He was tired; that was all it was. Focused. Had to be. There’d be time after the story ran to talk it through.
Martha was full of complaints when he eased in the door, standing on her hind legs to paw at him, but there was food in her bowl and fresh water, plus clean litter, so what was her deal? Apart from being left in the apartment alone.
He chucked her under the chin. “Life not going your way, huh?”
If she could understand more than his tone of voice and roll her eyes, she would’ve. Instead she dug a claw into his thigh, and like any half-decent assault and battery artist, she bolted to the other side of the room with revenge and blood on her paws.
He swatted at the sting. “Take it up with your lawyer.”
That’s when he saw the note taped to one of his screens. Derelie had gone to catch a late yoga class, and since he didn’t tell her what time he expected to be home that was nothing to be concerned by. Except he felt her not being here was a gap, an activity not ticked off on his to do list, a detail forgotten, a point not expanded on. She’d created a hearth outside work he’d never truly known before.
He stood in his apartment and noted the changes in it since she’d arrived with stolen property and her determination to get the story of him. It was tidy, for one thing. Work was confined to his desk and his bookcase instead of being spread everywhere.
Every surface in the kitchen was functioning as a kitchen, not an extension of his workplace. His doing. There were flowers on the table by the door, cheap and cheerful, there was a pot of something that smelled piney in the bathroom where there was an extra toothbrush in the holder and assorted girl things. Her doing. The ironing board was behind a door, there was a bright throw rug that didn’t belong to him over the back of the couch and a pillow that matched it. He’d never have bought a throw rug or a pillow. He’d never have cleaned up for himself, but because she was there, it was the obvious thing to do—make it a home, not a destination he used to do more of what he did in the office: to sleep, eat, wash and leave a cat.
Who’d have guessed thirty-six questions would lead to a different angle on life?
Derelie arrived while he was starching collars and cuffs. He made a grab for Martha before she could go for the door.
“Hello, Heartbeat of the City, Defender of the People,” Derelie said, dropping her bag on the floor. She wore her yoga pants and a zip-up sweatshirt. Her hair was both damp and frizzy and her skin flushed, freckles standing out. She had chipped nail polish and a red breakout on her chin. She wore her aligner. She was head to toe wonderful. “It’s nice to see you awake.”
Martha paddled her paws, so he put her down and she flopped over at his feet in a pose Derelie called carpet. “Hello, Reporter of Stories People Love to Read. It’s always nice to see you.”
She raised a brow. “If the clickbait fits.”
“I’ve come to accept that clickbait has its value.” He meant her to understand that as an apology for his vicious clickbait crack the other night.
She put one sneaker-covered foot on its toe and rolled her knee inward, cocking her head to the side and bringing her shoulder up. Five-year-old girl. Unforgivably cute. “Aw, Dinkus, you say the sweetest things.”
He wasn’t thinking about being sweet in return.
She straightened. Nothing girlish about the predatory way she looked him over or the reaction it caused. Not a tired bone in his body now. “I’m all sweaty.”
“I like you sweaty.” He liked the salt tang in her skin, the earthy funk. He liked peeling her out of her tight pants.
“My mama taught me never to interrupt a man with a domestic appliance in his hand.”
The iron was hissing and steaming on its stand; the hothouse was them, inspecting, inciting each other. He bent and jerked the power cord from the point in the wall. “I’m done.”
She played with the tag on her zipper. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Inviting.” On his way to instructing, invading, adoring. Sunday nights she always called her mom. “Phone home, ET.” Family before pleasure.
She rumbled in her bag for her cell, fingers to the screen. “‘Busy tonight. Having fun. Call you later. Smiley face.’” She tossed the cell on the couch and undid her zipper. “Busy with you. Having fun with you.”
“I want to show you I’m sorry for the other night.”
The zipper top hit the couch. Martha got up and went to sit on it. The tank Derelie wore underneath was sweat-stained. “I’ve got ironing you can do if you want to show me how sorry you are.”
“I see—the way to your forgiveness is the application of domestic order.”
“I like the way you say domestic order.” She pulled her tank off and dropped it on the floor.
He didn’t let her say anything much in English after that, kept her mouth busy and her body in motion and later, tangled in the sheet and dozing in his arms, she accepted his apology. Before he left in the morning, he checked the Courier website for the Keepsafe story and ironed two of her dresses, a shirt and a skirt to cement the deal.
It was nearly midday before he got through promotional responsibilities and made it into the office. An hour later while he was still clearing messages, the photographer he’d had on stakeout outside Keepsafe’s headquarter got a shot of Bix exiting the building with a cardboard box. They were the first news site to run it, with a caption suggesting what the company’s press release later confirmed.
As a result of the discovery of the criminal intent to defraud Keepsafe policyholders, the board had removed CEO Robert Bix from his role, suspended the services of a number of consultant doctors, naming Noakes and Whelan, and launched an internal investigation. The chairman promised to cooperate with the police and regulators and see all victims were compensated.
