Patrol cars with flashing lights and blaring sirens descended upon the scene. The police weaved their way through onlookers and cordoned off the area. Crime-scene investigators examined the body as a stunned, blood-splattered Laura Taninger waited to be questioned by two detectives.
She overheard a patrolman who was first to arrive give his impression of the crime.
"The victim was assaulted, and his wallet was stolen by an armed assailant," he said. Detectives Andrea Stone and Glen Boyer listened, their faces somber, their badges prominent on their plain clothes. "There were blows to the victim's face and body, signs of a struggle that indicated he fought back. That's when, I'd say, the attacker panicked, took out his gun, shot the man in the chest, and fled the scene." The patrolman concluded, "It looks like an assault and robbery that turned into a homicide."
The patrolman gestured to Laura standing nearby. He introduced the detectives to her and told them that she was the first person to reach the victim.
"Did you know the victim?" asked Stone. "Who was he?"
Laura told the officers Spenser's name and that he was the assistant director of the Bureau of Elections. She added that she was a journalist who was about to meet with him to obtain confidential information about what he believed were anomalies in the SafeVote program being developed by his agency.
"What kind of anomalies?" asked Boyer.
"I don't know."
"Did you see the attacker?"
She told them what she remembered.
"I saw him, but only as he was running away with his back toward me. He was racing toward the fence at the far end of the parking lot." She pointed in the direction of the fence. "And then he jumped over it. He was a tall, heavyset white male, about 250 pounds, with short brown hair; he was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt."
The detectives took notes, their eyes darting from their pads to her face. They continued to take turns questioning her.
"Did you notice anything unusual about the attacker? Anything about his appearance that stood out?"
She shut her eyes, trying to visualize the fleeing man. As she replayed the scene in her mind, she remembered seeing something as the man grasped the top of the fence. "Come to think of it, when he reached up to climb over the fence, I noticed a large tattoo on his right forearm."
"What did it look like?"
"It was a human skull, with black eye sockets and a full set of teeth."
"Really?"
"That's what caught my eye."
The detectives looked at each other, questioningly, as if wondering if the description jogged a memory, but neither one seemed to recognize it.
"Was Mr. Spenser conscious when you reached him?"
"Yes, barely."
"Did he say anything to you?"
"I asked who did this to him, but Spenser said he didn't know. I asked why he was attacked, and he repeated that he didn't know. Then, he said a final word that sounded like Fox, and he lost consciousness."
By the detectives' blank expressions, she knew that Spenser's last word puzzled them as much as it did her.
"Does that word mean anything to you, Ms. Taninger?" Stone asked, jotting it down on her pad.
"No, nothing."
Laura mentioned Spenser's concern that his superior might have suspected him of being a whistleblower.
"Maybe others suspected him, too. Maybe someone was monitoring his communications and knew about his meeting with me. What I mean is, maybe Spenser was not assaulted by a thief trying to steal his wallet. Maybe he was roughed up by someone who wanted to send him a message—to scare him into silence—and his wallet was stolen to make it look like a robbery and divert the police from the real motive and attacker."
"And who would this attacker be?" asked Boyer, his tone sharper, as if he were questioning Laura's hypothesis.
He and his partner paused from their note-taking to study her face.
"Someone who didn't want James Spenser to talk to the media."
"Like who?"
"Maybe someone on the outside who's working for a contractor, or someone inside . . . the agency or . . . higher up."
"Do you have anyone specific in mind?"
"No."
The detectives looked increasingly skeptical, as if she had an overactive imagination. They thanked her for the information and moved on.
Later, on the set of Just the Truth, Laura took her place, with printed notes and a laptop at her fingertips. She looked pale and tense, still reeling from the events of the afternoon. She sat at a striking glass table that seemed to be floating between brushed nickel columns on each end, its top curved like a crescent with sharp, pointed edges. When she had begun the show two years ago, she had chosen that table design because it was transparent and edgy, like the clear facts and incisive opinions she planned to give. On her laptop, she glanced at the websites of the leading news outlets to see how they were covering the murder of a high-level federal official.
Man killed in random robbery.
Man fatally shot in D.C. parking lot.
Man robbed and murdered.
