My inner reporter is salivating. We already have the photograph of him we used on the air when he was missing, but I’ll score big news points if we can get another one now. Especially if it’s both of them. Vulture patrol.
“Of course,” I say sincerely. “Whatever you like.”
She picks up a black-and-white photo, framed in etched sterling silver. It’s obviously from their wedding, and so unconventional it’s almost out of focus. It looks as if a gust of wind caught the new couple off guard, Melanie holding down the skirt of what could be a gauzy Vera Wang, Brad in a sleekly Italian-looking suit.
“It’s the one we sent to the newspaper,” Melanie explains as she shows it to me. “Wedding announcement.”
I look at the picture more closely. Brad even looks Jimmy Stewarty, in a lanky, almost gawky kind of way. He’s gazing lovingly at Melanie, but her eyes look confidently into the camera. Seeing the happiness on their faces makes this whole thing even more tragic, if that’s possible.
“Hold the photo steady, ma’am, can you?” Walt rolls off a quick shot, then turns the camera back to Melanie. She’s still staring at the photo.
“So?” I look at her encouragingly. I can’t let her lose concentration. More than twenty minutes here and we’ll blow our deadline. “He worked at Aztratech?”
“Yes. And he was happy there.” She replaces the silver frame on a glass end table, wincing as it clatters down. “He worked at headquarters ever since we moved East a few years ago. My parents were here. They left us this house, in fact…”
Aha. Not their house.
“…and so it was perfect when Aztratech started up. It was very bare bones at the beginning, sometimes Brad didn’t get paid….”
Another aha. Money problems.
“And he wasn’t a pharmaceutical researcher, he was in accounting. Budget forecasting, that kind of thing. He was always interested in numbers…. He was top of his class at Wharton, did you know?”
And just as she seems to be comfortable again, my beeper goes off. Of course.
I glance down and hit the button on my alpha pager. Suicide? it says. Angela says ask.
Now there’s a charming suggestion. Angela’s telling me I’m supposed to sit in this little waif of a widow’s living room and casually throw out a couple of questions about whether her oh-so-recently deceased and beloved husband may have killed himself on purpose in a gruesome crash of twisted metal. I flip the beeper to Off. I work for local news. That’s exactly what I have to do.
“Sorry, Melanie,” I say. “Forgive me. Anyway, anything else you’d like to add?” Here I go. I glance at my notebook, as if I have a list of questions. “You said your husband was happy at work. But otherwise, any worries or concerns you’d noticed? About, um, money, maybe?”
I cringe at myself. Subtle, kiddo. She is so going to throw me out of here.
She doesn’t.
“No, not that I know of,” she says slowly. “When he left that morning, it was like any other morning for him. Everything was—as usual.”
But I notice her fists are clenching and now Melanie is looking at the photo again. The little dog looks up at her, nuzzles her leg, and she gives her an absent pat.
“Charlie…may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Must we have the camera on?”
With that one question, I’m tossed overboard into the murky waters of J-school ethics class. TV news is all about getting the story on tape. If we turn the camera off and she says something newsworthy, I’m sunk. But if I tell Melanie no, we can’t turn the camera off, she probably won’t tell me whatever it is she wants to tell me. And I’m really curious.
“No problem.” I take the plunge. “Walt, we’re done.”
Walt clicks off the lights, and starts wrapping cords and twisting down light stands. He doesn’t care what happens with Melanie; he’s figuring in ten minutes we’re outta here. He can dump me off at the station and go back to chasing fires. I register a flutter of envy. To him, this is just nine to five plus overtime. If I lose a story—well, the dominoes may start to fall. On me.
“Why didn’t you answer my husband’s e-mail?” Melanie asks. She doesn’t look angry. It’s almost as if she’s—hurt. “He sent it the day before he disappeared.”
My brain brakes into a stall, crashing my words together.
“Why didn’t I…answer…what? Your husband sent me an e-mail?” My conscience pangs into guilty and my worry level shoots into the red zone. Could I have missed his letter? “I don’t remember seeing it,” I insist, trying to sound reassuring. I’m all too aware the black hole of my voluminous e-mail could have sucked the letter into oblivion. Or our constantly crashing system simply ate it. “You’re sure—?”
