Prime Time (3 page)

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 inter
views 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.

A

“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 over 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!

Big Gossip. My best friend Maysie has such a flair for the dramatic. She’s the only woman working upstairs at Channel 3’s all-sports radio station, so she’s pretty much turned the ladies’ restroom into her private sanctuary. It’s also our usual place to chat and trade info, sort of a secret clubhouse for grown-ups.

“Back in a second,” I tell Franklin. I sprint up to the fourth floor, and open the door marked W. Maysie’s sprawled in the black canvas director’s chair she’s appropriated for her hideout, her shoeless feet perched on the counter under the mirror, the sports pages balanced on her outstretched legs. Her ponytailed hair, still naturally dark brown, is tucked under a Celtics cap, and as usual, she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. Radio is so easy.

“Hey, Brenda.” She welcomes me with a wave, then refolds her paper and gestures me to the guest seat on the counter. She knows I’m uncomfortable with the “Brenda Starr” nickname, since I’m hardly as glamorous and definitely not a comic book journalist. But she thinks it’s hilarious. And she means well. “Heard you on the newsbreak. How’d that happen?”

I spin out the mystery of the vanishing anchorwoman and describe how secretive Angela was. “And Teddy said something like, ‘She’d better be dead,’” I report. “Maybe there’s more to this. Maybe heads are going to roll.”

But Maysie only laughs. “That was a trick question,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I actually have the total scoop.”

“Tell all,” I demand. Ellen’s apparently not dead. And there’s nothing like someone else’s life chaos to put things into perspective.

“Let’s just say…” Maysie pauses. “The ‘new face of Channel 3’ will be facing a judge instead of a camera. She has now learned, in a most unpleasant way, that trying to con the drugstore pharmacist with someone else’s prescription for OxyContin is frowned on by law enforcement. And that the cops don’t care if you have a newscast coming up.”

“She’s in…?” I can’t believe this.

“The tank,” Maysie finishes. “Angela’s gone to bail her out. Think I should drop a dime to the gossip girls at the newspaper?”

I know she won’t. Maysie and I have been friends ever since we bonded over junk food years ago in the station’s basement cafeteria. A surprise blizzard trapped everyone in the building—and a flurry of weatherman-blaming reporters descended to battle for whatever carbs or sugar remained in the station’s battered and unreliable snack machines. I caught Maysie kicking at the metal casing of the one with the potato chips, and together we tipped and rattled until two bags of barbecue flavor emerged.

Her real name is Margaret Isobel DeRosiers Green, but on the radio she’s Maysie Green, sports reporter extraordinaire. She can hold her own in any locker room, and amazingly for the news biz, doesn’t possess a backstabbing bone in her body. She doesn’t care if the glass is half-full or half-empty—she looks forward to the fun of drinking
the rest of it, and then the fun of filling it up again. And I get to be the older sister she never had.

“Anyway,” Maysie says, swinging her legs down from the counter. “Thanksgiving in the works—the in-laws descending from Long Island.” She does the Maysie eye-roll. “Should be quite a scene. We’re expecting you as usual.”

Maysie’s a twenty-first–century chick with a 1950s home life—two brainy kids, a devoted husband, big house in the suburbs. Everything I used to wish for. Lately, I’ve realized I’m fine on my own. Probably fine. I know I’ve totally missed the baby boat, which upset me for a few years, but now…Well, that’s just the way it is. I’ve accepted that my only babies will be those little gold Emmy awards lined up on my study shelf.

Course they don’t teach in J-School: Future Shock—The Choice of Fame or Family.

“I’m there, naturally,” I respond. “Thanks for adopting me. Again.”

“Will it be just you?” Maysie looks at me, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Any love life pending? Someone you’re hiding from me? Maybe a hot prospect we can lure for a turkey dinner, impress him with your loving circle of friends?”

“’Fraid not.” I shake my head. “Last year’s gravy episode with Software Boy was quite enough, don’t you think?”

Maysie’s shepherded me through two long-ago engagements I called off as well as my recent dead-end relationships with a judge and a corporate headhunter—all of whom grew too needy of attention, too demanding of my time and too jealous of my celebrity. She’s tirelessly curious about Sweet Baby James, my first (and only) husband, and constantly prods me to Google the latest on
my ex. She’s hoping that somehow there’s still a happy ending in my future. To her, that means a husband, no matter how often I assure her I’m over it. Probably over it.

“Whatever,” Maysie allows. “You know we love you.” She stands up, brushing off her trademark black jeans. “How’re you doing on your ratings stories?”

I give her a thumbs-up, nodding eagerly. “Got a good lead, actually,” I begin. Then I stop, superstitious. “I’ll explain when we get it nailed down.”

“You’re nuts, Brenda,” Maysie replies. “I predict your usual Emmy. You live for this journalism stuff.”

I turn to the lighted mirror on the wall, suddenly serious. “You know, Mays, Brenda Starr is a fictional character—that’s why she looks the same after thirty years. I—don’t. Maybe solid journalism isn’t enough anymore.” I turn to face her, frowning. “And, is it hot in here? Do you—”

“What happened to Miss Forty-six And Not Fighting It?” Maysie interrupts. “Maybe you just need a little more caffeine this morning. Or maybe…” she narrows her eyes “…you need to get laid,” she whispers.

“I had a date,” I retort. “Last, um, two weeks ago. With that real-estate guy. You remember.” A date that ended, mercifully, about 9:00 p.m., after an extensive monologue about cost per square foot. But Maysie doesn’t need to know that.