The Stolen - Jason Pinter [113]
they dragged me out of the newsroom, kicking and
screaming while I tried to beat off Security with a legal
notepad. There was room to grow. Personally and professionally. And with all the time spent chasing murderers,
liars and politicians (who managed to encompass both), it
was time to take stock.
The wall clock read 9:05 when the elevator opened on
to the newsroom floor. I expected some sort of jubilation,
maybe a pat on the back or two. I'd cracked a huge case
that would have ramifications potentially all the way to the
top. A man considered a potential front-runner for the
biggest job in the land would now be spending at least
eight years behind bars. There was something sad about
ruining a career. Ending a life. And I wondered where
Hobbs County would be today if Gray Talbot had never
thought of a boy named Daniel Linwood.
I walked to my desk looking for my colleagues, looking
out for Wallace. The pride quickly turned to fear when I
noticed all the reporters were sitting at their desks. They
were silent. Their faces ashen gray. Some were at work,
but it was perfunctory.
Evelyn Waterstone passed by. She gazed up at me for
a moment, her mouth opening. For the first time I could
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remember, Evelyn Waterstone looked sad. She said two
words to me, "Sorry, Parker," and walked on.
I didn't know what to do, but something had bitten the
newsroom of the New York Gazette. I had to find out. The
only person who didn't look like they were drowning in
their own sorrows was Frank Rourke.
There was no love lost between Frank Rourke and me.
We'd had a pretty intense falling-out over the shit bag
incident last year, and since then never really attempted to
patch things up. I never felt the need to gain his approval.
My work would accomplish that in my stead.
Rourke was yapping away on his desk phone--something about preseason football--so I walked over when he
hung up and stood over his desk, waiting to hear what he
said.
Rourke didn't notice me at first. He just sat there
drinking coffee out of a Thermos the size of my head.
Then when he turned around and saw me standing there,
the smile disappeared. My stomach dropped when I
realized he had the same look on his face Evelyn had
minutes earlier.
"Parker," he said. "Listen, man...I don't know what
else to say. But I'm sorry. This sucks majorly."
"What does?" I said. "I just got here, please, everyone
else looks like they have one foot in the grave."
Rourke said, "Oh, man, you didn't see it?"
"See what? Speak to me, goddamn it."
Rourke spun around, looked at the desk across from
him. Then he stood up, went over and began rifling
through the garbage can. I wondered what the hell he was
doing, but then when I saw him take a newspaper out of
the can, that queasiness returned. He handed it to me, front
page out, and said, "Like I said, this sucks."
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I unfolded the front page and held it up. It was a copy
of this morning's New York Dispatch. When I read the
headline, in huge bold print, I nearly threw up.
The headline read: A Lush Life: Jack O'Donnell and
All the Booze That's Fit to Print.
The byline was credited to Paulina Cole.
The two l's in all were liquor bottles. Below the
headline were two pictures. And both made me sick to my
stomach.
The first picture looked to have been taken in some sort
of storage room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet,
with three rows of shelves traversing the space.
Every single space was lined, front to back, with empty
bottles. Wine. Beer. Whiskey. Bourbon. The caption below
the photo read: Jack O'Donnell Downs in One Year What
Most People Drink in a Lifetime!
The second photo, the one that made me clench the
paper into a wad in my hands, was of Jack. Lying in the
hospital. Tubes running through his veins.
I recognized the setting. It was taken after I'd brought
Jack to the hospital after he nearly choked to death on his
own vomit. Somebody had snuck into the hospital and
photographed Jack while he was unconscious and recovering