Every Second

24

Manhattan, New York

The headlines streaked along the news ribbon that wrapped around the old New York Times building in Times Square.

… Manager Robs Own Bank… Vanishes with Wife and Son…

The Fulton story was heating up.

As Kate’s cab threaded through Midtown traffic, her focus returned to the question of Varner and Tilden’s ultrasensitivity over this case. It was a red flag and suggested there might be more to the story than what she knew so far.

Did Fulton have secret drug or gambling debts? What about the supposed tragedy the family had had when they lived in the West?

As the cab got closer to Newslead, Kate received another text from Reeka Beck.

Everybody’s all over the story. What’s your ETA?

Fifteen minutes.

We’ve got a problem to discuss.

What problem?

Tell you when you get here.

By the time her cab halted in front of the Newslead building, tension had knotted in Kate’s neck and shoulders. In the lobby she checked coverage online. Her story was out there, it had been issued about an hour ago, shortly after she’d filed it. She’d met her deadline. In the elevator she searched and scanned stories by the Associated Press, Reuters and the others. They were all similar straight-up accounts-but nobody had what she had-the exact amount Dan Fulton had taken from the bank.

Kate had broken the fact that it was a quarter-million-dollar heist, making it a Newslead exclusive.

Hold on. What’s this?

She came upon an item by the new Signal Point Newswire. Citing an unnamed source, they had reported that the amount taken was two million dollars, and that Fulton had left note, “warning employees that a bomb had been placed in the bank.”

What? No. That’s dead wrong.

The doors opened on the fortieth floor and Kate stepped into the newsroom.

She glanced at one of the TV monitors and caught the end of a report on the heist in Queens. Then she looked to the glass walls of the editors’ offices. Reeka was on her phone, texting. Her door was open, so Kate tapped on it. Reeka nodded for her to sit in the chair in front of her desk. When Reeka finished, she put her phone down and let out a long breath.

“You have an error in your story.”

“An error?”

“The amount taken in the robbery. Signal Point’s reporting that it’s two million-our story says a quarter million.”

“Signal Point has the error. Not us.”

“There’s also the aspect of Fulton’s note. Signal Point says-”

“I know what their story says and it’s wrong on both counts, Reeka.”

“You need to verify your facts.”

“Verify my facts? What do you think I’ve been doing in Queens?”

Reeka shot Kate an icy look.

“I want you to check your facts. And, if we need to, we’ll issue a correction with the next story update.”

Kate didn’t move.

She burned at Reeka’s insulting regard for her work. All morning she’d pinballed across Queens, talking to the Fultons’ neighbors, coworkers and confronting investigators.

Reeka had no concept of street-level journalism. She’d never covered a murder, a fire or a disaster, never stared into the eyes of an inconsolable parent and asked for a picture of their dead child. She was young, pretty and had degrees from Harvard and Yale. They were up there on the wall. And she’d been on the desk at Newslead’s Boston bureau at a time when the entire staff’s collective work on a breaking story was a Pulitzer finalist. Reeka’s uncle, a legend in the news business, sat on Newslead’s board of directors. Word was he’d pushed for his niece to be moved to headquarters in Manhattan.

“Reeka, why do you automatically assume my story’s wrong?”

“Look, you just need to verify your information, to ensure your source is valid.”

“Valid?”

Kate seized her phone from her bag and began swiping through photos she’d taken, finding the images she was searching for and thrusting them at Reeka.

“This is Jolleen Ballinger, one of the tellers. She’s my source. She spoke with me on the condition of anonymity. She was there when Dan Fulton robbed their branch. I verified the quarter-million-dollar figure with her. She’s valid. I know how to do my job and I did it.”

Reeka looked at the photo, then picked up her pen, rotating it for several seconds.

“Let’s put her name in your story, give it unchallengeable credibility.”

“Did you hear what I just said? This woman trusted me. I gave her my word that Newslead would protect her identity. She was afraid. If I follow your instructions and burn her, we lose credibility.”

“Then call her and request permission to use her name.”

“No! She’s wasn’t at a Yankees’ game, Reeka. Her bank was robbed. This woman’s already traumatized. Pressing her to use her name in a national news story won’t help. In talking to me she took a risk with her employer and the investigation. We need to respect that.”

Reeka remained deep in thought, rocking in her chair until her phone vibrated. Before picking it up, she dismissed Kate with a parting order.

“All right. I want you to stay on this story, keep us out front. But first, you need to verify the two outstanding aspects with your police source. Do it as soon as possible.”

Biting back on her anger, Kate strode down the hall. She passed Chuck Laneer’s empty office, mourning his departure. This crap with Reeka wouldn’t be happening if Chuck were here. Kate took several deep breaths, chiding herself.

You’ve got to watch your mouth and be smart about this. Use Reeka’s request strategically.

At her desk she fished out the cards Nick Varner and Marv Tilden had given her. She’d planned to call them anyway to try to squeeze more information from them. As icy as they’d been to her, Kate had to admit there was something about Varner that she liked. He had nice eyes, but there seemed to be sadness behind them. She reached for her phone and hit the numbers on her keypad.

The line rang twice.

“Varner.”

“Agent Varner with the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“Kate Page, with Newslead-we met earlier. Do you have a quick second to talk?”

A moment passed.

“Kate, you really should call the FBI or NYPD press office.”

“But your press people aren’t investigating, you are. And as I recall, Detective Tilden requested I run my information by you. I believe you were present when he made that request.”

Another silence.

“All I’m asking for is a little professional courtesy,” Kate said.

“What’ve you got?”

“We’ve reported the amount Fulton took was a quarter million and that he left a note saying bombs had been strapped to him and his family, who were being held hostage. But Signal Point Newswire has the figure at two million and says Fulton’s note warned that a bomb had been placed in the bank. Which version is correct?”

Varner muttered something under his breath.

“Listen,” he said, “like I told you before, this is an extremely active investigation. The release of too much information is dangerous.”

“The story’s already been flashing around the zippers in Times Square. I know you guys don’t like releasing information, but you don’t want misleading stuff out there, that could be dangerous, too.”

She heard his irritation as he exhaled, but sensed him warming to her.

“This is not for attribution to me, not even to the Bureau. You got that?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not confirming anything.”

“Okay.”

“You’d be correct to disregard the information reported by Signal Point.”

“Thank you. Do you have any suspects, or possible motives? What about the family’s history?”

“That’s it, Kate. I’ve got to go. There might be a press conference at One Police Plaza later today.”

After the call, Kate immediately wrote Reeka an email.

Our story’s correct. Signal Point’s is wrong. This has been verified by police sources close to the investigation.

She jabbed the enter key hard, sending it with a vengeance.

Getting up to get a fresh coffee from the lunchroom, Kate reconsidered her initial impression of Varner. He’d impressed her just now. Sure, he’d played the surly investigator at the crime scene, but he’d just demonstrated that he was willing to work with her, which put matters in a different light. What she really liked was how he’d used her first name. That was nice, she thought, adding milk to her coffee when her phone rang.

The caller’s number was blocked.

“Kate Page, Newslead.”

“You’re the reporter who’s asking questions about the Fulton family in Queens?”

The woman on the phone sounded a little shaky, as if she’d had trouble deciding to call.

“Yes.”

“I have information that might help you.”

“That’s great. Who’s this?”

“I… We can’t talk over the phone. Are you in Manhattan? I understand that’s where your office is.”

“Yes, I’m at the office now.”

“Can you meet me in thirty minutes?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t meet with you unless you give me some sense of what you want to talk about.”

The woman hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice quavered.

“I know the truth about Lori Fulton.”