The Juggler. Jane had finally chosen that title, laughing and tossing imaginary balls in the air. The student paper had used it for the headline, much to her mother’s delight and her father’s disdain. Soon after, and then later, her dreams and plans had exploded and reassembled at light speed, altered with the whims of the universe. She’d begun to realize there was no use in planning and no percentage in predicting, and she’d learned that dreams sometimes had to change, even vanish.
Now Mom was dead. Murrow, too. After winning several investigative-reporter Emmys, Jane was fired from Channel 11 for protecting a source, though that’s not how the bigwigs would have described it almost two years ago. The ex-almost fiancé was still lording it at the hospital, she guessed. She hadn’t seen him since their fight. Her father, now emeritus, still asked her about him, but Jane would change the subject. Her Corey Road condo was still home, and new arrival Coda, now almost a year old, had expected Jane to adapt to her particular feline demands.
She’d met Jake. Not the best romantic choice, with her as rising star reporter and him as rising star detective. It created a clandestine relationship doomed from the start by police department and newsroom edicts prohibiting conflicts of interest. Last month, in one poignant moment at the end of a particularly emotional murder case, Jake had broached the idea of marriage and a future together. Over long dinners and longer after-dinners, they’d contemplated going for it, starting again, someone changing careers, maybe both of them. No pressure, plenty of time, just maybe. When, in a heart-pumping fit of indignation, Jane quit her job at the Register, with the Register’s lawyers warning her about the severe personal and financial ramifications of even the hint of a leak about the fabricated news she’d uncovered, it appeared new doors might be opening.
Now she was juggling again.
Jake was not talking to her. He’d turned his back in the alley earlier, striding away, Bobby Land in tow. Nor was he answering her texts.
Lissa, oops, Melissa, wasn’t answering her texts, either.
She was juggling Marsh Tyson, too. And the possibility of a freelance gig at Channel 2, especially if the Curley Park story panned out. They’d told her to hang on to the Quik-Shot, just in case, but they’d made a copy of her video, from the opening shots of the crime scene to the person-on-the-street interviews to the mysterious ambulance in the alley, ending with Jake walking away. Possibly the first time the potential end of a romance had been caught on camera. Talk about cinema verité.
Just keep swimming. She could hear her mother quoting one of their favorite hospital-bedside movies. Miss you, Mom. She’d try. She had no choice.
Marsh yanked open his glass door, letting in the chaos of the newsroom. Phones trilled, computers pinged, someone yelled “five minutes!” One wall of Tyson’s office displayed a massive bank of flickering TV monitors, their audio clashing and incomprehensible, the volume of each set turned just loud enough to muffle the others. Jane looked at the white-lighted, six-digit readout above the door: 3:55:15. The four o’clock news was about to begin.
“Hey, Jane.” Tyson closed the door, and it all went silent. He loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves. Jane had done her homework with a few Internet searches, knew a younger Tyson had once anchored weekends in Raleigh. Handsome local boy made semi-good, his mother the mayor of some North Carolina town, his father a big civil rights activist. Now he moved behind the scenes. More job security in management, Jane guessed, than being on-air talent. Almost anything was more secure than “talent.”
“So. How’d you like it? Being out in the fray, tracking down clues, following leads?” Tyson still embraced his anchorman voice. Listing clichés was a skill he seemed to have perfected. “You rocked this one, Jane. Your video’ll be all over the six. Exclusive.”
Jane shrugged, accepting the compliment. “Thanks. I called the cop shop’s new PR flack to get the deets on the victim and the guy in cuffs,” she said. She almost laughed, hearing herself using that kind of phony jargon. She held up her cell. “But she hasn’t called back.”
If asked, Jane would have sworn she didn’t miss TV. Didn’t miss the relentless deadlines, the too-short video stories, the nature-of-the-beast shallow coverage. But all she could think about was how to break some new ground for the next show.
What’s the most important newscast of the day? one journalism teacher had asked. Trick question, Professor Burke had said, holding up one finger, shushing them before the class could even guess. The most important newscast is the next one.
“I’ve got our desk people on it, too,” Tyson said. “Plenty of time to write your story. Do a minute-thirty for the anchor. Beverly can voice it.”
A knock on the glass door.
“Yo,” Tyson said, gesturing the woman in. “Speak of the devil. What you got, Bev?”
Beverly Chorbajian, the station’s new marquee anchor, her face on every billboard in Boston. Jane didn’t remember when anchor clothes had become so revealing, but something was certainly working for glamorous and exotic Beverly. She had a steady job, at least. More than Jane did.
“Cop shop PR flack shot me a text, Marsh,” Beverly said, waving her phone. “Oh, hi, Jane. Anyway, still no ID or fingerprints on the Curley Park vic. Still no ID or fingerprints on the Franklin Alley suspect.”
“The police called him a suspect?” Jane asked. Would have been nice if the PR flack had returned her call, instead of Beverly’s. Would have been helpful if she could have provided this fingerprint news. Such as it was.
“Nope, but that’s what I’d call him.” Beverly raised an eyebrow. “He was in handcuffs, right?”
“Whatever,” Tyson said. “And?”
“That’s it.” Beverly tucked a strand of blonded hair behind one ear. “Flack said she’d ping when there was more.”
“Let us know.” Marsh pointed at her. “Now you better get ready.”
“I’m always ready,” Beverly said. She didn’t exactly strut away, but she came close.
Maybe Jane didn’t miss TV, after all. Her phone rang, buzzing and vibrating against the news director’s glass coffee table.
“Cop shop, dollars to doughnuts,” Tyson said. “Go ahead, Jane. Then give us the deets.”
Jane crossed mental fingers it would be the police, providing her information to wrap this story. Better info than Bev got.
“Hello?”
“Jane, it’s Lissa. Melissa. I had to hang up before because-well, listen. Seems like Lewis and Gracie have taken off. On an ‘adventure.’” Melissa paused, took a deep breath. “Lewis apparently is ‘impetuous.’ Whatever Robyn means by that. Where are you, Janey? Because…”
Jane stood, hearing the uncertainty in her sister’s voice.
“Cops? Something?” Tyson asked.
“Lissa?” Jane held up a hand, signaling Tyson no, not the cops. She was beginning to hate her phone even more. But for all their squabbles, she and Melissa were sisters. And that tone in Lissa’s voice-one Jane had never heard. Melissa and Gracie had bonded, Jane knew. Even with Melissa’s rigid view of the world, somehow the little girl had gotten through. Touched her heart, she’d said. But again, it was Lissa’s-Melissa’s-wedding. So, hard to tell.