Blaze (2 page)

The chief's shoulders slumped. Christ, a vindictive nutter of a broad who was going to dump a heap of emotional baggage on them. He could still make it home to watch the second half of the game if they could hurry up the cops. This was out of his territory now. The lieutenant was on his walkie-talkie explaining to Dispatcher 332 what was happening.

The fire chief wiped his brow. ‘Lady, whatever your problem is, this isn't helping matters. Come downstairs and you'll be taken home. I'm afraid the police will want to ask you a few questions. You've caused considerable damage on this floor.'

The chief was losing patience. He reached for the woman's hand, which she wrenched away from him, then she staggered sideways to a closed door.

‘Stay away from me. Don't you harass me.' Her fierce anger caused the fire chief to lower his arm. The woman was out of control.

‘Calm down, ma'am. We want to help you.' He spoke in a placating tone, cautious now of her reactions.

‘Help me! You're a bit damned late. Unless you can turn back the clock. Come on,' she taunted him, waving her manicured hands, inviting him forward. ‘Come on, make me thirty, sexy and beautiful. Why don't you try, eh?'

The involuntary flicker in the chief's expression said it all for her. This dame was never going to be any of those things again.

She briefly closed her eyes, bitterness and sadness etched in the smudged mascara on her face. She spun around, opened the door into the next suite and closed it behind her.

The chief leapt forward as he heard the lock click. ‘Harry, bust open that door.'

The lieutenant was already rushing to throw his weight against the polished oak while the chief prepared to add his own broad shoulder.

As the chief moved back to try again, he froze. Now she was on the terrace. Through the plate glass, he could see her clearly outside the adjoining office, stumbling between several potted topiary trees.

The door lock smashed under the force of the lieutenant's axe and the chief rushed through the French doors to the terrace.

‘Hey, lady . . .' But she was climbing over a box hedge that lined the rim of the editor-in-chief's al fresco entertaining area. He stopped, breathless.

Two metres back, the lieutenant, still in the suite, was on his walkie-talkie telling his colleagues in the truck outside to hurry-up the police.

‘Ma'am. Please don't move. I'd like to talk to you. You're upset.' He held his arms towards her.

Without looking back or pausing, the woman leapt.

‘Oh Christ, no . . .' The chief lunged forward in a futile grab at empty air.

Lloyd Frencham, fire chief of Division 7, Manhattan, was the last person to see Lorraine Bannister, editor of the world-famous magazine
Blaze
, alive.

Friday, 7 p.m.

Alisson Gruber stood before the mirror slicking back her hair with gel. She studied the reflection, satisfied she looked as stunning as she felt. She was going to make this her big night. She'd waited for her chance since she was sixteen, when she'd taken her first step inside the revolving doors of the Triton Communications Tower. She'd decided before her first shift was over that she would one day be editor of the world's most feted magazine. Well, she hadn't waited. She'd worked and hassled her way towards this goal, even without a college degree. Her dream now seemed possible – that she would be the editor to carry
Blaze
forward in the new millennium.

She had hoped Nina, the editor-in-chief, and the Baron would tell her this was the case before Nina's party tonight. Instead, Baron Triton had stipulated that the formal birthday dinner to mark the sixtieth birthday of Nina Jansous was to be a social occasion. Ali knew that making an announcement of a new editor would shift the limelight from Nina. It made her seethe. How typical that the Baron would not allow anyone to nudge Nina from centre stage. Editor-in-chief or not, Nina's revered position with Triton would soon be immaterial. Alisson had plans. Big plans. She was twenty-eight and deputy editor of the New York edition of the world's most successful magazine. She had spectacularly worked her way up the ladder in Triton Communications. And, if the gossip was hot, it was Nina's retirement that would be announced tonight. And tomorrow? Ali was convinced she would be named the new editor of
Blaze USA.

