Death of an Intern (2 page)

I
was driving down Connecticut Avenue, heading for the paper, in my two-seater, red convertible, which I bought for its handling and sporty look. I was now putting its roadability to the test. As I passed the National Zoo, it reminded me to call in to the office and let Mary, my news assistant, know where I was.

However, my thoughts were suddenly diverted to planning how and when I was going to tell Jerry. Maybe a little cocktail hour on
Scalawag
, Jerry's Catalina 350…nope, I shouldn't do the wine. What about the alcohol I'd had last weekend? Could those couple of drinks have hurt the baby? How many drinks had I had the past six or seven weeks? Damn!

The music from my car radio segued to a news report. “It is 9:30 on a sunny Thursday morning in the nation's capital,” said the announcer. “In the headlines, the naked body of a young African-American woman was found earlier this morning under Key Bridge in Georgetown by a truck driver for a fish market.”

Hearing that news, I chose to call the office before calling Jerry. I pressed speed dial for Mary.

The news announcer was saying, “…no identification was found. MPD requests anyone who knows of a young African-American woman missing over the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours to call…”

Mary answered and I turned off the radio.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Editor Lassiter's looking for—”

“I'm almost there.”

“Call Jerry.”

“He say why?”

“He sounded anxious.”

“I'm five minutes out.” I clicked off. Can I talk to Jerry without telling him? I won't tell Lassiter until I prove to her my pregnancy won't hinder my work. I pondered who at the office had been pregnant. Maybe a couple of news assistants. Most, though, were either too old, not inclined that way, or men. I had better get that anxiety prescription filled.

I punched speed dial for Jerry. He knows I haven't been at work.

“What's the verdict?” He answered.

That stunned me. In a momentary lapse of concentration, I wandered out of my lane and blaring horns brought me back to my senses. How did he know? I righted myself, both hands more firmly on the wheel, awkwardly cradling the phone. Damn, he must have been snooping. Eavesdropping! I swallowed hard. A hoarse “what?” was all I could manage.

“I forgot to ask you this morning, or you forgot to tell me, I don't remember which.”

This was too weird. “I'm sorry, you're breaking up,” I lied.

“The Vice President's dinner and dance tomorrow night at the State Department…?”

I had forgotten. Instinctively, I didn't want to go. My pause activated him.

“You forgot,” he said flatly. “My law school roommate, I believe you remember him, Ralph Morgan, the senior attorney who happens to work for—”

“Oh my gosh! I did forget.” I wasn't on top of my game with my maternal concerns, but Jerry didn't care. Another thing I loved about him.

“They need to know…security and all. I've got to call Ralph back ASAP.”

“Is this a business thing or—”

“This is something we wanted to do. Ralph had to work hard to get us tickets. We, you and I, thought it would be good for you to get some exposure to the
powerful
, remember? Never know when a connection like that could pay off.”

“Oh God, I do remember. Of course we'll go.” I was about to pull into the
Star's
parking garage. “Weather looks great for tonight. See you at
Scalawag
around six.”

“Better go by the apartment and pick up what you want to wear tomorrow,” he suggested, knowing my dislike for dress-up affairs.

He was right. If I left it to the last minute…“Okay, as long as Lassiter doesn't put a leash on me. Did you hear about the woman they found under Key Bridge?”

“Nope.”

“I'll tell you about it tonight.”

T
he
Washington Daily Star
was a hundred and something years old. It probably started out like my father's newspaper, except the Star grew with the community. The family business was not that fortunate. The
Star
was in a twelve-story building with a five-story parking garage, three levels above and two below ground. My father still parked diagonally on the street in front of his storefront newspaper.

I parked in my reserved spot and headed for the elevators.

My father was the publisher, editor, copywriter, accountant, salesman, advertising director, pressman, classified ad man, subscription-taker, sweeper-upper, and a member of the chamber of commerce.

He wanted me to take over for him some day. I may have had printer's ink in my blood, but I wanted to be a reporter. Unfortunately, too many of his dreams were pinned on me. My folks should have had a bunch of kids instead of just me. I can't remember a time growing up when I hadn't worked at the paper.

Mom put in her time too. She taught third grade and each afternoon after school she would go by the office for an hour or so, and then go home to get supper ready. I was required to stay until my father closed up. In summers, Mom and I were the summer replacement help. We never took a real vacation.

If it hadn't been for Mrs. Phillips, my high school paper's advisor and English teacher, I would have never escaped my father's control. She convinced me to join the school paper beginning my sophomore year. My knowledge of layout alone advanced me to the top. I became editor my junior year. Who knew more than I did?

About the only friend I had at school told me that “overbearing” was a favorite adjective used to describe me behind my back. Of course, Dad didn't like me spending so much time after school and made that known more by attitude than in words.