The murder was covered as a common crime story on the local news sites. It barely made national news. The fact that James Spenser worked for the Bureau of Elections was mentioned merely as an aside and not treated suspiciously.
She had decided to handle the matter differently. She began her show each night with a monologue that she called her Daily Memo. She wrote these pieces herself and gave them to her staff to enter into the teleprompter. She had written that night's opening in the frenzied aftermath of the shooting. Her monologue would address James Spenser's murder.
She took a final look at her notes for the evening's broadcast. Although the lights on the set gave off heat, she had the chills. Spenser's final moments stained her memory. She could still see the blood seeping from his body and the life draining from his face. She would make it her cause to find out what he was going to tell her, to learn the information that could have cost him his life. When she did find out, would she, too, be in danger? She glanced at the studio set, and her eyes paused on the logo for her show, the bold initials of her grandfather, JT.
For a moment, she thought back to how he had described the work of Taninger News to her when she was a teenager learning the business: We will always report the truth. Then we'll take a stand on it. To JT, obtaining the facts was the first step. Commentary came next. We will never be neutral, he would tell her. For her grandfather, to be alive was to make judgments. How do you make them? she had asked him. Not through partisanship. Political parties aren't sacred. Only facts and principles are sacred. Like a scientist, he'd examined the people, policies, and events of his day through powerful lenses that revealed their essence, the lenses of justice and liberty. Did the objects of his scrutiny preserve or destroy these essential principles? Because his commentary was based on the facts and on the moral code that a free nation depended on, a wide audience considered his opinions to be well-reasoned and persuasive.
Those were his tenets, and now they were hers. She did not accept them uncritically, which would have been an insult both to her and to JT. She believed in them as wholeheartedly as he did. They powered her spirit as much as they did his.
She thought of the fierce pride he took in his verbal duels with those he believed were the purveyors of corruption, injustice, and unchecked power. She thought of the calling that was the newspaper business to him, and it somehow gave her the courage to pursue her story as she saw it, regardless of how others were treating it, regardless of the ridicule—and danger—it might bring her.
An attendant adjusted her hair and whisked a powder puff over her face. Another crew member announced the two-minute warning to air time. She thought of her father's order to drop the investigation of SafeVote, following the phone call he'd received from President Martin's aide, Darcy Egan. Why was he so willing to do their bidding? Would JT drop it? Never. Then, in the control room, she saw a hand raised with fingers counting down, and she heard through her earpiece: "Five, four, three, two, one."
The raised hand pointed to her. They were on the air. She managed a cordial smile for her viewers.
"Good evening and welcome to Just the Truth. I'm Laura Taninger. The subject of my Daily Memo tonight is: Give Us Justice."
Her smile faded, her face looking suitable for a funeral. Her voice grew somber as she continued, "This afternoon, yours truly was at the scene of the murder that's shocked our nation's capital. The victim was the assistant director of the Bureau of Elections, James Spenser. He was killed just moments before he was to meet with me to report his concerns over what he believed were anomalies in the programming of the country's new SafeVote system, which is being developed for use in the upcoming presidential election. Our calls to the Bureau of Elections and to President Martin's senior aides for their comments have so far gone unanswered."
She stared into the camera, her eyes wide and questioning, her face still showing the sadness, shock, and horror of the day's events.
"While we await the police investigation into the killer and the motive, I can't help but wonder if James Spenser was targeted. Could it really be a coincidence that he was gunned down moments before he was to speak to a member of the press? Other news outlets aren't mentioning this important fact. Instead, it has been reported that the man with inside information about suspicious activities surrounding the controversial federal takeover of our election system has been murdered at random by a street thief looking to lift a wallet." She paused to let her viewers digest her implication. "What was James Spenser about to reveal to me? Just the Truth will find out. We will pursue this story until we have answers."
After her show, Laura returned to her office. She turned on one of the television screens on her wall. She'd already seen the online coverage of the story, but she wanted to observe how network competition had covered the case of James Spenser's murder. She called up a replay of the flagship program of the Miller News Network, which had just finished its live telecast. It, too, broadcast from the nation's capital, and it aired at the same time as her show. The Nightly News and Views with Sean Browne began with its handsome eponymous host covering the political scene in Washington, DC. Laura fast-forwarded to the point when Sean Browne addressed the murder.
