Death Watch (4 page)

S
ydney, write up what you have for the noon newscast,” Helen said. “Incorporate the information we have from the wires.”

“We’ll lead with it,” Sol Rosenthal added. “Better yet, we’ll break into programming with a teaser. This is going to make a splash. Sydney, get a quote from Hunz, something about the European angle on this, and make sure you mention he’s working with us on the story. Hunz, of course you won’t actually be working on the story. We’ll keep to our schedule.”

“Forget the schedule,” Hunz said. “This story is too important to pass up.”

With his best diplomatic smile, Sol said, “No can do, big fella. Your week is pretty much booked. Did I tell you you’re meeting the mayor on Wednesday?”

“Cancel it. Cancel everything,” Hunz said. “I’m not going to sit around spreading jam on biscuits while the biggest news story of the millennia is breaking. Either I cover the story here, or I cover it in Germany.”

“You know,” Sol said, not missing a beat, “this could be good for ratings!”

When it came to bootlicking, no one ever accused Sol Rosenthal of being inflexible. He had the backbone of a wet noodle.

“All right then. You’re in!” Sol slapped Hunz on the back.

“Who will I be working with?” Hunz said. “I’ll need someone who knows their way around.”

“Grant Forsythe, naturally,” Rosenthal said. “He’s our senior news—”

“It’s my story,” Sydney said.

Sol Rosenthal scowled at her, one of those parental scowls, the kind that said,
I’ll deal with you later.

Sydney ignored it. “I was assigned the story this morning. I did the initial investigation. I found the death telegram. I should be the one to follow up.”

“I’m not working with some inexperienced Barbie doll,” Hunz said.

Sol was quick to agree with him. He turned to Helen. “This story is much bigger than we originally thought. I’m sure you’ll agree, we have to go with a veteran.”

“First of all, Mr. Vonner,” Sydney said, emphasizing his name, “I resent the implication that my appearance has anything to do with my ability as a reporter. And secondly, this is my story. I should be the one choosing who I’m going to work with.”

“And I’m the one who decides who works at this station and who doesn’t,” Sol shouted. “Any more from you and not only will you not have a story, you won’t have a job.”

Sydney shot a pleading look at Helen.

“We could put you with Cori Zinn,” Sol said to Hunz. “She’s our evening coanchor. You just met her. A real fireball.”

“It’s Sydney’s story,” Helen said.

Stunned, Sol took a moment to recover. “Helen, this has already been settled.”

“You’re right. It
is
settled,” Helen said. “I gave Sydney the assignment, and I see no reason to take it away from her. It’s Sydney’s story.”

“I won’t work with a cupcake,” Hunz said. “This is a serious news story.” He turned to Sydney. “Have you ever done a major news story?”

“One of my stories was picked up by the network,” she said. It was a weak answer, but it was all she had.

“Let me guess,” Hunz said. “Children, pets, and sex stories, right?”

Sol said, “She did one on erectile dysfunction that really made a—”

“This is Sydney’s story,” Helen said. “I’m the assignment editor and this is my call. Or are you going to fire me too, Sol?”

Rosenthal frowned and made an obvious effort to stare her down. But he was no match for Helen Gordon. To his credit, he seemed to realize that pressing the matter any further would get messy.

“All right, Helen,” he said, “it’s your call.”

“That’s what I just said. Sydney, are you willing to allow Mr. Vonner to assist you in this investigation?”

Sydney could have kissed her. For a moment, she considered saying, I
might be able to use an assistant on this story,
but
she thought that might be pressing her luck. “I would welcome the chance to work with Mr. Vonner,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she meant it.

“Mr. Vonner,” Helen said. “I never want to hear you refer to any of my reporters as cupcake, sweetie, baby doll, or anything like that again. Is that understood? If you want to investigate this story, you’ll work with Sydney. Otherwise, I’m sure we can find someone to drive you to the airport.”

Hunz Vonner didn’t respond immediately. Clearly, this was a man who was accustomed to getting his way. But he wasn’t in Germany now and this wasn’t his station. With obvious difficulty, he said, “I’ll work with Miss St. James.”

