Steroid suicide squads, protecting truth, justice, and the American way. Mercifully, the door slid shut. McCarty pushed the button for the eighth floor. “I don’t know how the criminals feel about guys like that,” Corso said, “but they scare the hell out of me.”
“They’re supposed to,” McCarty said.
She was waiting just outside the elevator. She was pushing forty. Still winning the battle of the bulge. Short blond hair and a bad color sense. She wore a yellow-and-green-plaid sweater and a bright yellow skirt. The yellows didn’t quite match and the gold glow lent her complexion a sallow, almost jaundiced tinge.
McCarty held the door open with his arm, handed her Corso’s business card.
“And this is about what?” she asked.
“Leanne Samples,” Corso said.
She raked her free hand through her hair, thought about running a “Leanne who?” number on Corso and then decided against it. She gestured with her fingers for Corso to get off the elevator. Corso stepped off. The door slid shut.
Corso held out his hand. “Frank Corso.”
She made no move to shake. “So it says.”
Corso put on a smile. “And your name is?”
Her facial expression said “worst-case scenario.” She sighed.
“Dorothy Sheridan. What is it you need, Mr. Corso?”
He pulled out his notepad. “We’re running a story in tomorrow morning’s edition to the effect that Leanne Samples, who, if you’ll recall, was the state’s star witness in the Walter Leroy Himes case, that Miss Samples has told both the DA and the SPD that she lied three years ago when she testified that Mr. Himes had sexually assaulted her.”
“And?”
“And we wanted to give the department the opportunity to comment on the story beforehand. Just as a professional courtesy.”
“Anything that may or may not have been said between Miss Samples and any member of the law-enforcement community would certainly be—”
“I’ve got her on tape,” Corso said, “I’ve also got a deadline, so I don’t have time to dance, Ms. Sheridan. Lead, follow, or get out of the way. Confirm, deny, or tell me ‘no comment.’”
Her cheeks reddened. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, ma’am,” Corso assured her. “If I were threatening you, my position would be that you either talk to me or I’ll go to print. That would be unethical. This isn’t like that. We’re going to print with the story. That’s a given. I’m merely providing the subjects of the story with an opportunity to comment prior to publication. In the interest of both accuracy and balanced reporting.”
She folded her arms so tightly across her chest that her sweater rode up over the waistband of her skirt, revealing a patch of stark-white skin. “Weeeell…aren’t you just Mr. Smooth. How is it that we haven’t crossed swords before?”
“I’m a little out of my beat.”
“Which is?”
“Features.”
And then she got it. She looked down at the card in her hand and then back at Corso. Inhaled the smile. She knew who he was.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
When she looked over her shoulder, Corso was leaning back against the wall. She turned to the right and started down the short hall, turned left at the end.
Corso listened to the clicking of her sensible heels until he thought he detected a change in the sound, then hustled over and peeked around the corner just in time to see the woman disappear down a hall to the left. He tiptoed up to the next corner. Peeked around. Watched as she walked to the center of the corridor, grabbed a door handle on the right side of the hall. The lettering on the door read CONFERENCE ROOM A . She disappeared inside.
Corso checked his watch. Waited a full minute. Started down the hall.
On the left, two rooms. Corso could hear voices. Speaking Spanish. He straightened his jacket and put on his best confident stride. First room held three copy machines. The second, vending machines. Two janitors, both Hispanic. One
“They’re supposed to,” McCarty said.
She was waiting just outside the elevator. She was pushing forty. Still winning the battle of the bulge. Short blond hair and a bad color sense. She wore a yellow-and-green-plaid sweater and a bright yellow skirt. The yellows didn’t quite match and the gold glow lent her complexion a sallow, almost jaundiced tinge.
McCarty held the door open with his arm, handed her Corso’s business card.
“And this is about what?” she asked.
“Leanne Samples,” Corso said.
She raked her free hand through her hair, thought about running a “Leanne who?” number on Corso and then decided against it. She gestured with her fingers for Corso to get off the elevator. Corso stepped off. The door slid shut.
Corso held out his hand. “Frank Corso.”
She made no move to shake. “So it says.”
Corso put on a smile. “And your name is?”
Her facial expression said “worst-case scenario.” She sighed.
“Dorothy Sheridan. What is it you need, Mr. Corso?”
He pulled out his notepad. “We’re running a story in tomorrow morning’s edition to the effect that Leanne Samples, who, if you’ll recall, was the state’s star witness in the Walter Leroy Himes case, that Miss Samples has told both the DA and the SPD that she lied three years ago when she testified that Mr. Himes had sexually assaulted her.”
“And?”
“And we wanted to give the department the opportunity to comment on the story beforehand. Just as a professional courtesy.”
“Anything that may or may not have been said between Miss Samples and any member of the law-enforcement community would certainly be—”
“I’ve got her on tape,” Corso said, “I’ve also got a deadline, so I don’t have time to dance, Ms. Sheridan. Lead, follow, or get out of the way. Confirm, deny, or tell me ‘no comment.’”
Her cheeks reddened. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, ma’am,” Corso assured her. “If I were threatening you, my position would be that you either talk to me or I’ll go to print. That would be unethical. This isn’t like that. We’re going to print with the story. That’s a given. I’m merely providing the subjects of the story with an opportunity to comment prior to publication. In the interest of both accuracy and balanced reporting.”
She folded her arms so tightly across her chest that her sweater rode up over the waistband of her skirt, revealing a patch of stark-white skin. “Weeeell…aren’t you just Mr. Smooth. How is it that we haven’t crossed swords before?”
“I’m a little out of my beat.”
“Which is?”
“Features.”
And then she got it. She looked down at the card in her hand and then back at Corso. Inhaled the smile. She knew who he was.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
When she looked over her shoulder, Corso was leaning back against the wall. She turned to the right and started down the short hall, turned left at the end.
Corso listened to the clicking of her sensible heels until he thought he detected a change in the sound, then hustled over and peeked around the corner just in time to see the woman disappear down a hall to the left. He tiptoed up to the next corner. Peeked around. Watched as she walked to the center of the corridor, grabbed a door handle on the right side of the hall. The lettering on the door read CONFERENCE ROOM A . She disappeared inside.
Corso checked his watch. Waited a full minute. Started down the hall.
On the left, two rooms. Corso could hear voices. Speaking Spanish. He straightened his jacket and put on his best confident stride. First room held three copy machines. The second, vending machines. Two janitors, both Hispanic. One
Similar Books
