Triumph (18 page)

“Someone told me that Bach was under government investigation, so I had an informal lunch with him,” she replied. “You never know what people will say off the record. He’s made hundreds of millions of dollars in the last couple of years, and no one can figure out how.”

“Did you find out anything?”

Kelly leaned back in her chair. “Not much. He sidestepped my questions, but I have to admit he’s intelligent. And a major creep. I ran into him at the ball in Dallas, by the way.”

“Really? He could be stalking you.”

“I don’t think so.” Although Kelly wasn’t totally sure of that. “I heard he was trolling for rich Texans.”

“Even so. What you get to do is exciting. I wish I got sent out of town on assignment.”

“I was on my own. It had nothing to do with WBRX.”

“How long did it take before you could set your own hours?”

Kelly wouldn’t put it that way. She worked harder now than she ever had. “A while.”

Coral looked around Kelly’s office. “I’m dying to move up and out of cubicle land. No what-are-you-working-on questions from colleagues. No one looking over your shoulder.”

Kelly didn’t reply. Her lips were pressed together as she tried to keep from smiling. Coral turned beet red.

“Which is exactly what I’m doing to you, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Kelly. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s all right.” Kelly laughed. “Look, I could use some help with other things. You up for extra work? But you do have to keep your mouth shut. This is between you and me.”

Coral was taken aback by the blunt reply, but Kelly didn’t have time to be polite. “If I can get something on the air, I’ll make sure you get credited for extra reporting,” she added, softening just a little.

“Oh. Okay. Yes. Absolutely.”

Watching Coral go from zero to sixty for a chance to get her name on something was funny.

“Fine,” Kelly said. “I’ll let the assignment editor know you’re researching a proposal for me in your spare time. Just so long as they know where you are, they won’t care.”

“Great,” Coral said. “And I won’t say a word. You would know who blabbed if I did. If that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.” They understood each other.

“When do you want me to start?”

“How about now? You can work in here for a while unless there’s something you have to be doing in the newsroom.”

Coral got up. “Let me get my notebook and my purse. I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone, Kelly moved things around, placing her laptop squarely on her desk and shoving the monitor for the station’s computer to the angled section for Coral to work on.

The junior reporter came back, carrying a few things.

“Go ahead and see what you can find on Gunther Bach,” Kelly said happily. She had never had an assistant as a reporter, and she hadn’t thought she would need one as an anchor. But if she was going to do both jobs, this could work out fine.

“Ooh. Here’s the Dallas event. The Billionaires’ Ball, huh?”

“It should be extensively covered.”

“Yup. Plenty of photos. And there he is. So well-groomed. And look at that silver hair. Icy eyes, though.”

Kelly looked over from her laptop. “He’s a shark, and there’s blood in the water.”

“That sounds awful. But I know what you mean.” Coral studied the images, clicking through to the sites that featured them. Absorbed in her work, she didn’t say more, and the office was quiet except for the mouse on the mouse pad.

Kelly kind of liked the company. And she wasn’t able to obsess the way she did when she was alone. An hour went by before either spoke.

“I was wondering why the newspaper articles and magazine mentions were all so positive,” Coral finally said. “Then I found this PR profile on Bach.” She swiveled the monitor around to show Kelly. “Atlanta’s top ad agency created it and everyone cribbed from it. Not exactly news.”

“People don’t always know the difference.”

Coral tsked. “They should.”

“You have a lot to learn,” Kelly said, smiling.

“I guess. Let’s see—I looked at the European finance sites in English,” Coral said after a while. “Apparently Gunther Bach is very good at staying several steps ahead of investors demanding their millions back. Supposedly, the risks involved were explained to all. Smart people got out early and raked in the bucks. The latecomers lost out.”

Soon to be repeated in the US
, Kelly thought. She wondered if Gunther Bach had gone on to Mexico after the event in Dallas. Deke had access to information like that. She didn’t.

“Want all these pages copied?”

“Go for it.”

Quickly moving the mouse, Coral copied articles and web pages, moving everything into a catchall file on the computer screen. “Do you have a printer in here? I forgot to ask.”

“Yes I do. It even works.”

“Send and . . . print. Here it comes.” The junior reporter looked up at the clock. “Time for morning meeting. Gotta go. That was fun.”

“Thanks. Remember, you’re on the company schedule, not mine,” Kelly said. “Don’t fall behind on your own work.”

The printer hummed and spat out pages. Kelly got up and adjusted the printout tray so they wouldn’t all end up on the floor. Later, she would discuss what Coral had found with Deke.

Kelly’s plans hadn’t changed. The right story still could mean vaulting through the ranks to a national news slot and, yes, grabbing a golden statuette with her name on the base. Kelly didn’t care if glory was fleeting.

She started looking for coverage of the shooting. Owing to the blackout, there wasn’t much. But WBRX already had exclusive material to offer: live footage from the scene, which would be edited, padded out with commentary, and jazzed up with graphics and sound effects.

Kelly found a bare-bones report on the police blotter for that day and short mentions drawn from the scanners breaking the news. Additional reporting from behind the yellow tape didn’t add much, but she could write her own copy. If they had to slap a feature together fast, they could do it.

Kelly printed out a few pages and left her office, looking for Monroe Capp. She figured he would be in the control room, supervising the process of putting together the early afternoon newscast before it aired.