“Very well,” Helen said.

The two men left the room with Sol Rosenthal talking fast and soothingly to his guest. Sydney hung back.

“Helen, thanks for sticking up for me.”

Already working on her next project, Helen didn’t look up. She scribbled comments in the margins of a report, then said, “I believe you have copy to write for the noon edition.”

T
he newsroom monitor displayed a montage of California scenes. Children at the beach. Hang gliders. The HOLLYWOOD sign.
Mission San Juan Capistrano. Symphonic music swelled. The station’s call letters swooped in and filled the screen. A deep baritone announcer said, “KSMJ: News for a New Millennia.”

The call letters gave way to friendly, smiling portraits of the noon newscasters as each one was introduced by the announcer.

“With Robin Hernandez, Gary Johnson, and Phil Sanders with the weather.”

The opening camera shot was of Robin and Gary seated behind the anchor desk.

Sydney stood beside camera two, watching both the monitor and the flesh-and-blood newscasters.

“Good afternoon, I’m Gary Johnson.”

“And I’m Robin Hernandez. Our top story at noon—seven fatalities have been reported in Los Angeles, with reports of similar deaths coming from every major city in the world, all of them linked to bizarre death notices. Here in LA .

“You’ve hit the big time.”

Sydney recognized the voice behind her. She turned with a smile. “Thanks, Josh,” she said.

Joshua Leven was the station’s evening sportscaster. At twenty-nine years, tall and muscular, he still had a boyish look to him. A former all-American tight end at Northwestern University, he was drafted by the National Football League in the second round by the San Diego Chargers. His professional football career proved to be a short one. Five games into the first season a linebacker hit him low on a crossing pattern, blowing out his knee. It was a career-ending injury.

As a player, Josh’s infectious smile, exuberant passion for the game, and emerging superstar status made him a media darling. Being an eligible bachelor was icing on the cake. His career cut short, Josh followed up industry contacts. With a degree in journalism—which he’d thought he’d use much later in life—he secured work at a local radio station doing color for college football games. When KSMJ lost their evening sportscaster to a sister station in Phoenix,
a local headhunter lined Josh up for an audition. He’d been with the station three years when Sydney was hired.

Josh and Sydney became friends, lunching together, swapping nostalgic stories about their Midwestern roots and humorous anecdotes about adapting to the West Coast lifestyle.

Sydney could talk to Josh about anything. Well, almost anything. There was one topic that was a sore point between them, one that led to an argument whenever either of them brought it up. The only way they could deal with it was to agree not to talk about it. Or, more correctly,
her.

Cori Zinn.

Josh was head over heels for her. He couldn’t explain it himself, but anytime anyone hinted that Cori was less than a goddess, Josh charged to her defense with armor and sword flashing.

What really infuriated Sydney was the way Cori treated Josh. Fully aware of Josh’s feelings for her, Cori made it clear to everyone with ears that she didn’t feel the same for him. But that didn’t stop her from exploiting him. For Cori, attention was a one-way street leading to an altar made in her image. She openly joked of Josh’s feelings for her, reveling in all the menial things she could get him to do for her.

What made Sydney even more furious was that Josh knew this and didn’t care. When it came to Cori Zinn, he was a lovesick zombie. Convinced she would come around some day, he lived for her smile, her pout, the brush of her fingers.

Rendered powerless by their agreement not to discuss the relationship, Sydney toyed with the idea of hiring a priest to exorcise the demon Cori from him.

“They’re reading your copy, aren’t they?” Josh brought Sydney back to the noon broadcast.

“Yeah.” Sydney smiled. It was nice to hear someone acknowledge it.

“Someday that’ll be you behind the desk, reading your own copy.”

“That’s the dream.”

“It’ll happen. Just a matter of time.”

They listened as Robin Hernandez read the text of the telegram Sydney found on the front seat of Jeffrey Conley’s Ford Taurus. Josh knew to keep quiet so Sydney could enjoy her moment of triumph.

“Had lunch yet?”

