Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“It’s my story,” Sydney said.

Sol Rosenthal scowled at her, one of those parental scowls, the kind that said, I’ll deal with you later.

Sydney ignored it. “I was assigned the story this morning. I did the initial investigation. I found the death telegram. I should be the one to follow up.”

“I’m not working with some inexperienced Barbie doll,” Hunz said.

Sol was quick to agree with him. He turned to Helen. “This story is much bigger than we originally thought. I’m sure you’ll agree, we have to go with a veteran.”

“First of all, Mr. Vonner,” Sydney said, emphasizing his name, “I resent the implication that my appearance has anything to do with my ability as a reporter. And secondly, this is my story. I should be the one choosing who I’m going to work with.”

“And I’m the one who decides who works at this station and who doesn’t,” Sol shouted. “Any more from you and not only will you not have a story, you won’t have a job.”

Sydney shot a pleading look at Helen.

“We could put you with Cori Zinn,” Sol said to Hunz. “She’s our evening coanchor. You just met her. A real fireball.”

“It’s Sydney’s story,” Helen said.

Stunned, Sol took a moment to recover. “Helen, this has already been settled.”

“You’re right. It is settled,” Helen said. “I gave Sydney the assignment, and I see no reason to take it away from her. It’s Sydney’s story.”

“I won’t work with a cupcake,” Hunz said. “This is a serious news story.” He turned to Sydney. “Have you ever done a major news story?”

“One of my stories was picked up by the network,” she said. It was a weak answer, but it was all she had.

“Let me guess,” Hunz said. “Children, pets, and sex stories, right?”

Sol said, “She did one on erectile dysfunction that really made a—”

“This is Sydney’s story,” Helen said. “I’m the assignment editor and this is my call. Or are you going to fire me too, Sol?”

Rosenthal frowned and made an obvious effort to stare her down. But he was no match for Helen Gordon. To his credit, he seemed to realize that pressing the matter any further would get messy.

“All right, Helen,” he said, “it’s your call.”

“That’s what I just said. Sydney, are you willing to allow Mr. Vonner to assist you in this investigation?”

Sydney could have kissed her. For a moment, she considered saying, I might be able to use an assistant on this story, butshe thought that might be pressing her luck. “I would welcome the chance to work with Mr. Vonner,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she meant it.

“Mr. Vonner,” Helen said. “I never want to hear you refer to any of my reporters as cupcake, sweetie, baby doll, or anything like that again. Is that understood? If you want to investigate this story, you’ll work with Sydney. Otherwise, I’m sure we can find someone to drive you to the airport.”

Hunz Vonner didn’t respond immediately. Clearly, this was a man who was accustomed to getting his way. But he wasn’t in Germany now and this wasn’t his station. With obvious difficulty, he said, “I’ll work with Miss St. James.”

“Very well,” Helen said.

The two men left the room with Sol Rosenthal talking fast and soothingly to his guest. Sydney hung back.

“Helen, thanks for sticking up for me.”

Already working on her next project, Helen didn’t look up. She scribbled comments in the margins of a report, then said, “I believe you have copy to write for the noon edition.”

The newsroom monitor displayed a montage of California scenes. Children at the beach. Hang gliders. The HOLLYWOOD sign. Mission San Juan Capistrano. Symphonic music swelled. The station’s call letters swooped in and filled the screen. A deep baritone announcer said, “KSMJ: News for a New Millennia.”

The call letters gave way to friendly, smiling portraits of the noon newscasters as each one was introduced by the announcer.

“With Robin Hernandez, Gary Johnson, and Phil Sanders with the weather.”

The opening camera shot was of Robin and Gary seated behind the anchor desk.

Sydney stood beside camera two, watching both the monitor and the flesh-and-blood newscasters.

“Good afternoon, I’m Gary Johnson.”

“And I’m Robin Hernandez. Our top story at noon—seven fatalities have been reported in Los Angeles, with reports of similar deaths coming from every major city in the world, all of them linked to bizarre death notices. Here in LA .

“You’ve hit the big time.”

Sydney recognized the voice behind her. She turned with a smile. “Thanks, Josh,” she said.

Joshua Leven was the station’s evening sportscaster. At twenty-nine years, tall and muscular, he still had a boyish look to him. A former all-American tight end at Northwestern University, he was drafted by the National Football League in the second round by the San Diego Chargers. His professional football career proved to be a short one. Five games into the first season a linebacker hit him low on a crossing pattern, blowing out his knee. It was a career-ending injury.

As a player, Josh’s infectious smile, exuberant passion for the game, and emerging superstar status made him a media darling. Being an eligible bachelor was icing on the cake. His career cut short, Josh followed up industry contacts. With a degree in journalism—which he’d thought he’d use much later in life—he secured work at a local radio station doing color for college football games. When KSMJ lost their evening sportscaster to a sister station in Phoenix, a local headhunter lined Josh up for an audition. He’d been with the station three years when Sydney was hired.

Josh and Sydney became friends, lunching together, swapping nostalgic stories about their Midwestern roots and humorous anecdotes about adapting to the West Coast lifestyle.

Sydney could talk to Josh about anything. Well, almost anything. There was one topic that was a sore point between them, one that led to an argument whenever either of them brought it up. The only way they could deal with it was to agree not to talk about it. Or, more correctly, her.

Cori Zinn.

Josh was head over heels for her. He couldn’t explain it himself, but anytime anyone hinted that Cori was less than a goddess, Josh charged to her defense with armor and sword flashing.

What really infuriated Sydney was the way Cori treated Josh. Fully aware of Josh’s feelings for her, Cori made it clear to everyone with ears that she didn’t feel the same for him. But that didn’t stop her from exploiting him. For Cori, attention was a one-way street leading to an altar made in her image. She openly joked of Josh’s feelings for her, reveling in all the menial things she could get him to do for her.

What made Sydney even more furious was that Josh knew this and didn’t care. When it came to Cori Zinn, he was a lovesick zombie. Convinced she would come around some day, he lived for her smile, her pout, the brush of her fingers.

Rendered powerless by their agreement not to discuss the relationship, Sydney toyed with the idea of hiring a priest to exorcise the demon Cori from him.

“They’re reading your copy, aren’t they?” Josh brought Sydney back to the noon broadcast.

“Yeah.” Sydney smiled. It was nice to hear someone acknowledge it.

“Someday that’ll be you behind the desk, reading your own copy.”

“That’s the dream.”

“It’ll happen. Just a matter of time.”

They listened as Robin Hernandez read the text of the telegram Sydney found on the front seat of Jeffrey Conley’s Ford Taurus. Josh knew to keep quiet so Sydney could enjoy her moment of triumph.