Читать книгу Bylines & Deadlines - Kimberly Vinje - Страница 8

Chapter One

It wasn’t every day Kristine Larkin took time to notice something as inconsequential as a pretty sky. Today was different. The sun had just risen and the sky was so blue it reached out to touch you. Kristine had just come out of her favorite coffee shop with her vanilla flavored (and very expensive) coffee. The smell of the shop meant a new day, new opportunities and a new byline. She inhaled deeply and smiled to herself at the excitement of the possibilities of the story she would dig up today. She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and smoothed the hair where the glasses had been sitting. She stopped at a crosswalk and took a sip of coffee while she waited.

It was already hot. The air was so thick with humidity it stuck to your skin. Summer in New York. It was oppressive at best. It also smelled - really bad. Urine from the homeless or a drunk guy who thought it was a good idea to relieve himself on a sidewalk after a night of bar hopping baked into the concrete. Garbage cans along the street sped the deterioration of discarded food and acted as a beacon for rats and roaches from what she was sure were the depths of hell. When Kristine moved to New York, the rodents were the toughest part of her culture shock. Oh, and the sewers… the sewers were sewers. Enough said.

Kristine hiked her bag up on her shoulder and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. She flipped her long, thick brown ponytail over her tanned shoulder as the “walk” light flashed white, and she started across the street. She had gotten sun just from walking around town every day. The tan made her eyes seem even greener.

There weren’t many New Yorkers up and about at this hour so the streets were just busy and not jam packed. As she dodged people crossing the street against her, someone slammed into her so hard her coffee splashed through the little hole in the white cap. She jumped back to avoid being splattered with coffee.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going,” she called as she turned a bit to see who had practically run over her. There was a woman hurrying away, hastily turning from her. Kristine thought she may have looked nervous, maybe distracted. She also knew if she didn’t get out of the street she’d be fair game for traffic when the light changed. New York was always in a hurry. The people walked with a purpose - like they always had someplace to be and were hell-bent on getting there. Kristine could relate to that.

Once across the street, she looked down at her white, spaghetti strap top. There were no signs of coffee stains, and it was still neatly tucked into her navy and white pinstriped skirt. It was too hot for her suit jacket, which was draped over her bag.

“You’re here early today,” Ed the security guard said as she walked past his desk. Ed was probably 80 years old and resembled Yoda more than the Terminator. Ed wasn’t going to stop anyone who wanted to come into the building. He had a nightstick, a walkie talkie and a case of bursitis.

“Good morning, Ed. You know you say that to me every day,” Kristine called back as she walked into a waiting elevator. She pushed her sunglasses back on top of her head. She punched the button for the 17^th floor, sipped her coffee and wondered why anyone bothered to remove the 13 from the buttons. If 13 was truly a bad number, did it matter there was no button? The poor fools on the 14^th floor were still on the 13^th floor no mater what you called it. She sighed, took another drink of her coffee and thought how silly the superstitious could be.

The elevator car dinged, and the doors opened. The lights on the floor were on. They were always on. No one ever bothered to turn them off when they left. Of course, she thought, the evening shift, which was mostly copy editors, left only hours before the reporters showed up in the morning. She walked down the hall past the desks piled high with old newspapers, files, books and other materials that would make that person seem busy. The thing about being a reporter is you could take off during the day chasing a “lead” and actually be in the park playing Frisbee - well, unless you had an assignment and a deadline. Kristine was sure there were people who did this, but she wasn’t one of them. If she didn’t have an assignment, she would listen to police scanners waiting for something interesting or start going over public records looking for something - anything - that would make a good story.

She rounded the corner and headed for her desk. This was the best time of the day - when Burt Newman wasn’t in the office. Burt was a slob. He was the stereotypical news guy from the movies times 10. He always had coffee dribbled down his shirt and white stuff collecting in the corner of his mouth. She took a second to consider what that white stuff was…never mind, she thought. She didn’t want to know. Burt’s belly lapped over the top of his pants, and his shirt gapped between the buttons over his midsection. His ties were always too short and didn’t match the rest of his attire, which usually consisted of a cream colored, short sleeve shirt, which in the past decade had most likely been white. Yellow arm pit stains accessorized the shirt. She considered the stains proof Burt rarely, if ever, bothered with antiperspirant. He must have either had a closet full of brown, polyester pants with a thick waistband absent of belt loops, or he wore the same pair over and over. She shuddered at the thought.

