Back in my office, my once-hot coffee is now barely warm. I risk a chalky sip and stare at my computer screen.
I know I should focus on finding my big story. Check out those off-campus dorms or the uninspected trucks. And I’ve got to remember to run those ideas by my producer, Franklin, when he comes in. But my mind just won’t let go of the missing “medium” guy from the pharmaceutical company. Some part of my brain alerted on that Aztratek name like a K-9 dog at a crime scene, and my instinct says that’s not something to ignore.
Tapping my fingers on the desk, I delve into my memory bank. Where have I heard of Aztratek? And it was—Brandon? Bradley? Foreman? How am I supposed to figure this out? Or how am I supposed to figure out if there is anything to figure out?
What if this is the biggest story ever, and I’m missing it? I need…
Makeup. If I look better, I’ll think better. I take my little mirror from the wall and prop it on my computer keys so it leans against the monitor.
Brown eye shadow. More black mascara than Mom would think necessary. A little bronzing blush where my cheekbones ought to be, and then my trademark red lipstick. I went through a phase of Vixen, moved through Rage and now I’m loving Inferno. Seems as if even the makeup marketing honchos are capturing my sudden free fall into old age. Which comes first, the wrinkles or the lipstick name? If my next favorite is Reincarnation I’m really going to worry.
One last glance in the mirror. Great. Now I still look like a tired person, just a tired person wearing makeup.
I park the way-too-unsympathetic mirror on the floor and click open my e-mail again. I’ve got to go back to basics. What investigative reporting is all about. Not how you look, but how you look for answers. Relentless inquiry, focus on details, The Quest. I sit up straighter as I type my way through my fancy e-mail search system, my caffeine-fueled brain charging toward the light. I remember. His name is Bradley Foreman. Nothing can stop me now.
A tiny hourglass flips over and over on the screen. Any second now, all will be revealed.
No matches found.
My shoulders slump. No Bradley Foreman has ever e-mailed me. The next search informs me I’ve never gotten an e-mail that mentions a company called Aztratek Pharmaceuticals.
But I’ve got Google. And I’m feeling lucky.
The cursor beckons. I type “Aztratek.”
According to the screen, my search takes 1.7 seconds.
“Do you mean Aztratech?”
Google is so patronizing.
What I meant was, whatever the company the missing Bradley Foreman worked for. Works for, I correct myself, choosing the more optimistic words. I click on yes.
Aztratech Pharmaceuticals. It pops up instantly. Images opening and closing, sleek logos, hip graphics. It looks legit, but I have no idea what any of it means. I click on “About us.”
Aztratech Pharmceuticals, 336 Progress Drive, Boxford, Massachusetts. I smile. That’s the one.
And—do I smell coffee?
“Hey, Charlotte—heard you on the newsbreak! What the hell is up with that?”
Franklin, predictably immaculate in a pressed pink Polo knit shirt, tortoiseshell sunglasses hanging over the top button, puts a steaming latte on my desk. “Room service,” he says. “Triple venti non-fat. Thought you might be needing it.”
Franklin is the only one, except for my mother, who calls me Charlotte. With his rural deep-South drawl it comes out like Shaw-lit. I still smile every time I hear it.
Franklin Brooks Parrish, age fifteen years younger than I am, is the latest in a longish line of investigative producers who’ve shared my office. I’m embarrassed to admit he’s one of the few of color the station has hired. Louisiana State undergrad, a culture-shocking jump to Columbia Journalism School, then first TV job at some little station in Charleston, another in Albany, then CNN Investigates, then here to Boston. All part of the market-climbing odyssey necessary for TV success.
He doesn’t know I know he’s already putting together résumé tapes. I also know he’ll leave me when network bigwigs offer New York. TV relationships—don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t get attached. And I’m very comfortable with temporary. Still, I’ll miss Franklin when he goes.
“Hey, Franko, am I glad to see you! Thanks so much for the replacement coffee. How do you already know just what I need?”