The press release didn’t mention that it was Jack’s story that landed Bix and his cardboard box on the sidewalk or that the Courier’s investigation was what would bring justice to all the families like the Shenkers. But it didn’t have to. Syndicated, partner and rival media organizations were all talking about it. Jack had an email from the Courier’s owner congratulating him on the story, and he was ready to file the follow-up and go shave again so he was fit for evening television.
The next few days played out the same way. Another piece of the story would come to light and Jack would write it up and go talk about it on TV and radio. In the market one night with Derelie, he was approached by a man who insisted on shaking his hand. He was a Keepsafe policyholder and grateful for the exposé.
By the end of the week, there was nothing more to say about Keepsafe or Bob Bix, who’d been formally charged, and Jack was running on cloves, coffee and adrenaline when Madden called him up to Roscoe’s office.
“Come in,” Roscoe said. He wore a somber expression, which made Jack grimace. He could do without being sued again.
“How bad is it?”
“Sit down, Haley,” said Madden.
That bad. “What are they saying?” He took a seat.
Roscoe came out from behind his desk to close the door. “That’s not why we’re here. Go on, Phil.”
A lawyer, an editor-in-chief and an investigative reporter sit down in a room with a closed door... “What’s going on?” There was a staff meeting in half an hour—whatever this was, it was going to go down quickly.
Madden stared at the pile of folders on Roscoe’s desk. “We’re shifting from broadsheet to tabloid and dropping the Saturday edition. We’re going subscription on the website. That’s what I’m telling people at five.”
A heads-up. It accounted for the door, but not for Roscoe’s presence. “What does that mean for the business pages?” Less space, more of a shift to running stories online.
“We didn’t save enough money from the voluntary layoffs. I need to make more changes to staffing.”<
br />
Goddamn, Madden was going to ask him to single out reporters who’d lose their jobs. He could do his own dirty work. “Don’t ask me to—”
“The Courier isn’t in the investigative reporting business any longer.”
Jack would have laughed, but Roscoe wouldn’t look at him and Madden’s eye contact was bouncing around. “Any longer?”
“You no longer have a job here, Jack.”
He let those words hit his chest, glance off. They didn’t make sense.
“We’ll do straight business news, companies reporting, but we don’t have the resources for the big investigative stories anymore.”
“Resources?” Why did he feel flatfooted, out of breath?
“It’s not just your salary, it’s the other expenses you need to do what you do. It’s not the direction the owner wants the paper to take.”
He was standing, body realizing the blow before his brain caught up with the impact. “You’re firing me.”
“Laying you off.”
“You’re doing this now, on top of Keepsafe?” On the back of his words and face and voice being everywhere for the Courier this week. After months of work to bring the paper a leading story he knew earned more from newsstands and sent webstats up, made money for the paper, built its credibility.
“I’m sorry, Jack. It wasn’t an easy decision. I knew you’d start up on something else and we won’t have the space for it.” He had two new story leads in his messages, two potential Keepsafe stories in the making.
“This is about real estate.”
“It’s about the high cost of investigative reporting.”
The legal costs. If he wasn’t employed by the paper, there was a chance he could be held personally liable. This would ruin him professionally, not to mention financially.
“You knew you were going to do this.” It explained why Madden pushed the deadline so hard. He looked at Roscoe. “I need my own lawyer.”
Roscoe motioned him to sit and it felt like defeat when he did. “It’s a layoff, Jack, it’s happening across the whole industry. You don’t have an unfair dismissal case against the Courier.”
“But Keepsafe can come after me personally.”
Roscoe looked at Madden. “I’m talking to the owner about that.”
“Which means what?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to convince them it’s in their interest not to fuck you around.”
He heard what Roscoe didn’t say—if you fight this dismissal, you’re on your own with any suits. Jesus Christ. “When?”
“Today,” said Madden. “You get the usual severance and entitlements owing.”
He earned enough to afford to rent his apartment, to live in the city, to have some savings, but that would mean nothing if he needed to fight Keepsafe, if he couldn’t get another job. The last time another news organization had tried to poach him was years ago. No one was employing, the whole industry was in contraction. He was fucked and he hadn’t seen it coming.
“I’m sorry, Jack. If I thought you’d want to stay on and write straight business news, I’d have offered it.”
“But you can get a cadet do that, use more wire service syndicated news.” Fill the Courier with infotainment, which was cheap to produce. His reporting career might be over; he could be washed up before he even hit middle age.
“It is what it is. I can’t change what’s happening to the industry.”
Jack took his tobacco pack out of his suit pocket and rolled a smoke, and no one stopped him. “You’re going to announce this with the other changes.”
“Yes. I have a favor to ask of you.”
After the insult, after the humiliation in a week that was built for triumph, Madden was going to ask him to front the staff meeting, to show he was taking his exit gracefully. He didn’t need to be an investigative reporter—ex-investigative reporter—to know that. It was going to give him an ulcer.