Times had changed. The days of mature, sophisticated doyennes sitting in the editor or editor-in-chief's office, was over. It was a new age of young, dynamic, powerhouse achievers who ran a hard race. They were not afraid to stick out a foot – Manolo shod or pumped-up pink Nike – to trip up a rival in order to win. Nice ladies came last now. Stuff the sisterhood. The new motto was ‘make it to the top as fast as you can, any way you can'. Talent and ability still counted. A talent to out-manoeuvre others, an ability to sell yourself as being better than you were. The rules had changed and, as the army of Alis surged through the publishing ranks, the ageing trailblazers who hung on were being pushed into smaller offices, their names appearing further down the masthead, their collective morale in shreds.

Alisson's black Versace dress, with its dramatic back drape lined in scarlet silk, looked as if it had been spray-painted onto her angular, stick-thin body. Her only jewellery was a set of earrings made from strands of tiny red and black Victorian beads and rhinestones. With her ivory skin looking even more translucent against the scarlet and black, with her dark-brown eyes and jet, slicked-back hair, she had the look of a mean, underfed whippet. One that might snap a hand if approached. She exuded a rather dangerous sexuality that appealed to men and women. She narrowed her eyes, assessing her face in detail. She'd never forgotten the time a student in high school had called her ‘ferret-face'.

Ali had used expensive cosmetics to highlight her sharp features, emphasising the peak of her eyebrows. She had pulled her hair back from her forehead to show a widow's peak, defined the curves of her mouth with plum pencil and, as a last touch, had extended the eyeliner to give her round, slightly pop eyes more of an oriental slant. Perhaps it was time for plastic surgery to sculpt her face. After all, she would be in the public eye a lot more now. And she could easily afford it. She had fought and argued over her salary package. She'd started out with nothing but a hunger and drive and was making up for those times she'd gone without. Now she was avaricious and wanted only the best. Yet she was as mean with a nickel as she'd been when poor and hungry. Ali didn't give generously now she could afford it. She'd arrived in New York as a sixteen-year-old, and had been virtually on her own ever since. She'd worked hard to make it to here. Let everyone else do the same.

The phone rang. Glancing at her watch, she clicked the switch on the portable by the bed.

‘Ali, it's Bud Stein. I have a piece of news. You sitting down?' The editor of the Triton-owned tabloid, the
New York Gazette
, had a tense pitch to his voice.

‘What is it? I'm about to leave for the big bash for Nina.'

‘Yeah. I figured you'd be there. But you should know this. There will be an extra dimension to the announcement of the new editor's appointment tomorrow.'

‘And what makes you think there's an announcement tomorrow?' Ali was querulous that her big news, yet to be confirmed by Nina, might be common knowledge.

‘There's a rumour you might be next in line for the top job. Especially now.' He paused and dropped the bombshell. ‘Your current editor has just offed herself.'

‘What! Lorraine Bannister? For God's sake, how?'

‘She made very sure. Leapt off the terrace of the lovely Nina's office. She's very dead. Didn't go quietly either. Tried to start a fire. Nina won't be able to keep this one discreet.'

‘I was with Lorraine this afternoon!' Ali was shocked and she couldn't help the rush of guilt that washed over her. Had Lorraine known Ali was expecting to be named as the new editor? It was said the person to be replaced was always the last to know.

‘You there, Ali? What do you say to that? Any theories?'

Ali thought quickly. ‘Strictly off the record, right? She's been unstable for a while, drinking and using, er, addictive substances even more in the past month or so. Totally lost her grip a couple of times and I had to cover for her. She'd believed she was in line for promotion to editor-in-chief to take over from Nina.'

‘Nina going somewhere?'

‘Well, there's a rumour . . .'

‘You wish,' Stein thought. The newspaper editor was well aware that the new breed of hot women executives was tough, but this young woman was too much, certainly for the conservative attitude of this hardened newsman. He'd admired the thoughtful and balanced opinions of Nina and her loyal lieutenant, the now deceased Lorraine Bannister.

‘Anyway, Lorraine has been losing it. Was finding it hard to deal with life for a whole lot of reasons, one assumes. I know she was also upset about her daughter.' Alisson was keeping the subject off Nina. ‘I think it was mainly because she couldn't come to terms with my generation doing things differently. I frequently told her to get her head into third-millennium thinking but she seemed stuck in the twentieth century. I mean, she was really past her use-by date,' she quickly added with an effort at trying to sound genuinely sad.