“I’ve been busy writing copy.”

“Artie’s?”

“Sure. Give me five minutes.”

Another voice interrupted them.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Cori Zinn approached with a swagger. Ignoring Sydney, she linked arms with Josh and whispered something in his ear. Laughing, she tried pulling him away.

“I can’t,” he said. “Syd and I are doing lunch.”

Cori shot Sydney a dismissive look. “I’m sure she won’t mind. I was counting on you for a ride.”

“I thought you were going with Grant in his Jaguar.”

Squeezing Josh’s arm, Cori wrinkled her nose at him. “I’d rather ride with you.”

“Sorry,” Josh said. “I already made plans. How about if I make it up to you with dinner tonight?”

“I’m busy tonight,” Cori said with a pout.

She didn’t like Josh anywhere near Sydney St. James. To Josh’s credit, that was one place where he drew the line with Cori, which infuriated her and made Sydney love him all the more.

Cori released Josh’s arm. “If you’d rather be with her than me ..,” she said, walking away.

Sydney whispered to Josh, “Are you supposed to be at the luncheon with Hunz Vonner?”

“Nah. Cori just wants me to drive her there.”

“And what? Wait in the parking lot while they eat?”

Cori swung around. “Sydney, I hear you’re going to be working with Vonner on this mass killing thing. Can’t wait to see how you’ll dress up this time to get the story. Have you considered going as the angel of death?”

Y
ou have to forgive Cori,” Josh said. “She gets a little possessive at times.”

Sydney absorbed the comment by pretending to look at the menu, even though she ordered the same thing every time. If she said something, Josh would get defensive and angry, and Cori would have succeeded in ruining their lunch. Sydney refused to give her that victory.

The lunch crowd showed no signs of thinning. People queued to the take-out counter a dozen deep to order from a long menu of specialty sandwiches, soups, knishes, and salads. Behind the counter, an array of salamis dangled on string, frankfurters rotated on a grill, and employees kept the salad display fresh.

A waiter appeared, notepad in hand. “What’ll you have?” He glanced at Sydney.

“Chicken salad sandwich.”

“That all?”

“And a glass of water.”

“You?” He turned to Josh, who was still deciding.

“He’ll have a number four with fries and Coke,” Sydney said.

“You got it.” The waiter grabbed the menus and was gone.

“I might have wanted a hot dog,” Josh said.

“You always order a number four,” Sydney said.

They spent the next couple of minutes people watching. Sydney couldn’t help but wonder how many had heard about the alarming number of unexplained deaths. Everybody in line seemed focused on ordering. And from the conversations drifting from nearby tables,
no one seemed overly concerned. But then, the news just broke. How many people listen to the noon news on their lunch break?

“What Cori said back at the station,” Josh said. “I think she was out of line, but since I didn’t understand what she was referring to, it was hard to tell. What did she mean about you dressing up as the angel of death?”

Sydney grinned. “She was just being Cori.”

“I still don’t get it. Why would you dress up like the angel of death to get a story?”

The grin widened. “You haven’t heard about the fat suit.”

“Um, no, can’t say that I have.”

“It got me the job at KSMJ. It was a feature story I did back in Davenport. Helen saw it and offered me a job.”

“You did a feature story on extra-large suits?”

Sydney laughed. “No. I wore a fat suit to get the story.”

“Really?” Josh was intrigued. “You’re talking about a theater costume, right?”

“Makeup and everything. Made me look like I was three hundred pounds.”

Josh howled. “I’ve got to see this tape!”

“The network picked up the story.”

“Why would you do such a thing? A dare?”

“More like a bet. Scott Hurlihy, one of the reporters at the station, was giving me a hard time about my looks. He said everything came easy to me because I was female and pretty, that I had an advantage over male reporters. Well, it ticked me off.”

“He’s right, you know,” Josh said.

Sydney leveled a finger at him. “Don’t get me started.”

“You don’t think your looks give you an edge?”

“Do you want to hear this story or not?”

Josh motioned her to go ahead.

