The Wrong Girl

7

“Call from…” The caller ID’s disembodied voice came from the wall phone in Jane’s kitchen. She winced, hoping it wasn’t about to announce a call from Jake. Tuck already suspected their relationship, half-teased Jane about it when they worked together. That would be a real Dear Miss Manners moment, having Jane’s “pal” in the Boston Police detective squad call her on a Sunday afternoon while Tuck sat in her living room. Unlike Tuck, Jane still had her job. Unlike Tuck, it was because Jane hadn’t gotten caught. Jane and Jake realized their careers were safe only as long as their relationship wasn’t discovered.

Not that there was a relationship. There couldn’t be, not while Jane was a reporter and Jake a cop. They’d skidded their passion to a halt one night last summer, after a little too much wine and almost too little clothing. What if someone found out? Was it worth their careers? Sleeping with a source was forbidden, according to the Register’s ethics protocol. The Police Department’s, too. It wasn’t as if she was one bit in love with the sandy-haired twinkly-eyed hilariously funny and brilliantly-

“… Alex Wyatt,” the caller ID voice finished. “Call from Alex Wyatt.”

“I know you have to get that.” Tuck clamped her arms across her chest, propping her feet on the coffee table. “Tell that jerk I said-well, no, don’t. Probably better for your career if you don’t let on I’m here. Right?”

“Gotcha.” Alex wasn’t a jerk, though. Tuck was bitter since he’d been the one who fired her. But as brand-new city editor, Alex had gotten word from on high. He’d had no choice. “Although he’s actually not-well, whatever.”

Jane uncurled from the couch, scrabbling her fingers through her finally growing-out but still too-short hair, speculating. Why would her boss call on a Sunday? The Register newsroom staff was barebones-increasingly worrisome budget cuts hit the weekend staff especially hard. A front-page story could happen at any time, any day. Problem was, news doesn’t know what day it is.

“Call from Alex Wyatt.” If there was a big story, she’d be lucky to get it. Especially since she was the new kid and even veteran reporters were getting laid off. Jane tipped one hand in a pouring “more wine?” motion to Tuck, who handed over her empty glass as Jane dashed to the kitchen, sliding around the corner in her bare feet.

“Hey Alex, what’s up?” She clamped the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she opened the fridge. Pretty bleak territory: weary celery, string cheese, a couple of Diet Cokes, and lemon yogurt. Last night’s pizza. She pulled out the last of the Pinot Grigio and hip-checked the door closed.

“Sorry to call you on a Sunday. I’m swamped with snow coverage. Boston’s fine, but half of Newton still has no power, National Grid is freaking, the governor’s having another news conference, the Star Markets are outta milk. I mean-it’s snowing, right? In New England? In February? You’d think-”

Damn. Snow? She’d just lost at news roulette. Snow? Freezing, boring, and bleak. How many weather clichés would she be forced to use? White stuff, winter wonderland, no business like snow business? But there was this pesky job thing. As in, she needed hers.

Jane eyed the wine bottle. Lucky she’d stuck with Diet Coke. She was a team player. She’d yank on her storm gear and take the T into town.

“There’s a body in Roslindale,” Alex was saying. “Cops telling us they suspect homicide. Got a pencil? I’ll give you the deets. I know it’s a mess out there-so I’ll have the fotog pick you up in the newsroom Explorer. He lives close to you, it’ll be no problem.”

A murder? In Roslindale? Okay, better than the snow assignment. She winced at her cynical assessment. That’s what being a reporter does to you, turns human suffering into a calculation of potential column inches.

“Yeah, I know. Better than snow.” Alex was reading her mind, as usual. He’d been a reporter, too, her competition, until his promotion last summer. As a result, another promising romance prospect-Hot Alex, as her best friend, Amy, had dubbed him-bit the dust.

“This one’s different,” Alex continued. “Two little kids left alone, Family Services has them. ‘Tragic,’ our stringer says. There’s no one else to send. I’ll hand it off to another reporter tomorrow, so only this one story. I’ll need your piece for the earlies, so chop chop. And Jane?”

“Yeah?” She’d better take food. Jane stretched the spiral phone cord so she could reach to open a cabinet. She pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, twisted open a half-full jar of salted almonds, and dumped in the entire contents. Opening the fridge, she added the string cheese to the bag. In the car it’d stay cold.

“Detective Jake Brogan’s the primary,” Alex said. “Think you can get us some exclusive stuff?”

“I-you-why would-” Jane’s stomach clenched and the taut phone cord knocked the empty almond jar from the counter. It hit the floor, cracking into three pieces on the tiles. Coda, eyes wide, appeared in the doorway. Jane shooed her away, fearful of the glass. Jake? Alex knew they were friends, but what if he now suspected-? Or was he-

“Kidding,” Alex said. “Keep me posted, Jane. Fotog’s on the way. Like I said, he lives near you, so, all the better. We go to press in three hours.”