Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [39]
“Tell me about this story.”
Sutton did, quickly, without emotion.
“Her name is Rune? First or last?”
“Some kind of stage name bullshit. She’s a cameraman with the O&O here in Manhattan.”
“What does Lee think?” Semple asked.
“Slightly more in favor of doing the story than I am. But not much.”
“Why are we doing it, then?” he asked coolly. Semple’s dark eyes scanned Sutton’s blouse. She was glad she’d worn the wool suit jacket over the white silk. But only a part of his eyes was seeing her body. What the other part was considering and what was happening in the brain behind those eyes were a complete mystery to her. It was one of his most magnetic qualities—that she hadn’t been able to fathom him. It was also one of his more frightening.
She answered, “The girl said, in effect, that if she didn’t produce it for Current Events she’d do it independently and sell it elsewhere.”
“Blackmail,” he snapped.
“Closer to youthful fervor.”
“I don’t like it,” Semple said. “There’s no point to the story.” He sipped more coffee. Sutton remembered that he liked to sit naked in bed in the morning, a tray resting on his lap, the cup and saucer directly over his penis. Did he like the warmth? she used to wonder.
He asked, “What does she have so far? Anything?”
“Nope. Nothing substantial. Lots of background footage. That’s all.”
“So you think there’s a chance it’ll just go away?”
Sutton avoided his eyes. “She’s young. I’m keeping a close eye on her. I’m hoping she gets tired of the whole thing.”
Semple had the power to make this story go away forever, leaving behind fewer traces than a couple of pixels on a TV monitor. He glanced at Sutton and said, “Keep me informed on what she finds.”
“Okay.”
“I mean daily.” Semple looked out the window for moment. “I dined at a wonderful restaurant. It was off St. Germain.”
“Really?”
“I wish you’d been there with me.”
“It sounds nice.”
“Michelin was wrong. I have to write and urge them to give it another star.” And he uncapped a fountain pen and wrote a note on his calendar reminding himself to do just that.
chapter 13
RUNE WAS SLEEPWALKING. AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT IT felt like.
She’d been sitting at her desk, in the same curvature-of-the-spine pose, for seven hours, looking over tapes. The close air of the studio was filled with the buzz of a dozen yellow jackets, which she’d thought was the video monitor in front of her until she’d shut it off and realized that the buzzing had continued; the sound was originating from somewhere inside her head.
Enough is enough.
She stood up and stretched; a series of pops from her joints momentarily replaced the buzzing. She left Bradford in charge of logging in the recent tapes she’d shot and headed outside. Rune walked through the complicated maze of corridors and into the spring evening. She removed the chrome chain necklace of her ID from around her neck and slipped it in her leopard-skin bag.
Outside a harried woman employee of the Network stood on the sidewalk. Her husband—a young professional—walked up to her with their two young children in tow. It had apparently been his turn to pick up the kids tonight.
The mother gave them perfunctory hugs and then started making weekend plans with her husband. Their daughter, a redhead about Courtney’s age, tugged on her mother’s Norma Kamali skirt. “Mommy …”
“Just a minute,” the woman said sternly. “I’m speaking to your father.” The little girl looked sullenly off.
Rune gave the kid a smile but she didn’t respond. The family walked off.
Man, I’m beat, she thought.
But as she walked south she felt the cool, electric-scented city night air waking her up and she saw from the clock on the MONY tower that it was early, only eight P.M. Early? Rune remembered when quitting time had been five. She continued down Broadway, past the pastel carnival of Lincoln Center—pausing, listening for music but not hearing any. Then she continued south, deciding to walk home, a couple miles, to get the blood back in her legs. Thinking of what she needed to do for