Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (23 page)

“Cordial but firm,” she repeated, while writing the words in a narrow reporter notebook.

“Exactly.”

My “cordial but firm” philosophy has served me well whether taping an interview in which I had to point out that a particular politician was indeed a liar or ambushing a business owner who’d been ducking me on a consumer story.
Cordial but firm.

“Never gloat on camera,” I continued. “Always give the impression that you regret this unsavory part of the job, but your interviewee has given you no choice.”

No gloat, my protégée wrote down under my watchful eye.

“During a few interviews, Sophie, I’ve actually said, ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, but you give me no choice.’ Then, I pull out the hidden-camera video that proves they’re a crook.”

I explained to her that live interviews can be more difficult because time is limited and guests may have agendas.

“Whose interview is it?” I asked Sophie as we recapped the fine points of interviewing.

“Mine.”

“Yes and no. Certainly the interview belongs to you, but it also belongs to the viewers. Figure out what the public wants from the exchange and try to give it to them. Don’t worry so much if a guest spins out of control, the audience will see that and form their own opinions. The important thing is for you to keep your cool.”

“Cordial but firm.” She gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

My last advice to Sophie was to think up a few questions to start off and even fall back on, and load them in the tele-prompter, but to also listen to the guests and form questions relating to their answers.

“Don’t make the questions too long,” I said. “Viewers want to hear the guests, not you. Don’t ramble.”

“Short questions,” Sophie said.

“Live guests sometimes play off each other’s answers, without even waiting for a question,” I said. “And that’s fine as long as this interview stays on track about divorce and pets or Buddy, and they don’t start harping about forgetting anniversaries or disliking in-laws. Because remember, Sophie, whose interview is it?”

“Mine. And the viewers’.”

In retrospect, it was a mistake to let both Keith and Barb sit on the set at the same time. Usually when conflicting guests share an interview segment, one or even both are interviewed from other locations in a TV news technique called through-the-box. They hear the questions in an earpiece, but can’t see the anchor or each other.

Critics are always whining that TV stations do this to put the guest at a disadvantage, but no such conspiracy exists. The reality is that it’s done for production values. A through-the-box interview
looks more visually interesting than having all the guests in a newscast on the same set where the rest of the news is read. That’s why reporters are often live in the field, which typically adds nothing to the story content, but looks cool.

However, Noreen was adamant that letting former spouses glare at each other in person would be good TV.

“What if one of them tries to punch the other?” I asked. “Or throw an egg?”

Noreen’s eyes got bright and shiny at the prospect of two guests wrestling on Channel 3’s news set. “Sophie can sit in the middle.”

And so she did. As the floor director clipped microphones on the two guests, he reminded her she had four and a half minutes for the entire interview.

((SOPHIE THREESHOT))
BARB . . . MOST DIVORCING
COUPLES FIGHT OVER WHO GETS
THE HOUSE . . . THE MONEY . . . THE
KIDS . . . HOW DID YOU TWO END UP
FIGHTING OVER A PET?

The question was neutral; the answer set off a verbal storm.

“Keith never really loved Buddy,” Barb said. “He pushed for custody just to hurt me.”

“What are you talking about?” Keith cut in. “I cared more for that dog than you, that’s for sure.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about caring in the vein of feeding and walking Buddy, or caring meaning he liked the dog more than he liked his ex. Sophie didn’t pursue that angle but smoothly played off his answer to another question.

((SOPHIE CU))
YET BUDDY DID DIE IN YOUR CARE,
KEITH. HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN
WHAT HAPPENED THAT DAY?

The question was obvious and shouldn’t have surprised him, but Keith seemed to have difficulty framing a response. Clearly his attorney hadn’t coached him like I had Sophie.

“I’d like to hear that answer, too,” Barb said.

“Let him talk,” Sophie said.

He stammered something about how we all make mistakes.

His angst seemed to embolden Sophie, who traded her perky persona for one of power. “That doesn’t really address my question, Keith. Let me explain how a news interview works. I ask, you answer—Yes?”

That wasn’t anything close to cordial but firm. That was rude and condescending.