"Police in Washington, DC, believe that a robbery went terribly wrong today when the victim attempted to fight back and was fatally shot by his armed assailant. The victim, James Spenser, who worked for the Bureau of Elections, was in the parking lot of Bailey's bar and restaurant in the southeast part of the city when the attack happened."
Sean Browne had two guests on his show whom he questioned about the incident. One was a crime stopper, who cautioned the audience against resisting an assailant.
"It's better not to fight back," he said. "Just give up your wallet, or purse, or whatever else the attacker is after."
The other guest was the spokesperson for the Bureau of Elections, the woman who had left Laura's multiple messages that day unanswered, but who was now appearing on the program of her strongest competitor.
"We mourn the loss of our colleague and friend, James Spenser, who was killed during a robbery today. He was a man of integrity with a strong record of public service."
Sean informed the audience that the police would provide extra patrols in the area where the murder was committed until they found the perpetrator.
Was Spenser the random victim of a perpetrator on the loose who remained a danger to others? Laura wondered. That was the story Miller News and other media outlets were spreading. Surely, that isn't true.
She observed the demeanor of her college classmate, Sean Browne. He was a senior when she was a freshman at Collier University. Today, at thirty-two, he was considered the town's most desirable bachelor. Even in close-ups he was flawlessly handsome in the style that people described as clean-cut, with perfectly proportioned features, dark brown hair and eyes, and an engaging smile. Yet something was missing—a spark in the eyes, a vibrancy to the face. Sean's eyes were calm, and his face was static. Reading his lines off the teleprompter, his manner was pleasant without being critical. Interviewing guests, he questioned without probing. He was like a pristine ship that sailed only in calm waters, never battling the gales and swells of raging storms.
Not a hint of James Spenser's suspicions about the SafeVote program appeared in Sean Browne's report, although Laura knew he was aware of the matter. Just how much did Sean know? She was determined to find out.
The smiling maître d' came out from behind his stand to show Laura and Sean to a table.
"Good evening," he said, cradling two menus in his arms. "Follow me, please."
That Sunday The Waves, the city's trendy seafood eatery, was quieter than it was on other nights of the week. Good, Laura thought, it'll be conducive to conversation.
The couple was escorted into the dining room, with its famed walls of aquamarine glass, laced with curved metallic strips to simulate the ocean and its currents. Rippled daily by schools of journalists, lobbyists, and politicians, The Waves had seen more than its share of tsunamis.
The maître d' recognized the diners.
"My daughter loves your show, Ms. Taninger," he said, as he extended a chair for Laura. "And my other daughter loves your show, Mr. Browne."
"Do your two daughters speak to each other?" Laura quipped.
The three of them laughed as the maître d' handed them menus and left.
"Why do we speak to each other?" Sean asked. "We're supposed to be fierce rivals, aren't we?"
She smiled in reply.
"Never mind, I know the answer. It's because I like seeing you, and you like getting my leads," Sean said. "And nobody admires you more than your arch rival."
"I do like the leads, and I'm happy to be admired."
"Even if you don't admire me as much in return," he said. He looked hopeful that she would deny it, but he received no reply.
"Now your show's number one! I saw the Stone Media ratings. Congratulations, Laura!"
Reaching across the table, he squeezed her hand.
She returned the gesture. His genuine admiration for her and pleasure at her success, with no touch of envy, reinforced her feelings of friendship toward him.
"But thanks to me," Sean continued, concern sweeping his face, "you've witnessed a murder. I never should have given you that lead."
"I wanted that lead, Sean. I want every lead I can get about SafeVote and what happened to Spenser."
"Still, I wish I could have spared you the horror of what you witnessed. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Sean, really. But I could use help investigating this thing." She paused before asking, an edgy tone in her voice, "Why was your report on Spenser's murder such a . . . whitewash?"
His eyes dropped, looking hurt by her remark. "I'm just reporting what the police are saying. Considering the neighborhood, the murder was likely the result of a random street robbery gone bad."
"Why are you so trusting?"
"Why are you so suspicious?"
"Oh, please . . . " Laura said.
Sean replied, "I have no reason to think that the authorities aren't being forthright and trying to do their best."
"Spenser's death raises questions that need to be answered."
"Like what?"