It gets worse. Burt was crowned with gray, greasy hairs. Well, maybe there was just one long hair he wrapped around his head over and over again. His black, thick-framed glasses had a coating of gunk on the lenses that probably impaired his vision. These were the trademark fashions of Burt Newman. If that wasn’t bad enough, his personality wasn’t exactly congenial either.

If there was a group of people about whom Burt could be intolerant, he was. He said America was being taken over by foreigners. No amount of arguing about how anyone who wasn’t Native American was a foreigner, or how one of the strengths of the USA was the fact it was built on the blending of so many different cultures could convince him otherwise. The only thing Kristine had in common with Burt was a stubborn streak and a dislike of each other.

Perhaps even more annoying than his lack of hygiene and perverse attitude about people was the way he pounded on a keyboard as if the added pressure on the keys would give his words more emphasis. He mumbled to himself as he beat up the alphabet. Kristine couldn’t hear herself think when Burt’s words flowed. She was convinced people went on the record with Burt simply to get rid of him. If she was correct, that would be the only plus side to being that repulsive. For all the turmoil Burt brought to her life, his stories usually ended up buried deep inside the paper or held over for a slow news day.

She put her bag and coffee on her desk and noticed a bulge in the front pocket of the bag. Reaching in, she pulled out a disc. There was nothing written on it, which meant it wasn’t hers. She always labeled her discs. She took out the laptop and clicked it into the docking station. She leaned back in her chair and waited for the computer screen to go through the flashing it took to get to her main screen.

Suddenly she noticed a pungent smell. She felt her face crinkle as she sat upright and looked around.

“What the hell is that smell?” she said out loud to no one. She looked across her neat, clean desk over to the piles of chaos. It had to be Newman. No one irritated her quite like he did. She stood and walked around to his desk. She took a pencil from one of the stacks and used it to move some of the debris. There it was - a half eaten tuna salad sandwich. The only thing that smelled worse than fresh tuna was tuna salad that had been sitting out for God knows how long. She didn’t know what shocked her more; that Burt had left half a sandwich uneaten or that he was just that much of a slob. She put the eraser of the pencil on the paper holding the sandwich and dragged it to the edge of the desk where she had Burt’s garbage can ready to catch it as it fell. She dropped the pencil in with it and took the garbage can down the hall to the Sports Department. Most of those guys traveled, and the rest wouldn’t be in until later in the day. Plus, they may not even notice it, she thought. She stopped by the ladies’ room to wash her hands just in case she caught any Burt cooties.

When she got back to her desk, she pulled out the can of disinfectant she kept in her top drawer and sprayed Burt’s desk and chair and then her own. She shook her head and considered what it would be like to sit across from someone who didn’t require you to decontaminate your work area on a daily basis. She put the can back into the desk drawer and closed it. She sat back down, picked up the disc and looked at it. Could someone have mistaken their bag for hers last night?

She thought back to the previous evening. She had been finishing a story about city workers drinking on the job and the dangers to the public and then filed it from home. The disc wasn’t in her bag last night when she arrived at her apartment, because she remembered removing a business card she had received earlier in the day. She had to have gotten this disc somewhere between her apartment and the office this morning. Maybe someone in the coffee shop gave it to her, but she was still too tired to remember sliding it into the pocket. Then she remembered the lady in the crosswalk. She closed her eyes to remember what she looked like. She looked like she was in a hurry, which didn’t set her apart from any other New Yorker. “Think,” she muttered to herself. “You get paid to notice details.” She shook her head. The only other things she remembered were the woman had brown hair, wore sunglasses and seemed anxious. Again - not unlike most of the population of the city. Her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and recognized it as Derrick. He was her closest friend.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked.

“Girl, I just got off the late shift. Meet me for breakfast and a facial - my skin looks like hell with these bags under my eyes.” Derrick was a nurse and usually worked the emergency room. Kristine had met him while working stories - waiting for patient updates and trying to talk to family members of victims. Derrick was gorgeous and gay.

“Can’t. Sorry. Gotta work,” she said staring at her screen. “Meet for dinner?”

“Can’t. Gotta date.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Feelgood,” he said triumphantly. Kristine smiled and sat up in her chair.

“No you don’t.”

“Oh yes I do.”

“I thought he told you he was straight.”

“Turns out he couldn’t resist this.”

“Well, congratulations! You have to tell me all about it. Where’s he taking you?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m outta here. I’m giving myself the spa treatment today. I may even get a bikini wax,” he said.

“Don’t let them wax your eyebrows again. Remember the last time? You looked like an idiot.”

“Impossible,” he said laughing. “See you later, my dear!”

