered the stories on Dan Mercer. Some might even say you created them."

He looked at her.

"These finger sandwiches are awesome," she said.

"My wife made them and they're dreadful. Anyway, I a.s.sume the purpose of this ruse was to gather some background information."

"If you knew that, why did you agree to see me?"

"Why not?" he countered. "You're doing a story involving a Princeton graduate. I wanted to be sure that your information is correct, so as not to create innuendo where none belongs."

"Well, thank you for seeing me then."

"You're welcome. So what can I do for you?"

"Did you know Dan Mercer?"

He picked up a finger sandwich and took the smallest bite. "I did, yes, but not well."

"What was your impression?"

"Do you mean, did he seem like a pedophile and murderer?"

"That might be a good place to start."

"No, Wendy. He didn't seem like the kind. But I confess that I'm rather naive. I see the best in everyone."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Dan was a serious student--bright, hardworking. He was a poor kid. I'm the son of alumni--fourth generation at Princeton, in fact. It put us in different circles. I love this school. I'm hardly subtle about that. But Dan seemed awed by it."