Читать книгу A Memorable Murder - John Schlarbaum - Страница 9

Mitch Carson stood in his office doorway and scanned the assembled faces before finding the one he was seeking.

“Malone, get in here!”

The early morning chaos in The Telegraph newsroom momentarily broke as Mitch’s voice bellowed across the large room.

“Some gals have all the luck,” the paper’s Lifestyle editor said as Jennifer Malone walked past her desk.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m home alone on a Friday night,” she shot back.

Jennifer Malone was a tall, slender woman in her mid-30s with shoulder length brown hair. She had made her mark the day she stepped into the city’s second largest daily.

After having won an investigative reporting award at a small weekly tabloid, she arrived at her junior reporter job interview with the silver-plated statuette in her oversized purse. When the editor asked for her current resume, she first pulled the award out and placed it firmly on his desk, making sure the gold plate stating her name and the category faced him. Without missing a beat, she produced her resume and put the award away, never mentioning it for the remainder of the interview.

“You’ve got bigger balls than most of my guys out there, Ms. Malone,” Mitch had said, pointing to a gathering of male reporters.

“My mother always told me that it’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use them.”

“Well I think we can use them around here—if you think your mother would approve.”

“I can’t see a problem,” Jennifer said with a smile. “I’ll tell her the news at her next parole hearing.”

That successful interview was ten years ago.

“Did you see that?” Mitch said excitedly as he continued to watch the TV coverage on his small set on the counter.

“I’m usually a Good Morning America kind of person,” Jennifer smiled. “After this morning though, I’m a total Nation Today convert. Of course I’m shocked they would book such an elaborate publicity stunt this close to sweeps.”

Mitch looked up from the screen, still not knowing how to take her sense of humour.

“I want you to get down there and find out everything you can about the shooting. I’ve got Levison working the Senator Adams angle, if there is one. I’m also going to assemble a team of eight to help co-ordinate all the information you both send back, as well as anything we get off the air.”

“I’ve already asked Manny the copy boy to have the Batmobile ready for me in 30 seconds.”

“Would you get out of here already!” Mitch ordered. “It’s not every day a major news story breaks before eight in the morning.”

“And a darn good thing too,” Jennifer said as she walked out of the office. “Can you imagine what that kind of stress could do to the editor-in-chief’s blood pressure? It’d kill him.”

Unwilling to confirm the obvious, Mitch nevertheless knew she was right.

“Very funny, Malone.”

He glanced at his secretary who was watching him with a smirk.

“Problem, Amy?”

“No, Mitch. It’s just I love a man in charge who faces danger head on. A man who knows his life is screwed for the next couple of days and thinks nothing of it.”

“The only person that’ll be screwed is you, if you don’t get me Girard, Millar, Mascoll, Daly, Papp, Israelson, Crane and Harding in my office in two minutes.”

“Did you really mean that part about being screwed?” she asked with a sly grin.

“Could you please get them in here?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied efficiently, as Mitch went to his desk and began making phone calls.

“One other thing,” he said over Amy’s intercom. “Are we still on for Monday evening?”

“If that’s what your daily planner says, it must be true.”

“Okay, good. Now can you get me some coffee?” he asked, returning to his old gruff self. “This is going to be a long day.”

The Daily Telegraph’s office was located a few short blocks from the National Cable Network’s headquarters, where The Nation Today was shot. As Jennifer came into view of the rival Star newspaper’s front doors, she recognized three reporters exiting the building, all of whom began jogging through the maze of stopped traffic.

“You better run,” she called out to Mark Orr, The Star’s crime reporter, as he crossed to her side of the street.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a quick wave.

“And why’s that?”

“Because as soon as I arrive on the scene, the only leads you’ll be chasing are ones that I feel you guys can handle.”

“We at The Star will keep that in mind, Madam Malone.”

She watched him continue up the street. Noticing she was about to pass The Brewing Cup, she thought, What the heck, and entered the nearly empty café.

“The usual,” she said to the young bleached blonde waitress behind the counter.

A look of surprise came over the girl’s face as she turned her head away from the radio on the shelf behind her.

“Shouldn’t you be covering the shooting?” she asked.

“You’re not my editor’s illegitimate daughter, are you?” Jennifer said with a smile. “You know, checking up on me?”

“If she was Carson’s daughter, do you think she’d be working as a waitress in a place like this?” a male voice said.

Jennifer turned and saw Andrés Gonzmart, the always impeccably dressed Columbian owner, coming out of the back room.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Even Carson’s kid would have some level of standards.”

“What makes you so mean?” Gonzmart asked as he handed her a cup of coffee. “Man problems?”

“I wish.”

“Maybe someday you’ll find the man of your dreams—you know, right under your nose.”

“Working in a quaint coffee shop perhaps?”

“If you’re lucky.”

“Are you coming on to me, Gonz?”

“Heaven forbid,” he said with a laugh. “Even I have—what did you say again?”

“Level of standards?”

“That’s it—a level of standards.”

“Touché.”

“Now, getting back to my niece’s question—”

Jennifer looked at the blonde.

“You’re his niece?”

“That’s what I’ve been led to believe,” she said with a soft voice and wide grin.

“My condolences.”

“Thanks.”

“Can we cut the girl chit-chat and get back to business?” Gonzmart asked. “Why aren’t you down at the shooting?”

Before answering, Jennifer took a sip of her coffee.

“I’m on my way. I mean, that guy has only been dead for what—15 minutes?”

“He’s dead?” Gonzmart asked. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Well if he took a bullet to his temple and survived, the surgeon who put a metal plate in his head should come forward. He’d make a mint from referrals alone.”

“So why aren’t you rushing to the scene?” the blonde asked, genuinely interested in the conversation.

“I am. Really. I like to take my time sometimes. My deadline is approximately 17 hours from now. I’m sure two minutes isn’t going to kill me.” Jennifer paused before adding, “Maybe kill isn’t the right word under the circumstances, huh?”

She finished the last of her beverage and put a bill on the counter.

“With a fire in my stomach and the desire to properly inform the people of this great city what happened on their TV sets, I bid you both adieu.”

“Good luck, Malone,” Gonzmart called to her as she exited.

“Thanks, Gonz. I think I’m going to need it today.”