Brian Hoffer. Arizona Daily Star.
He’d posted three blogs about Salazar Sanso that Janeal had seen so far. At 3:19 p.m. he filed a story claiming that the drug lord had revealed an outrageous claim, according to a close source.
Someone had survived the tragic Mikkado Massacre.
Janeal broke out in a sweat in spite of her office’s climate control. The dog was going to give her up. After all these years, they’d caged him and teased him with raw steaks and he’d given her up.
Clad in jeans and a lime silk blazer this Saturday afternoon, Janeal grabbed the handset and was halfway through placing a call to Alan when her office door opened. She depressed the switch hook and held on to the receiver. She glared at the intruder. If Alan were here, this wouldn’t have happened. He usually worked six days but had arranged for time off this morning.
“Jim Northrup wants to see you,” said the blond woman. Janeal recognized her as an assistant to the CFO.
“I’m not taking appointments today. Certainly not with Jim.”
“He’s here.”
“Why would that make a difference to me?”
“He’s threatening to sue.”
That made Janeal laugh. “Over what? Bob can handle that hothead. You don't need me for that.”
“Bob was the one who sent me.”
“Tell Bob I’m not available. He can send a memo to Alan. I’ve got two chairs to fill now that Milan’s resigned.”
“What?”
“Milan’s not coming back, dear. I’m the boss you get to hate twice as much now. If Jim or Bob come by, I’ll put them to work boxing up this office so I can get moved upstairs.”
The blonde pinched her lips together and closed the door.
Janeal released the switch hook and dialed again. She looked down at her desk and saw a list under a paperweight on the blotter. A computer-generated daily planner page, in fact, from the schedule Alan kept for her. Saturday filled the top margin.
Alan’s phone rang.
3:45 p.m. Steve Newman pitch re: gun law repeal “Ms. Johnson, what can I do for you?” Alan said after the third ring.
“Never mind.” She hung up.
Her managing editor could handle that story pitch.
She had a bigger story to chase right now, and she needed to do it herself.
Janeal scanned the thirty-minute intervals that tripped through the remainder of her overscheduled afternoon and mentally delegated the list. Pitches could go to the managing editor. The videotaping at CBS over the latest immigration controversy would have to be rescheduled. No need to meet with the production manager; Janeal would have Alan tell her to switch to the Ontario supplier regardless. It was something Janeal had decided to do a long time ago. She supposed she had better make an appearance at the American Freestyle Feminists reception scheduled for 5:30 p.m. Annie Mansfield had Washington connections Janeal couldn’t afford not to maintain. Alan and girlfriend could take her tickets to the symphony—she’d never planned to go to that anyway.
In this sliver of time, Janeal hated her busy, lonely life.
The feeling passed.
She dialed Alan back and told him what she needed him to communicate to everyone. He thanked her for the tickets. She threw the calendar in the trash and got up to lock her door, then dropped into her chair and swiveled so that she couldn’t see anyone who came by.
Someone knocked.
She didn’t look up.
From her iPhone she quickly found Hoffer’s e-mail address, published at the end of an archived Daily Star article for feedback, and sent off a note.
Please contact me ASAP re: Mikkado survivor. Possible human interest story, emergency-response policy story, yours on contract. Jane Johnson, All Angles
She left her private cell number.
With her heart pounding blood through her achy head, Janeal stood and placed her most personal belongings in the one box she’d brought with her, keeping her back to the plate glass windows. Milan wouldn’t have vacated his swanky executive suite yet, but she didn’t care. Alan would pack and sort the rest Monday. She tried to concentrate on a short list of candidates whom she might bring in to replace her as executive editor. No one from the inside, of course.
Names escaped her. She could think of no other name than Salazar Sanso, snake, who would dare renege on their verbal agreement of fifteen years to negotiate with the feds and save his own skin.
How valuable was she in a plea bargain this monster might wrangle out of the government? Surely not much. She hadn’t even circulated the counterfeits.
Though they didn’t know that. Sanso had the bills and could circulate them all. Likely already had. Could pin the theft of the DEA’s confiscated money on her. She had, after all, stolen it and delivered it to him.
Perhaps, if they learned she was alive, the DEA would also hold her partly responsible for the deaths.
What would Sanso say about her role in that massacre?
Take the death penalty off the table and let me give you the woman who engineered that horrible night, the daughter of their dear leader, the woman whose body you never found . . .
How long would it take them in this day and age to follow her tracks from New Mexico to New York?
