“Okay, then,” Jack said finally. “I’m off to work. Maybe today I’ll score that big story.”
With that, they merged back onto the comfortable highway of their lives. Jack might have briefly hit his turn signal, but in the end, no lane-changing was allowed.
Jack stood in front of the stadium, freezing his nuts off. A chilling breeze whipped through the parking lot, kicking up leaves and bits of fallen debris.
“There you have it,” he said, giving the camera one of his patented PR smiles. “The two teams competing for this year’s State Boys B-8 football championships. They might be small in size and number, but they more than make up for it in spirit and determination. From downtown Portland, this is Jackson Shore with your midday sports update.”
The minute the camera light blinked off, he tossed the microphone to his cameraman. “Shit, it’s cold out here,” he said, buttoning up his coat. With a quick wave good-bye, he walked back to the station. He could have waited for a ride, but the techies were taking forever breaking down their equipment.
Once inside the station’s warmth, he got a double tall mocha latte and headed into his office; then he sat down at his cheap metal desk and tried to think of something to do. Nothing came to mind. He got up and went to the window. Outside, the day was as gray as pipe metal. A drizzling rain fell in strands almost invisible to the naked eye. Stoplights threw beams of red and green light onto the wet pavement.
He could always go down to the college and see what was up with the Ducks, but their basketball team didn’t look promising.
Maybe something was going on with the Trail Blazers …
There was a knock at his door. “Come in,” he said, not daring yet to turn around. He knew he’d have to look “up” for whoever had just walked in, but in an end this dead, sometimes it took a few seconds’ worth of effort to draw up that PR smile.
“Mr. Shore?”
Finally, he turned. It was Sally something-or-other, one of the station’s new production assistants. She was young and beautiful and ambitious. He’d recognized that ambition the first time he’d seen her. Looking at her now, seeing the passionate fire in her gaze, made him even more tired. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to thank you for Tuesday night.”
Jack thought for a minute. “Oh, yeah. The Bridgeport Pub.” A bunch of the producers and videographers had gone out after work. At the last minute, Jack had invited Sally.
She smiled up at him, and he was caught for a minute, mesmerized by her dark eyes. “It was really nice of you to invite me along.”
“I thought it’d be good for you to hang out with the producers a little. It’s a tough business to break into.”
She took a step closer. “I’d like to return the favor.”
“Okay.”
“Drew Grayland.”
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but that sure as hell wasn’t it. “The Panther center?”
“My little sister was at a party with him on Saturday night. She said he was drinking straight shots and doing all kinds of drugs, and that he took a girl into his room. When the girl came out, she was crying and her clothes were all ripped up. Later that night, a drunk driver hit a dog up on Cascade Street. The rumor is that Drew was driving and the campus police are covering it up. Thursday is the big UCLA game, you know.”
Jack hadn’t had a tip like this in … ever. “This could be big.” He allowed himself to imagine it for just a second—a national story, big-time exposure, his face on every television in America. And Henry, the lead sportscaster, was out of town. A vacation in the Australian outback, no less.
“Can I be your assistant on it?” Sally asked.
“Of course. We’ll need to see if that woman filed any charges against him. We can’t run with campus gossip.”
Sally flipped open a small notepad and started taking notes.
“I’ll talk to the news director. You get to work on questions and leads. We’ll start with the campus police. Let’s meet in the lobby in …” He looked at his watch. It was twelve-forty-five. “Thirty minutes, okay?”
“Perfect.”
“And, Sally, thanks.”
“What goes around comes around, Jack.”
When she grinned up at him, he felt a flash of the old confidence.
By the time Elizabeth got home, she was dog tired. The library meeting had run overtime, her book group had taken almost an hour to get started, and the carpenter she’d interviewed was too damned expensive to do her any good.
Exhausted, she tossed her purse on the kitchen table and went back outside. On the porch, she settled into the rocking chair. The even, creaking motion of the chair—back and forth, back and forth—soothed her ragged nerves.