He blew a stream of smoke over Madden’s head. “You want me to be at the meeting.”
“I want to give you a decent send-off.”
He took another drag on the cigarette and then raised his brows at Roscoe, who’d produced a small silver ashtray, like the removable ones in cars. “My wife would kill me if she knew I still smoked,” he said.
“Your wife already knows.” Jack didn’t have to be an ex-investigative reporter to know that.
He didn’t have a lot of choice in this. If he skipped the staff meeting, he’d have to make his own announcement as he said goodbye to people. He didn’t want to leave without wishing the remaining team well. He didn’t like the idea of explaining this and dealing with the shock a dozen times, and Madden was banking on that, and on the fact it looked better for him to have Jack in the room as an ally when the hit landed.
“I’ll be there. I’ll be...nice.” His only chance of getting another job in the industry might depend on how he was seen to react to this. No one wanted to employ an angry man.
Madden stood, as did Roscoe. Jack was last to his feet. He was weary to his sinews and synapses and his stomach was a bound fist. He’d planned to take Derelie to Elaine’s as a surprise tonight, as a celebration. It’d be more like a wake.
A few minutes later, after a savagely uncomfortable elevator ride where no one spoke and or made eye contact, they were on the main floor, and Jack listened while Madden announced the Courier’s new direction and rang the bell on the end of his career with the paper. There were gasps. The stoic Berkelow cried. Spinoza was vocal in his disapproval and made Madden squirm. It took less than forty minutes from the time Roscoe closed his door to the applause that signaled Jack’s redundancy.
In the sea of people milling around, some like the older reporters, stunned and concerned about the longevity of their own jobs, others blithely ignorant it could be them on unemployment next week, he looked for Derelie. The office divide between the mostly print and website reporters and the mostly online-only writers still existed, at least for now. She stood with her team, face creased with concern, eyes down. This was a win for her. It was her time to shine. She was in the right place, at the right time, and she didn’t need to keep secrets anymore.
From all sides, his name was called. He only wanted to hear one voice.
“Excuse me a moment.”
He had to ignore the press around him, honest expressions of outrage and shock, well-wishes, and offers to buy him a drink. He’d take those offers—he needed to get plastered. He pushed through the throng, fixed on the north star of Derelie, her own people hovering like satellites around her, the mood different on this side of the office, excitement and opportunity in orbit instead of gutted hopes and fear.
The satellites scattered in his wake and Derelie looked up, her lips pressing into a thin line balanced between anger and distress, her pale eyes a wet reflection of all his ambitions shaken loose and set adrift.
Chapter Twenty-Five
People parted like pins bowled over, eager to get out of Jack’s roll across the office. No one sure what to say to him or why he was headed this way. He’d looked tired this morning; now his face was ashen, even while he moved with single-minded determination. Derelie ached to throw her arms around him and hug him if only to make herself feel better.
No doubt he’d come to formally say goodbye, to keep up appearances. No amount of ocean breaths helped. She needed to look away so she could school her features and act professionally, but it was impossible not to watch him advance on her as if she was the high score and he was gunning for her.
She’d looked for him over workstations and around shoulders and heads while Phil had been speaking, wondering if he’d interject, if he’d put up a fight for his beloved business pages. She thought she’d misheard when Phil said that as a result of the changes, the Courier would no longer have the space or reso
urces for investigative reporting.
That’s when a tangible ripple spread across the floor, sharp brains interpreting the news ahead of Phil’s words. She’d already teared up before he announced that after an illustrious career and one hell of a week, Jack would be leaving. Phil said praiseworthy things about Jack, but they tumbled over her in a haze of confusion. How could the company do this to him? Use him for his talents so obviously and then discard him so blatantly?
Now he stood right in front of her, his chest rising and falling with obvious stress he was consciously controlling. “How are you feeling about secrets?” he said, voice strong despite how crushed he must feel.
“I, ah.” What was he really asking? She hardly cared, took a step forward the same time as he did, conscious of the gasps of surprise around them and not giving a damn.
“Excellent.” He put his hand behind her neck as she tilted her face up, hands going to his ribs. “You won’t mind me doing this.”
He touched his lips to hers, pulled back, smiled, and when she wrapped her arms around him, he angled his head and kissed her in a way there was no mistaking. They weren’t colleagues dealing with bad news or workmates saying goodbye. Jack brought her closer and lifted her off the floor. They kissed like lovers in the middle of the Courier’s newsroom, making out while a whole floor of reporters watched.
And cheered like they were at Wrigley Field, eating wieners.
Jack lowered her to the floor and they broke off, foreheads pressed together, breathing erratic. The only thing that could make this more romantic would be if he carried her out of here.
“Want me to carry you out of here?”
“Dammit, you’re going to make me cry and I have dry cleaning and my gym bag.” This wasn’t that scene from An Officer and a Gentleman, Mom’s favorite movie. “Let’s get out of here.”
The Love Experiment Page 25
