Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 6

2

I pushed open the barn doors to the studio area of NBC7. The news director Andy shouted over the bedlam of two electricians hanging metal lights on the grid. “Hey, look who just blew in. Did you get any footage of the Rodriguez shooting? We need it to cut in under Manuel’s lead. We don’t even have a body bag shot.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You know the drill,” he barked. “Cryin’ babies, dead bodies. Great footage. Your job is to bring me, the news director, what I need—news.” Andy’s hands were on his hips.

“No footage, Andy. I didn’t take a camera. I just went for background. I got damned little of that.”

“Next time take some gear, Cahill. Amateur’s mistake,” he sniped.

“Like hell, Andy. Rodriguez woulda split the second he saw a camera. How long since you were in the field?”

I stepped over the cables snaked on the floor. Andy’s news rundown was on the desk. The lead story was Rodriguez’s killing.

Andy walked up behind me. “You got a source to replace Rodriguez on the Kings story?”

“Jesus, Andy! Rodriguez’s body is barely cold. What the hell’s wrong with you? All he was to you was a south side banger?” I threw the rundown on the desk. “He’s got a mother for Christ’s sake. You think she isn’t bawling her eyes out over her dead son? You have no compassion—none. He was a kid for god’s sake, not just one hundred-fifty pounds of dead meat in a body bag! Screw you, Andy. I’m done here.”

“Get a source,” Andy called after me. “Soon, Cahill. Or I’ll pull you. I’ll get a reporter in there who knows how to get the job done.”

A threat from Andy. All I need to cap my day.

Exhaustion seeped into every pore. The adrenaline rush ended before I could get out of the station. In its wake, I felt lethargic. What a loss! A kid who would never get the opportunity to turn his life around. Rodriguez’s killer would probably never be found, leaving his mother to cry for justice.

I made it home and threw my keys on the counter. Thumbing the mail, I dropped most of it in the trash. All I wanted was a long soak in my favorite lavender bath salts. I kicked off my shoes, leaving a trail of clothes on the way to the tub.

My second glass of wine took the edge off. I had most of my right leg shaved when my mom called to ask about my love life. Since my dad died, she’d made her life’s work to get me presentable, paired and pregnant—in exactly that order. “Sawyer, honey. How’re you doing? I don’t get nearly enough time with you. I’ve been worrying about you.” I took a sip of wine and stuck my big toe in the spigot to catch the drips. This was going to take awhile. “All this running around down there on the bad side of San Antonio talking to gang members. I just want what’s best for you.”

I shifted the razor to my left leg. “Yes, Mom…”

“You know, you work too hard at that job. Crime reporting really doesn’t suit you. You know that, don’t you honey?”

“Mom, I like my job and I’m damned good at it.” I immediately regretted the damned.

“But Sawyer,” she wheedled, “a man wouldn’t want his wife to interview criminals. Think of your children. You couldn’t very well tell them what you did all day, could you?”

The imaginary zygotes drove me nuts. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Can I call you later and catch up with you?”

“Sure. You call me now. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Take care.” I slipped deeper into the lavender scented water letting the warmth work on the kinks in my neck.

* * * *

By seven AM, I was editing video, listening to a social worker talk about the forty-seven percent dropout rate of Hispanic students in the south side high schools. Gang membership was surging. My cell rang.

“Ms. Cahill? It’s Clay Watkins.” His deep voice boomed out of my speaker.

“Good morning Mr. Watkins. How are you?”

“Fine. Sorry I missed your call. I’m hoping you’re gonna tell me you’re coming on up here to join us at CBS3. I need a reporter like you. Am I right?”

The offer letter was staring up at me from the desk. I fingered the paper, lingering over the clauses. Sure, I could stay right here. Find Rodriguez’s killer. Probably the kid’s best shot at justice. Might even win another Emmy. Why should I stay? Just to see a new kid try to ace the gang initiation and get his head blown off?

“Absolutely. Shall I sign and fax it and then put the hard copy in the mail?”

“Whew! Yes.” He cheered. “We’re happy to have you. When can you start?”

“Two weeks.”

* * * *

I stood outside Andy’s office waiting for him to get off the phone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he barked impatiently into the phone. “Go to hell, Frankie. I’m not doing it.” He slammed the receiver down. “Yeah? What do you want, Cahill? Better be good. Better brighten my day. Had my fill of assholes already.”

“Me too, Andy. I’m resigning.” I laid the letter on his desk.

“What the hell do you mean you’re resigning? You wanna tank your career, fine by me. You haven’t worked here two years. Two years. You got clauses in that contract of yours. Read it and weep. You aren’t going anywhere without a lawsuit.”

I sat in his hard plastic chair. “I’ve read my contract. There’s no clause saying I have to work here for two years. It says I can’t take a job at an NBC affiliate within five hundred miles of San Antonio and I’m going to CBS3 in Cheyenne.” I dropped the letter of notice on his cluttered desk.

He didn’t touch it. He fumbled in his file drawer, pulled out a file and started to read, flipping pages noisily. “Got your contract right here.” He peered at me over his cheaters. “So, there’s no clause in it.” He looked up with a nasty smile. “Big shit! News business is a small world. I call that news director and tell him you’re some flighty bitch who jumps from job to job and you’ll be out of a gig. I’ll do it too.”

“I’ve signed the contract in Cheyenne, Andy. We haven’t always gotten along, but I have not broken my contract with you.”

“Then turn in your keys and get the hell out,” he snarled. “Turn your crap you’re working on over to Manuel. He’ll do a good job on that story of yours.”

“Consider it done.”

* * * *

I put my Press Award plaques in the single box—all that was needed to carry out my personal things. I called Lt. Deaver and he had nothing on the Rodriguez killing. He did wish me well. The gangs were silent, but so was the gunfire on the south side. Let Manuel chase it. I pulled my station keys from the ring and stared at them in my hand. Andy was right about one thing; news directors were a tight bunch. What if he called Clay Watkins and tried to screw me at CBS?

I dialed Clay’s number. “CBS3. This is Margery. How may I help you?”

“Sawyer Cahill, here. Could I speak to Mr. Watkins, please?”

“Oh, hello Ms. Cahill. Mr. Watkins is in a staff meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, I’ll call back later,” I said. “But would you tell him I called?”

How fast could Andy make that call?