"For one thing, with the robber being armed, why would he need to strike so many blows to the victim? I'm sure you saw the police report. Spenser's mouth and eyes were bruised. His clothes were disheveled. There was too much roughing up, I think, for a robber whose only motive was to steal a wallet."
"Maybe Spenser resisted more than the attacker expected. Maybe he had to fight Spenser for his wallet. Maybe he didn't want to be nailed for murder, so his fists were the first resort and the gun was his last. That would explain the blows."
"So much violence to steal a wallet? Really?"
"So, what's your theory?" Sean folded his arms, assuming a skeptical posture.
"Maybe the attacker's real motive was to rough up Spenser, to send him a message to keep quiet. The guy stole Spenser's wallet, so no one else would guess the real motive. But Spenser fought back, and when he did, the thug pulled his gun, rather than risk being caught. That's when he shot Spenser and ran away. That would make the beating the real purpose of the attack, not robbery. A beating to send a message—without words, just blows. Spenser was a smart guy. He would've figured out the point of the attack."
Sean shook his head.
"Look at the obvious. James Spenser chose a terrible neighborhood for his meeting with you. Right?"
"He didn't want us to be seen together."
"I'm just glad you weren't the one attacked."
"I didn't have a secret to tell."
"Come on, Laura." Sean persisted in dismissing her claims. "James Spenser was well-dressed in a rough part of town. He looked as if he had a few bucks, and that made him a prime target for a street crime. That's the most likely explanation. That's what the police are saying, and it's what Darcy Egan said when I called her for the administration's comments."
"Why does she take your calls, but not mine?" Laura said with indignation. "Never mind, I know the answer."
"How do you expect her to react? You practically interrogate people. Should she make it look like the president is on the defensive?"
"I'm the press. I'm supposed to question them." Laura said, feeling anger creep into her voice. "The president's chief advisor can't cherry pick press that's favorable to the president. I expect Darcy Egan—and the Bureau of Elections—to deal with me, not to blow me off!"
Sean smiled, embracing her with his eyes.
"You look so vibrant when you get angry, Laura. Controversy becomes you!"
Don't change the subject, Sean, she thought.
"And what about you?" she asked. "Why aren't you angry?"
"I like to think I left my wide-eyed fantasies in school. Isn't that what we're supposed to do as adults? Drop the youthful idealism and grow up?"
"Grow up to be what? The living dead? Soulless?"
He laughed.
"You are fascinating. Somehow you never got the message to be more realistic and practical. I hope you'll never let anyone kick sand on that wild fire that lights up your face."
Laura sighed.
"I don't understand you, Sean. If you like a wild fire in me, why do you keep only a . . . pilot light . . . burning in yourself?"
"I stir up plenty of fire. I give you leads, don't I?"
She thought of the scoops he had given her—a kickback scheme involving a governor and the state's key contractors, the tax evasion of a senator, the misuse of campaign funds of a congresswoman, and other scandals—which turned out to be important stories that she'd pursued successfully, while Sean chose not to lock heads with the officials involved.
"Why do you give me stories that compromise our political leaders, instead of breaking these scandals yourself?"
"Your positions give me something to counter on my show," he teased.
"Is that the real reason you pass on some of the most important stories to me? Or is it to allay your conscience?"
"Allay my conscience for what?"
She smiled in a friendly manner but spoke bluntly.
"For having such a cozy relationship with people you're supposed to be objectively reporting about."
"I enjoy a decent relationship with the people in power," he said. "It helps me in my work. What's wrong with that?"
She didn't reply.
"You think that makes me a coward? Don't you?"
A waitress approached to take their drink order, sparing Laura the necessity to answer immediately.
When the server left, a plaintive tone colored the newsman's voice, "That's what you think, isn't it? That I'm a coward."
She paused to select her words carefully.
"I think you're on the short list for an exclusive interview with President Ken Martin, and you don't want to rock the boat. I think that's your latest excuse for giving the people in power a pass."
He laughed and said, "And I might get that interview, if I play my cards right. Sometimes it's best to be prudent."
"You mean unethical," Laura corrected.
He shook his head at her. She could see she'd wounded him, yet his eyes were tempered with his affection.
"How is it that getting along with people and advancing my career make me soulless in your eyes? I'm being shrewd and practical."