With one hand on the doorknob, she turned it and peeked inside. She could just see Monroe, silhouetted in front of multiple screens glowing in the large, dark room. There were at least a hundred of them, some larger than the others, displaying various elements of the show and technical information.

The director sat in the center of it all, manipulating an enormous console switcher, his hands moving over brightly colored knobs and switches arranged in rows. Not far from him was the technical director, wearing a headpiece mic with another in front of him on a thin silver wand. Other staffers were looking into screens on the side.

The producer was going over the live shots and prerecorded elements with Monroe, trying to get the right mix. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Above them was an illuminated clock, its hands moving inexorably toward showtime.

Kelly closed the door softly, not wanting to get yelled at. She’d have to catch Monroe later. On her way back to her office she heard her cell phone ring and ran, hoping it was Deke. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Hello,” she said. “How are you? Where are you?”

“Still in Atlanta. But not for long.” His deep voice was reassuring, but the words weren’t.

“Oh—too bad. I was thinking we could have dinner or something.”

“Wish I could, Kelly. Sorry. I got picked to go back to Dallas, tie up a few loose ends.”

“All right. Then I’ll see you when you get back.” She kept her tone cool, trying to sound professional.

“First thing. I promise.”

Kelly just didn’t want to let him go. She reached out and closed her office door. “Deke, did you take the card to your forensics lab? Anything to report?”

“I left it with the paper specialist. The card and envelope are heavy stock, with some texture, which means John might not be able to pull a latent print. But he’s going to try.”

“Thanks.”

“The photos are totally clean, outside of the bullet holes. Untouched by human hands, John said. But he’s looking at them too. Then the handwriting analyst gets a go at it.”

Kelly was grateful for all the experts she didn’t know and might never meet. She heard the sharp rap of knuckles on her door and opened it to Monroe, keeping the phone against her ear.

He looked at her impatiently. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt an important call,” he barked. “The tech director said you peeked into the control room. If you want to see me, come to my office.”

“Be right there,” she said to the wrinkled back of his shirt as Monroe strode away down the hall.

“Is that your boss?” Deke asked.

“How did you know? I have to go,” she told him quickly. “Call me when you can, okay?”

He said he would and said good-bye. Over and out. Kelly put the phone on her desk and gathered up the few pages she’d printed, slipping them into a folder.

Monroe threw a sour look at her as she entered, narrowing his eyes at the folder in her hand. “What’s that?”

“A little research.”

He groaned. “No.”

“Monroe, if you want to do a feature on the shootout, a few facts won’t kill us. And don’t forget we have tape from the scene. A WBRX exclusive.”

Monroe’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah. Keep reminding me.”

“But it runs less than a minute. It would be nice if we had something to say too.”

“I see your point. Yap all you want. For a feature, we can do cuts in advance.”

Kelly didn’t bother to reply. He wasn’t wrong, just annoying.

“By the way, the director wants to see the tape when he gets out of the control room. I assume you’ll want to be there.”

Kelly nodded, tapping the file folder against her thigh. There was no sense in taking out the papers or discussing the side topic of Gunther Bach with her boss. When Monroe was busy, he had the attention span of a gnat.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Then get outta here. I mean that in a nice way.”

“Sure you do,” she said. The finger he jabbed in the direction of the open door was Kelly’s cue to leave. “See you later.”

Summoned via phone intercom at the usual hour, Kelly walked from her office to the makeup room. Dave Maples was in the chair and wearing a smock over his suit.

June Fletcher had just stepped back and was studying his rock-jawed face, not pleased. “Yikes. There is such a thing as too tan.”

Kelly’s co-anchor turned to look at himself in the mirror, smoothing down the tissues protecting his snowy collar. “I would call that a healthy glow,” Dave said.

June didn’t bother arguing, just got busy. In another few minutes, Dave looked more natural. He got up and let her remove the smock, then made a gallant gesture in the direction of the chair. “Your turn, Kelly.”

“Thanks.”

She sat and closed her eyes, letting June do her magic. “So what’s the big story tonight?” the makeup artist asked.

“There isn’t one,” Kelly replied.

June clucked with disapproval. “You mean the world isn’t coming to an end?”

“Not anytime soon.”

 

Kelly could have done the broadcast in her sleep. Her mind was elsewhere. The routine stories had called for nothing more than the usual banter and an occasional concerned frown. She slid out from behind the slab top of the anchor desks, avoiding the tangle of wires hidden from the cameras.

Dave Maples had done the sign-off tonight and now was talking about the broadcast with the director, who was still in the control room. Actually, Dave was only listening, his gaze fixed on nothing. The director was talking to him through the clear IFB bud in Dave’s ear. There was nothing like feedback to make an anchor look like a lunatic.

Handing over her lav mic and bud, Kelly left the set. She went around several corners to reach the newsroom. The steady hum of the scanners reached her first. Then suddenly the chatter grew louder, voices overlapping.

The address was given. She knew the street and the promenade, part of Atlanta’s most expensive new condo complex. She heard the assignment editor at the scanner desk yelling for someone to get out there. Kelly almost bumped into Monroe by the time she turned the last corner.

“Did you hear that?” he asked her. “Poor bastard. But he might make the eleven o’clock news.”

 

“Deke. Did I hear you right? Gunther Bach was the suicide?” Kelly grabbed a pencil. She’d been working late at the office when his call came in. “The scanners didn’t ID the jumper. Who’s your source? Tell me how you know.”