Keith tried explaining about the car and Buddy and how he lost track of time, I couldn’t gauge his sincerity because Sophie kept interrupting him to say things like “none of that will bring Buddy back.”

Barb chimed in, “If custody had been awarded to me, Buddy would be alive today.”

“She kind of has a point, Keith. Do you think you might owe her an apology?”

“Sorry won’t cut it,” Barb said. “I don’t think Buddy’s death was an accident, I think he was murdered! You left him in your truck to die to punish me for leaving you.”

Even though the four and a half minutes weren’t up, the floor crew was giving Sophie a frantic wrap per instructions from the control booth. But the signal came too late. Barb lunged at Keith, knocking Sophie off her news perch and out of camera view. The floor director jumped between the two guests before they could exchange blows.

Sophie raised her head from behind the news desk—her perky personality back in play.

((SOPHIE THREESHOT))
THANKS FOR JOINING US HERE AT
CHANNEL 3 . . . COMING UP NEXT,
A LOOK AHEAD AT THE WEEKEND
WEATHER.

The newscast faded black into a commercial break. Sophie used the two minutes of advertisements to powder her face and assure everyone in the newsroom she was fine.

As the guests were escorted out of the building through separate doors, Barb beamed while Keith scowled. Noreen approached me, presumably to commiserate over the interview debacle. Instead, she blamed me.

“Riley, this is your fault, you were supposed to prep her better.”

“I did. She didn’t stick to the plan, Noreen. She went rogue.”

We continued to bicker through weather and sports about why Sophie turned into Nancy Grace until the ending music rolled and Sophie signed off with a vivacious, “Good night, everyone.”

She waved us over to the news desk. “How did I do?” She grinned, seemingly in anticipation of compliments. “I was reasonable, they were crazy.”

Noreen looked at me and I looked at Noreen. Because she was the boss, I let her go first.

“It wasn’t quite what I expected.” Noreen’s tact was certainly more than I expected.

“Didn’t know I had it in me, huh?” Sophie interpreted Noreen’s diplomacy as praise. “I’m proud that you’re proud. How about you, Riley?”

Not having taken management classes, I was blunter. “You seemed to forget our cordial-but-firm plan. I fear you made the viewers feel sorry for a dog killer. And that’s not easy to do.”

“No way,” she protested. “You said, figure out what the public
wants from the interview. I figured they wanted to see him squirm.”

“You and the ex-wife both came across as hostile,” Noreen said. “Frankly, I’m afraid to look at the viewer call sheet and online comments.”

“I was trying to be a serious journalist,” Sophie said, “and not just a pretty face. I wanted to prove I can think fast and act tough.”

Sophie got nailed, and not just by viewers. Bloggers, Tweeters, and other news outlets basically said she deserved to get knocked on her butt for her unprofessional conduct.

I was used to people hating me, but this was a new, unpleasant experience for Sophie. The next time she went on the air, her smile lacked its wow factor and her eyes their sparkle.

She was learning news hurts.

T
he lights were on, so Riley Spartz must be inside. He was torn whether to wait until the house was dark, or surprise her at the door. Crouching in the neighboring house’s porch, he eyed her silhouette as she moved from room to room.

He had taken his nanna’s car for repairs, telling her the work might be a couple days. Now her vehicle sat a half mile away on a dark side street near Lake Nokomis Park. Far enough not to be linked to this crime; near enough for his escape to the freeway.

Just then he grew baffled and paid closer attention. As he watched, he realized two distinct female forms floated before him through the windows.

Who was the other woman? He was tempted to go for both, but didn’t have the confidence or experience. More significantly, he didn’t have permission.

He would wait them out.

This plan could work well. After her friend left, he would go to the door and the TV reporter would abandon caution and simply assume something had been forgotten. He could pounce.

An hour later he grew restless. Why was she still entertaining company? Didn’t she have to be at work in the morning?
Then the house went dark and he was forced to consider that she might have a roommate or a houseguest. In his case, a witness.

He left to ponder alternatives, vowing to return to consummate the crime.

I
pretended not to see Ozzie flagging me down from the assignment desk the next morning, but he left his newsroom perch and intercepted me on my way to my office.