"So am I," she said. "Here's something practical: Why are $400 million unaccounted for in the Bureau of Elections' expenditures on SafeVote?"
Sean waved his hand dismissively.
"Come on, that's a rounding error."
"A rounding error? With whose money?"
"Or somebody approved a contract that the agency doesn't want to reveal publicly, probably an award to a contractor for a political donation," he added. "But that doesn't mean the contractor isn't qualified to do the work. That kind of stuff is as old as time, Laura. Give me a break."
She leaned toward him, her elbows on the tablecloth, her hands outstretched, her eyes intense.
"It would help if another journalist—a popular, respected news host like yourself—joined me in investigating this, in writing and talking about it, in keeping the story alive."
The waitress arrived with their drinks. Sean seemed to welcome the interruption, but Laura wasn't finished with her plea. As the waitress left and Laura stirred her drink absently, she stared at her companion.
"Sean, we're not talking about a little program with no significance here. We're talking about a revamping of the country's entire election system. There are anomalies in SafeVote that James Spenser noticed. Now he's dead. I see anomalies in their accounting. Instead of quietly giving me leads and sitting on the sidelines waiting to do a puff piece on the president, you have a chance to join me in pursuing a really important story."
Sean's smile contracted under her attack.
"Why shouldn't I want that interview with Ken Martin? He rarely grants them, and an interview with him would blow my show's ratings through the roof. Every journalist would kill to get it—except you."
"I put my name in for the interview. I'd love to have it, if he'd sit for probing questions. But I'm sure he'd rather have softballs thrown at him."
"That's not fair, Laura. I ask questions that interest my viewers. Besides, my boss wants me to do my job the way I'm doing it. You remember my boss," he said sarcastically, "the man you most admire in the world?"
She dropped her eyes at the mention of Reed Miller, the head of Miller Communications, the parent company of Miller News Network where Sean worked.
"The man I used to admire," she said.
Laura's pain was palpable, and Sean seemed to retreat when he saw her expression.
"I'm sorry," he said, regret in his tone. "I didn't realize—"
"Forget it."
Reed Miller was the innovator and entrepreneur who had created Miller Communications, a major player in the retail sales, news, and entertainment industries. He had developed a winning formula for combining and transforming the way consumers obtained a wide spectrum of products. If you shopped with Miller Communications, or sought the news, or subscribed to one of the company's entertainment packages, you also received ample incentives to utilize the other services. Through its one-stop portal, Miller Communications made purchasing goods, obtaining the news, watching the latest movies, accessing major sports events, and hearing a virtually unlimited selection of music quicker, easier, less expensive, and more satisfying than other companies had done, and it rose to dominate the markets it served.
Two years ago, Miller Communications got caught in the crosshairs of the Martin administration's Bureau of Fair Trade, one of the most powerful federal agencies that regulated corporations, including their allegedly monopolistic activities. Fair Trade sued Miller Communications to break up the large conglomerate, which the government considered to be a monopoly that crippled the competition by causing disruptions in the marketplace—and by becoming too powerful a player in the news industry, a player critical of the president.
Laura had defended Miller Communications, the strongest competitor of Taninger News, against the action of the Bureau of Fair Trade. She fiercely supported Reed's company not just because of her professional integrity, but she was also romantically involved with him. Despite the fury unleashed on her by her father and siblings, the affair continued for a year, the most glorious year of her life. Then Reed ended it. He reached a deal with the Bureau of Fair Trade, and they dropped the lawsuit against him. In turn, he dropped Laura. The pain of it was like a wound that refused to heal.
"Laura, that bastard, Reed—"
"Forget it."
"I can't ever forgive him for what he did to you—even if he did give me my big break."
The terms of Miller Communication's settlement with the Bureau of Fair Trade were fortunate for Sean because Reed Miller agreed to restructure his news organization to reflect what the agency called more "diverse" and "even-handed" news; hence, Sean was hired to help accomplish that.
"I'd like to body slam him—"
"I said forget it." She swept back a ribbon of hair that had fallen onto her face, wishing her memory could be so easily dispatched.
Reed is a distraction, she thought, and returned to the topic at hand.
"Sean, how is it that James Spenser came to you? I mean, you're not the kind of journalist to run with his story."