Mrs. Phillips and I eventually won my peers over. Nobody won my father over. To him, I was at best a copywriter. He rewrote everything I ever submitted without one thought of teaching me how to make it better.

In my senior year, Mrs. Phillips created a new column focusing on people. It became an instant favorite because the people were the teachers and administrators—nothing private and no bad stuff. That was also when I learned about protecting my sources.

I thought my articles were fluff pieces, but others found them insightful and my subjects appealing. They were mostly about hobbies, favorite foods, and songs. Each column passed across our principal's desk prior to publication with rarely a correction. That started my journalism career.

After graduation, Dad insisted I go to the nearby community college, so I would be available to help on the paper. I had never worked for anyone else, earned real money, or gotten professional experience. Secretly, I began making plans to transfer to the university, which I did after my freshman year. My grades were outstanding, as was my scrapbook. I furthered my learning in the library reading out-of-town newspapers.

I had always thought I could confide in my mother. In the hours we worked at the paper, we often pondered how nice it would be, etcetera, etcetera. I had no concept about husband-wife relationships. My mother became my biggest disappointment. Everything I shared went straight to Dad. He acted hurt and lamented on how he had been building his paper for me.

His dreams, though, were my nightmares.

I had been devastated by my mother's betrayal. From that day on, I never asked either of them for anything outside of living in their house. When I left, I never looked or went back. I let them know where I was, but that was all.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped into the
Star's
newsroom. It was a vast sea of blue-gray, four-foot-high partitions ringed by glassed-in offices. One belonged to Avery Lassiter, metro editor, a firebrand, and my boss. Lassiter started out when women were compartmentalized. She'd broken many glass ceilings.

She had an attitude that cowed many. When I arrived at the
Star
, I had worked on three different papers over the course of ten years. We got along fine, except when I got a little too big for my own good.

My independent attitude had previously cost me one job. I chalked that up to learning and left town to the next paper. I had a singular goal to become an outstanding newspaperwoman. In Washington, as elsewhere, I took any assignment. Jerry told me I had made a positive impression on Max from day one, and that he'd been hearing about me for several months before that fateful lunch that Max set up.

Jerry and I became friends immediately and lovers soon after. He's seven years older, which I think is an excellent balance of age, maturity, and energy for me. When we met, he lived on a big, beautiful sailboat,
Scalawag
, that was docked in D.C.'s Southwest marina, and on which we lived as much as possible.

He knows when to give me space and when to speak his mind. We've fought and made up. I love him more deeply than I ever thought I could love anyone. Now we were going to be parents.

“Ms. Lassiter is looking for you,” said Mary Granger, my middle-aged news assistant, nudging my thoughts back to the present. “I would hate for her to see you before you saw her.”

“Have any idea what she wants?”

“I don't think it's a lunch date.”

“Thanks, but she doesn't go out for that. She has plenty of live meat around here to chew on,” I chided, while arranging some papers to take with me.

“Does your attitude have anything to do with why you are late?” Mary asked, looking at me askance, eyebrows raised.

“I will share later. It's all good, though. Puzzle on that while I go to serve my master.” I shoved the papers I thought I might need into my bag.

“You actually have one? Master, that is. That's enough revelation to last me till at least lunch.”

I smiled. Mary got me tuned down. I headed for Lassiter's windowed office.

Avery Lassiter, late forties, had been through many newspaper wars—real and imaginary. Her short-cut gray hair looked like it never saw a brush. She dressed butch, but I doubted she was and didn't care.

My metro editor was a smart and savvy newswoman with solid instincts. I knocked and entered—the usual routine. Seated behind her characteristically cluttered desk, she looked up, reached for a file folder, and extended it out to me.

“Congratulations, you get the 7th Street gang bang.”

“What happened to Wilder? He loves murder and mayhem.”

“He's got that killing in Georgetown under Key Bridge, a real butcher case. Read this and do a followup. There are a lot of ambiguities in it I don't like.”

“I'm up to my neck in my city government followup,” I pleaded. I hated doing cleanup work on somebody else's story.

“Broaden your horizons.”

Lassiter went back to work, and I slogged back to my desk.

T
he 7th Street gang story darkened my day, but I cleaned up many of Wilder's loose ends. A call to Max helped clear up a couple of vague descriptions. Of course, I had to put up with some ribbing of being Wilder's gofer. I left early enough to get my dress-up garb for Friday night's Vice Presidential shindig.

I called Jerry's cell on my way to the marina. He was already there. I noticed that James, the aging fixture at the parking gate, was not on, and hoped it wasn't more than a night off. He is a true character.

I grabbed my bag, laptop, groceries, and garment bag, locked the car, and headed for the secure gate at the top of the gangway. It led down to the dock and into a different world. The waterfront was lined with large, stand-alone restaurants. People sat out on the terraces, which were a story or two above the water, set back enough to be a backdrop, but not an intrusion.

