Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“I’ll have a cheeseburger platter and Cherry Coke,” he told the waitress.

“A house salad and a Diet Coke will be fine,” Yanna said.

Waiting for their food, Gromov used his tablet to send a list of license plates and names to Yuri in New York.

“Yuri will help me to get closer to this Mason Varno.”

“Why don’t you try Remy’s relatives? You’re good at that.”

“Yuri tried. It appears she doesn’t have any.”

Their order arrived and Gromov had not yet taken his first bite of his cheeseburger when one of his cell phones rang.

“Mr. Kashin, Bobby Jensen at Triple E. You were looking for Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Bad news. I tried calling his cell phone but his voice mail box is jammed. I couldn’t leave a message. I’m sorry.”

Gromov thought a moment. “I understand. Thank you for trying. Do you have any suggestions on how I could reach him?”

“ Naw. I asked around after you left, talked to a guy with the fellowship.” He lowered his voice. “They help guys who were on the inside get straight again. Well, I guess Mason and his girlfriend had complications when they had the baby and he’s taken some time off.”

“What sort of complications?”

“I really can’t say, I don’t know. I asked a couple of his friends-no one knows much. They were pretty private.”

Gromov thanked him, hung up, mulled over the call then explained it to Yanna for her thoughts on what “complications” could mean.

“It could mean anything. She could’ve lost it. Perhaps the baby was born with problems, or she simply had a difficult delivery.” Watching concern and heartbreak cloud his eyes, Yanna proposed another option. “If this Remy Toxton is part of this black market operation, she’s likely a surrogate mother. Complications could be a cover story. She could be having second thoughts about giving up her baby for adoption.”

Gromov’s face began contorting with fear and anger before he regained his self-control. He made a fist of one of his hands, touched it to the table and stared out at the street.

“We will find my grandchild. Wherever he is, we will find him.”

Dallas, Texas

MISSING BABY-The FBI is now leading the investigation into the case of a baby boy who vanished in the storm, after his clothing was found 20 miles away under suspicious circumstances.

Kate stopped to proofread what she’d typed at her desk in the bureau then took a sip of fresh coffee.

It had been fifteen minutes since she’d been back from the shelter in Duncanville. It was late in the afternoon and the morning was ancient history. So much had happened on the story: the discovery of the baby’s clothing, the mystery couple with a baby that appeared to have been Caleb Cooper, and now the FBI’s investigation.

During the drive back from Duncanville, her heart raced the way it did whenever she was on to a strong story. Upon returning to the bureau she couldn’t find Chuck Laneer or Dorothea Pick, so she’d settled in and started writing.

Kate unwrapped the remainder of the turkey sandwich she’d brought back from the shelter and bit into it. As she ate, she inserted her earphones to listen to her recorded interviews, checking them against the quotes she’d flagged in her notebook from FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan, Jenna and Blake Cooper, Dr. Butler, Frank Rivera. Then she arranged them, enabling her story to flow.

“Slug lines! Get me your slug lines, everybody!” Tommy Koop called out a looming deadline to get a short description on coming stories to him for the budget list. Tommy would send the Dallas bureau’s budget to Newslead’s headquarters in New York, who would then distribute a revised, shortened version of top stories to subscribers across the country and around the globe. Tommy always made a show of pacing the bureau, which was now nearly full with reporters working at every desk, to get stories on the budget.

“If it’s not on the budget it’s not on the wire, folks. Hey there, Kate, didn’t see you come in. Can I get your slug line ASAP?”

Kate gave hers a last quick read, tweaked it then pressed Send. “You got it. Where’re Chuck and Dorothea?”

“In a meeting about coverage of the President’s upcoming visit.”

Kate finished the last of her sandwich then got back to her item, working from her notes and thoughts of the day. As the minutes swept by, she no longer heard the conversations and other sounds of the newsroom because she was immersed in her writing, pulling things together as fast as she could.

Her line rang.

“Kate Page, Newslead.”

“It’s Chuck. Can we see you in my office now?”

Chuck was at his desk reading his monitor. Dorothea was on the small sofa looking over a few printed pages. Kate remained standing.

“We read your slug line,” Chuck said. “This missing baby story has taken a helluva twist. Is our stuff exclusive?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” Dorothea asked.

“No one has the detail we have and the interviews, but I strongly suspect that the FBI’s going to issue a news release and a missing-person poster soon.”

“Hell, that’s not exclusive at all,” Dorothea said. “And your slug line said missing. Is this an abduction or one of the hundreds of tragic missing-person cases arising from the storm?”

“No one’s certain. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding the recent developments,” Kate said.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “So we don’t know what this is, exactly?”

“No. It’s a mystery with a lot of disturbing elements that the FBI is trying to piece together.”

“That’s what I like about it,” Chuck said. “Readers love a mystery and this one is charged with anguish and heartbreak. What about the pictures? Where are they?”

“We have the mom and baby.”

“Those are old,” Dorothea said. “You should’ve flagged them as file pix instead of pix in your slug line. Your submission here implies new art.”

“I’m expecting composites of people of interest from the FBI.”

“Expecting them?” Dorothea’s eyebrows arched. “So they could be issued with the FBI news release? So you really don’t have a lock on this story at all, do you? You seem to have oversold it. We should notify New York and remove it from the budget. This whole thing could fall through.” Dorothea turned to Chuck for agreement.

He had removed his glasses and was tapping them to his chin.

“Chuck,” Dorothea continued, “this could amount to nothing more than a rewrite of a police news release. Mandy has a story coming. A beautiful story about a kindergarten teacher who saved twenty-five little kids by herding them into the basement-”

“Fort Worth TV had that late last night, Dorothea. What Mandy has is a follow. What Kate has here is the result of enterprising. New York already said that they love this.”

Chuck replaced his glasses, sat up and checked his monitor. “Kate,” he said, “how close are you to being done?”

“Minutes.”

“Call your FBI contact. Push them to give us their pictures ASAP and for us to get a thirty-minute jump. Can you do that?”

“I will.”

“That way our story will move out to everyone with the FBI sketches before our competition can write a word. That way we can say Newslead broke the story. Agreed?”

“Fine, if it doesn’t fall through,” Dorothea said, brushing by Kate as she left.

“Kate?” Chuck looked at her.

“Yes?”

“Don’t mind her. The storm’s taking a toll on all of us.”

“I understand.” Kate turned to leave.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Good work.”