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potentially gets more rewarding. I grab my notebook and write down Foreman’s e-mail address before I forget it. Walt arrives in the entryway with his gear and I quickly give him the lowdown. Then, there’s a barrage of knocking and the doorbell rings again. This is going to be a pleasure.
    I try not to look superior as I open Melanie’s front door. These crews have certainly figured out Channel 3 is here—Walt’s porcupine-antennaed Crown Vic out front is a dead giveaway. And they’re also thinking if Melanie talked to whomever is already inside, she’ll certainly give interviews to every other station. But I am now going to get the delightful opportunity to disappoint them.
    Course they don’t teach in J-school: The Art of the Scoop.
    “Hello, all,” I say. Straight-faced, pleasant, not at all smirky. “Mrs. Foreman says she’s not interested in any interviews. And she asks if you could please not disturb her.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    “Did she talk to you?”
    “What did she say?”
    They’re a buzzing pack of angry journalists, deprived of their prey.
    “I’m only telling you what she told me,” I call out. I’m on a beeline to the car. “Sorry, gang.” And I hop into the Waltmobile.
    My photographer finally bestows a smile. “Cool.” Walt nods and hands me the videocassette he just shot. “Very cool.”
    The force of several g’s hits as Walt floors it, and we are headed back to the station. On time and with an exclusive interview. What’s more, if Melanie’s correct, there’s some very intriguing e-mail buried somewhere in my computer.

Chapter Three
     
     
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ngela Nevins greets me at the newsroom door. She’s still carrying her management-prop clipboard, which she points at me like a weapon.
    “Charlie,” she says. “Word from the police—Bradley Foreman’s death was a suicide.”
    “Suicide?” I slowly place my videocassette on the assignment-desk counter. “Oh, Angela,” I reply, frowning. “I really don’t think so. You know I got your page, and I did ask, and…” I look up, ready to pursue my case, but it doesn’t matter.
    Angela is still chittering. “And as a result, we’re dropping the story. You know we never cover suicides. Putting them on TV might encourage people to do it. So—sorry, Charlie.” She gives a simpery smile, as if no one’s ever used the tuna line on me before. “But thanks for being a team player.”
    I can’t let this go. She’s wrong.
    “But, Angela, I was with his widow,” I persist. “I specifically asked her about suicide, as much as I could without sounding completely insensitive, and I’m telling you. It just wasn’t—he just didn’t.” I pause. “Is there a note or something? A police report?”
    “No report I’ve heard of, and no note, either.” Angela looks at the clipboard and reacts as if it’s giving her some important instructions to get away from me as fast as she can.
    But I have one more question. “Why would she call the assignment desk and ask to be interviewed, if she thought it might be suicide?” This never made sense to me, anyway.
    “Charlie, you’ve got it backward,” she says, her tone suggesting she’s talking to the slow class. “The desk called her. We asked her for the interview. I mean after all, her husband had been missing for days, we were helping by broadcasting his picture and we told her we wanted an interview after he was found.” She shrugs. “I guess she figured she still had to do it—even though he was found, uh, dead.”
    Only local news has the guts to guilt a grieving widow into doing an on-camera interview. And I just love it that no one bothered to fill me in on that little tidbit before I showed up at her door.
    “Whatever,” Angela continues. “Police think it’s suicide, and that’s what we have to accept. Period. The end.”
    She starts to walk away, then turns back to me. Big smile. “But let’s do set up a time to chat about your stories for November, all