“And your point would be?”
“Write one more page and then go to sleep.”
“A page? Do you have any idea how long it takes me to write a page?”
“You write fast,” Ellie said. She had seen him hammer out articles as fast as he could type them.
“That’s when I’m Peter Morse, crime beat reporter for a tabloid that calls itself a newspaper. It’s different with my own stuff.”
“Fine. Write another paragraph and go to sleep.”
“I think I’m fried for the night. It didn’t help that I got stuck at work. WABC beat everyone to the punch on a body this morning at East River Park, so I had to stay and bang something out for tomorrow morning’s paper. Kittrie must think it’s going to be a big story, because he awoke from his deep slumber as an editor and insisted we work on the coverage as a team.”
George Kittrie was Peter’s editor, and, at least according to the stories Peter had a tendency to tell, he was about as fond of Peter as Lieutenant Eckels was of Ellie.
“You probably don’t want to know, but that’s actually my case.”
“So instead of scrambling for two hours at the paper trying to satisfy Kittrie, I could have just called you?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on. I could have at least weaseled my way into a little hint.”
“Nothing. Nada. I’m Fort Knox.”
“I know. You sure you don’t want company?”
“Two nights on our own. I told you.”
“You are such a cop.”
“Good night.”
“’Night, Detective.”
She rose from the sofa and cleared away the debris from her dinner, lamb rogan josh and samosas delivered from a neighborhood Indian joint. Her stomach still felt hot from the spicy brown sauce on the lamb dish, and it dawned on Ellie how acclimated she had become during her decade in New York to the consumption of foods whose ingredients were a complete mystery to her.
She flipped to the early round of the late-night news. The local ABC affiliate may have been the first to break the story of Chelsea Hart’s murder, but now the department’s Public Information Office had released an official statement, and the case was finding its place in every stratum of the media.
Watching a case transform from real-life incident to ubiquitous cultural phenomenon reminded Ellie of the sprouting process in Gremlins, a movie she still watched every year on Christmas Day. It all started with a single, manageable creature. But add a little water, and suddenly several new balls of mischief were spawned, brewing until they transformed into separate and independent troublemakers that had to be watched over and cared for, each with the potential to hatch its own havoc-wreaking offspring.
And so it was with crime reporting. It started with a single case, followed by the first story. But that initial media coverage provided the germinating water, and from there, the sprouting began. By the end of the week, she would have a precinct full of Gremlins.
Ellie flipped between the two ten o’clock news programs. Both covered all the bases: Chelsea’s name and age; the fact that she was on spring break, alone at night in the Meatpacking District; the discovery of her strangled corpse early this morning by joggers along the East River. No mention of the mutilation of her body or the violent removal of her beautiful hair. Give them time, she thought. Peter had scrambled quickly for the basics, but by tomorrow, reporters would be contacting everyone Chelsea Hart had ever met-at the hotel, at the club, back home in Indiana. Whether they wanted to or not, the public would eventually gain access to all of the ugly and salacious details that boosted ratings and swelled circulation numbers.
And Ellie’s job would get that much harder.
SHE CHANGED THE CHANNEL to a Seinfeld repeat to keep her company while she got ready for bed. She had removed her contact lenses and started to brush her teeth when she heard keys in the front door.
She heard a soft clank, followed by her brother’s voice. “Chain!”
Ellie called out an apology through sudsy toothpaste foam, made her way to the front door (it didn’t take long in her small one-bedroom), and released the safety chain.
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” Jess set his hard-shell Fender guitar case by the door, shook off his black thrift-store jacket, and tossed it on the nearest piece of furniture, an off-white armchair in the corner. “Should I take that as a hint that it’s time for me to find another couch? I could swing it now that the job’s working out all right.”
For two months, Jess had been working as a doorman at Vibrations, an establishment on the Westside Highway that euphemistically billed itself as a “gentlemen’s club.” Jess and Ellie preferred to call it the Shake Shack. The Shimmy Shed. Booty Barn. The Rubby Cubby. Titty Towers. The T and A Getaway. Even though Ellie hoped a better job was waiting for her brother somewhere down the road, a part of her wanted him to stay at Vibrations forever just so they could continue conjuring up alternative names for his employer.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “What would I have done this morning without a roommate to put together my backpack?”
“Did I get everything? I was a little creeped out going through your underwear drawer.”
“Perfect.” In truth, he had forgotten about the Kahr K9 that she now carried as a backup gun and the corresponding ankle holster, but she saw no reason to nitpick. “Seriously, Jess, it’s been nice having you here through all this.”
In reality, the stressful events of the last two months had little to do with Jess’s presence as her couch-inhabiting roommate. Jess tended to move several times a year, depending on his employment status, dating status, and the tolerance of his friends. In between the various moves, he frequently spent days or weeks in her living room. Given that it was Jess who’d helped Ellie find this rent-stabilized apartment in the first place, it only seemed right. Karma and all.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Mos def.”
“In that case, what the fuck is that shitastic smell?”
“Dinner. Indian.” She patted her full belly. “You missed out.”
“Jesus, why don’t you bury a piece of cheese beneath the sofa cushions while you’re at it? This room’ll stink for a week. Not to mention the increased risk of another upchuck incident after this morning’s festivities.”
Ellie jumped onto the sofa and pulled the window up a few inches.
“Thanks,” Jess said, plopping down next to her. “So what’d you do tonight? No, wait, let me guess.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples like a mind reader. “You worked late on your case, came home and called Mom, then ate takeout and watched TV. How did I do?” he asked, opening his eyes.