Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Grant Forsythe sat back with an amused look. “And you really think you’ll see your car again?”

“I paid them twenty dollars.”

Grant howled. “You gave them your car and gas money?” He turned to a pretty intern seated behind him. “There’s one born every minute.”

The intern wrinkled her nose at him and sniggered.

“All right, everybody, let’s get down to business,” Helen said.

Sydney took a seat at the foot of the table, trying to ignore the subtle and not-too-subtle glances that said she was some kind of country hick.

Helen took charge. She presented a quick overview of the news items that had come across her desk from the network, various news agencies, phone calls, and emails. Ten minutes into the meeting she came to the item Sydney was waiting for.

“Next on the docket,” Helen said, “the governor will be at city hall today to announce his anti-gang bill.” She paused. “Cori, I want you to take this one. Take Bihn with you. Tell him we want footage of the governor’s announcement and your interview.”

Cori nodded, a little too smugly.

Sydney slumped in her chair. The effort to get here, all the anxiety, for nothing.

Moving on to the next item of business, Helen looked up and saw Sydney’s disappointment. Then the assignment editor did something she rarely ever did. She explained herself. “Cori has a contact in the governor’s office,” she said. “I just learned about it last night. She thinks she can get an exclusive.”

Grant turned to Cori. “Who?”

“Milt Abrams, the press secretary.”

“You sleep with him?” Grant said with a smirk.

Cori spat an off-color reply.

“That’s enough, you two,” Helen said. “Moving on .

They worked their way through the agenda, doling out assignment after assignment to fill the thirty-minute newscast. Sydney barely heard any of it. She bit her lip. Cori Zinn had stolen her story. Sydney wondered if she really knew the governor’s press secretary. She wouldn’t put it past Cori to make up something like that.

“Sydney,” Helen said, breaking into her funk. “Why don’t you go with Cori. Mill about city hall. See if you can dig up anything interesting.”

Sydney nodded. She wondered if the morning could get any worse.

“You know,” Cori said, “you could send Sydney out front. There might be a story in that car accident.”

“Better yet,” Grant Forsythe said, “have her do a story on tracking stolen automobiles. She can color her report with personal anecdotes.”

Grant was just being insufferable, as always. Sydney could live with that. Cori Zinn was a different matter altogether. Sydney tried not to hate her, but some days Cori made that next to impossible to do.

To Sydney’s horror, Helen said, “Cori may have something there. Sydney, see if there’s anything about that accident we can use.” Helen stood, indicating the meeting was over. “And people,” she said, “remember, we have Hunz Vonner from EuroNet arriving at eleven. Let’s behave ourselves.”

As the others dispersed to their various work areas, Sydney lagged behind, absorbing the amused smiles and sympathetic pats on her shoulder.

“A car crash, Helen?” she said when they were alone. “That’s about as newsworthy as the sunrise.”

Helen disagreed. “There’s something going on down there,” she said. “Call it a hunch.”

Scattered laughter and applause interrupted them from a short distance away. Helen and Sydney turned to see what was causing it.

A security guard approached them. With him was a young couple, wide-eyed at everything around them. The woman wore tan slacks with an understated blouse; he wore jeans and a button-up short-sleeve shirt. What was remarkable about them was the lack of piercings, tattoos, beer logos, or cartoon character images on their clothing.

“Miss St. James?” the guard said. “These people say they have a delivery for you.”

The young man held out a set of Volvo car keys.

The scene at Sunset Boulevard and Vine Street had changed only slightly when Sydney approached with her cameraman. A single lane of traffic had been opened. Police were funneling cars through it. The signal lights overhead flashed red in all four directions. Paramedics had arrived.

The Ford Taurus had not been moved. Its driver-side door stood open. It was unattended while paramedics and police loaded a gurney into the back of an ambulance. They were in no hurry. There was no life left in the body they had come to save.

Sydney motioned to her cameraman. “Zappa, get some shots of the car with the ambulance in the background.”

Cameraman Fred “The Assassin” Zappa was an oafish pile of unwashed laundry with legs. He had a full beard and a head of hair that looked like a greasy brown fireworks display. But he was a competent cameraman and a pleasant enough guy, as long as you didn’t have to ride with him anywhere with the windows rolled up and didn’t mind nonstop narration of “Doom,” a violent video game Zappa claimed was a classic. While some thought his screen nickname came from his gaming, it actually referred to his camerawork. “I get it done on the first shot,” he told anyone who asked.

While Zappa maneuvered himself into position, Sydney took advantage of the unattended car, first checking to make sure the police were occupied. She approached the car from the driver’s side.

For the most part, the interior was clean. It was dusty, but there wasn’t any clutter. No cup holders. No stick-on crucifixes or compasses. No CD or audiocassette cases. No trash on the floor. Nothing like her Volvo, which had empty Starbucks cups and breakfast bar wrappers scattered about. In this way the Taurus was not a typical Southern California car. From all appearances, the driver used the car for transportation. He didn’t live in it.

The windshield was intact, no cracks or shatters from heads slamming against it. There was no blood, which was somewhat unusual for an accident. Even in minor incidents there was often a cut head or smashed nose, something that would leave blood. Not in this case.

The glove compartment hung open. Someone—probably the police—had retrieved the owner’s registration, which was face up on the driver’s seat. Sydney wrote down the information. The owner was a man named Jeffrey Conley of West Groverdale Avenue, Covina.

There was another slip of paper on the passenger seat, larger than the registration. Yellow. Sydney leaned into the car to get a better look. Western Union was printed across the top. A telegram, dated two days ago and addressed to Jeffrey Conley.

Sydney’s breath caught in her throat when she read it.

You have been selected for death stop precisely forty-eight hours from the time of this transmission you will die stop

This is an official death watch notice stop

She turned to signal Zappa.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Get outta there!”

Through the passenger-side window Sydney saw an officer striding toward her. She backed out of the Taurus.

“Stand right where you are,” the policeman shouted.

Several others turned to see what was going on, even the officer directing traffic, though he kept his right arm twirling like a windmill.

The approaching officer was of average size with a round face and close-cropped hair. His chest appeared huge for his size, probably from a bulletproof vest beneath his uniform.

He grabbed Sydney by the arm. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Sydney identified herself and Zappa. His camera carried the. station number and logo on it and they were right in front of the station. There was no reason for the officer to doubt her.