The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.
"This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we're still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season."
Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He'd traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He'd been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.
"Meanwhile, the Coast Guard has had its hands full with distress calls from boaters and fishermen caught out on the Atlantic when the storm blew up. The fishing boat Selma B. out of Boston sank after taking on water, but the crew was airlifted off the deck to the safety of a Coast Guard helicopter. The Willow put into Gloucester a few hours ago after a search by Coast Guard cutters. Their radio had been knocked out."
A knot twisted in Brian's stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. They all knew the dangers that faced a commercial fisherman. Brendan's teacher had once said that commercial fishing was the most dangerous occupation of all, more dangerous than driving a race car or flying an airplane. That knowledge had stuck with Brian over the years and now it seemed like a weight pressing down on him.
He stared at the man on the screen. If anything happened to the Mighty Quinn, the newscaster would know first. He'd know if the boat was sinking. He'd know whether Seamus was alive or dead. Like Riddoc Quinn, this man knew everything.
Brian pulled his knees up under his chin and shivered, refusing to allow himself the luxury of tears. "Someday, I'll be the first to know. And then I won't ever have to worry again."
1
The newsroom was a picture of controlled chaos as Brian Quinn strode through. Weekends were always a little crazy, the junior staff at WBTN-TV working with a skeleton crew. As he walked to his cubicle, Brian tugged on the starched collar of the pleated shirt, the fabric chafing his neck. He didn't wear a tux often, but when he did he found the experience wholly uncomfortable.
He caught his reflection as he walked by a plate glass window. The monkey suit did have an undeniable effect on the ladies, though. What was it about a black suit and a bow tie that made women swoon? A tux was no more unusual than a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Brian frowned. Women seemed to like that combination as well. That and plain old boxer shorts.
Too bad this wasn't a social occasion, he mused. At least then, maybe the starched shirt would have paid off in the end. Though there were bound to be more than a few beautiful women at the fund-raiser tonight, Brian was attending the party for business reasons. And he never mixed business with pleasure.
"Look at you."
He glanced to the left and saw Taneesha Gregory leaning over the wall of one of the cubicles, her smile wide, her dark eyes bright with humor. Taneesha was his favorite cameraman-or camera goddess as she preferred to call herself. Shameless and fearless, she often had to muscle her way through a crowd of male news photographers to get the best shot, shoving her camera into a person's face to catch the nuances of their reaction to a question. When it came to a hard-hitting investigative piece, Taneesha was the person Brian wanted to be there to get the shot.
"Don't even start," he warned, wagging his finger at her.
"You da bomb," she said, laughing and clapping her hands. She came around the cubicle, then reached up and straightened his bow tie. "But I think a tux is a little over the top for a weekend anchor. I hear you're doing the eleven o'clock news tomorrow night."
"Yeah. But the tux isn't for that. I'm working on a story."
"I hope you don't need me for this story. Because you know I don't wear a-"
"Dress," Brian finished. "Yes. I know. The last time you wore a dress was your wedding."
"That's right," she said, brushing a speck of lint off his shoulder. "And I promised Ronald that I'd wear a dress on our silver wedding anniversary. That's still eleven years off."
"Don't worry," Brian assured her. "Tonight I'm just checking out a lead. Richard Patterson, our sleazy neighborhood real estate developer is hosting a fundraiser tonight. And I'm going to crash the party and get a look at his guests."
Taneesha groaned. "Are you still on that story? If the boss finds out you're chasing Patterson around town, he'll have your head. Or have you forgotten just how much money Patterson spends on advertising with this station?"
"He's got six fast-food restaurants and a car dealership which represent a fraction of his total business worth. And it's station policy that the sales department and the news department are independent of each other."
"That's what they say, but without advertising, WBTN wouldn't exist. And you'd be left shouting your stories from the top of Beacon Hill."
"I know there's a story here," Brian said in a serious tone. "I can feel it. I'm going to corner him and see what happens. Hell, what can he do? All those rich folks and him wanting to buy a place on the social ladder. I don't think he's going to haul off and hit me."
"Are you crazy? They'll toss you out of there so fast you'll-"
"Don't you think the public has a right to know? Three other developers spend seven years in court, trying to get approval on that property. Patterson buys it and he gets the zoning variance within weeks. He paid for that variance and I want to know how much it cost him and who got the money."
"Guys like that cover their tracks well."
"Shady real estate deals, backroom bargaining and a lot of money changing hands. Sooner or later, they're going to get lazy and make a mistake. Patterson's deals always seem to come too easily. My brother-in-law, Rafe Kendrick, is a developer and even he says that Patterson isn't legal."
"You realize that the guy who owns this television station is an old friend of Richard Patterson's? Maybe you should think about your career here?"
Brian laughed. "I've become the top investigative reporter in Boston in just over a year and I pull in the viewers. They're not going to fire me."
"But they may not offer your cocky ass the weekend anchor position. And you know the weekend anchor will be the one to replace Bill when he retires in two years."
The rumors had been swirling around the station since the last ratings period but Brian tried not to listen to them. "You think I want to sit in front of a camera and read news for the rest of my career?" he asked.
"Well, you certainly have the face for it," Taneesha said, giving his cheek a playful pat.
Brian shouldn't have been surprised by the talk. He had moved up the ladder pretty quickly at WBTN and though he wanted to believe it was because of his journalistic abilities, he suspected that it had a lot to do with his looks. The demographics said it all. He was the most popular newsperson in the entire city with women aged twenty-one through forty-nine. And his numbers with the male audience weren't too bad either. The women in focus groups liked the way he looked and men liked that he was just a regular guy from Southie. The people of Boston trusted Brian Quinn to tell them the truth.
"I may have the face, but not the stomach for it. Any more than you'd be able to handle standing behind a studio camera. You're like me. You like to be out on the streets."