Safe at Home (5 page)

Sandy and Joe left just after 2:00. They seemed very happy together. I had twinges of suspicion that Sandy might be using Joe for his own political purposes, but he seemed genuinely fond of him, and willing to stand by him if things got ugly. The change in Joe was remarkable. I’d never seen him so at ease. He had lost his shyness and gained confidence.

Selfishly, I asked them to promise to keep quiet for a few more days. I wanted time to put together a blockbuster for the Saturday paper with its half-million circulation. Hey, if I’m going to get a scoop, it might as well be a big one. I needed time to discuss the handling of the story with Jake and get some photographs. Sandy also agreed to stay out of sight until the weekend.

I slept through my first alarm in the morning, but had set a backup across the room, and was at the
Planet
by 10:00. Jake knew the story by a quarter past. He looked at me, stunned, for a few seconds, then broke into a smile.

“National Newspaper Award, for sure,” he said. “I knew putting a broad on the beat would pay off one day.”

“Thanks for the recognition of my talents,” I said. “How do you want to play it?”

“The happy couple will pose for pictures?”

“As far as I know. I thought we could send Jay. She can keep her mouth shut.”

“I wonder if they’ll hold hands. That would be cute.”

And Jake is what passes for an enlightened guy in this business.

“Do you need any sidebars or anything?” I asked. “I suppose I could do something on homosexuality in sport, but I don’t really feel like phoning around for it this week. The more people I talk to about this, the better chance that we’ll lose the exclusive.”

“That’s all right,” Jake said. “Let’s not dilute the impact of what we’ve got. We can do that stuff afterwards, while the rest of the papers are matching our story. I expect there’s going to be a lot of pretty heavy reaction, too.”

“I guess that’s the end of my weekend off,” I said.

“Why? I’ll just send one of the kids out to cover the team reaction. I’m sure Roger will be able to handle it.”

“Bastard. Just get someone else to do the game stories.”

“Starting tonight. I don’t want you near the team until Saturday.”

“Thanks. I have enough to do.”

I was at the door when Jake stopped me.

“Be sure you find out which one’s the wife.”

I left without answering, my high spirits dampened. The story was a great coup for me, but Joe was leaving himself open for a lot of crap, even from people like Jake.

I settled in at my desk for a day of slogging. The first job was to transcribe a couple of hours’ worth of tapes. I found the departmental tape recorder easily enough, but it took me half an hour to track down the earphones, which had been borrowed by the entertainment department, and the foot pedal, which turned up in the business section.

Then I had to put up with chirping from the next desk.

“We haven’t had that beer yet, Kate. How about it?”

“I’ve been pretty busy, Dickie. Maybe later today, if I can get through this.”

“What are you working on?”

“A feature for the weekend.”

“What’s it about?”

“Sorry, Dickie. I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Well, excuse me for living,” he said. “I’ll catch you later, when you’re not involved in top-secret projects.”

He made one of those obnoxious pistol gestures with his index finger, shot me, winked, and went back to the phones.

By the end of the afternoon I had a backache from hunching over the keyboard and eyestrain from looking at the screen, but I had finished transcribing. I took a printout to work on at home, then used a security feature of our computer system to put the whole thing in code. There are hackers in the newsroom who spend most of their shifts figuring out passwords and browsing through other people’s files.

I signed out of the system and told Dickie, tied to his desk by phone calls from his high-school correspondents, that we’d have that beer real soon.

I was just about out of there when Jake grabbed me and marched me in to see Ron Wilson, the managing editor. He wanted the story to run on the front page—big deal—instead of in the sports section, so he had to get into the act.

His office was on a direct diagonal across the newsroom from the sports section, but we had to thread our way through an obstacle course of little gatherings of workstations representing the various departments. We turned right at Entertainment, left at Foreign, right again at Business, and left past the feature writers into his outer office.

I could see him at his desk, gazing out the window while he played with a paper clip. Wilson is a little man, not much older than I, who works with his jacket off so everyone can admire his old-fashioned sleeve garters. He would wear a green eyeshade, too, if he didn’t think people would laugh.

Jake rapped on the doorjamb. Wilson turned, saw us, and jumped from his chair and strode across the room. He shook my hand conspiratorially.

“What a bombshell! Out of the closet and into the locker room,” he said, by way of greeting.

“I trust you’re not writing the head,” I said.

“Great story, Kate, just great,” he said. “It will sell a lot of papers.”

Oh, Joe will be so pleased, I thought.

“There’s going to be a lot of interest in you, too,” he said. “I thought maybe you might do a first-person piece about how you got the story. How ’bout that?”

I looked at Jake, who was trying to keep a straight face.

“He just handed it to me,” I said. “I didn’t do anything to get it. I’m not really comfortable writing in the first person.”

“But a scoop like this deserves something extra,” he said. “See if you can’t work a little personal angle into it in your section, Jake.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Jake said, as we edged towards the door.

“A world copyright exclusive, by our Katie. Way to go! Keep in touch.”

