Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 26

This early in the day, the Record’s newsroom was a buzzing hive of clicking keyboards, phone interviews, and story meetings. It used to be like this throughout much of the day, but not anymore.

The cubicles and free-standing desks were aligned in rows—more or less—though reporters typically spent little time at their assigned stations. At the busiest times it was sometimes easier to grab the nearest phone or a sheet of paper from a nearby cubicle.

Privacy was not a priority in a working newsroom, except where the more established writers were concerned. They had their work space. They’d earned it, and even if it was just a cubicle or a desk, it was their private turf.

Zach was sitting at his usual workstation, surrounded by loose sheets of paper and ad fliers.

“What are you working on?” Chapa asked as he surveyed the newsroom and saw the usual cast, minus one.

“Research,” Zach said, lifting his hands from the keyboard and using two sets of fingers to make quotation marks in the air.

He was wearing a mud brown T-shirt with a cartoon advertising character on it that Chapa recognized from his youth.

“Nice shirt,” Chapa said, pointing to the image, “I was a Quisp man myself.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Where’s Wormley?”

“That’s who I’m doing research for. He’s at Annino’s Toys for the big launch of the new Our Heritage Doll line.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

Zach shook his head. “I could not make that one up, boss. I’m researching how much everyone loves these dolls.”

“Well here, do this for me instead.”

Chapa pulled the yellow notepaper out of his pocket and handed it to Zach. He’d decided it was best to not leave it in Chakowski’s office. During the three years that Zach had been working as an intern at the Chicago Record, Chapa had come to trust the young man. Zach was a right guy.

“See if any of what’s on that sheet of paper matches up to anything.”

Zach smiled.

“Ooh, detective work.”

“Maybe, of a sort.”

Zach was staring at the notes as he brought up a fresh screen on his monitor.

“And, Zach,” Chapa started, then waited until he was certain he had the intern’s attention, “do not let anyone see this piece of paper or anything that you find out about what’s written on it. And don’t tell anybody that I asked you to do this.”

“I get it.”

“I know you do.”

“But can you give me a starting point?”

Chapa shook his head. “I wish I could.”

“How soon do you need to know whatever it is that you need to know about whatever this is?”

“How many days ago was Jim killed?”

Zach did not hesitate. “Two.”

“Then three days ago would’ve been nice, but I’ll settle for as soon as possible.”

It took a moment for Chapa’s words to sink in. When they did, Zach’s eyes got as wide as a startled deer’s.

“Oh shit,” he said, then hushed, “oh shit.”

Chapa raised a hand and Zach only mouthed his next, Oh shit.

“It’s probably not a big deal. But I’m curious to see what you can turn up.”

Zach nodded and looked around the newsroom with suspicion.

“I’m on it. But what should I tell Wormley?”

“Damned if I care,” Chapa said, looked at his watch, and started for the door. He had less than twenty minutes to get to City Hall. “Just let him know how I reacted when you told me what he had you doing, and how that made it impossible for you to continue and still have any dignity left.”

“That’s a relief,” Zach said, his voice slowly fading into the background as Chapa left the newsroom. “For a moment I thought you were going to tell me to lie.”