Gannon smiled.
“I don’t think so. You’re forgetting, you’re my competition, Katrina.”
The warmth drained from her face.
“Fine with me, if that’s the way you want to play it. You want to go up against me, the New York Signal and our two million online followers? Well, bring it on.”
Katrina walked away.
That’s the way I want to play it, Gannon thought.
As he and Dixon headed back to his SUV, he stopped at the tape, his eyes adjusting to the distance, and watched the crime scene technicians working around the victims.
He gave it a moment, out of respect for the lives lost.
8
New York City
Killers At Large After Armored Car Heist…
The headlines on the I-87 truck stop murders blazed along the news zipper that flowed around the old New York Times Building.
Updates also streaked across the news ribbons on neighboring buildings, intensifying the jumbotronic neon glory that was Times Square. But the full story would be forged about a dozen blocks northwest in the headquarters of the World Press Alliance.
After a hard drive from Ramapo into Midtown, the brakes squeaked on Angelo Dixon’s SUV when he stopped in front of the WPA Building. Gannon got out, hustled through the lobby, swiped his ID badge at the security turnstile and stepped into the elevator.
The afternoon was fading and time was hammering against him.
While the elevator floor numbers flashed, he concentrated on what he had, what he had to confirm and how he would structure his story.
The doors opened on the sixteenth floor.
Gannon passed through news reception with a familiar rise of pride as he swept by the wall showcasing some of the most stunning images taken by WPA photographers over the last century. Many were Pulitzer and international prize winners.
The news operation took up much of the floor. Executive offices lined the north and south walls. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls on the east offered the Empire State Building, Madison Square Garden and Penn Station. Looking west, Gannon saw the Hudson and New Jersey.
It was a far cry from where he’d started at the Buffalo Sentinel.
The WPA’s newsroom was oversupplied with large flat-screen monitors tuned to 24/7 news networks around the world. They were mounted to the ceiling and overlooked the vast grid of low-walled cubicles where reporters and editors answered phones, engaged in interviews, huddled in quick brainstorming sessions or typed at their keyboards.
Gannon glimpsed a report on one of the TV monitors concerning the heist then glanced at Lisker’s office. He was nowhere in sight. Good, don’t need him breathing over my shoulder, he thought, settling in at his desk.
Logging on to his computer, Gannon suddenly detected the telltale smell of Armani cologne. Lisker had emerged at Gannon’s desk, sleeves of his blue Italian dress shirt rolled crisply over his tanned forearms. His handmade Gucci tie was loosened.
“What do you have that’s exclusive, Gannon?”
“The fourth victim was an FBI agent. He was killed going for his gun.”
“What?” Lisker’s eyes narrowed. “Why wasn’t this in your earlier copy?”
“I still have to make some calls to confirm it and other information.”
“Why didn’t you make them on your cell and file from the road?”
“Some are sensitive. It’s better to do the work here.”
“Damn it, Gannon!” A few heads turned. “This is a news-gathering agency and news has a short lifespan, or did you forget that?”
“I need another hour.”
“I’ll give you thirty minutes and a warning— We broke this story. If we lose it now to AP, Reuters, the Times—to anybody—there will be consequences. Got that?”
Gannon did not look from his computer monitor. Katrina’s threat to kill him on this story flashed through his mind.
“Did you get that, Gannon? Getting beat is not an option!”
“I got it.”
“Good. You’re my lead reporter on this until I pull you off. Hal Ford will send you raw copy from the others we put on the story. Weave their work into yours and move your ass.”
Lisker left with Gannon’s stare drilling into the back of his head.
Lisker had never been on the street. He’d never covered a fire, or a homicide; never had to ask an inconsolable mother for a picture of her dead child. Word was that all he’d done for years was rewrite corporate press releases. Beyond the fact that Lisker was married to the daughter of a WPA board member, it was a mystery how he’d ascended to his post, because whatever he excelled at wasn’t journalism.
Gannon was a die-hard old-school, street-fighting reporter. Sure, he could file from a BlackBerry; text you copy. And he was fast. But the way he saw it, accuracy trumped speed. He was a relentless digger, hell-bent on getting things right. Being first to get it wrong does not enhance your brand. Gannon knew that firsthand; saw how sloppiness had destroyed the credibility of the Buffalo Sentinel.
But all that was behind him now.
He had to get to work.
As minutes ticked by, he shut out the activity around him and concentrated on writing about three guards killed in the heist and an FBI agent’s self-sacrificing attempt to stop it. First, he searched online to check what competitors had filed. Nothing new, so far. Then he reviewed the raw copy. His colleagues were exceptional; their work was clean, well-written. But it didn’t advance the story.
Juliet Thompson got the same statement the armored car company, American Centurion, had given everyone: “Our thoughts go to the families of the victims. The safety of our employees is of paramount concern. We are cooperating with the investigation and ask that anyone with information on the case contact local law enforcement.” The company hinted that a reward was forthcoming.
Ron Schwartz had some strong stuff from retired guards on previous heists and the dangers of the job. “You live every second knowing all eyes are on you and somebody somewhere is planning to knock you off.”
Veronica Keaton had local color, plenty of shock, outrage and fear. “This sort of crime doesn’t happen here.”
But the WPA had nothing from the inside.
We have to go deeper, Gannon thought. Four people were killed and four people got away with murder and a lot of cash. We need to take readers inside. We need to find who did this and why.
Gannon picked up his phone and called the private number for Eugene Bennett, a former professor who’d taught at the John Jay School of Criminal Justice before becoming a security consultant for the armored courier industry. Gannon knew Bennett from earlier stories and was certain that he would know what had happened in Ramapo.
No answer.
Gannon left a message then called another number. It rang in the Buffalo suburb of Lackawanna, where Adell Clark, an ex-FBI agent, ran a one-woman private detective agency out of her home in Parkview. She was a single parent with an eight-year-old daughter.
Several years back, when Clark was with the bureau, she had been shot while the FBI was staking out robbery suspects in Lewiston Heights. Gannon wrote about her struggle to recover from the wound to her leg. Since that time, they’d become friends, helping each other when they could. Adell should’ve heard something on the dead agent via the FBI grapevine, he thought.
Again, no answer.
Gannon cupped his hands over his face, checked the time, then began writing. He was five paragraphs into his story when his line rang.