“Have fun and call me later,” she said disconnecting and putting her phone on her desk.

She put the disc into the computer and clicked open the drive. There was a document at the top that read, “1 Read me first” along with several other files all numbered. Kristine double clicked on the first document.

Ms. Larkin,

I took your name from the newspaper stories you’ve written. I don’t know if I can trust you, but I know I can’t trust anyone else. That’s why I can’t tell you who I am. I also need to protect my son and his family.

This disc has information you can use to start an investigation. I can tell you’re ambitious, so I know you are the right person to do this. This information may get both of us killed, so you need to be very careful.

I hope to live long enough to see the story in print.

The note wasn’t signed. Kristine read it three times. Her heart was beating fast and her mouth was dry. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she reached for her now cold coffee. As she put the cup back on her desk, she started clicking on the documents and read them in order. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping to find, but she knew what she had didn’t make sense to her. Some documents had what looked like code names and numbers next to them, some looked like shipping orders and some were memos that were obviously in some sort of code. She had something that looked like bank records and a couple of seemingly unrelated headlines that most likely came from news stories. The stories weren’t anything she had written. She scribbled a few notes in her notepad. She looked around the newsroom. A few more reporters had arrived. She ripped out the page of her notebook, crumbled it and threw it in her garbage can. Should she even leave it there? She reached in and pulled it out.

“This is ridiculous,” she mumbled to herself. For all she knew this was a practical joke played on her by coworkers who wanted her to chase a bogus lead. Still, there was a line from the letter about protecting family that tore at her. She closed the disc so no one could see it on her screen. She slowly walked to the paper shredder and fed the notepaper through the little slit. By the time she got back to her desk, Burt had waddled in and plopped into his chair. Her mind was so preoccupied with the disc she forgot to be upset at his presence.

“What’s wrong with you, Little Girl,” Burt asked. Kristine had complained to Human Resources about the names, but Burt was definitely an old dog and he wouldn’t learn the trick of civility. Kristine couldn’t manage to put the effort into being flirty with him - there was nothing in it for her.

“It seems as though most of my problems involve sitting across from you, Newman,” she said in retort. She had to admit, she almost enjoyed their verbal sparring from time to time. It kept her on her toes, and she was often pleased when she came up with something so witty it shut up Burt.

“Did the princess start the day on the wrong side of the bed? Maybe if you were prettier you would have someone in it to stop you from rolling that far,” Burt said with a snort of pride at his retort.

“Write anything that actually made it into the paper lately?” she said in a superior tone as she picked up her cell phone and pretended to call someone. She had been called many things, but ugly wasn’t one. She dialed her home number and started talking before the machine kicked on to play her recorded message. She thought she heard Burt mumble the word “bitch” as he looked for his pencil.

After her five minute, one-way conversation with the answering machine, she closed the phone and put it on her desk. She was desperate to open the disc again, but she didn’t want to do it now. Not with prying eyes. The newspaper business is very competitive. She removed the disc from the computer and slid it into an envelope. She carried the envelope with her to the Editor-in-Chief’s office.

William Montgomery was a southern gentleman who earned the title of editor-in-chief by working his way up the corporate ladder from being a clerk. His family’s money and influence could have gotten him there much faster. He was the type of man who believed in hard work, and no one could ever accuse him of taking any favors.

Will was the person who had the final decision whether Kristine was hired. She had interviewed with other editors on the newspaper, but she felt quite sure Will had requested an interview with her. She knew she caught his eye as she toured the newsroom, just as he had caught hers. He was tall - maybe 6’4, handsome and dressed in designer clothes. His dark blond hair showed signs of graying. He had the slender body of a distance runner, and his dimples were enough to make any woman melt. He gave the impression that every line on his face was hard earned. He was the anti-Burt. Will spoke with a slight hint of a southern drawl and an intelligence that made Kristine envious. Kristine was young, impetuous and always focused on the end result. Will saw the big picture. Will was more deliberate and thoughtful in his actions. She recognized he had a maturity that she hoped she would gain with age and experience. She sometimes even caught herself trying to think like Will in situations. That’s what she needed now that she had this disc.

Will’s secretary sat outside his office like a lioness protecting her young complete with long red nails that looked like they were painted with the blood of the last person who tried to get in to see him without an appointment. Joyce didn’t like Kristine - that was obvious from day one. Joyce had a Lurch-from-the-Addams-Family quality to her. There wasn’t a feminine feature in her pale, sunken face. “Hey, Joyce,” Kristine said whimsically as she walked into the office. Kristine stood about 5’10 with her 2 ½” heels, but Joyce still had a couple of inches on her and probably about 70 pounds.