“No prob,” Franklin replies. Master of multitasking, he’s already opening his e-mail, checking his phone messages and clicking on our office TV. He’s a computer wizard, so organized he arranges his books by the Dewey decimal system. Give Franklin the half-full/half-empty test—he’ll find out who the glass belongs to, what’s in it and whether it’s contaminated, illegal or the product of some political corruption. He’s also as much a goal-oriented perfectionist as I am.
I fill him in on the missing Ellen, as well as the missing Bradley Foreman. “So, bottom line,” I finish. “After all that, I’ve accomplished zero. Except, listen. Have you ever heard of a company called Aztratech?”
Before Franklin can answer, I look up as the glass doors to the investigative unit swing open again. This time no one’s running, so that’s good. Then the shadow of doom falls across my desk. That’s bad.
Overpermed, makeup challenged and clipboard in hand to signal how important she is, it may be that assistant news director Angela Nevins doesn’t hate just me. It may be she hates everyone. But she’s at my door.
“Charlie, Franklin, good morning. Great job on the newsbreak, Charlie. Thanks for bailing us out.”
Angela has apparently read in one of her management manuals that it’s productive to begin potentially contentious conversations by using some sort of a compliment. Softens up the peons for what’s to come.
I don’t dare glance at Franklin because one of us is sure to roll our eyes and make the other laugh. Plus I can never forget that even though on paper Angela’s my boss, she’s at least five years younger than I am. Maybe six. That she’s allowed to tell me what to do is unrelenting torture.
“And what made it even better you were here,” she goes on, attempting some replication of a smile, “is that since Ellen is out of the picture now—”
Franklin sees an opening and pounces. “Yeah, Angela…what happened to Ellen, anyway?”
Angela’s smile disappears. “We’re looking into it,” she says. “I’m sure it’s—”
Franklin interrupts, wrinkling his forehead in concern. “Is she…?”
Angela turns her back as if Franklin doesn’t exist and picks up where she left off with me. “Since Ellen is out of the picture now,” she continues, “we need you to handle an interview we’ve arranged with the wife.”
Am I supposed to know what she’s talking about?
“What wife?” I say out loud.
I get one of those “I can’t believe you reporters are so dense” looks.
“The accident victim’s wife.” Angela looks down at her clipboard, taps on it with her pencil. “Bradley Foreman? Aztratech? He’s dead. Car accident. Apparently went off the road in Thursday’s rain. His wife told the assignment desk she’d talk. But we’ve got to move quickly, before some lawyer shows up and orders her to keep quiet. So, Charlie, you’re the only reporter here at the station. If we wait for the next one to arrive, we may lose the story.”
This is simply unfair. She’s assigning me vulture patrol. I loathe vulture patrol. I paid my on-the-street dues for years, trying to convince the brokenhearted and miserable there was some noble reason they should go on camera. I’m supposed to be done with all that now. But because I’m here early, I’m the only reporter who’s available. And as a result, I’m the one who’s nailed.
Course they don’t teach in J-school: The Early Bird Gets the Work.
I look at Franklin in defeat. He’s already looked up the Foremans’ address in Lexington, and hands me directions with a sympathetic smile.
“I’ll check into that Aztra company,” he says. “No problem. Have fun, y’all.”
<
br /> “Fine,” I say. I shift into all-business-brusque-reporter mode, knowing Angela will relish her power play even more if she thinks she’s upset me. “Who’s my photog?” I ask. “And where do I meet him?”
Angela tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at me. “You can fix your hair in the car, I suppose. Not that it’ll matter—we don’t need you on camera anyway. We’ll just hand off your interview to the morning reporter. Oh, and your cameraman’s Walt,” she adds. “He’s already waiting for you.”
I see Franklin smothering a smile.
“Let us know what you get,” she goes on. “We’ll certainly want the interview on the noon news.” She flutters her fingers and turns away. “Ciao, newsies.”
My brain bursts into flames.
The noon news? I’m supposed to drive all the way to Lexington with a passive-aggressive lunk of a photographer who has the social skills of a petulant teenager, do a compassionate, thoughtful interview with a grieving widow, and then get back to the station in time to get something coherent, relevant and interesting on the noon news?
