by Julie Hyzy
Aha. So it was the priest story after all—the holy man had impregnated a twenty-two-year-old Polish immigrant and had then fled to Brazil when the truth came to light. Being the only member of the investigative team fluent in Polish, I’d landed this one. And it was a plum.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You got till noon.”
He hung up.
I’d never make it. I blew out a breath of frustration, thinking that I’d call him again on the drive back to massage his ruffled feathers.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Flustered by Bass’s call and whatever information Marlene was about to impart, I didn’t pay attention as I tucked the phone away. I snagged the tiny antenna in the front pocket of my purse. Open, it somersaulted off my lap to the floor, spilling its contents as it tumbled.
I could have lived through the embarrassment of having my mints, my change purse, even my feminine products strewn across the industrial carpeting. But what sealed my fate was my press pass. It landed, smiling skyward, at Marlene’s feet.
She leaned over to pick it up. “Oh,” she said, stringing the word out, “You’re with the media?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
“Sorry.” Her eyes had changed. No longer empathetic, she’d morphed into an efficient clerk, wary of evil investigators. Tapping the manila folder with proprietary little pat-pat, she said, “These records are sealed.”
Chapter Two
“What do you mean you gave it to Fenton? Who the hell is Fenton?”
As though they’d conspired to make me feel loud and obnoxious with my voice raised at least two octaves and twenty decibels, the entire office staff took that very moment to fall completely silent.
Bass was loving this. I knew he was. Glee danced in his hazel eyes.
He and I were standing in the hub, the nerve center of our television station’s administrative office. Support staff desks made up this center section, set at ten foot intervals across the spacious floor. The hub was home to six assistants, all women, who fielded calls, made appointments, and moved at the speed of light, as they often did, to help us get a story together. And right now every single one of them had their eyes glued on me.
Bass smirked, letting the silence hang there a moment, long enough for the watercooler thirty feet away to gurgle before answering me. The bastard.
Philip J. Bassett hated being called Bass. Which was why I did it. It was a career decision. Succumbing to the temptation of calling the boss “prick” to his face could get a person fired. Calling him by a nickname got his ire up, but since the ire was usually way up there anyway where I was concerned, there was no real harm done. I figured he should be happy I didn’t call him “Hound” instead.
How he came to be known as Bass, I didn’t know. It started before my time, back in the good old days by the good old boys. Back then it might have even been an affectionate nickname. Now, not even close. It was my rebellion, my chance to get back at the little jerk. And little he was.
I stood a full inch taller than he did, and in heels I towered over him. So much so, I had to resist the constant urge to reach down and flick ever-present dandruff flakes off the top of his head. Winter or summer, it always looked like he just stepped in from a light flurry. And when he shook his head—something he did often and with vehemence—rather than fly about, the little flakes hung on for dear life, stuck as they were to his greasy hair gel. He’d been raised in the Brylcream era, and he must have stocked up.
Even with the thick-soled shoes he wore, he wasn’t a breath over five foot five. Petite, diminutive, the guy with his full head of brown hair and clean-shaven looks, had the advantage of looking closer to mid-forties than his actual age of sixty-something.
“Fenton,” he said, in a patronizing voice, “is new.”
“And you gave him my story?”
“Look, Alex, this one’s turned into a heater.” Another thing, Bass was a policeman wannabe. He loved to sprinkle his conversation with law enforcement vernacular. I suspected that he’d been turned down from applying due to his lack of stature. Either that, or he watched a lot of those shows on TV. The man was a veritable lexicon of cop-speak.
I struggled to lower my voice. “You told me to get back here fast. I got here as quick as I could.”
“I told you to get back here by noon, or you were outta luck.”
Like they were watching a tennis match, the staff’s eyeballs, six sets of them, flicked from me to Bass and back again. Like a freeze-frame in a movie, the women were stock-still, fingers suspended over their keyboards, or handing off folders, or poised to get up from their seats. Not moving. Like being in a wax museum, with a little sign underneath: “Busy office, circa early 21st century.” Except for their watchful eyes and the performance Bass and I were providing, the place was still.
I’d made record time flying up I-55. Fueled by anger and frustration, I’d taken my mood out on the gas pedal, breaking every speed limit I saw. I knew that if I’d gotten stopped, I would’ve had no defense. But I didn’t care.
As I drove, I’d phoned Bass. Repeatedly. But he wouldn’t take any of my calls. Frances, standing behind him now, had sworn he wasn’t avoiding me. She wouldn’t tell me what the scoop was, only that something big had happened. I hate it when people tell you that something’s up, but won’t tell you what it is. Makes my imagination work overtime. I had twenty possibilities to my immoral priest story running through my brain.
But I hadn’t expected to hear that the young woman had been murdered.
Twenty-two years old, Milla Voight had maintained she didn’t know that Father Carlos de los Santos was a priest until after she confronted him with the news of her pregnancy. A recent immigrant to the United States from Poland, she’d worked as a shampoo girl at a north side hair salon, making minimum wage and hoping for a better life. She’d been in the States no more than a month when she’d been introduced to the handsome de los Santos through a mutual acquaintance.