“He’s busy,” Joyce said only briefly looking away from her computer screen to see Kristine. She made a disapproving sound with her mouth. Kristine glanced down at her attire and wondered what caused the reproachful noise this time. The skirt? No. It hit her at the knee, and Joyce couldn’t see that anyway. Was it the spaghetti strap shirt? Hm…maybe. It showed her shoulders and scooped lower than what Joyce would probably deem acceptable. Kristine instinctively pushed out her modest chest to add to Joyce’s annoyance.

“Can you at least let him know I’m here to see him?” Kristine asked calmly. “It’s important.” She was more focused on the disc than verbally sparing with Joyce.

“Isn’t it always, dear?” Joyce replied in a scolding tone. That was pretty much it for Kristine.

“Yes, Joyce. I try to keep our social visits to a minimum, so if I’m here, it’s important,” Kristine grew agitated about Joyce’s dismissal of her. In Kristine’s mind, Joyce didn’t believe she had anything important to say. Joyce picked up the phone and buzzed Will.

“I’m sorry to bother you. Kristine Larkin is here to see you. I told her you were…” Joyce looked at Kristine with a disappointed expression. “Yes Sir.” She put down the phone. “You can go in,” she said in defeat and returned to her computer screen.

Kristine walked into Will’s office. He was behind his desk reading this morning’s edition. He raised his eyes and looked over his glasses at her.

“Your pit bull needs to be put on a leash,” Kristine said as she swung the door closed behind her.

“Good morning to you, too,” Will said as he removed the glasses and put them on his desk. “Nice job on the bank robbery story. What can I do for you?” Kristine had already sat down in the chair across from him. She was looking at the envelope she was holding in her pin-stripped lap and wishing she had thought more about what she would say once she was in this chair.

“I think I’d like some time to do some investigating on a lead I got this morning,” she said. “It may take some time to flesh out the story, and I’d like to be 100% dedicated to it.”

“What lead?”

“Uh, it’s this disc someone gave me. Not much to go on yet, but I’d like to look into it.”

“A disc? Who gave it to you?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure.”

Will leaned back in his chair, rested his elbows on the chair arms and put the tips of his fingers together. She felt like she needed to say something else. She searched her mind for words. She hated when he did this - she wanted to know what he was thinking.

“So, I have some information that I just want to look into. It’s not a big deal. Or, well, it could be a big deal depending on what I find. Will you say something now? I hate awkward silence.”

Her mind flashed back to her interview with Will. He sat there silently watching her answer questions. He didn’t take notes - just sat there with his finger tips touching. She hid her nervousness so well she thought she might have even amused him. She wore a black suit that looked like it had been tailored for her. The skirt ended just above the knee and the white blouse under the jacket was opened just far enough to be professional but still draw some attention. She may have accidentally let her skirt ride up her leg a little farther when she sat down and crossed her legs. She may have leaned over a little more than necessary when she reached for her clippings in her bag. She may have even twirled a wisp of hair that had fallen from the clip in a slightly flirtatious way - subtle yet detectable. She was so attracted to him she almost lost sight of the reason she was sitting in front of him. He stared at her while she spoke. He seemed relaxed and confident. If he had picked up on any of her flirtations, he didn’t say anything or make any kind of knowing gesture. Unlike the young men at college, he was mature and a gentleman. She wasn’t sure she knew what to say to him or how to say it. He threw her off balance, and she wasn’t used to that.

She honestly thought she had gotten the interview by mistake. She went to a school at a small college in the Mid-West and had no experience other than working for school newspapers. Still, she knew she had talent and sent her clips and resume to the Chronicle along with most other newspapers in the country. She certainly never expected to get the most sought after job in journalism, but here she was sitting in front of Will this time as his employee.

“Ah, Krissy,” he said in a thoughtful tone. Family members were the only other people she allowed to call her Krissy. “If most anyone else would have walked through that door asking for cart blanche, I would have asked that person to shut the door on the way out,” he sighed. “But you have an amazing instinct for recognizing a story and an angle.”

“Is that a yes?” she asked eagerly. Will had come to trust her instincts and writing but told her in a recent review of her work that she was still learning to be a great investigator. There was a pause as they looked at each other. He’s married and the father of twin girls, she reminded herself. She caught herself biting her bottom lip as she studied him and blinked her eyes hard to clear the unprofessional thoughts.

“You’re asking me to tell the rest of our staff, editors and the publisher of the paper that our rising star is off doing God-knows-what for God-knows-how-long. I need more to tell them.”