Fine. I can do that.
But news flash: at this rate I’m never going to find my big November story. TV news is the real reality TV. If this is the year I blow it, it’s also the year I’ll get voted off the island.
Chapter Two
“S
o where to, Charlie? You got directions?” I clamber into Walt’s pale green Crown Vic news car, and struggle to find a spot to stash my briefcase and leftover latte among his screeching and flashing collection of two-way radios and squawky police scanners. He even calls it—with a straight face—the Waltmobile.
Before I can even click on my seat belt, Walt peels out of the station’s driveway, scattering gravel and a pack of flabbergasted camera-toting tourists.
“Move it!” he yells out his window. “So whose life you making miserable today, Charlie?” he growls.
“Funny,” I reply, finally managing to adjust my seat belt. “And anyway, in this case, she’s already miserable. You know the car accident victim this morning? His wife’s going to talk. Surprising, don’t you think? I wouldn’t give a TV interview if my husband just died. Anyway, she lives up in Lexington.” I hold up the paper Franklin gave me. “Directions say…”
Walt drives a little faster, apparently to emphasize his disdain. “I already know how to get there. Lexington, huh? Big dough.”
Walt descends into his own cheerless world, punching the buttons to change stations on the radio as he growls obscenities at any offending drivers, which seems to be all of them.
I tune it all out. I can feel myself scowling, and it’s not from the noise. It’s barely nine-thirty in the morning and already two people so much as told me I’m past my prime. They can’t—or don’t want to?—put my face on TV. I suppose I can ignore Angela’s haughty assessment as another tactic to drive me crazy. But Teddy? That’s troubling. He’s the sweetest of guys, hardworking, reliable. It wasn’t personal for him, just practical. Video’s out of focus. Audio level’s too hot. Charlie’s—too old. I stare out the window, resting my forehead on the chilly glass.
It’s not like turning forty-six was a surprise. You’re forty-five, then you’re forty-six. And okay, soon, forty-seven. Through a fortuitous combination of good genes, good makeup, and reluctant but diligent exercise, I don’t really look my age. Whatever that looks like. I don’t kid myself, local television news is as much about glamour as getting the journalistic goods, and I’ve certainly started my plastic surgery savings account. For someday.
But meantime, I’ve carved out my investigative niche so I no longer have to battle the unpredictable video pitfalls street reporters can’t possibly avoid. You have to stand in front of the fire if you’re talking about the fire, even if the lighting is better on the other side of the burning building. Even if the wind is blowing your hair into your lip gloss and spray from the hoses is melting your mascara into Goth-girl grotesque. I’ve happily bequeathed that kind of news to the twentysomethings.
I flip down my visor and do a quick reality check in the mirror. It appears my new and way-too-expensive miracle skin stuff isn’t working yet, since my dark circles are still browner than my eyes. But other than that, am I that bad? I squint to get a better look, but that’s difficult because with my contacts in, I can’t see close up. If I put on my reading glasses so I can, then I won’t see how I really look because I’ll be wearing my reading glasses.
A twinge of conscience hits. Mrs. Foreman certainly won’t care how I look. I snap the visor back up. Her husband is dead. I need to care about her reality. I’m a journalist. I love my job. I look fine.
Walt settles on some venom-spewing talk radio show and pushes the volume to “harassment.” I recognize this as his power play to make sure there’s no possibility of conversation, and also to make sure I know who’s in charge. And I do know who’s in charge. I turn down the volume.
It would be so satisfying to dump the rest of my latte on his head. But that, no doubt, is some kind of union grievance, and would probably result in him getting some kind of benefits and me fired.
Outside the car, it’s far more peaceful. New England in October. Even on my way to the interview from hell, I get distracted by the sun spackling through the just-turned trees, the early red of the maples lining the winding streets of the well-kept neighborhood. It’s a school day, so bikes of all sizes lean against garage doors, blow-up wading pools twinkle in the front yards even as their season wanes, an occasional porch dog, left behind by his kids, lifts his head inquiringly as the noise of our Crown Vic interrupts his nap.
