little—well, not cots, but almost mini-beds with white Pooh comforters and a stuffed bear in a yellow-striped T-shirt perched on each little pillow.
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, staring. Assessing.
“There we go,” Jake whispered. Then pulled out his BlackBerry.
Where’s the baby? he typed. Because next to the twin bed, next to the two toddler beds, sat a delicately white-slatted wooden cradle.
14
“Alex, no one said they knew her. At all. It was almost bizarre.” Jane stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets, leaned against the doorjamb to Alex’s office. She’d raced to her cubicle in the Register newsroom and banged out her story in plenty of time, copying it from her still-soggy notebook. Tuck had texted, but no time to text back. Alex ought to be psyched she’d gotten anything at all, not criticizing her for her lack of pithy and meaningful quotes.
“We went door to door, knocked on all we could. I gave everyone my card. No one had anything majorly interesting to say, only the usual ‘who’d-a thought’ and ‘didn’t know her’ type of thing,” Jane said. “I got all their names. But people don’t always talk in sound bites.”
She’d gotten all there was to get in the time she had. No question.
“I couldn’t miss the deadline. Hec shot exteriors and the news conference. Sometimes it happens that way, right? At least I got the info on the two kids. Phoebe and Phillip, the cop told me. Their last name is Lussier, I eaves-read that on his notes. So, Phillip and Phoebe Lussier. I bet they’re at Youth Services. You know, maybe I should…”
Alex wasn’t listening anymore. He’d plopped his elbows on his desk, propped his face in his hands, and stared at his desktop computer monitor. Jane’s draft of the story showed on the screen.
“Police sources reveal the unknown woman was killed at her home in…” He was proofreading her copy, out loud.
She fidgeted with her black turtleneck as he read.
“Wait a second,” Jane said. “ Is it her home? The cops didn’t actually confirm that. Jake—I mean, Detective Brogan—said in the news conference she was found in the kitchen. So let’s change that.”
“Good catch.” Alex wiped the lenses of his wire-rims on his plaid shirt, then typed a few words. Then a few more. “Let’s also change ‘snow-dappled front lawn’ to ‘snow-covered front lawn,’ and move Jake’s plea for assistance to the top.”
Jane made a face, knowing Alex wasn’t looking at her. Anyone who could change something you wrote would change it. Rule one of editing. Fine, snow-covered, if that really made the story better. He knew they were pushing the deadline.
“Because that’s what this is really about, right?” Alex nodded, agreeing with himself as he typed. “Cops don’t know who the victim is, neither do we. There. Done. Sent. Front page of the Metro section. And you’re outta here.”
He spun his chair to face her, gave her a thumbs-up. “Nice job, Ryland. And thanks for being available. I had others who bagged, let my call go to voice mail, you know? Because they didn’t want to do snow. You stepped up. I appreciate it.”
Okay. Even if he always changed her copy, he was a cool guy. And he’d hired her at the Register, trusted her, saved her, when she was sure her career was imploding. She’d never stop owing him.
If she had any sense, she’d accept his praise and go home. But she felt so sad. There were loose ends. She hated loose ends.
She parked herself on the arm of Alex’s file-covered couch, thinking. The tweedy beige cushions were, as usual, covered with piles of manila folders and spiral notebooks. Alex still kept files on paper. For him every place was storage.
“Thing is, Alex. You said you were gonna hand off this story to another reporter, but I can’t stop thinking about those kids. Whoever their mother is—was—what happens to them? If it turns out they’re alone now? There’d be three victims, you know?
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, staring. Assessing.
“There we go,” Jake whispered. Then pulled out his BlackBerry.
Where’s the baby? he typed. Because next to the twin bed, next to the two toddler beds, sat a delicately white-slatted wooden cradle.
14
“Alex, no one said they knew her. At all. It was almost bizarre.” Jane stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets, leaned against the doorjamb to Alex’s office. She’d raced to her cubicle in the Register newsroom and banged out her story in plenty of time, copying it from her still-soggy notebook. Tuck had texted, but no time to text back. Alex ought to be psyched she’d gotten anything at all, not criticizing her for her lack of pithy and meaningful quotes.
“We went door to door, knocked on all we could. I gave everyone my card. No one had anything majorly interesting to say, only the usual ‘who’d-a thought’ and ‘didn’t know her’ type of thing,” Jane said. “I got all their names. But people don’t always talk in sound bites.”
She’d gotten all there was to get in the time she had. No question.
“I couldn’t miss the deadline. Hec shot exteriors and the news conference. Sometimes it happens that way, right? At least I got the info on the two kids. Phoebe and Phillip, the cop told me. Their last name is Lussier, I eaves-read that on his notes. So, Phillip and Phoebe Lussier. I bet they’re at Youth Services. You know, maybe I should…”
Alex wasn’t listening anymore. He’d plopped his elbows on his desk, propped his face in his hands, and stared at his desktop computer monitor. Jane’s draft of the story showed on the screen.
“Police sources reveal the unknown woman was killed at her home in…” He was proofreading her copy, out loud.
She fidgeted with her black turtleneck as he read.
“Wait a second,” Jane said. “ Is it her home? The cops didn’t actually confirm that. Jake—I mean, Detective Brogan—said in the news conference she was found in the kitchen. So let’s change that.”
“Good catch.” Alex wiped the lenses of his wire-rims on his plaid shirt, then typed a few words. Then a few more. “Let’s also change ‘snow-dappled front lawn’ to ‘snow-covered front lawn,’ and move Jake’s plea for assistance to the top.”
Jane made a face, knowing Alex wasn’t looking at her. Anyone who could change something you wrote would change it. Rule one of editing. Fine, snow-covered, if that really made the story better. He knew they were pushing the deadline.
“Because that’s what this is really about, right?” Alex nodded, agreeing with himself as he typed. “Cops don’t know who the victim is, neither do we. There. Done. Sent. Front page of the Metro section. And you’re outta here.”
He spun his chair to face her, gave her a thumbs-up. “Nice job, Ryland. And thanks for being available. I had others who bagged, let my call go to voice mail, you know? Because they didn’t want to do snow. You stepped up. I appreciate it.”
Okay. Even if he always changed her copy, he was a cool guy. And he’d hired her at the Register, trusted her, saved her, when she was sure her career was imploding. She’d never stop owing him.
If she had any sense, she’d accept his praise and go home. But she felt so sad. There were loose ends. She hated loose ends.
She parked herself on the arm of Alex’s file-covered couch, thinking. The tweedy beige cushions were, as usual, covered with piles of manila folders and spiral notebooks. Alex still kept files on paper. For him every place was storage.
“Thing is, Alex. You said you were gonna hand off this story to another reporter, but I can’t stop thinking about those kids. Whoever their mother is—was—what happens to them? If it turns out they’re alone now? There’d be three victims, you know?
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