“I’m sure, Charlie, very sure. In fact, I thought it was why you came this morning. To ask about it.”
I’m confused. Off balance. Bradley Foreman is dead. And his wife thinks I ignored him.
What’s making my search for equilibrium tougher, I’m feeling sympathy instead of objectivity. I could say goodbye and thanks so much for the interview, leave and never see Melanie Foreman again. And that’s what I should do. TV reporting is like SWAT team duty. Get in, do your stuff, get out. Get too involved in someone’s life and—never fails—you get into trouble. Like I said, I’m very comfortable with temporary.
But my heart breaks for this newly minted widow. She chose to stay home, be with her husband, probably wanted to start a family. Thought it was the right decision. Then the universe crushed her. Alone at thirtysomething. Been there, done that.
At least I have a job. She has nothing left. No friends are here to comfort her. There are no flowers. No family.
“Do you know why he e-mailed?” I ask. “What he wanted to tell me? Or since I’m the investigative reporter, maybe he wanted me to—investigate something?”
Her life must feel so chaotic now. Maybe I can help her feel some closure.
Melanie pushes up the sleeves of her thin black cashmere sweater, turns her watch around once, then again.
“I just don’t know, Charlie, I really don’t.” Melanie shrugs, looks at the floor, then back at me. “Could you have—deleted his e-mail? Without reading it, maybe?”
I desperately try to come up with some comforting response, but Melanie interrupts my escalating distress.
“Oh well,” she says, almost whispering, “It doesn’t matter.”
So much for helping. Melanie thinks I’ve dissed her husband, never bothered to answer his e-mail, and it appears she’s somehow blaming me for what happened. Although how could not answering an e-mail cause a car accident? I mentally stamp my foot. And then, suddenly, I’m saved.
The terrier starts barking and bounds to the front door. We head for the entryway, and through the window, Melanie and I can see two big white vans, emblazoned with the logos of Channel 6 and Channel 13. Photographers, reporters, cameras and microphones disgorge into Melanie’s driveway. Doors slam, gravel crunches and soon a media parade is marching up the front walk.
Melanie, her face evolving from surprise to panic, actually takes a step or two backward. She puts one hand over her mouth and the other on the banister of the stairway to the second floor. She’s like a fair maiden, trapped in a castle that’s come under siege.
I realize I can be her knight in shining armor and win the joust for my team at the same time.
“You know, Melanie,” I say, hoping I’m successfully hiding my ulterior motives, “you don’t really have to talk with these people. Just go upstairs, and don’t answer the door. I’ll check for that e-mail as soon as I get back to the station and then I’ll call you.”
She looks relieved. She looks grateful. She heads up the stairs.
“By the way,” I call after her, “what’s his e-mail address?” Was his address, I don’t say.
As the doorbell starts to ring, Melanie turns on the stairway to look at me again. “[email protected],” she says. “Call me if you find
his e-mail.”
I’m baffled. “Before?”
“Like the letter B, then the number 4. B4.” She turns and begins to climb the stairs. “Like Bradley Foreman,” she says over her shoulder. And she’s gone.
With that, this day potentially gets more rewarding. I grab my notebook and write down Foreman’s e-mail address before I forget it. Walt arrives in the entryway with his gear and I quickly give him the lowdown. Then, there’s a barrage of knocking and the doorbell rings again. This is going to be a pleasure.
I try not to look superior as I open Melanie’s front door. These crews have certainly figured out Channel 3 is here—Walt’s porcupine-antennaed Crown Vic out front is a dead giveaway. And they’re also thinking if Melanie talked to whomever is already inside, she’ll certainly give interviews to every other station. But I am now going to get the delightful opportunity to disappoint them.
Course they don’t teach in J-school: The Art of the Scoop.