“There it is, number 2519,” I finally say and point out the yellow clapboard two-story house. I can’t help thinking it now has a tragedy connected to it. And the family—I don’t even know if there are kids inside—will forever mark its history based on today. Before the accident. After the accident.
Course they don’t teach in J-school: Bottom-Feeding 101—Knocking on the door of a grieving family.
We crunch up the gravel walkway, Walt with his camera at his side, a crimson leaf or two fluttering down in front of us. I’ve been through this moment so many times, intruding on some stranger’s grief to fill twenty seconds on a few newscasts, and it never gets easier.
Audrey Hepburn answers the door. Obviously, not really Audrey Hepburn, but she’s a remarkable clone—elegant bones, flawless complexion, luminous eyes, pixie hair, even a little black sweater and narrow black pants. Mrs. Foreman looks pampered and classily understated. Tiny diamond studs. Delicate gold necklace. I glance at her left hand. Someone’s college education sparkles on her ring finger.
“Charlie McNally,” she says. Her voice is gentle, and seems weary. “They told me you were coming. I’m Melanie Foreman.” She offers a tentative smile. “Melanie. Come in.”
We step through the door into a tasteful and immaculate buttery-yellow entry hall. Bandbox white moldings, indirect lighting, a well-worn Oriental covering the high-gloss hardwood floor. I sneak an assessing squint at the intricate designs. The rug’s almost threadbare in places, but it’s real.
Melanie closes the door behind us and turns inquiringly. “And this is?”
“Walt. Petrucelli.” He gives her a nod. “Sorry for your loss.”
Well, point for Walt. That’s civilized.
“Set up in the living room?” he asks, hefting his equipment. Melanie gestures to the next room, and we follow her in. Walt quickly puts up his lights and clanks open his tripod. Even he must feel how uncomfortable this is. I get out my notebook, dig for a pencil, try to check my hair in a way that’s not incredibly rude.
Melanie, however, seems off in her own world. She sits quietly, her alarmingly thin body scrunched all the way into one corner of the oversize cream-and-chocolate couch. She smoothes the fringes of a throw pillow, staring at her hands. I think I recognize the pillow’s plaid as Ralph Lauren, and it’s his latest.
Then I notice the lumpily cushioned couch, the misma
tched tables, and an outdated flame-stitch wing chair, all going a little shabby around the edges. Wonder if they have money problems? Or perhaps they’re simply comfortable with themselves.
Except there’s no more “they,” I remember, as Melanie finally looks up.
“Oh, sorry,” she says with a wan smile. “What is it you’d like to ask me?”
Actually, I’d like to ask why she’s agreeing to do an interview with the grief-sucking creature called TV news. But I won’t.
“Thanks for letting us talk with you, Melanie,” I begin. I’m using my sympathetic voice. Today, it’s genuine. Has she faced his closet full of clothes? His toothbrush? Closed the book he was reading? She can’t possibly have grasped, yet, how sinkingly alone she’s about to be. “What is it you’d like people to know about your husband?”
Melanie replaces the pillow against the back of the couch. A tawny little terrier-looking dog pads across the rug to curl up at her feet.
“My husband—Brad—is—was…” Suddenly she looks as if she’s going to lose it. Over my shoulder, I hear the motorized zoom of Walt’s camera lens. He’s going in for a close-up because he thinks she’s going to cry. Welcome to TV news.
“Are you okay?” I ask this as slowly as possible. I know this is difficult for her, but if she’s going to dissolve into anguish, I’ve got to make sure we get the shot on tape. Vulture patrol. “Mrs. Foreman?”
“No, I’m fine.” Melanie blinks and curls the pillow back into her lap. She sighs and starts again. “Brad was an honest, reliable person who just wanted everyone to play by the same rules.” She smiles for a moment. “You remember Jimmy Stewart? In the Mr. Smith Goes to Washington movie?”
I nod. “Of course.”
I hear the zoom motor pull back. Walt’s decided she’s not going to cry.
“That’s exactly who he was like,” she continues. “Principled, devoted. Would you like to see a picture of Brad? Of both of us?”
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