When he didn't answer, she pressed on, "He confided in someone else first, didn't he?"
"I can't say."
"I think the ideal person for Spenser to have gone to would've been someone with authority in voting issues, someone in government who would be involved with the new voting system, and yet would also be sympathetic to an insider's suspicions."
"I can't—and won't—confirm that."
Which seems to confirm it, she thought.
"Sean, I think that the ideal person for Spenser to have contacted first would be someone on the Senate oversight committee that oversees the Bureau of Elections and the SafeVote project. That committee is led by members of the president's party, so normally they won't buck the administration. Except this time, there's one senator who did oppose Ken Martin, a senator from the president's party who at first was highly skeptical of the new voting system and tried to stop it, but who had to relent because he's running for reelection too, and he needs his party's endorsement and financial support for the campaign. This senator just happens to head the Elections Committee. I'll bet James Spenser went to him. And I know that you happen to be friendly with this particular senator. He passed the lead on to you."
Sean's mouth tightened. His eyebrows arched. He squirmed in his chair.
"I can't say!"
"Your face tells me I'm right! Senator Bret Taylor was the first to know about Spenser's misgivings."
Sean leaned forward and grabbed her arms.
"You can't ever reveal that!" he said. "I'd be toast. I'd never be trusted again in this town."
"Sean, come clean!"
"Look, I told Spenser and his . . . ally . . . that this kind of investigative journalism was your specialty, and you'd do a better job of it. They gave me permission to pass the lead on to you, but only after I swore to them that you could be trusted unequivocally."
"Of course, you can trust me. I've never betrayed you, have I? Your sources are safe with me."
"Then keep them safe and forget about this issue!"
"But I need to know something."
"What?"
"Did Spenser ever mention someone, or something, called Fox?"
Sean looked genuinely puzzled.
"No."
"Did the senator mention—"
"I never admitted—"
"I mean, did Spenser's ally mention the word Fox to you?"
"No. Why do you ask? What does that word have to do with anything?"
"You're sure?"
"I told you all I know."
When Sean drove Laura home later that evening, there was a last, lingering glow of daylight in the summer sky and a lingering smile of contentment on his face. Despite their differences, he looked like a man who savored the time spent with his companion. Although he was a local celebrity and bachelor, with ample dates and sexual encounters, he treated other women differently than he treated Laura. Despite his public support for women's groups that rejected the customs and manners of the traditional male-female relationship, Sean acted in quite a contrary fashion with Laura. He instinctively opened the door for her, pulled out her chair, helped her on and off with her coat, engaging in the niceties that stressed his awareness of her not merely as a friend, but as a woman. Laura instinctively enjoyed the courtesies that expressed his masculinity and caring. They were not simply two people who were friends, but a man and a woman who were friends.
For dinner dates, Sean met other women at the designated restaurant, but he picked up Laura at her home or office. If he wasn't spending the night with one of his other dates, he put the woman in a taxi to take her home, but he escorted Laura to her door.
That night was no exception. He drove Laura home, passing the shops and eateries on the main thoroughfare of her neighborhood; then he turned onto a quiet side street of old row houses. He parked his car and walked with Laura to the renovated brick house with the turret, bay windows, and surrounding wrought iron gate, where she lived. He walked with her through the gate, up a few steps, and to the front door.
It was here that he stopped and waited, allowing her to make the first move, never pushing her. He knew he would not be invited in. She usually gave him a quick embrace, kissed him on the cheek, and said goodnight. This time he gently grabbed her arms. He had something to say.
"Laura, I want you to drop the Spenser case."
"But if, as you say, there's no basis for my suspicions—"
"But what if there is something to them? If what you suspect is true and there's something sinister going on—even if there's just a one-percent chance that there's foul play—I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to you because of a lead I gave you."
She looked up at him, smiled, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He slipped his arms around her slender waist and breathed her perfume, his hair-trigger desire ready should she ever . . .
"You're a dear, Sean, but don't worry about me." Pulling back, she rested her arms on his chest. "Goodnight."
His phone chimed. He grabbed it from his shirt pocket and looked at the text identification on his screen.
"Sorry, I have to read it," he said.
She could see the sender's name, too. It was Darcy Egan, the chief advisor to President Martin.
"Darcy's working late for a Sunday," she remarked.