“I think our Katie deserves a drink,” Jake muttered as we made our way back across the newsroom. “My treat.”

“Let me just call Andy first,” I said. “We’re supposed to be meeting for supper.”

“I’ll catch you downstairs, then.”

“Order me a scotch.”

The Final Edition, the bar and restaurant on the main floor of the
Planet
building was packed, usual at the end of the day. But no one was eating. The food is terrible.
Planet
staffers have been known to warn off unwary tourists who blunder in after a day at Harbourfront. It’s just our way of helping Toronto’s world-class image. The Ministry of Tourism and Recreation should give us an award.

Jake had grabbed a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by the usual collection of complainers drinking away a day of ego-busting. At the reporters’ tables they were whining about the stifling of creativity. The editors, at their own tables, talked about the decline in standards of journalism. Sometimes the cocktail hour ended in fist fights. Other times, the two factions joined together in sloppy camaraderie. The later it was in the week, the wilder it got. This was Thursday night. I manoeuvred myself into one of the bucket chairs brought in during the most recent renovation and looked around.

I cringed when I saw who was at the next table. Bill Spencer was centre stage, showing off his collection of photographs. As well as snapping me in action, he also specialized in getting disgusting pictures of famous people: the mayor with his finger up his nose, the prime minister adjusting his crotch, that sort of thing.

From what I could see, he was showing off windy-day shots. Most photographers loathe weather assignments, but Spencer, who got more than his share, loved them. Windy days mean skirts over the head, of course, and he had collected hundreds of crotch shots of hapless secretaries over the years.

“Don’t these people have homes to go to?” I asked.

Jake laughed.

“Since you hooked up with that cop, you’ve forgotten the rituals of your profession. For shame.”

“Where’s my drink?”

“I haven’t managed to get Lenore’s attention yet,” he said, flailing a wild semaphore across the room. It worked.

“Sorry, love, what’ll it be,” said the fiftyish waitress, wiping the table with a rag. Her hair is always bleached blonde, she wears a pointy bra under a tight white sweater, and behaves as either a mother or a bouncer, whichever is most appropriate.

Jake stroked her skinny bum in its polyester miniskirt.

“A pair of scotches,” he said. “Johnny Walker Red, not your watered-down bar shit.”

“Keep your hands to yourself or you’ll get nothing, buster,” she said.

“Go get him, Lenore,” I said, “but since I am not sexually harassing you, it would be right sisterly if you would bring my drink. I try my best to keep these guys in line, but they’re so old, they can’t change their mentality.”

“They’re so old, all they can do is touch anyway,” she said, slipping expertly between the jammed tables.

“She got you, Jake,” I said. “And, semi-seriously, you really should keep your hands off her. How would you like it if Ron Wilson pinched you on the cheek whenever you came up with a good idea in the features meeting?”

“Come on, Kate. Lenore and I are old friends. She understands.”

“She probably does, but she might like you better if you weren’t like all the rest of the pigs in the bar. Besides, you’re likely to get a drink in your lap one of these days.”

Lenore, bless her heart, had done just that to one of the more obnoxious representatives of the rewrite desk a few weeks before. It was the talk of the newsroom.

When she returned to our table with a loaded tray, my scotch was noticeably larger than Jake’s. I raised one eyebrow at him, a trick I perfected at university after spending more hours practising it in front of my mirror than studying at my desk. I flunked out, but I have a devastating eyebrow.

“Thank you very much, Lenore,” he said, reaching into his pocket and putting a crumpled handful of bills on the tray.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, with a smug smile. Turning, she almost collided with Dickie Greaves.

“Get me a Blue,” he said, then snagged an empty chair and pulled it up to our table, oblivious to the fact that he was blocking an aisle.

“This is a break, finding you both here,” he said, with his best boyish smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, not at all,” Jake said, downing his drink. “I was just leaving. You can keep Kate company.”

I glared at him. He reached over, pinched my cheek, and told me he’d see me tomorrow.

“Perhaps,” I said.

Dickie moved into Jake’s chair, and started to push the other one back to its proper table.

“Leave it,” I said. “A friend of mine should be joining us in a few minutes.”

“Who? Don’t tell me I’m going to meet Staff Sergeant Munro?” he asked. I nodded.

“That’s great,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to meet the man who has broken the hearts of the entire sports department by stealing you away.”

“Give it a rest, Dickie. Practise your charm on another victim. I’m old enough to be your mother, and you’re married already. How’s the baby?”

“He’s just great. He can roll over.”

“And Beth? How is she liking motherhood?”

“I think she’s getting the hang of it.”

“And are you a good modern father? Diaper detail and all that?”

He smiled uncomfortably and ran his fingers through his well-cut hair. He looked around for his beer before answering.

“Well, I’m pretty busy with work, of course. That stuff is Beth’s department. She doesn’t want me messing around with it.”

“But you’ve already given him his first baseball glove, right?”

“Darn straight.”