I saw Jerry's six-two frame standing in the cockpit of his Catalina 350. I liked our height difference. He's a nice fit to my five eight. He stays in shape and watches what he eats. I will be working on both from now on. My husband loves his thirty-five-foot sloop and equally loves working on it. “Ahoy, Captain! May I board?”

“Only if you're rich and beautiful and have brought me great gifts of gold and jewels,” he hailed back.

“I don't know about the first two, but I do bring great riches,” I said, stepping onto the gunnels and into the cockpit.

“Ah, and the world already knows how beautiful thou art.”

He helped me aboard, not that I needed it. He couldn't know. We hugged. The grocery bag got in the way.

“Thou hast great armor; ‘tis difficult to feel you.” He squiggled against me, which got us to laughing.

“Let me get rid of this, so we may get down to some serious snuggling.”

I went below to the salon and galley.

He followed me down. “That laptop appears ominous.”

“Lassiter gave me some research stuff that may never see the light of day. This is not what I want to do with my career.”

He took the groceries, and I placed my bag and laptop on the side bunk.

Scalawag
is very comfortable with a thirty-five-horsepower Universal diesel engine for when it is not good sailing. Its salon and sleeping accommodations made it easy to live on. We sailed the lower Potomac River and Chesapeake Bay when time permitted. The boat was fully equipped for navigation and communications.

The cockpit had a Raytheon ST60 for wind, speed, and depth gauges and a Ritchie Helmsman compass. These and the Pathfinder Radar SL72 Plus system, HF/SSB radio, and SEASAT for satellite communications kept Jerry up on local weather in the area. The Chesapeake, with its shallow waters, could become hellish weather-wise in very short order. We had a VHF SEA radiotelephone to go along with our cell phones.

“What stories are they?” Jerry asked, sorting out the groceries.

“One is a retrospective on my page-one story from last year.” I hung up my garment bag.

“That was a good one.”

“Somebody forgot to remind Lassiter. The other is that 7th Street drug shootout a couple of weeks back.”

“Wilder's story?”

I nodded as I opened a galley cabinet and took out two insulated plastic tumblers and a pair of plates. “He's on that murdered woman case from this morning. Did you hear?”

“No.”

“Brutal stuff. I don't have all the details since I've been tracking down some unclear things in Wilder's mess. I had to call Max for some help on the makeover, and he had time to tell me about the current murder. She had been found nude, no ID. He was reticent about giving me all of the
gruesome details,”
I said, setting up the salon table.

“We can sit aft in the cockpit, if you'd prefer,” my husband said gallantly.

“No, I'd like some privacy. How about gin and tonics?”

“Oh? We're not having a wine and cheese party?”

“Is it okay?” He nodded, and I got ice cubes from our freezer. “We'll still have cheese and crackers.” I clinked in the cubes, put gin in one glass and quickly poured tonic in both. I added lime twists and handed Jerry his.

I picked up my glass, and he raised his to make a toast.

“No. Let me,” I asked, with a tone that conveyed hurt feelings if he didn't.

He showed surprise, but nodded.

I had been thinking all day about how I would put this. “On this loveliest of evenings with the man I deeply love, I make a toast to a happy future.”

I paused for effect. He, thinking it was over, attempted to plunk our glasses.

I held mine back. “I'm not finished.” I raised my drink back up. “To all the tomorrows, as we embrace parenthood.”

He nearly spilled his drink.

“I am with child.” I reached out to the dumbfounded father-to-be. “Skoal.”

He consummated the toast and then hugged me. “You did it.”

“I had a little help.”

“Is that what this morning was all about?” He lessened his hug to a squeeze.

“I was pretty sure. I'd killed a rabbit, but I needed corroboration from the doctor before telling you.” We embraced, kissed, and snuggled upright. When we relaxed, I looked into his eyes. “We will have to be a little careful.”

“How so?”

“This kid comes with a price.”

He rubbed my nose with his. “Kids always do.”

“No, I have a delicate condition.”

“You, delicate?” Smiling, he held me back and looked me up and down.

“Can you believe it? Can we sit?” We did, side by side on the built-in bench seat.

“The doctor wants me to slow down, a little.” I added the qualifier for some future negotiation I knew I'd be making. “My stress level needs to be measurably reduced.”

I took a drink then laid my head back, looking at the sky through the stairwell. My battle for control was a losing cause, as my eyes teared. Jerry put an arm around me and gently took me to him. There was so much to celebrate, yet so much to worry over. I wanted the baby. I wanted a career. I didn't want an office job.

He spoke softly. “Lassiter will work with you. Be honest with her.”

I didn't reply.

“Want me to call Ralph and cancel?”

I shook my head.

He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “We can leave early.”

I nodded. “Why is everything I want so difficult?”