Graveland: A Novel Read Free Page A

the angle and stuff it’s a long shot.”
    Ellen considers this. “Surveillance cameras?”
    Brady shakes his head. “There are a few in the park, but not back there, and they’re mainly used for detecting after-hours activity.”
    “What about the bigger picture, is there anything known to be going on, I mean with Northwood, or…?” She laughs. “Jesus, listen to me. I sound like your editor. Sorry.”
    “You’re fine. It’s an obvious question. And to answer it, no, not that I’m aware of, not yet, anyway.” He pauses, and fiddles for a bit with his shades. “So, Ellen, what are you up to these days?”
    She explains. Presidential candidates and why so many of them tend to implode.
    “Okay, yeah. I read that piece you did on John Rundle a while back, the whole Congo thing, the stuff with his brother. It was amazing.”
    Ellen grunts. “It was pretty spectacular material, you have to admit. Though I kind of feel like I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel now with Ratt Atkinson.”
    Brady laughs. “ Ratt . Jesus.”
    “I know.” Ellen pauses. “I actually came down here because it felt like there might be some … action. Is that pathetic?”
    “No, but are you sure you’re remembering what it’s like to be a news reporter? Real action is pretty hard to come by. It’s usually like this.” He indicates behind him. “The afters, yellow tape, endless waiting around.”
    Ellen nods. “Sure. Of course. I remember.” But still. “Sometimes it’s about instinct. You get a hard-on for a story and … I don’t know.”
    Brady smiles. “A hard-on, huh? Nice. Well, let me look into it, ask around, and if anything interesting shows up, why don’t I give you a call?”
    Is he hitting on her? She doesn’t think so. And she’s hardly his type. Small and lean, with shortish dark hair, Ellen doesn’t really think of herself as anyone’s type . But as if to clarify matters, he holds up his hands. “Look, Ellen, I’m a big admirer of yours, have been for years. All those pieces for Rolling Stone and Wired and The Nation, and then your stuff for Parallax ? I mean … shit.”
    It’s easy for Ellen to forget that her reputation isn’t all bad, that it can sometimes extend to beyond a roll call of character defects, that she has a body of work behind her, and stuff that someone like Val Brady here might actually hold in high regard.
    “Okay,” she says, going with it, “thanks.”
    In the cab a while later, she tries to do a little rearranging in her head. Ratt Atkinson she can dispose of today, at a push. It’s not a complicated story, all the details have already been fact-checked, and it’ll tell itself, really.
    That’ll give her time tomorrow to read up on Jeff Gale.
    And on Northwood Leffingwell.
    She looks out the window of the cab, Amsterdam Avenue flickering past, and realizes something.
    It’s been a while, but she’s excited.

 
    2
    “S O, HOW IS THE OLD MAN?”
    Craig Howley watches John Kemp wince a little as he says this, but there’s really no other way for him to put it.
    They both know what he’s asking.
    Howley looks around, surveys the room. At least they’re not talking about Jeff Gale anymore. “He’s fine, you know. Not as young as he used to be. It’s nothing specific, just a gradual…” He pauses, catching himself here. “He’s fine.”
    “Yeah.”
    James Vaughan. Chairman of the Oberon Capital Group. Eighty-four years old, born a week before the Crash. Which turned out to be a good omen actually, at least as far as his old man was concerned, because later that very week the same William J. Vaughan shorted a pool of stocks on a downtick and cleared over a hundred million dollars.
    All these years later and what’s changed?
    “He hasn’t stopped working or anything,” Howley says.
    “Oh sure, of course.” Kemp has a knowing look on his face. “Guess he wants to go out with his boots on.”
    “No, but really, John, I mean it.” An edge in Howley’s