We were laughing when Andy appeared in the door. I waved. Dickie craned his neck around and watched Andy cross the room. So did I. I never get tired of looking at this man. He is slight, but strong, with dark curly hair, strong cheekbones and jaw, and gentle grey eyes. He’s a knockout, in my eyes. He looked tired, but sexy.

“Hi, darling. I’ve saved you a chair,” I said. “I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine. . . .”

Dickie jumped up and stuck out his hand.

“Richard Greaves,” he said. “It’s a great honour to meet you. I’m an admirer of your work.”

“
Richard
is in charge of our school sports section,” I explained.

“How interesting,” Andy said. He looked around for service. Lenore, spotting an interesting new face, was at his side in a flash.

“I’d love a Martini,” he said.

“Not here, you wouldn’t,” Lenore answered. “Stick to the straight stuff.”

“She’s right. She watches out for her friends. So I’d better introduce you. Andy, this is Lenore, who is the protector of all innocents who enter here. Lenore, this is my friend Andy Munro.”

Andy rose halfway from his chair and shook her hand.

“I’ll have whatever Kate’s having, thanks,” he said. “And Richard?”

“I ordered a Blue ten minutes ago,” he grumbled.

“But you didn’t say ‘please,’” Lenore shot back over her shoulder.

“Pretty please with sugar on it,” said Dickie, his hands steepled as in prayer.

Andy looked around the room, barely keeping a straight face. He had never seen the bar at full tilt before. It was a sight. The (male) foreign editor was arm wrestling with the (female) business columnist at one table, while a bunch of transplanted Brits sang dirty rugger songs at the next.

In the darkest corner a pair of middle-aged copy editors were coming as close as possible to sex in public without getting arrested for it. Andy smiled, insincerely, and turned to Dickie.

“What does your job involve? High school? Minor hockey? Little league?”

“All of it. I find covering amateur athletics far more rewarding than the crass commercialism of professional sports.”

Sure, and he would sell his first-born for a chance at the hockey beat. Lenore came back with the drinks. I took out my wallet.

“Nope, they’re paid for,” she said.

“Jake?”

“Not a chance,” she said, pointing a few tables over. When we looked, Margaret Papadakis raised her glass at us. At Andy.

There was no graceful way out of it. I smiled and raised my glass at her.

“Wasn’t that nice?” Andy said. “I must return the favour sometime.”

I was about to kick him under the table when Dickie carried on the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“But what I do is nothing compared to your work,” he said to Andy. “It’s so important. My father was a cop up north. I thought of joining myself, but I didn’t have what it takes. I’m not tough enough.”

“Most of it is just paperwork,” Andy said, not comfortable with the turn of conversation.

“These murders you’re working on are horrifying. I know the brother of one of the boys. The family is devastated.”

“Really? Which one?” I asked.

“Benny Goldman. I did a feature on his brother Justin’s hockey team last winter. I talked to Justin’s mother last week, extended my condolences. It’s a terrible thing. Have you found any suspects?”

“I’m really not at liberty to discuss it,” Andy said, looking to me for help.

“Let’s talk about something more cheerful,” I said, dutifully.

“They have to be connected, don’t they? All these murders?” Dickie wasn’t going to let it go.

“That’s the assumption we’re working on,” said Andy, gone all stuffy and cop-like.

“A serial killer, right here in Toronto. I thought that only happened in the States.”

“What about Clifford Olson?” I said. “He was Canadian. And that guy in New Brunswick. It looks like we’re catching up to our violent neighbours to the south.”

“Maybe there are others we don’t even know about,” Dickie said. “How sophisticated are your computers?”

“We progressed beyond stone tablets and chisels a few years ago,” Andy said, drily.

“I don’t mean to insult you,” Dickie said. “I was reading an article about serial killers the other day. It said that until recently if a killer murdered people in different provinces or even different cities, the police wouldn’t necessarily realize that they were connected.”

“That article is way out of date,” Andy said. “Maybe a few years ago that would have happened, both in the States and here. But not now. Now we would connect the crimes.”

“Listen, if there is anything I can do to help, since I know the family, just call me.”

“Certainly. Thanks for your offer,” Andy said, then downed his drink.

“I’m really sorry to have to break this up, but we have dinner reservations. I’d love to talk longer, but you know how it is in Toronto restaurants these days.”

“Absolutely,” I said, gathering up my things. “They’ll blackball you for life if you don’t show up on time.”

We said our goodbyes and got out of there as quickly as we could. Andy had to stop by Margaret’s table to thank her. I gave her a particularly generous smile as we left. After all, he was leaving with me.

When the door closed behind us, I grabbed Andy’s sleeve and kissed him. After he had stopped responding, we both laughed.

“Never again, I promise. I’ll meet you anywhere but here,” he said.

“It’s a deal,” I agreed. “So, where are these hot reservations? Somewhere dark and romantic, I hope.”

“I know a spot in Riverdale where you can get superb pasta with an intimate, homey ambience. Chez Katarina.”

“Let’s take both cars. I’ll toss you for who stops for the pasta and who makes the Martinis.”