The story might have remained quiet if Milla hadn’t attempted to terminate her pregnancy at the very abortion clinic where Father Carlos was staging a peaceful sit-in demonstration. Rumor was, she knew he’d be there, and had seen it as an opportunity to make him feel remorse for the situation he’d put her in, while bringing her plight to the attention of his colleagues.
Instead, feeling the tug of his priestly collar perhaps, he’d taken the occasion to lecture her on the sanctity of life. She’d reacted with hysterics borne of frustration. And the entire exchange had been recorded by an industrious second-string reporter who watched with delight as his interview made the headline story on the ten o’clock news.
Milla didn’t get the abortion. What she got was instant fame and an eager attorney willing to take her case, pro bono.
And a month later when, about to be subpoenaed, Father Carlos of the Saints fled in haste to Brazil, her story made it to my desk as a possible feature for investigation. When Bass had learned that I spoke Polish, he was so tickled that I thought he might wet himself. Milla spoke almost no English and I’d planned to arrange a meeting after my jaunt to Springfield.
I’d never get that chance now. How lonely it had to be, how overwhelming the odds against a young girl new to the country, pregnant, and taking on an institution as powerful as the Catholic Church. And now both she and her unborn child were dead. Unceremoniously dumped in the Cal Sag channel, found floating by a homeless guy who’d gone down there to take a leak.
Something reeked to high heaven on this one.
Before speaking again, I chanced a look over Bass’s head to Frances, who stood behind him. Tall, and svelte, the fifty-something woman sported maroon hair, spiked in a style more suited to a person three decades younger. She rolled her eyes, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I was gonna lose this one.
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
“Okay,” I said, “Just tell me why. And don’t give me because
I took a half day vacation. I know that’s not it.”
Bass was not a magnanimous kinda guy. Here I was, acquiescing, giving up quicker than I normally would, a combination of the day’s aggravation and the look on Frances’s face telling me it wasn’t worth fighting the hundred years’ war on this one—and Bass wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t even smiling. He looked … beaten.
“It came down from on high. Can’t tell you the specifics, just that the new guy, Fenton …” he said this, elongating the man’s name in such a way that I got the distinct impression that Fenton wasn’t high on Bass’s favorite person list, either. Hey, maybe I even moved up a notch. Hard to get lower than the bottom, I supposed. “… is our best shot for breaking out of the number two position and knocking Up Close Issues off its mighty perch.”
I raised an eyebrow. Just one.
The office staff was moving again. The fireworks were over.
Bass put up his hands in a gesture of trying to ward me off. Again, he seemed more resigned than triumphant. “Don’t ask.”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s been a lousy day, and now that I don’t have this ‘heater’ case to work on, I’m heading home.”
“Ah … “
“What?”
Bass scratched the top of his greasy head. Several flakes inched away in fear. “You’ve been assigned a different story. Remember the beauty salons?”
Dread kicked in. “No.”
Bass grinned. His malicious humor was back. “Yes, Ma’am. Gabriela will be here in fifteen minutes with all the details.”
* * * * *
I shut the door to my office, not caring that it made a telltale “whump” as I dropped backward to lean against it, massaging my eyes with my free hand. I still held my purse in the other. Remembering the fiasco down at the State Adoption Records office, I frowned at it and flung it into a nearby chair.
My office was precisely as I’d left it. Cluttered. Jordan knew better than to let anyone mess with my mess while I was out. I could tell you what color notepaper each tiny bit of information had been recorded on. I could tell you what color ink I used. I could tell you which pile every note was hidden in. What I couldn’t do was reach into a cabinet and pull out the proper file. Because I never put anything away.
Once a case was closed, the story finished, written, and filmed, Jordan came in and cleared it away, working her magic to encourage order in my wayward office.
I walked beyond my desk and stood at the picture window overlooking the Chicago River and the Michigan Avenue Bridge. The day sparkled, almost to the point where it hurt to look at the bright white Wrigley Building across the river, reflecting the sunshine.
The window and its vista over the city was my favorite part of the room. And my desk was arranged to accommodate the splendor of it all. It had taken me a couple of weeks working here before it dawned on me that the gorgeous view sprawled behind me—that guests sitting across from me could enjoy it, but that I was missing out on the world going by.
One night, after I’d worked late, I picked my head up from a couple hours of concentration to find the office completely quiet, completely dark. The only light in the whole place came from the Tiffany-style, Wal-Mart priced lamp that I’d bought to cozy up my office a little.
But it wasn’t only the dark and quiet office that had surprised me, it was the shimmer of the city lights that met me when I turned around. Just past Thanksgiving, the city had been strung with the glow of Christmas. Tiny white glints lit up the night. Across the river, the massive evergreen in front of the Tribune towers was so coated with light, the beauty of it caught in my throat.
Despite the fact that I was bone-tired and had a headache from twelve hours work, I saw possibility. Drawing on energy reserves that unfailingly appear when an appealing idea dawns, I managed to move the heavy desk, so that it now sat perpendicular to the window, allowing me to view my slice of the city all the time.
The following morning, everyone who stopped in gave me a curious look, but no one said a word. Not only was I the only female in a managerial role, but I was also the eccentric one as well.