“Hello, all,” I say. Straight-faced, pleasant, not at all smirky. “Mrs. Foreman says she’s not interested in any interviews. And she asks if you could please not disturb her.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Did she talk to you?”
“What did she say?”
They’re a buzzing pack of angry journalists, deprived of their prey.
“I’m only telling you what she told me,” I call out. I’m on a beeline to the car. “Sorry, gang.” And I hop into the Waltmobile.
My photographer finally bestows a smile. “Cool.” Walt nods and hands me the videocassette he just shot. “Very cool.”
The force of several g’s hits as Walt floors it, and we are headed back to the station. On time and with an exclusive interview. What’s more, if Melanie’s correct, there’s some very intriguing e-mail buried somewhere in my computer.
Chapter Three
A
ngela Nevins greets me at the newsroom door. She’s still carrying her management-prop clipboard, which she points at me like a weapon. “Charlie,” she says. “Word from the police—Bradley Foreman’s death was a suicide.”
“Suicide?” I slowly place my videocassette on the assignment-desk counter. “Oh, Angela,” I reply, frowning. “I really don’t think so. You know I got your page, and I did ask, and…” I look up, ready to pursue my case, but it doesn’t matter.
Angela is still chittering. “And as a result, we’re dropping the story. You know we never cover suicides. Putting them on TV might encourage people to do it. So—sorry, Charlie.” She gives a simpery smile, as if no one’s ever used the tuna line on me before. “But thanks for being a team player.”
I can’t let this go. She’s wrong.
“But, Angela, I was with his widow,” I persist. “I specifically asked her about suicide, as much as I could without sounding completely insensitive, and I’m telling you. It just wasn’t—he just didn’t.” I pause. “Is there a note or something? A police report?”
“No report I’ve heard of, and no note, either.” Angela looks at the clipboard and reacts as if it’s giving her some important instructions to get away from me as fast as she can.
But I have one more question. “Why would she call the assignment desk and ask to be interviewed, if she thought it might be suicide?” This never made sense to me, anyway.
“Charlie, you’ve got it backward,” she says, her tone suggesting she’s talking to the slow class. “The desk called her. We asked her for the interview. I mean after all, her husband had been missing for days, we were helping by broadcasting his picture and we told her we wanted an interview after he was found.” She shrugs. “I guess she figured she still had to do it—even though he was found, uh, dead.”
Only local news has the guts to guilt a grieving widow into doing an on-camera interview. And I just love it that no one bothered to fill me in on that little tidbit before I showed up at her door.
“Whatever,” Angela continues. “Police think it’s suicide, and that’s what we have to accept. Period. The end.”
She starts to walk away, then turns back to me. Big smile. “But let’s do set up a time to chat about your stories for November, all right? We’re eager to hear what you’ve come up with.” With that, she heads toward her office.
Apparently I’m dismissed.
Making an Oscar-worthy effort to appear calm, I carefully and quietly reclaim the tape of Melanie’s interview and trudge to our office.
“Franklin.” I slam the tape and notebook on my desk, and throw my bag onto the extra chair. “Never mind about looking up Brad’s classmates. Listen to this. Listen. To. This.”
I’m probably setting a new land-speed record for talking as I replay the morning’s chaos. Franklin actually turns away from his computer to listen, muttering supportively and sympathetically in exactly the right places.
I wind down a little as I get to the end. And now, morning utterly wasted, I collapse into my chair.
“You’re a full-blown Prozac candidate,” Franklin says. “They’re just trying to do what they think is right down there, Charlotte. It’s not about you, you know?” He takes a tissue from a box in his drawer and rubs an invisible scuff off one loafer. “Plus, admit it. You’re like—” he looks up at me “—an approval addict. You know? Sometimes—”
“I’m not addicted to approval,” I interrupt, dismissing his assessment. “I’m addicted to success. You know how it works at this place. If you’re not hearing yes, you’re hearing no. And no is bad. Soon it means no job.”
And already today, I remember for the millionth time, they’ve decided not to put my face on TV. Twice. Maybe I’m some sort of chronological time bomb. Programmed to disappear. A twenty-first–century Cheshire Cat. Soon all that’ll be left here is my smile—on videotape.