That line irritated Bud Stein. He was due to retire in four years. Lorraine Bannister, at fifty-one, was his junior by ten years. This was scarcely an old dame in his book.

He took a deep breath, trying to control his annoyance. ‘Well, I'll be happy enough to keep my head where it is. Anyway, thought you'd like to know. We'll need a comment from you as her 2IC, Ali, naturally. We've already got someone chasing Nina and the Baron over who will be the next editor.' In the same media empire or not, news was news.

‘I'll fax you a sentence or two. I'm shocked. I'll have to think of the appropriate words. Thanks for the call, Bud.'

As the
Gazette
editor hung up, Ali held on to her portable wondering how she should play her next moves. The news of Lorraine Bannister's demise would dull the sparkle at Nina's party. But Ali couldn't repress a ripple of excitement that her dream of becoming editor of
Blaze
had, if tragically, moved forward. It was still difficult to come to terms with what had happened though. Ali closed her eyes, thinking back to the scene she'd had to endure with Lorraine that afternoon.

Friday, 4.30 p.m.

When Ali walked over to the editor's office the door was shut and Lorraine's editorial coordinator, Pat, had shook her head, running her hand across her throat in a slicing motion as if to say, ‘She's cut herself off from the office for a while, forget it'.

Pat had been Lorraine's editorial coordinator for several years. A veteran of more than twenty years in publishing, Pat had started as a secretary and gladly adopted the more stylish title of editorial coordinator that secretaries in New York publishing wore these days. She knew the magazine business from boardroom to basement, understood the nuances of corporate power play, and held strongly to the belief that protection of her immediate boss was the prime requisite of her job.

Over time, such dedication had made her very protective of Lorraine's professional image. In recent months, this commitment had become far more complex. She was aware of the aggressive machinations of the ambitious young woman, Alisson, and knew it had badly shaken Lorraine. Pat had watched with alarm as Lorraine slipped into an often poorly concealed decline in the sanctuary of the editor's office. Thanks to Pat's support, Lorraine generally had been able to keep a bold and composed front when dealing with advertisers. However, her guard was slipping more and more and Pat wondered just how much the other staff members had noticed.

There was something about the slight stiffening of Ali's posture and the questioning twist of the head that immediately told her Ali had the picture in focus.

‘I'm sorry Ali, but Lorraine asked not to be disturbed for a while. She's working on an important presentation. Not even taking phone calls.' Pat had fussed with a bunch of papers beside her computer keyboard, giving Ali a half-smile as if inviting understanding and a decision to try again another time.

‘I can wait,' said Ali aggressively. ‘Just let her know I'm waiting.'

Pat sighed and flopped back in her chair, looking utterly exhausted. ‘She's just told me to go home, that she would be working late . . .' Pat didn't complete her effort at subterfuge and, in capitulation, took Ali into her confidence. ‘She's not well, Ali, I can feel it,' she whispered. ‘She's sick.'

Ali leaned across the desk towards Pat and answered gently in return, as if she were sharing a huge secret and the responsibility that went with it. ‘I know . . . now why don't you just take your bag and go home. I'll have a little talk with her. She needs help. We both know that. Now, off you go.' She straightened up and waited until Pat had gathered her bag and coat and was on her way to the elevator. Then she went to the office door and, after a single knock and without waiting for a reply, she swung it open and marched in.

Lorraine was lying on the sofa, which was part of the lounge setting on one side of the spacious room, well removed from the huge executive desk littered with magazines and files, proofs and art work. One hand was over her closed eyes, the other resting on the coffee table and holding a near empty glass. She hadn't moved at the sound of the door opening, hadn't opened her eyes. ‘Pat, I told you I wasn't to be disturbed,' she said firmly, a tension in her voice as she struggled to maintain control. ‘Please don't say a word, darling. Just make a lovely exit stage left.' She let go of the glass to gesture weakly with a dismissive wave of the hand, which then dangled beside the sofa.

‘It's not Pat,' said Ali quietly.