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.”
SIX
Arriving at a crime scene was one of Jennifer’s favourite things in the world. There was a charge in the air that could only be matched by the exhilaration of a seventh game of the World Series tied in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded, two out, and a full count at the plate. Other than that, murder, mayhem and chaos were in a league all of their own.
She estimated the crowd had swelled from the usual hundred spectators to a couple of thousand.
Don’t these people have jobs? she mused to herself.
She knew the show’s sidewalk layout, where the outdoor microphone was situated and how the crowd control barriers were set up. In this kind of mob though, there was no way she could get near the action for an initial look.
She surveyed the immediate area and decided to enter the nearest skyscraper to her south, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. As expected, several office doors were open, all without receptionists sitting behind their desks. She walked into a realty office and proceeded to make her way unnoticed to the windows overlooking the chaos below. For several seconds she stood silently alongside three women dressed in business attire before one of them noticed her.
“Can I help you?”
“That depends,” Jennifer said as she pulled out her media identification card. “I’m a reporter from The Telegraph. Did you see what happened?”
The other women now turned their full attention to Jennifer.
“Ah . . . no. We got into the office a few minutes ago.”
“What about the bomb? Do you know if anyone was injured
