30s and photogenic. None, however, had worked in the reporter trenches or had broken any significant news stories on their own. She’d once broached this subject to Mitch in the paper’s bullpen and he had the nerve to suggest she was jealous.
“Twenty years ago I’d have given my left nut to be on that panel,” he’d stated with a huge smile to the assembled crowd.
“As visually disturbing as that is, too bad your wife got them in the divorce,” Jennifer said to a chorus of laughter. “I guess it’ll remain a mystery if you truly had the balls to play with the big boys.”
“Laugh all you want, Malone,” Mitch countered. “While you’re schlepping it here at The Daily Telegraph, your journalism classmate Susan Donallee has become a household name because of that show.”
“Fame and fortune are overrated if you have to sleep your way to the top,” Jennifer countered. “Although I wouldn’t mind having a hairstylist and a fashion designer at my beck and call. Can you talk with the Old Man upstairs about that, or should I do it in person?”
“Definitely in person,” Mitch answered, “and I want to be in the room. I promise to keep a straight face the whole time.”
“You can’t keep a straight face now as you’re telling me that!”
Jennifer knew her editor had a point and was only half kidding about wanting to be pampered by her employer from time to time. That she’d been offered a guest spot on What’s Next? but declined, wasn’t a topic she’d discuss with her colleagues anyway, fearing she’d be dubbed a hypocrite.
After finishing the leftovers and bored with the idiotic topic “Should Pets Be Cloned?”, Jennifer caught sight of an interesting line running in the news scroll at the bottom of the screen.
... Becky Mayville offers to sell her story to the highest bidder ...
“Bless her little cheating heart,” Jennifer said, grabbing her cell phone.
The number she called rang fifteen times before being answered, which was always expected due to Jeffrey’s profession.
“Hamill Investigations here. Whatcha need, Malone? I’m kind of busy.”
“Busy eating or private investigating?”
“Both!”
“Shocker.”
“It’s easy to multi-task while on stationary surveillance. It’s when the subject leaves that things get tricky.”
“Where are you?”
“George and Pike. Three blocks south of City Hall.”
“Until when?”
“Maybe midnight.”
“Do you want some company?” Jennifer asked. “Also, something’s happening with Hot Beckster.”
“Her pitch letter to the media?”
Jennifer let out a moan. “You heard already and didn’t tell me? Some partner you are.”
“Don’t get your thong twisted, Missy Malone,” Jeffrey replied. “I heard about it a half hour ago from a contact who owns a video production outfit in the west end. I was going to call you, only right then my subject and his girlfriend left the strip club and I had to follow them.”
“A likely story,” Jennifer said. “Who’s your client – his wife or her husband?”
There was noise on the line as Jeffrey apparently dropped the phone and began to curse, “Where’s my damn camera? Stay on the line, Malone, I have to get a shot of them on the balcony. Start heading down and call me when you’re in the vicinity. Man I hate working at night!”
The line went dead in Jennifer’s hand.
“What to do, what to do?” she asked the walls, thinking a cat might not be a bad idea after all, as she’d have a constant companion to talk to.
Soon enough Jennifer located Jeffrey’s green Windstar van parked in a lot across from an apartment building. Due to the darkness and the streetlight’s glow reflecting off the front windshield, Jeffrey was invisible sitting in the driver’s seat, binoculars in hand.
“Which unit are we surveilling tonight?” Jennifer asked as she climbed into the passenger seat. The interior lights didn’t come on.
“304 – second in from the left,” Jeffrey said, pointing upward. “The lobby board lists the girlfriend’s name as the current tenant.”
“And that’s a problem?” Jennifer edged forward hoping to see the couple doing something wrong, illicit or both.
“It could be if the signature on the condo deed is my client’s ex-husband’s. A pre-divorce date would be best for us as it would prove he’s hiding assets ... and I’m not referring to the lovely ones gracing his girlfriend’s body,” Jeffrey said with a hearty laugh.
The P.I. set the binoculars on the dash and turned his bulky frame to face Jennifer. A former athlete in his youth, the decades hadn’t been kind to Jeffrey Hamill. Pushing fifty-five, when he entered the private investigations field in the 1980’s he’d figured on having a cushy corner office job in a big insurance company downtown. However, the path taken bypassed downtown, midtown and uptown, only to stop at every drive-thru fast food window along the route. After hitting the 250-pound mark, Jeffrey quit weighing himself and ordered his doctor not to reveal the number during his yearly physicals. Although far from the stereotypical jolly fat man, Jeffrey had retained his humour, which in the face of aneurism-inducing stress each day felt like a victory. Plus, he had more street connections than an agency that employed a hundred investigators.
Jennifer reached into her purse and produced a small paper bag. “A gift for you,” she said handing Jeffrey the bag.
Jeffrey opened it but didn’t peer inside, inhaling its aroma instead. “Boston cream.”
“The cronut place was closed, so I went with the second best option,” Jennifer replied. “Real friends know these things.”
“That they do,” Jeffrey said, taking a bite out of the doughy present and placing its remains back in the bag. “It could be a long night. I’m going to save it for a midnight snack.”
“So ... with the pleasantries dispensed and in your case, ingested, what’s the deal with Becky’s blackmailing the press?”
“I’m not sure ‘blackmail’ is the correct term. Either a reporter pays for her titillating tale, or no one does and her sleazy story gets bigger with each passing week in seclusion,” Jeffrey offered.
“Do you think she’s still sitting pretty, hoping that her one big pay day won’t pass her by?”
“Her day is coming, Jennifer. All she has to do is count the weeks until the election.” Jeffrey raised his binoculars toward his subject’s balcony after a light in a room came on. “Time for bed.”
Jennifer glanced up. “I hope you’re talking to yourself.”
Jeffrey
