Джеффри Дивер - Buried (Hush collection)

Now the journalist was gone, his files destroyed.

Crisis averted.

Heller was staring out the window. “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I didn’t want anybody to die. You do know that, Peter, don’t you?”

“I do, John. But—”

The governor held up a hand. “No, no, you don’t have to worry. It’s over with. I promise. No more women.”

“It has to be,” Tile said.

The governor nodded. “I’m done. What are the next steps?”

“Me? I’ll make some anonymous calls that the Gravedigger has been seen on the West Coast and the story’ll go away. And you? We’ve got a rally tonight. Start working on your speech.”

Dottie Wyandotte stared at her computer screen until she could sit no longer.

She had to rise and, working up her courage, she walked into Fitz’s office. It smelled of tobacco — not smoke, just the tobacco. Whiskey too.

She opened desk drawers. Found a pack of cigarettes and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

You drink whiskey?

Does it have wheat in it?...

She replaced them and flipped through some of his notebooks. Set these back on the desk too. In the corner of his office was an old typewriter. She’d never used one. Dottie walked to it now. She hit several keys. The o worked and the m but not the e ; she believed he’d told her that that letter was the most used in the English language. She looked at the armatures. Some of the letters, at the end, were clogged with ink from striking the ribbon year after year. Maybe she’d go on eBay and buy one. It would make a nice objet d’art in her tiny apartment.

Dottie walked back to Gerry Bradford’s office. He looked up. Dottie reflected that he was a younger version of her banker father.

“I’m not writing the piece.”

“The animal influencers?” He was frowning.

“There’s another story I want to do.”

“What is it?”

“I see it as a memorial to Fitz. An homage, you could say.”

He hesitated; she knew he would.

“Well, corporate really wants it. And they want it right away.”

“Give it to somebody else.”

“They want you. You’re the best writer on the team.”

Bradford glanced at his phone, as if debating calling corporate for their okay. Or to ask for help. Then his eyes returned, taking in the four studs in her right cheek. They represented the four corners of the earth — to which she intended to travel someday. She’d never told anyone this.

She said nothing but just stared.

Bradford sighed. “We’ll go with the Fitz story.”

For the past week, Dottie Wyandotte had played real reporter.

Pounding the pavement — and learning she wasn’t in as good physical shape as she’d thought. Up stairs, down stairs, walking next to contacts as they strode quickly or, in one case, jogged along the sidewalk.

She talked to sources Fitz had spoken with, to sources he had intended to speak with, to sources whose identity she dug up on her own. Dottie found herself out of shape in this area too; her Northwestern J-School skills were rusty. Those talents weren’t really necessary when your piece is about teenage makeup choices or the best keto diet recipes for beef. (And you don’t need to ferret out sources when they come to you, in droves, kissing ass and hoping for free publicity.)

Soon she hit her stride.

Taking dictation was tough for her, but she was a whiz at hitting “record” on her iPhone app. And, back in the office, Dottie proved equally talented at plugging in yet another program to transcribe the words of the various interviewees.

Now, at last, she was writing the Fitz story itself, following the journalistic rule of the inverted pyramid. A story should start with the most important facts in the lede.

She smiled to herself remembering a journalism professor at Northwestern: “The first paragraph of a news story leads , as in being the first. But it’s spelled ‘l-e-d-e.’ Why? To avoid confusion with the word ‘lead,’ pronounced ‘l-e-d.’ In the old days, my days, the molten metal was used to set type for the printing presses.”

After the lede, the paragraphs appeared in descending order of importance, down to the “cut-off ’graphs,” those containing material that was perhaps interesting but unnecessary.

Yesterday, late, she’d finished the piece and, following protocol, sent it to Gerry Bradford. He gave her no reply then.

She’d wakened this morning early and gone right to her computer. Still nothing from the EIC. Now, in the ExaminerOnline office, close to noon, she could wait no longer. She strode into his office. He was reading something on the screen. Was it her article?

No. The OOMC piece about a celebrity coming to town.

“Who’s this guy?” Bradford nodded at his display.

“No idea. If he’s a YouTube sensation, he’s got the shelf life of yogurt. So run the story fast.”

Bradford sat back. And looked over his shoulder.

Dottie turned.

Two men, in suits and ties, walked through the doorway.

“Gerry,” the taller of the two said. Dottie sensed he was in charge.

Bradford introduced them. The tall one was the president of the Examiner ’s owner, National Media Group. This was the boss of bosses. The other was the chief general counsel for the company. They’d flown here from New York. Even though they could have driven.

The president looked her over, not interested in the studs or ink. “So this is the girl that doesn’t like animals.”

The general counsel said, “Sounds like the title of a bestselling thriller.”

Neither Bradford nor Dottie smiled or otherwise reacted.

A moment passed. The president said, “Why don’t you sit down, Ms. Wyandotte. There’re a few things we need to discuss with you.”

No spectacle on earth is more exhilarating than a national political party convention.

The coming together of enthusiastic men and women selecting the candidate who will lead their party to victory in November.

Peter Tile was standing in the wings, staring out at the crowd and listening to the pulsating cheers of the audience, as Governor Heller and other officials whispered among themselves nearby. These were the committee chairwoman, the campaign director, the governor of Ohio, where the convention was being held, and others with no role other than kissing ass and hoping for jobs in the administration.

Tile couldn’t be critical; he’d been there himself.

All was calm on the Fitzhugh front. The case, handled by the Fairview County Sheriff’s Office, was largely closed. It seemed that the killers were indeed a pair of meth tweakers living outside Garner. Three days ago they’d died, ironically, in a fiery explosion in their trailer, as will happen when the dire ingredients required to make that terrible drug are present. The gun and gasoline can traced to Fitzhugh’s death were found in their backyard.

As for any evidence Fitzhugh may have marshaled that could point to Peter Tile himself and to a connection between the governor and the deaths of the couple from West Virginia, it had all been destroyed in the conflagration of the reporter’s house. The man’s laptop and desktop computers had gone missing, presumably fenced by the tweakers.

He looked over the convention floor. The chairwoman, a dull, somber senator from California, was at the podium and calling each state to announce their votes.

As the tally progressed, the crowd was reacting as if their vote were the final draw in a million-dollar hand of celebrity poker.