Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery by Greg Clarkin

Jack did what he did,” I said. “You know, get some answers and bring some closure. That sort of thing.”
    “Whatever,” he said.
    “You got any theories for me, about what happened?”
    “Is this part of your official investigation?”
    “Yes.”
    He shrugged and his big, round shoulders rose. “I don’t know. I’m not a shrink, but I think maybe it got to be too much for him.”
    “The weight of being Jack Steele?”
    “Yeah, you got to remember, Jack and I were doing a radio show in Hartford when Cal found us,” he said. “He was trying to stay sober. I was coming out of some financial difficulties, as they say. And then, boom, fourteen years later, here we are. He’s the biggest cable personality in the country, and we got the number one show.”
    “But not exactly loved by everyone.”
    “He said some nights it felt like everybody hated him,” he said.
    “That’s got to get to you after a while.”
    “Depends on if you care about it,” he said.
    “Did he?”
    “Sometimes. I mean, you can only read so many nasty stories about yourself before it affects you,” he said. “But you know what, Sam? Those people didn’t know him like I did. Let me tell you something. A few years ago my mother was very sick. I mean, real sick. Found out she had a heart condition. Jack knows my dad is gone, so what’s he do? He makes sure she sees the best specialists in the city, gets the best treatments.”
    “Damn big of him,” I said.
    “And that’s not all. She needs surgery, right? Frigging insurance barely covers the bill for the room. Jack has me send him the bills, and he takes care of them. He took care of everything.”
    “The benevolent Jack Steele.”
    “The man did some nice things. Things people didn’t know about. Things he didn’t want people to know about.”
    “How was he the last few weeks? Any signs that maybe he was unraveling?”
    “He seemed to be unraveling most every night.”
    “So nothing unusual?”
    “He was getting nuts about the numbers.”
    “Lose twenty percent of your audience in six months, and I’d get nuts, too,” I said.
    “What about that new strategy, the ‘attack the fat cats of Corporate America’; that pay off at all?”
    “Hah. What a load of bullshit.”
    “I’ll take that as a no.”
    “You know who it paid off for?” he asked. “It paid off for the consultant Cal brought in who came up with that half-assed idea.”
    Once the ratings of Steele Yourself began to slide, Daniels had pushed for the consultants to come in and make it all better. They rarely did.
    “It’s always the executive producer’s fault when the numbers drop, you ever notice that, Sam?” Marty asked. “It’s never the anchor’s fault. Always the EP.”
    “That’s why you get the big bucks.”
    “Not as big as that asshole Jerry Drake. He comes in and has Jack go after Corporate America, and the numbers get even worse. And you know who’s left to clean up his mess?”
    “Marty Glover,” I said.
    “No kidding,” he said.
    He got up off the corner of the desk but did so slowly, like he was hesitant to put too much weight on his feet.
    “Maybe you go talk to him,” he said.
    “Jerry Drake, right?”
    “Yeah, you know what he calls his little know-nothing operation?”
    “Can’t say I do.”
    “The Show Doctor,” he said.
    “Catchy.”
    “Yeah, like he can fix things.”
    “Maybe we can sue for malpractice.”
    “That guy caused me a shit load of trouble and worry, Sam.”
    “He still working with us?”
    “No, thank God. Jack got pissed at him and told him to get lost. Told Drake he didn’t care what agreement he had with Daniels, it was his show and he called the shots.”
    “Can’t imagine the Show Doc was happy with that.”
    “With any luck, maybe it put him out of business.”

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Liz and I ran on the sidewalk up University Place heading toward Union Square. It was early Saturday morning, and the city was quiet. Some people