"Apparently."
Laura read the message as Sean did:
Interview with the president is yours if we can suggest a few questions and see the final cut before you air.
Sean's face lit with excitement. He quickly texted back:
Yes to your conditions.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Laura, saying, "I got the interview!"
"Yes, I saw."
He reached his arms out to her to resume their hug, but she stepped away.
"Aren't you happy for me, Laura?"
"You're going to let Martin's people feed you questions?"
"No, not at all. They'll just make suggestions. I can work in a few of their ideas."
"And you're going to let them approve the interview before you air it?"
"I said I'd let them see it."
"That's their word for approve it."
"It's a good idea to have them look it over. That way I can correct anything I may have gotten wrong."
She didn't reply.
"Go ahead, say it. You're disappointed in me."
"JT would never allow—"
"Times have changed."
"Goodnight, Sean," she said, with a touch of resignation.
A subtle nod of his head accepted their impasse. He smiled and left.
Back in Sean's car, the scent of Laura's perfume left a sweet memory on his shirt. As was his habit, he had parked so that he could see her row house from his windshield. That way he could linger a few minutes, watching lights go on in her home and thinking about her as she moved around beyond the drawn drapes. Was she watching television? Showering? Curling up in bed with a book? After evenings spent in her company, he felt an intimacy with her—or was it with something inside himself? His thoughts would wander inexplicably to events locked long ago in a backroom of his mind, and he'd get a sudden urge to revisit them briefly, wistfully, as he sat in his car after seeing Laura home.
That night, what came into his mind, seemingly out of the blue, was a trip to a museum that he had taken with his class when he was seven years old. The children had received money from their parents to pick up souvenirs at the gift shop. The other children gravitated toward games and toys; however, he was drawn to another item. It was a small live cactus, with a bright red ball of a flower atop its prickly stalk. The delicate beauty of the plant fascinated him, so he selected it. During the bus trip home, the other children excitedly played with their action figures, toy cars, coloring books, and other items they had purchased, while he sat alone, holding the cactus. Some of the children began laughing at him; then others joined in. They jeered at his peculiar selection and made him feel like a misfit. Why did he pick such a silly item? Under his classmates' mockery, he questioned his choice. Why was he the only one who liked a prickly little plant with the big red cap of flower? Why was he so different from the other children? Why was he so . . . sensitive? When his stop came, he rushed out of the bus red-faced, anxious, and embarrassed. Before reaching his home, he tossed the plant in a trash bin.
The story of the plant made his mind wander more. That incident was somehow connected to other painful memories. It reminded him of a piece of music he loved but rarely played. In his childhood, his older brother had made fun of him when he played it, so like the cactus, he had tossed that music into a trash bin of painful memories. He suddenly had an urge to hear it. He reached for his phone and hunted for the piece, hidden in his music collection. It was an aria from an opera—a tender, romantic soprano's song. He sat there quietly in the car, playing the tune, enchanted by the ideal of beauty and joy that it conveyed. He leaned back, savoring the music and the heartening, uplifting feelings it unlocked.
His mind drifted to Laura. He thought of her passionate defense of Reed Miller. If the government's suit against Reed had been pursued, it could have severely weakened Miller News Network, the Taningers' most formidable competitor. Yet Laura had defended Reed repeatedly on her show. Laura had told Sean that her father had demanded she stop, but she refused. She'd said the lawsuit was unfair and that Taninger News shouldn't want to win that way, by means of a government cudgel over the head of its competitor. She'd warned her father that next time the Bureau of Fair Trade, or another agency, could find a reason to come after his businesses. What happens to a country that punishes success? she had asked, in editorials in Taninger News and in commentaries on her television show.
Sean had to admire her spirited stand in Reed Miller's case. He thought of the special relationship that Laura had with her ideals. She never backed down. She never cowered. She never let anyone's disapproval or mockery dissuade her from what she believed was right. She put her ideals on a pedestal, out of anyone else's reach.
As the music played, his phone chimed again, jogging him back to reality. It was another text message from Darcy:
Call me in the morning.
He glanced at the time on her message. Although it felt longer, only fifteen minutes had elapsed since her first message. Like a splash of cold water, Darcy's text was bracing. He turned off the music, straightened up, and drove away.