opening of an herbal tea store and a fashion show featuring men's scarves. Just put me on something quasi-real again."
"Wait." Vic put a hand to his ear, as though straining to hear. He was a small man except for the enormous bowling-ball gut. His face might be called "ferretlike," if the ferret was really ugly.
"What?" she said.
"Is this the part where you rail against the injustice of being a hottie in a male-dominated profession and say that I treat you like nothing more than eye candy?"
"Will railing help me get better assignments?"
"No," he said. "But you know what might?"
"Showing more cleavage on air?"
"I like the way you're thinking, but no, not today. Today the answer is, Dan Mercer's conviction. You need to end up the hero who nailed a sick pedophile rather than the overreaching reporter who helped free him."
"Helped free him?"
Vic shrugged.
"The police wouldn't even know about Dan Mercer if it wasn't for me."
Vic lifted the air violin to his shoulder, closed his eyes, began to play.
"Don't be an ass," she said.
"Should I call in a few of your colleagues for a group hug? Maybe join hands for a rousing rendition of 'Kumbaya'?"
"Maybe later, after your circle jerk."
"Ouch."
"Does anybody know where Dan Mercer is hiding?" she asked.
"Nope. No one has seen him for two weeks."
Wendy wasn't sure what to make of that. She knew that Dan had moved away because of death threats, but it seemed out of character not to show in court today. She was about to ask a follow-up when Vic's intercom buzzed.
He held up a finger to quiet her and pressed the intercom: "What?"
The receptionist's voice was low. "Marcia McWaid is here to see you."
That silenced them. Marcia McWaid lived in Wendy's town, less than a mile from her. Three months ago her teenage daughter Haley--a schoolmate of Charlie's--had purportedly sneaked out of her bedroom window and never returned.
"Something new in her daughter's case?" Wendy asked.
Vic shook his head. "Just the opposite," he said, which, of course, was much worse. For two, maybe three weeks, Haley McWaid's disappearance had been a huge story--teenage abduction? runaway?--complete with NEWSFLASH and scrolls-across-the-screen and bottom-feeding "experts" reconstructing what might have happened to her. But no story, even the most sensational, can survive without new food. Lord knows the networks tried. They had touched on every rumor from white slavery to devil worship, but in this business "no news" was truly "bad news." It was pathetic, our short attention span, and you could blame the news media, but the audience dictated what stayed on the air. If people watch the story, it stays on. If they don't, the networks go searching for the new shiny toy to catch the public's fickle eye.
"Do you want me to talk to her?" Wendy asked.
"No, I'll do it. It's why I get the big bucks."
Vic shooed her away. Wendy headed down the end of the corridor. She turned in time to see Marcia McWaid in front of Vic's door. Wendy didn't know Marcia, but she'd seen her in town a few times, the way you do, at the Starbucks or school car-pickup lane or local video store. It would be a cliche to say the perky mom who always seemed to have a kid in tow now looked ten years older. Marcia didn't. She was still an attractive enough woman, still looked her age, but it was as though every movement had slowed down, as if even the muscles that controlled facial expression were coated in molasses. Marcia McWaid turned and met Wendy's eye. Wendy nodded, tried to give a half-smile. Marcia turned away and entered Vic's office.
Wendy went back to her desk and picked up her phone. She thought about Marcia McWaid, that ideal mother with the nice husband and beautiful family and how quickly and easily that had been snatched away, how quickly and easily any of it could be snatched away. She dialed Charlie's phone.
"What?"
The impatient tone actually comforted her. "Did you do your homework yet?"
"In a minute."
"Okay,"
"Wait." Vic put a hand to his ear, as though straining to hear. He was a small man except for the enormous bowling-ball gut. His face might be called "ferretlike," if the ferret was really ugly.
"What?" she said.
"Is this the part where you rail against the injustice of being a hottie in a male-dominated profession and say that I treat you like nothing more than eye candy?"
"Will railing help me get better assignments?"
"No," he said. "But you know what might?"
"Showing more cleavage on air?"
"I like the way you're thinking, but no, not today. Today the answer is, Dan Mercer's conviction. You need to end up the hero who nailed a sick pedophile rather than the overreaching reporter who helped free him."
"Helped free him?"
Vic shrugged.
"The police wouldn't even know about Dan Mercer if it wasn't for me."
Vic lifted the air violin to his shoulder, closed his eyes, began to play.
"Don't be an ass," she said.
"Should I call in a few of your colleagues for a group hug? Maybe join hands for a rousing rendition of 'Kumbaya'?"
"Maybe later, after your circle jerk."
"Ouch."
"Does anybody know where Dan Mercer is hiding?" she asked.
"Nope. No one has seen him for two weeks."
Wendy wasn't sure what to make of that. She knew that Dan had moved away because of death threats, but it seemed out of character not to show in court today. She was about to ask a follow-up when Vic's intercom buzzed.
He held up a finger to quiet her and pressed the intercom: "What?"
The receptionist's voice was low. "Marcia McWaid is here to see you."
That silenced them. Marcia McWaid lived in Wendy's town, less than a mile from her. Three months ago her teenage daughter Haley--a schoolmate of Charlie's--had purportedly sneaked out of her bedroom window and never returned.
"Something new in her daughter's case?" Wendy asked.
Vic shook his head. "Just the opposite," he said, which, of course, was much worse. For two, maybe three weeks, Haley McWaid's disappearance had been a huge story--teenage abduction? runaway?--complete with NEWSFLASH and scrolls-across-the-screen and bottom-feeding "experts" reconstructing what might have happened to her. But no story, even the most sensational, can survive without new food. Lord knows the networks tried. They had touched on every rumor from white slavery to devil worship, but in this business "no news" was truly "bad news." It was pathetic, our short attention span, and you could blame the news media, but the audience dictated what stayed on the air. If people watch the story, it stays on. If they don't, the networks go searching for the new shiny toy to catch the public's fickle eye.
"Do you want me to talk to her?" Wendy asked.
"No, I'll do it. It's why I get the big bucks."
Vic shooed her away. Wendy headed down the end of the corridor. She turned in time to see Marcia McWaid in front of Vic's door. Wendy didn't know Marcia, but she'd seen her in town a few times, the way you do, at the Starbucks or school car-pickup lane or local video store. It would be a cliche to say the perky mom who always seemed to have a kid in tow now looked ten years older. Marcia didn't. She was still an attractive enough woman, still looked her age, but it was as though every movement had slowed down, as if even the muscles that controlled facial expression were coated in molasses. Marcia McWaid turned and met Wendy's eye. Wendy nodded, tried to give a half-smile. Marcia turned away and entered Vic's office.
Wendy went back to her desk and picked up her phone. She thought about Marcia McWaid, that ideal mother with the nice husband and beautiful family and how quickly and easily that had been snatched away, how quickly and easily any of it could be snatched away. She dialed Charlie's phone.
"What?"
The impatient tone actually comforted her. "Did you do your homework yet?"
"In a minute."
"Okay,"
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