She got up and made her way around the desk. With a half-smile, she said, “I’m gonna make you pay if this blows any chance of getting my memoirs in print by forty.”
Through the sarcasm, I saw a look flare up in Jill Bernhardt’s eyes, the same resolute look I had seen when she was spinning. It hit me like a spray of Mace.
“Okay, Lindsay, let’s make this case.”
I didn’t know what made Jill tick. Power? An urge to do right? Some manic drive to outperform? Whatever it was, I didn’t think it was far from what had always burned through me.
But listening to her cogently mapping out what we needed to indict, a tantalizing thought took hold of me.
I thought about getting her together with Claire and Cindy.
Chapter 71
AT AN OLD-FASHIONED STEEL DESK in the dingy halls of the Chronicle’s basement library, Cindy Thomas scrolled through four-year-old articles on microfiche. It was late. After eight. Working alone in the underbelly of the building, she felt as if she were some isolated Egyptologist scraping the dust off of long-buried hieroglyphic tablets. She now knew why it was referred to as “the Tombs.”
But she felt she was onto something. The dust was coming off secrets, and something worthwhile would soon be clear to her.
February… March, 1996. The film shot by with indistinguishable speed.
Someone famous, the Cleveland bride’s friend had said. Cindy pushed the film onward. This was how stories were earned. Late nights and elbow grease.
Earlier, she had called the public relations firm Kathy Kogut had worked for in San Francisco, Bright Star Media. News of their former staffer’s death had reached them only that day. Cindy inquired about any feature films Bright Star might have had an association with. She was disappointed when she was told the firm didn’t handle films. The Capitol, she was told. The concert palace. That was Kathy’s account.
Undeterred, Cindy plugged Bright Star’s name into the Chronicle’s data bank. Any subjects of articles, names, companies, reviews written in the past ten years were recorded there. To her mild delight, the search came back with several live responses.
It was assiduous work, and discouraging. The articles covered a period of more than five years. That would tie in with the time Kathy was in San Francisco. Each article was on a different microfiche cassette.
It required going back into the files. Requisitioning. Three items at a time. After four sets, the night librarian handed her the clipboard, saying, “Here, Thomas. It’s all yours. Knock yourself out.”
It was quarter past ten — she hadn’t heard a peep from anyone in over two hours — when she finally came upon something interesting.
It was dated February 10, 1995. Arts Today section. “For Local Band Sierra, New Film Taps into a Hit.”
Cindy’s eyes shot down the text, fast-forwarding to anything that stuck out: plans for their album, an eight-city tour. Quotes from the lead singer.
“Sierra will perform the song at tomorrow night’s bash at the Capitol to kick off release of the film Crossed Wire.”
Her heart stood still. She zoomed ahead to the following day’s Arts section.
She consumed the article almost in a single suspended breath: “… took over the Capitol. Chris Wilcox, the star, was there.” A photo, with a dishy actress. “Bright Star… other recording stars in attendance.”
Her eyes traveled over the three accompanying news photos. In tiny print, underneath each shot, she noticed the photographer’s name: “Photography by Sal Esposito. Property of the Chronicle.”
Photography… Cindy jumped out of her seat at the microfiche desk and hurried back through the musty, ten-foot-high stacks of bundled, yellowing editions. On the other side of the Tombs was the Chronicle’s photography morgue. Rows and rows of unused shots.
She had never even been in here… didn’t know how it was laid out.
Creepy, creepy place, especially this late at night.
In a flash, she recognized that the aisles were chronological. She followed the signs at the end of each aisle until she found February 1995. She ran her eyes along the outside of the stacked plastic bins dated the tenth.
When she spotted it, it was on the highest shelf. Where else? She stepped up on the lower shelf, on her tiptoes, and wiggled the bin down.
On the dusty floor, Cindy frantically leafed through folders bunched up in elastic. As if in a dream, she came upon a folder marked in large black letters: “Crossed Wire Opening — Esposito.” This was it….
Inside were four contact sheets, several black-and-white glossies. Someone, probably the reporter, had written the names of each person, in pen, at the bottom of each shot.
Her eyes froze as she came upon the photo she was hoping for. Four people toasting the camera, with arms locked.