regarded by its chief rivals across the country, including the Associated Press, Bloomberg, Reuters, the World Press Alliance and the new Signal Point Newswire. It also competed with those organizations globally, along with Agence France-Presse, Deutsche Presse-Agentur, China’s Xinhua News Agency and Russia’s Interfax News Agency.
Corporate offices took up half of the fortieth floor, and the newsroom occupied the rest with a grid of low-walled cubicles. Above them were flat-screen monitors tuned to 24/7 news networks around the world.
Kate looked fondly at the glass enclosure tucked in one corner—the scanner room, or what some called “the torture chamber.” It was where a news assistant, usually a journalism intern desperate to pay their dues, was assigned to listen to more than a dozen emergency radio scanners.
Kate, like most seasoned reporters, knew that scanners were the lifeblood of any news organization.
Students were trained on how to listen, decipher and translate the stream of coded transmissions and squawking cross talk blaring from the radios of police, fire, paramedic and other emergency services. They knew how to pluck a key piece of data that signaled a breaking story, how to detect the hint of stress in a dispatcher’s voice or the significance of a partial transmission, and how to follow it up instantly before alerting the news desk. Scanners were sacred. They alerted you to the first cries for help, pulling you into a story that could stop the heart of a city.
Or break it.
Kate had spent long hours listening to scanners. She smiled at the softened sound of chaos from the torture chamber as she walked through the newsroom, which was bordered by the glass-walled offices of senior editors. On her way to her desk she paid silent respect to those that were still empty, a cruel reminder that staff had been let go in recent years as the business struggled to stem the flow of revenue losses.
The plain truth was that people were now relying on other online sources for information. While much of it was inaccurate and lacked the quality of a credible, professional news organization, it came free, which seemed to be more important these days.
As Kate settled into her desk, she took stock of the newsroom with some apprehension. She’d sensed tension in the air. Some reporters and editors were huddled in small groups. A few people appeared concerned.
Kate did a quick survey of the suspended TVs. Nothing seemed to be breaking. Then a shadow crossed her computer monitor.
“There you are.” Reeka Beck had approached her from behind, head bowed over her phone as she typed.
“Good morning. How are you?”
“Fine.” A message popped up in Kate’s inbox—it was from Reeka. As discussed earlier, we’d like a story out of the security conference at the Grand Hyatt this afternoon. I suggest you get in touch with Professor Randall Rees-Goodman, who’s attending from Georgetown University. Reeka tapped Kate’s screen with her pen. “I just sent you his information. He’s an expert on current threats in the geopolitical context.”
“I know, but like I said before, I really think Hugh’s better for this. And besides, Chuck cleared me to enterprise. I need to put in some time following up some leads I’m working on.”
Reeka’s thumbs move furiously over her keyboard as she dispatched another text from her phone, then she lifted her head. She blinked and smiled her perfect smile at Kate.
“This is the assignment I’ve given you. Are you refusing it?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Thank you.”
Kate cursed to herself as Reeka pivoted on her heel and walked away. Reeka was a young, rising star of an editor at Newslead, but she was so curt and officious with reporters that it bordered on rudeness. Every conversation with her was nearly a confrontation.
Reeka’s boss, Chuck Laneer, the man who’d hired Kate to cover and break crime stories, was a battle-scarred veteran. Chuck was gruff but wise. He could kick your ass while showing you respect. Moreover, where Reeka pathologically adhered to filling a news budget, Chuck believed in the value of letting reporters dig for stories.
“Hey, Kate, you heard about Chuck?”
Thane Dolan, an assistant editor, had emerged at her desk.
“No, I just got in.”
“He resigned this morning.”
“No way!”
“Rumor is he’s gone to head news at Yahoo or Google.”
“I don’t believe this! That’s terrible.”
“That means young Reeka likely moves up a notch.”
Kate shut her eyes for a long moment.
“Say it ain’t so. Thane, what’re we gonna do?”
“No idea. It’s a big loss.”
“Monumental. Chuck hired me, you know.”
“Everybody loves the guy.”
Kate and Thane were soon joined by Craig Kryzer, the newsroom intern assigned to monitor the scanners.
“Excuse me...” He was gripping a notebook. “Um, something’s happening on the scanners, and I’m not sure who to tell. I can’t find Chuck.”
“Go ahead, Craig,” Kate said.
“There was a lot of chatter, and I confirmed much of this with 111th Precinct in Queens.”
“Get to it,” Thane said.
“They’re sending ESU—you know, the SWAT team—to a bank manager’s home in Queens. They think there’s a hostage situation.”
“What, like a domestic?” Kate asked.
“No, there was talk that this guy robbed his own bank this morning, a SkyNational Trust branch.”
“Holy crap! You got an address?” Kate said.
“Yep. It’s 3222 Forest Trail Drive in Roseoak Park.”
“Gabe!” Thane shouted to a news photographer, then pointed to Kate, who was struggling with her bag and jacket and trotting out of the newsroom. “Go with Kate! We’ve got a story breaking in Queens!”
Queens, New York
Sergeant Paul Roman put two crumpled dollar bills on the counter at Spiro’s Café, took his take-out coffee outside, lifted the lid and blew gently on the surface.
Today was his last shift before his vacation. Once he punched out, he and his wife would fly to Miami for a one-week Caribbean cruise. He’d hoped to spend most of his day finishing off paperwork at the office.
So far, so good, he thought. Then his phone rang.
“Paulie,