Franklin gestures at the awards-ceremony photos I’ve tacked on the wall. “Twenty Emmys. You have twenty Emmys,” he says. “You’re at the top. You’re Channel 3’s golden girl.”
“I didn’t win last year,” I remind him. I glance at the photos. I’m wreathed in smiles, arms around an array of Franklin’s predecessors, all of us holding golden statues. I see Sweet Baby James’s face, too. Someday I’m gonna Photoshop that man right out of the shot, I think wryly, just the way I did out of my life. “And face it, Franklin, I’m pushing the demos. If they only want eighteen-to forty-nine-year-olds watching, why would they want someone older than that on the air? Do the math,” I instruct, my voice bleak. “It’s just a matter of time before it adds up to goodbye, Charlie.”
“Like I said. Prozac, girl. And something good will come out of this morning, you just don’t know what yet.” Franklin the philosopher. This is what he always says. “Besides, I think I might be on the track of a possible story.”
Franklin pauses for a moment, waiting to see if I’m paying attention. And I am. If Franklin’s got a lead, a good story trumps sullen.
“Aztratech,” he goes on. “Pharmaceutical company. Very fast track. I also uncovered a bunch of industry newsletters warning pharma companies in general about the latest attack on their bottom line—whistle-blowing employees.”
I deflate. I hope Franklin doesn’t think that’s new.
“Any employee can blow the whistle on their company,” I interrupt. “We did a big exposé about it, couple of years before you got here. They can rat them out for ripping off the government. If it turns out the company was doing something illegal in a federal contract—overcharging or cheating or something—the whistle-blower gets part of the money the feds recover. And that can be incredibly lucrative.” I shrug. “But sorry, Franko. Not new.”
“Yeah, but listen,” Franklin persists. “I found one of those whistle-blower lawsuits has just been filed against Aztratech. The name of the whistle-blower is secret, apparently because the financial stakes are so enormous. Not to mention dangerous to the whistle-blower.” He leans forward intently. “So, do you think—”
If I were in a cartoon, a big lightbulb would appear right ove
r my head.
“What I think is—you’d better go buy a new suit for the Emmys, kiddo.” I jump out of my chair and sit down again, clamping both my hands on the top of my head. The pencil in my hair falls out and clatters onto the floor. “Listen, Franklin. A peculiar thing happened at Melanie’s. She insisted her husband had sent me an e-mail. The day before he went missing, she said. And she was wondering why I never answered him.”
“Sent you an e-mail? Did she say what it was about?” Franklin rubs his chin, considering. “It’s freaky that he writes you, then dies in a car accident.”
“No kidding. Creepy. And no, Melanie said she didn’t know what it was about. But I will bet you ten million dollars he was writing to tell me he was either the whistle-blower in that lawsuit you found, or wanted to spill the facts of the case. Or something like that.”
Franklin and I always bet ten million dollars. Sometimes one or the other of us is up or down a hundred million or so, but eventually it always evens out.
“And that means,” I continue, “somewhere in Bradley Foreman’s files, or in his computer or in his notes, there could be some amazing documents. Maybe—the proof his company is somehow ripping off the government.” I pause, nodding. “Here’s an idea. Since Melanie says Brad wrote to me, let’s see if she’ll let us take a look around.”
Franklin shakes his head. “No way.”
“Way,” I insist. “This could be a major-league story. I think he did send that e-mail, maybe I even read it. I didn’t find it again because I was looking under Aztrat-e-k, spelled wrong. And then I searched for his name, but maybe he didn’t put his name in the letter.”
Big finish. “So I’ll be happy to wager his e-mail is right now waiting right here in my little computer, and I’m going to be able to find it in about two seconds. Brad Foreman’s the whistle-blower, and we have our story.” I sit back in my chair in triumph. Yes. I love to be right.
“You’ve got mail.”
The techno-voice interrupts my find-Brad’s-message mission. I click it open. Meet me at the usual place, the message says. Big G!
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