The Stolen - Jason Pinter [12]
the tape recorder had fresh batteries. And then I sat and
watched the beehive.
The reporters camped outside the Linwood home were
standing on the grass, their vans having left tire tracks in
yards all across the street. No doubt the locals would
complain to the city council about this, but with a story
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this big there was no stopping the boulder from rolling
downhill.
Since the night Daniel came back, the only comment
from the Linwood home had been "no comment." Today
that would change.
I sketched brief descriptions of the homes, the climate,
the scene in front of me. Enough to give Hobbs County
some color. I snapped a few pictures of the houses, even
took a few of the press corps just for kicks. Then I waited.
At one-forty I stood up, stretched and started to walk
over. My heart was beating fast, and I wiped my palms on
the inside of my jacket. One of the tricks of the trade Jack
taught me. Most people wipe their hands on their pants,
and that does nothing but make your source think they're
being interviewed by a guy who can't jiggle out the last
few drops of piss. Inside the jacket, nobody could see you
were hiding the Hoover Dam in your armpits. Good thing
Jack was a classy guy.
I was hoping to enter the Linwood residence as quickly
as possible. I didn't want to answer any questions, or see
my face on any newscasts. I'd had enough of that.
Silently I crept toward the house, when all of a sudden
a gravelly voice said, "Look who crawled out of the sewer,"
and I knew I had a better chance of finding a winning
lottery ticket in my hamper than staying incognito.
One by one the heads turned. Clean-shaven newsmen
with three-hundred-dollar haircuts, women wearing
makeup so thick it could have been a layer of skin. They
all looked at me with sneers reserved for subjects they
were used to interviewing in solitary confinement. A piece
of gum snapped, then landed on my shoe. I flicked it off,
kept walking without looking to see who was guilty. Never
let them see you angry.
40
Jason Pinter
I nudged my way through the crowd without making
eye contact with anyone. I recognized a male reporter
from the New York Dispatch, somewhat surprised to see
that Paulina Cole hadn't taken on the story herself. Paulina
Cole was the Dispatch's top columnist, a post she took
after leaving the Gazette. We'd actually worked next to
each other for several months, but now there was as much
love between us as Hillary and Monica.
You'd never picture the devil as a five-foot-six woman
with platinum-blond hair, impeccable skin tone and a takeno-prisoners, ball-busting attitude that could have made
the toughest Viet Cong piss his pants. At first I admired
Paulina. The newsroom had very much been an old boys'
club during her climb, and she'd had to endure a lot and
work fantastically hard to get where she was. But then she
showed her true colors. She showed that one thing's for
certain in the media: throwing someone under the bus can
make quite a lucrative career.
After publicly criticizing me in print, Paulina later ran
a story focusing on the sordid family affairs of my ex-girlfriend. It was this story that led to Mya being brutally
attacked and nearly killed. I'd spent many hours at Mya's
hospital bed, beside her at physical therapy, comforting her
mother, who was widowed at the hands of the same killer
who nearly took her daughter's life. Though Paulina had
fewer friends than O. J. Simpson, her notoriety was
entirely part of the game. Brazen, provocative, pushing
every hot button as though her life depended on it. Rumor
had it Ted Allen, the Dispatch's editor-in-chief, gave her
a five-figure expense account to dress the part, as well. If
perception was reality, Paulina Cole was the grand bitch
goddess of the news.
I heard audible whispers as I walked up to the Linwood
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41
porch. Punk. Asshole. Little shit. I'd taken a beating both
in the press and from other reporters since my first few
months at the Gazette, and as much as the words stung,
sadly,