Not even close to the feature spots Jeffery prized. Tallying seconds and minutes had become an obsession for Jeffery. He claimed he could find the feature in any news, peeling away the leaves like an artichoke until he got to the tasty heart.
That’s what a good investigative reporter did, he’d lecture anyone who’d listen. Usually it was only Sam, who was unable to shrug off his bravado and walk away because there was an invisible chain that bonded them together. A chain, like handcuffs … actually more like an umbilical cord, because her life, her career, had come to depend on Jeffery’s success.
She wasn’t exactly happy or proud of that fact, but she’d started living by the saying “It is what it is.” A bracelet she never took off, the leather worn and the pewter pockmarked, had the words engraved on it. It was a constant reminder. Maybe she couldn’t always control all the crap that was thrown at her, but she could damn well control what she made of it.
Her mother’s version was a little more colorful: “It’s your life. Only you can choose what you make with it, whether it’s chicken salad or chicken shit.”
She noticed that Jeffery had taken a break and gone off somewhere, either to find a responder to interview or to take a piss. She didn’t keep track of him when he was off camera. Often she simply got lost in the world through the camera’s viewfinder.
Now, suddenly coming up from behind her, he said, “Looks like we have company.”
She glanced around without stopping what she was shooting. A tall man in a trench coat and two women were headed their way. They were on the inside perimeter of the crime scene tape. The tall woman in the bomber jacket was definitely a cop. Sam bet the other two were feds.
“Keep the camera running,” Jeffery told her. “No matter what, keep me in the shot, too. Remember to get my good side.”
Sam wanted to roll her eyes. Instead she repositioned the camera.
Here we go again. You never know what might still happen.
CHAPTER 9
“The bastards are like vultures.”
Maggie ignored Racine’s muttering. It was the fourth time she’d called the news media bastards during the short walk over. She wondered if Racine clumped her partner, Rachel, into that same category. Rachel worked for the Washington Post.
Maggie convinced Tully to let her take the lead even though he was definitely the better diplomat.
“Good evening,” the reporter said, an announcement more than a greeting, like the opening to the morning news.
Maggie saw the international news station’s logo on the side of the camera and now she recognized the reporter’s voice as that of Jeffery Cole. She resisted the urge to wince. This wasn’t some local affiliate. The camera was rolling and Cole believed he had an exclusive interview.
He moved clear around to the other side, shifting the angle as if jockeying for a better profile of himself even at the expense of exchanging the flames behind them for the building across the street.
“Detectives, do you have some information about how this fire started? Or who might have started it? Do we have a serial arsonist loose in the District?”
“We’re not here to answer any questions at this time,” Maggie said. “I’m sure there’ll be a media briefing later.” She glanced at Tully and Racine, who appeared paralyzed in the camera’s laser beam of light.
“Can you at least tell us whether anyone was hurt?” Cole continued. “Any fatalities? We haven’t seen any victims brought out yet.”
Maggie recognized the tactic. The rapid-fire questions that didn’t wait for answers. Reporters did it all the time. Send out a barrage of questions, overwhelm, overload, tax the patience of the already exhausted cops in the hopes of getting a single piece of information. Cops were used to doing the exact same thing to criminal suspects. They just weren’t used to having it done to them.
Racine started fidgeting and Maggie hoped the detective wouldn’t do something reckless, like tell them to shut the frickin’ camera off. Only Racine would come up with more colorful language or gestures that would require plenty of bleeps if ever broadcast. And Racine’s comments would probably be the ones that would make the 24/7 loop in the cable news cycle.
Maggie also saw Tully’s hand come out of his coat pocket, but he flexed his fingers and thankfully resisted the urge to shove the camera away or to put his hand over the lens. Both gestures would ensure a top-of-the-hour breaking news spot.
“Actually we need your help,” Maggie said calmly, addressing Jeffery Cole, not the camera. “I’m sure you and your news organization would want to assist us in this investigation.”
It was enough to stop the questions. In fact, Cole looked stunned. That’s when Maggie realized the camerawoman had, indeed, been including him in the shot. The young woman flinched as she glanced over for his instructions. The camera bobbed just a notch.