“You can’t!” She moved forward in her seat. “Will, you can’t tell anyone what I’m doing. Just tell them I have a big lead.”

“Kris, this is a business. Things don’t exactly operate like that.”

“I know, and honestly, this may pan out to be nothing. I just have a feeling this is going to go somewhere huge,” she could feel her eyes grow bigger in a begging expression.

“I’ll have to tell them something. I’ll handle it, but this had better be good,” he said leaning forward to put his elbows on his desk.

“So, this means I’m good to go?” she replied eagerly.

“It means I’ll give you some time.” Her excitement grew, but she didn’t know exactly why. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, and all she had to go on was a disc that didn’t make any sense. “On some conditions,” he said with authority. He stood, walked around the desk and leaned up against it so he was standing over her. She looked up at him and waited to hear what he had to say. “One is you will come to me for help if you need it.” She nodded. “Two - you will give me regular updates on your progress or lack thereof. You may not want me to report to the chain of command, but I want to know everything.” She nodded again, but she wasn’t sure she meant this one. “One more, I’ll give you two months. If at the end of two months you still don’t have anything solid, you’ll give up this lead.” She nodded again.

“You won’t regret this, Will,” she said standing and touching his arm without thinking about it first. She pulled her hand away quickly and made her way to the door fighting the urge to run out of the office. His eyes followed her - she could feel them.

“I sure hope not,” he said returning to his seat and picking up his reading glasses. She blew Joyce a kiss as she breezed past and rushed to her desk. She packed her laptop and put the disc securely in the bag.

“Where’s the fire, Little Girl?” Burt asked, watching her from behind the junk yard he called his desk.

“Some of us actually work around here,” she said looking around to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. Afraid of what Burt might have done to her coffee while unattended, she tossed the remaining few drinks in the garbage.

“Some of us actually earned the right to work here,” he said snorting again.

“Yes. Some of us have. You, I’m sure, were hired and retained out of pity,” she grabbed her suit jacket off the back of her chair and headed for the door. She tried not to point at Burt and yell, “In your face, loser!”

As she walked to the elevator, she thought about how competitive she was. She always had to win. She even cheated at Candyland when she was a kid. Sometimes it served her well - like her drive to accomplish great things in her career, but it didn’t serve her so well in her personal life. Who cares, she thought. She hoped her winning spirit wouldn’t let her down now. This story could be her Pulitzer. It could be her book deal, her opportunity to be on talk shows and her opportunity to “in your face” all the people she didn’t like in high school and college, especially the person she saw as her biggest competition - Tara Tierra.

That wasn’t even her real name. Her real name was Tara Butmacher. No one blamed her for changing it as soon as she turned 18 years old. Tierra actually suited Tara physically. She was perfect. Perfect skin and her hair never moved. Tara grew up across town from Kristine. Her dad had money - a lot of it. Tara and Kristine competed against each other in tennis matches from the time they were seven or eight years old through high school. Then, while in high school, they competed against each other in journalism. Tara always beat Kristine in tennis, but Kristine always beat Tara at journalism. Kristine won some recognition for her work in college, but she was always in a different division because of her smaller, less prestigious school. Tara went to a very old, highly respected and expensive college (thanks to Mr. Butmacher’s fortune) and landed a very good job being a weekend anchor, or news reader as Kristine liked to call her, at one of New York’s lower rated stations. Tara would do an occasional feature on the evening news, but she didn’t get the hard news stories.

While Kristine considered Tara a pain in her butt from day one, she wondered if she ever even registered a blip on Tara’s radar. Of course, Kristine couldn’t completely blame herself for disliking Tara. Females, even Tara’s friends, typically disliked Tara.

Tara was untouchable. She had shiny blonde hair, big blue eyes and skin like a porcelain doll. She was one of those people who didn’t seem to sweat. At the end of a grueling three set tennis match Kristine would be drenched with perspiration, ponytail soaked with no makeup left. Tara still looked like she had just walked onto the court. Now that they were both in New York, Kristine had the more prestigious job, but Tara was the one people recognized when they saw her walking down the street.

Someday Tara may have to report on what a huge success Kristine had made of herself, she thought. Tara would ask what it was like to be recognized as one of the best journalists in the world, and Kristine would blush bashfully and answer with the perfect humble response, “I’m just trying to make the world a better place for our children.” Kristine smiled to herself as the elevator doors opened to the lobby. It was a good daydream that she would make come true someday. But first, she had to get this story. She burst through the doors of the building determined to do just that.