That was then. Right now, I needed to call Dan. Another fun thing on the agenda for the day. We still had issues to work out. If we were going to work them out. Dropping into my chair, I pulled the phone over and dialed.
His “hi” was tentative. “How was your trip to Springfield?”
After I told him, he said, “Tough break.”
At that moment, I could hear his mind get up and leave the conversation, looking for something more interesting to engage itself in.
“Yeah,” I said. I let the silence hang. “And I lost the priest story.”
That got his attention.
Dan worked for the competition, Up Close Issues, the number one, locally filmed television newsmagazine. They were so far ahead of us in ratings that they’d recently moved from the weekly format we followed, to twice weekly. And they were trouncing us further.
Dan and I had met at a fancy-shmancy television awards dinner over a year ago, right after I started at Midwest. Dan was the anchor, which meant he got much better pay than I did. Although most of the time we weren’t working on the same feature, or the same angle, we still enjoyed discussing our “cases.” This time, as luck would have it, we’d both drawn the “fleeing priest” gig. Dan had been assigned first. When he’d heard that I’d gotten the nod, too, he’d brought home champagne to celebrate. Not only was this a big one, but he was expecting to benefit from whatever information I uncovered. After all, I’d be able to interview Milla without the impediment of an interpreter. Not to mention that my being a woman and Catholic would likely encourage her to open up more.
Sure, I would have shared some information. Not everything, of course. I had a responsibility to my station after all. But over time, Dan and I had developed a symbiotic relationship with regard to breaking news, and there was room for cooperation.
“What? They can’t do that.”
“They did.”
“Shit.” I could tell by the way he spat the word that he wasn’t upset solely on my behalf.
“Let’s talk about it later,” I said, changing the subject. “I was hoping to cut out early, but Bass has me following something else. I thought I might get back around seven.”
“You mean my apartment?” he said, sounding slow and stupid.
So, it was “my apartment” now, even though I’d been staying there for most of the past six months. “Yeah …” I let the sentence hang.
“I thought you were staying at your folks’ old house for another week or so. Till everything was settled with their move.”
“Everything is settled with their move. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, but something was wrong. “Listen, why don’t you take it easy and not worry about making it back to my place tonight. You’ve had a rough day.”
I knew we weren’t the stuff of which long relationships are made, but his easy dismissal bugged me. Stung, I forced myself to say, “Okay, sure. Not a problem.”
“Maybe you and I can have dinner tomorrow night? What do you think? Give us a chance to talk?”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” I wondered if my voice sounded as fake as it felt.
“Catch you later,” he said. He started talking to someone nearby and hung up before I had a chance to respond.
They say bad news always comes in threes. I couldn’t wait to see what was next.
* * * * *
“Here she comes.”
At Jordan’s whispered warning, my eyes shot up. Emerging from the elevators, Gabriela, an “I just broke a nail” expression on her face, walked with that famous-person wiggle of hers toward the glass doors at the front of our office. Even from this distance I could tell that her eyes were focused on the reflective surface, checking out her flawless looks, no doubt. One hand reached up to pat the side of her face, tucking aside errant hairs. Then, with a flash of a grimace, she stopped her approach, taking a
moment to reach inside her open suit jacket and, giving a bit of a squirm, she straightened out her snug red dress. With a happy little tilt of her head, she plastered a mega-watt smile on her face and came through the doors.
While Gabriela rarely graced us with her presence here in the newsroom, she had to know that we’d been able to see every move she made as she approached. Maybe she just didn’t care.
I exchanged a look with Jordan before returning my attention to the files on the desk before us. As assistants go, I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Jordan had come to the station fresh out of secretarial school, pride in her top grades evident on her café-au-lait face. A beautiful girl, she reminded me of Halle Berry. The resemblance was so strong that when I interviewed her, I’d expected a prima donna attitude, but she surprised me with a maturity and enthusiasm that the other candidates for the job couldn’t match. My instincts hadn’t let me down; I was lucky to have Jordan on my team.
Most of the secretaries in the hub nearly fell over themselves whenever Gabriela stopped by. Their brush with glamour, I supposed. I felt a tinge of regret for having taken that wide-eyed awe away from Jordan. Through lack of tact, lack of being able to hold my tongue, and the occasional, yet intentional, disparaging comment, I believed I had single-handedly influenced her cynical views of our star.
Gabriela made a beeline for my office, stopping up short at Jordan’s desk as though surprised. Almost like she’d expected me to scurry back to my office when I saw her approach.
“Alex.”
I knew my name. While I assumed she knew hers as well, just to be sure I said, “Gabriela.”
Her face went through a curious blinking, pursed-lip movement. Then she scrunched her nose. At last year’s Christmas party, drunk, she told me she’d hired an image consultant. Cost her a bundle, but through hiccups and grins, she admitted that it was money well spent. The guy, whose client base was so stellar that he refused to name names, had told her that the nose scrunching was her signature. That she should use it. I’d never reminded her of our conversation; I’m sure she wouldn’t recall it anyway. But now, with her scrunching that perfect little nose at me, I had to fight the urge to make a biting, un-PC wisecrack.