“No story,” he said. “The GM wants you upstairs.”

One-on-one time with the general manager can be really good or really bad. I deserved praise; after all, I’d delivered stories and viewers. But I’d never gotten any personal kudos from upstairs before, so more likely than not I was in for a second tongue-lashing about the pet custody interview, or another cyber consult from Fitz, this time under the watchful supervision of the big boss.

“Where’s Noreen?” I asked, surprised she wasn’t the one to fetch me and scold me about what to say and not say.

“Not sure,” Ozzie shrugged. “But he’s waiting for you.”

His assistant, Lynn, waved me inside the big office with the windows overlooking downtown. I tried catching her eye for a cue, but she seemed to be avoiding my gaze.

Inside I saw why.

The GM sat behind his mahogany desk with Noreen in front of it. Both of them waiting in ambush.

“Hello, you two.” I stayed casual.

He motioned me to take a chair. The air stayed still, as if he and Noreen were both waiting for the other to start talking.

He decided to go first. “I got a call from Nielsen. The ratings monster.”

“Are we winning?”

“We were. Now they’re going to flag our numbers.”

Flag was a dirty word in broadcasting—unless it was directed at a competitor. I looked at Noreen, but she was no help. She seemed intent on his words and oblivious to me.

“Nielsen talked to one of their Minneapolis households, Riley. A viewer named Charles Heyden. He told them how interested you were in seeing him demonstrate how the people meter remotes and boxes work. And how helpful you’ve been, alerting him to certain stories, and finding him a good lawyer who knows how to file a subpoena.”

He paused, presumably for me to respond. I considered myself an ad lib master, but this was a real jam. Nielsen pretty much had me nailed. All that remained was whether I took Noreen down with me.

“Your behavior has been so blatant, I must take appropriate action to appease Nielsen and send a lesson to other newsroom employees.”

Noreen suddenly spoke up. “Certainly Riley suffered a lapse of judgment. But she belongs to us, not them. And I don’t want to be bullied by the ratings machine any more than we already are. Charles Heyden’s been dropped from the Nielsen family. I think our best course is to prove for the rest of the month that our numbers were not a fluke, and we can maintain our viewership.”

“Not good enough,” he countered.

I felt awkward, them arguing about my crime and punishment in front of me. But I feared saying the wrong thing. After all, I
was
guilty.

But I had an accomplice.

Sometimes you have to chose between two bad things: damned versus doomed. Damned if I do; doomed if I don’t. I decided to keep my mouth shut and make Noreen pay another time. She would owe me.

I tried explaining that my relationship with Chuck came from the fact that he was a murder suspect and I wanted to stay tight so I’d land a jailhouse interview.

Noreen liked that answer; the GM didn’t buy it. They compromised on a one-day unpaid suspension. Effective immediately.

We both left the general manager’s office together. Around the corner, I guided her away from the stairs.

“Let’s take the elevator, Noreen.”

“This way’s lots quicker to the newsroom, Riley. The elevator’s way down the hall. And the photogs will probably be holding it to load gear.”

“I don’t care.” I whispered each word low and with drama.

She followed me down the hall where we waited for the lift. Once inside, doors closed, I pressed the Stop button for privacy, so we could speak somewhere other than her glass-walled news director office.

“What do you mean throwing me to the GM like that with no warning?” I didn’t push her up against the elevator wall, but I stood close enough to breathe heavy in her face. “You’re my boss, you’re supposed to protect me.”

“What do you think I was doing in that office? I could have let you fend for yourself. But I argued him out of firing you.”

“You were in there protecting your own job. You didn’t want me alone with him or I’d rat you out.”

“Then we’d both be out of work. Here you’re just off a day. If you want, come in anyway, we’ll just keep you off the air and I’ll tell him you were gone.”

“Forget it,” I said. “I need a day off.”

Then I let the elevator go and we dropped one whole floor to the ground level. Door open.

“Does this mean you’re not going to watch my animals this weekend?” Now she was the one whispering. A full house menagerie like hers would make it hard to find a sitter. She might have to cancel her trip.