Jeffery Deaver - Hard News

"Nobody's forcing you to work for a network like ours." Now, the temper was once again on the move – the patented Sutton temper. It was rolling downhill, an avalanche, and Rune was about to get buried. "You have your choice. But if you're going to work here, goddammit, you've got to behave like an adult, or-"

"I was going to tell you about the London job. I'm sorry."

"-you can go pick up paychecks at some fucking restaurant!" The voice dropped threateningly. "I take you out to dinner, where you and that urchin of yours embarrass the hell out of me and I make you a proposition that no one your age hasever been offered before!" Now the screeching began. Rune blinked and sat back, her eyes wide. "And do you even give me the courtesy of an answer?"

Heads perked up Throughout the studio, no one dared look and no one didn't listen.

"I'm sorry."

But Sutton cranked up a few more decibels. "Do you even show me the respect you'd show a cabdriver? Did you say, 'Thank you, but I've decided not to accept your offer'? Did you say, 'Piper, could you please give me a few days to think about it some more?' No, you goddamn well didn't. What you did was say… zip. That's what you said. And then you went on your merry way."

"I'm sorry." Rune heard herself whining and didn't like it. She cleared her throat. "I got caught up in the story. I was going to tell you-"

Sutton waved her hand. "I hate apologies. It's a sign of weakness."

Rune wanted to cry but sat hard on the tears.

Sutton was speaking to the ceiling."Everything about this story has been wrong. I knew it was a mistake. Stupid of me. Stupid, stupid."

Rune swallowed. She touched the file. "Just let me explain, please. What happened was I talked to the witness."

Sutton smiled coldly and shook her head, exaggerating her lack of comprehension. "What witness?"

"The one who convicted Randy."

"Oh, sure, that explains your behavior." Sutton's sarcasm was thick.

"No I can prove that she didn't see Randy Boggs."

"How?"

"She's a real, like, newshound."

"A newshound? What the fuck is that?"

"She watches all the news programs every day. She didn't give any description of Boggs untilafter she'd seen him arrested on TV. When the-"

Sutton's hands raised like a martyr's. "What exactly are you getting at?"

"Listen. When the police showed up to interview her she said, 'I saw who did it and it was Randy Boggs.'"

Silence. Pin-resounding silence. Sutton gave a short bark of a laugh. "That's your proof?"

"You can't see into the courtyard clearly from her place – it's too dark. Miss Breckman saw Randy on thenews. She saw him being arrested. That's where she got the description – from TV. Otherwise, how would she know his name? She didn't describe him first. She said, right off, 'It was Randy Boggs.'"

Media circus…

Sutton considered this with a splinter of interest. But then she laughed. "Keep at it, honey. You've got a long way to go."

"But doesn't this prove that she's a bad witness?"

"A piece in the puzzle. That's all it is. Keep digging-"

"I thought-"

"That we'd go with it?"

"I guess."

A brittle nail leveled at Rune's face like a bright red dagger. "This is the big time. You keep forgetting that. We don't run a story untilit's completely buttoned up." She walked stridently through the newsroom on her clattering heels while employees moved quickly but unobtrusively as far out of her way as they could.

Downstairs, in the lobby, Rune surveyed the job and didn't like what she saw.

A directory of residents, containing over a hundred names.

"Help you?" The doorman's accent seemed to be Russian. But then Rune decided she didn't know what a Russian accent sounded like; the man – wearing an old gray uniform shiny on the butt – might have been Czech or Rumanian or Yugoslavian or even Greek or Argentine. Whatever his ethnic origin, he was big and snide and unfriendly.

"I was just looking at the directory."

"Who you wanna see?"

"Nobody really. I was just-"

He smiled slyly as if he'd just caught on that three-card monte games were rigged. "I know. They done that before."

"I'm a student."

"Yeah, student." He worked a spot on the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

"How long you worked here?" she asked.

"Six months. I just came over here. This country. Lived with my cousin for a while."

"Who worked here before you?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. How would I know? You make good money doing it? You know what I'm saying?"

"What do you mean? I'm a student."

"I've heard it all. You think I haven't heard it?"

"I'm an art student. Architecture. I-?"

"Yeah." The smile was staying put. The tongue foraged. "What you make?"

"Make?" Rune asked.

"How much you sell them for?"

"What?"

"The names." He nodded. "You sell them to companies send everybody that junk mail. No junk mail in my country. Here! It's everywhere."

"What I'm doing is I'd like to talk to some people who live here. About the design of their apartments."

A nod joined the smile.

There was nothing worse than being accused of something -you hadn't done – even if you were doing something you shouldn't've been doing.

She rummaged for a minute in the dark recesses of her bag until she came up with a stiff bill. A twenty. Hot out of the ATM. She handed it to him.

Zip. It vanished into his pocket.

"How much you make?"

Another twenty joined its friend.

"Ah." He walked off, pressing his hand to the pocket that held the crisp, non-reimbursable bills and Rune turned back to her task.

The smart thing would have been to find out which rows of apartments looked out over the courtyard where Lance Hopper had been shot but she didn't know how soon the Slavic-Ruskie South American capitalist would be back to suck up another bribe. So she started at the top left of the directory. From Myron Zuckerman in IB she speed wrote straight down to Mr., or Ms., L. Peters in 8K.

Twenty minutes later, the doorman returned, just as she finished.

"Still studying?" he asked snidely.

"I just finished."

"So tell me, yeah, which company you with? One of the big ones? Am I right?"

"It's a big one," Rune said.

"Is in Jersey, right?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I've been around. I seen a lot. You can't fool me."

"I wouldn't even try."

Scorching pain roamed around in her back. The inside of her ear was sweating. Her voice had gone from low soprano to throaty alto and she'd have to clear her windpipe with a stinging snap every few minutes. Rune had been sitting in her cubicle at the studio, speaking into a phone, for nearly eight hours straight.

Hello I'm a producer forCurrent Eventsthe news program Mr Zuckerman Norris Williams Roth Gelinker we're doing a segment about the Lance Hopper killing you probably remember the man killed in the courtyard of your building several years ago I'm hoping you can help me what I'm looking for is…

It was late, edging beyond eight o'clock. Past bedtime for Courtney. The little girl sat at Rune's feet, tearing scheduling sheets into the shape of Easter bunnies.

… How long have you lived in apartment 3B, 3C, 3D, 3E, 3F…?

"Rune, bunny."

Whispering, hand over mouthpiece: "Beautiful, honey. I'm on the phone. Make a momma Easter bunny now."

"Thatis the mommy."

"Then make a daddy."

Rune's poll of the tenants so far:

One was Miss Breckman. Eight had unlisted numbers. Twenty weren't home when she called. Thirty-three had moved into their apartments after Hopper's death. Eighteen hadn't been home the night of the killing (or said they hadn't). Nineteen were home but didn't see anything related to the murder (or said they didn't).