What would her father— She reined in that stray thought. The ifs would tear at her shredded heart again if she didn’t keep them at bay. Her cell phone was ringing. She noticed her banker’s box contained only three items so far.
“Yes?”
“Jane Johnson, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Brian Hoffer, at her request.”
“Mr. Hoffer, yes. Thank you for returning my call.”
“You have an interest in the Sanso-Mikkado story.”
Hearing the two names paired in such a casual fashion sent a wave of nausea through Janeal’s gut. She kept her voice controlled.
“Not an interest that would put you in a position of conflict, I assure you.”
“That helps.”
“We’re working on a story set about public policy in regard to victims of violent crime and their obligation—or right to decline, some would say—to participate in prosecuting offenders. Mortal consequence to the victim-witness, right to privacy, identity protection, that sort of thing.”
“Mm-hm.”
“So of course a survivor from such a notorious incident who has stayed silent for this many years would have something to say about the subject.”
“Right on.”
Janeal smiled at that. His verbal reflex gave away his youth. That was good to know.
“How can I be of help to you today, Ms. Johnson?”
“I’d like you to consider writing one piece of the story set for us. A human-interest feature about this alleged survivor.”
“Her existence is merely speculative at this point.”
Her.
“I don’t especially care. The story is hot right now, so let’s move forward as if it’s true. Did Sanso give you a name to chase?”
“Ms. Johnson, I will need to give my editor first right of refusal—”
“Don’t give me the party line, Brian. It’s my story to assign. You can write it or not. You cannot write it for your paper or your blog or your MySpace page. If you do, I’ll have your career on the platter I’m serving up at a dinner party next weekend. You write it for me, however, and there might be a book in it down the road. You are the most logical person to write it, provided you don’t find this woman before I do, if you understand me. I have several publishers freshly interested in the larger event of the massacre now that Sanso has been apprehended and these new facts have come to light. Six figures. If you’re worried about your editor, I can keep you employed. There’s a lot of unanswered questions floating around down there in New Mexico that have nothing to do with Area 51.”
She heard Brian exhale and, she believed, mentally accept her offer.
“We’re following a lead in Santa Fe,” he acknowledged.
“We?”
“Robert Lukin and I.”
Janeal felt angry at the possibility that Brian was already a step ahead. He’d found Robert quickly. With Sanso behind bars, his chasing a survivor—chasing her—would be the most logical thing for her old boyfriend to do. How had she failed to anticipate a reporter so obviously close to the story?
Why had Robert wasted his life chasing Sanso? She knew the answer, but if he had chosen a different path, maybe things could be different for them now.
“Robert Lukin,” she repeated. “The arresting DEA officer.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re with him now?” If they were together, she’d end the call immediately.
“Only women go to the restroom together, Ms. Johnson.”
She’d have to make the conversation brief, then.
“What’s his interest in a survivor now that Sanso is behind bars?”
“I’m not sure, but if you’re going to post any watchdogs over your intellectual property, you’d better give them his scent, not mine.”
“He has other connections to the massacre perhaps?”
“Don’t know. He hasn’t yet written a public word about his experiences as a DEA agent—I’ve looked.”
“I guess you won’t know until you learn more about him, will you?”
“What kind of an angle did you have in mind?”
“As we speak, I’m thinking Mr. Lukin’s story is of value in this context. He’s devoted himself to a uniquely personal pursuit of justice. I’d like to know why he’s vested. This other victim—I’m curious about her decision to go into hiding. Maybe the decision has a gender bias. That would be an interesting question—”
“So you want a compare-and-contrast angle within the same article?”
“That depends on the subjects. They should determine the ultimate shape of the story, don’t you think?”
“Maybe there are two stories, then.”
“I won’t know until I learn more about her. It’s odd, isn’t it, that Sanso would hint at the identity of someone who could put more nails in his coffin? I'd like to know about that.”
“Well no one knows much at this point.”
She allowed herself a sigh of relief. Maybe Sanso hadn’t named her to anyone. Yet.
“What’s your lead?” Janeal braced herself for news of tracks that blazed a trail east out of Albuquerque.
“Burn victim from St. Joseph’s, living outside Santa Fe right now. Name’s Katie Morgon. We’ll try to see her tonight.”
Janeal’s palms dampened and her cell phone slipped. Her mind emptied itself of words. She thought she heard someone pounding on her door again, far away—or maybe that was only the sound of hot blood pulsing through her ears. Katie. Not Katie.