“I told him that nobody takes me seriously. One look and people think
blonde bimbo.
Scott refused to give ground. He said that if I had to spend one day without my looks, I’d see that he was right.”

“And a bet was born,” Josh said.

“No money was exchanged, but I was determined to prove Scott Hurlihy wrong. Actually, we came up with the idea of the fat suit together. The University of Iowa’s drama department had just done a production of
Falstaff,
so we knew where to find one. We talked a couple of the makeup guys into fitting my face with latex jowls. I died my hair mousy brown with gray streaks and wore faded, pale green sweats and a pair of grungy tennis shoes.”

“I’ve got to see this tape!” Josh said. “So how did it go?”

Sydney sobered. “It was a real eye-opener. Of course, I’d thought about what it would be like carrying around the extra weight, climbing in and out of the car, walking down narrow aisles, falling into and climbing out of chairs. I knew it would be physically taxing.

“What I wasn’t prepared for was how mean people suddenly became. All I did that day was run errands. I went to the usual places: the grocery store, the post office, I put gas in the car. A film crew recorded me from a distance.”

Even now, remembering it, tears came to Sydney’s eyes. “People were openly rude to me for no reason. Strangers called me names in passing. They stared at me and made faces like I disgusted them. I used to think salesmen were so friendly, that the stores trained them that way. At the film counter of a drugstore, I waited thirty minutes to be waited on while the man behind the counter finished stacking shelves, took phone calls, and assisted a couple of cute high school girls who came in after me. In a restaurant, four grown men made pig noises in the booth behind me. A woman who looked like a grandmother pulled me aside and told me that if I lost weight I’d feel better about myself. I’d never met this woman before!”

“It really shook you,” Josh said.

“How was I to know that anyone took me seriously after that? How was I to know that teachers didn’t give me a grade better than I deserved just because I was pretty? Or that I was hired for my looks instead of my talent?”

“Your good looks open doors for you.”

“I hate that,” Sydney said. “I don’t want to be treated differently just because my hair is blonde.”

“But they do.”

“They shouldn’t.”

Their order came. Sydney picked at her sandwich. Josh attacked his fries.

“So Scott won the bet,” Josh said.

“I swore to myself I’d never knowingly use my feminine wiles to my advantage,” Sydney said.

“Your what? Feminine wiles?” Josh laughed.

“It means—”

“I know what it means, it’s just that I haven’t heard anyone use that term. Not in this century, at least.”

Sydney sniffed. “Well, it’s a perfectly good expression.”

“So how’s that going? That abstaining-from-using-your-feminine-wiles thing.”

Josh had a sly grin on his face. There was something behind it, more than just being amused over her choice of words. Did he know something?

“Were you watching me today?”

Josh laughed. “No more than usual. Why?”

“Because I backslid this morning with a police officer.”

“To get out of a ticket?”

“To get a story.”

“Good, you should do it more often,” Josh said. He stretched his mouth around a mountain of deli meat and took a hearty bite.

“Good? What do you mean, good? I told you I didn’t want to use my looks to my advantage.”

“I know. “Josh said, chewing. “You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not,” Sydney said stubbornly.

“All right, have it your way.”

Sydney fumed. Sometimes Josh could be too agreeable. “No, you said I was wrong. I want to hear your reasoning.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

Josh shrugged as though it made no difference to him either way. He took a sip of drink and leaned forward. “You were born beautiful.”

“That’s it? That’s your reasoning?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” He picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

“Not a very strong argument,” Sydney said.

Josh shot her a grin. “Wilt Chamberlain was born tall.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? Wilt Chamberlain. Basketball player. Seven foot one inch. Four-time Most Valuable Player in the NBA. Scored seventy-eight points in a single game. And never once did he apologize to his opponents because he was taller than them.”

Sydney sat back, not wanting to admit he might have a point.

“All I’m saying is you’re the Wilt Chamberlain of good looks. We work in a competitive business. Stop feeling guilty about being beautiful and use what you have to do the best job you can.”

“You’re quite a philosopher, Josh Leven.”

“It’s the pastrami. I always wax eloquent when I eat pastrami.”