Director's Cut by Alton Gansky Page A

station.”
    â€œNews or music station?”
    â€œIt’s the local easy listening station,” Floyd said.
    Nat shook her head. “Forget them. Radio news fades faster than a flower in an oven.” She fell silent again for a moment. “Maddy, how do you feel about Doug coming to your home?”
    â€œI try to keep where I live secret.”
    â€œDoug is trustworthy on this. I can threaten to run him over if he releases your address.”
    It was my turn to think. Doug Turner had always been professional. In some ways, I owed my campaign to him. After I had been particularly testy with him while trying to conceal my plans for higher office, he said, “Why is it that every time a politician is thinking of running for higher office, they deny it when asked? It’s like they’re ashamed of wanting to do more for the community.” Those words burrowed into my thinking like a worm in an apple. When the time came to commit to the campaign, his words echoed in my brain.
    â€œOkay,” I agreed. “He’s the only media man I trust that much.”
    â€œGood, it will go a long way with him,” Nat said. “Why don’t you call him? I’ll call the television stations back. They’re going to want some tape so we need to set up a place to meet. It’s too late for the early evening news, but the eleven o’clock people will eat it up.”
    â€œAre you sure this is a good idea?” Floyd said.
    â€œTo do nothing is to invite disaster,” Nat replied. “Our best defense is a quick offense. If we’re careful, this will run a day or two, then drop from the news.”
    Running for office is like being on a bus. Some days you get to drive; other days you sit on the backseat. Knowing when to do what is the trick. I trusted Nat and told her so.
    â€œOne last thing.” Nat made eye contact with Catherine. “You have some decisions to make.”
    â€œI do?” Catherine had been picking at her sandwich, pinching off small bites and placing them in her mouth. She covered her mouth as she spoke as if she had a wad of food ready to fall out. I doubted she had eaten enough to dirty her teeth.
    â€œI assume you have a publicist,” Nat said.
    â€œYes. Franco Zambonelli. I called him right after I called the police. He said he was coming up to see me.”
    â€œThat doesn’t surprise me,” Nat offered. “I think we should hide you away while Doug Turner is here. You’re news and he’ll want to talk to you about your chauffeur and his murder at your new home. There’s good journalistic mileage in that. I don’t think your publicist would like us meddling in his work.”
    â€œYou may be right,” Catherine said.
    â€œI’m pretty sure I am. Can you reach him?”
    â€œI can call his cell phone.”
    â€œIt sounds like we all have calls to make,” Nat said, and pulled her cell phone from the cloth caddy. Catherine reached for her cell phone, and I took the cordless from Floyd.
    Poor Floyd looked lost.

Chapter 7
    N at had been right about the television stations. She had also been wrong. None wanted “tape” so we didn’t need to set up a place for a press conference. I was relieved. The early evening news was already over by the time I called. That left only the ten and eleven o’clock broadcasts. Only one station was local; the others operated out of LA. Murder stories are so common in the greater Los Angeles area they barely make the news, unless they are unusually gruesome. All three stations were content with a phone interview. We emailed a publicity photo to each station, which they appreciated. Television thrives on visuals.
    Each interview was a clone of the previous. The reporter thanked me, asked a few general questions, pretended to be moved by the horror of swimming with a corpse, and then thanked me again. I referred them to the police for any specifics. They