The Hotshot. Jule McBride

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СКАЧАТЬ had the nerve to call the News a “mere tabloid.”

      This, she thought now, from the man who, before semiretirement, had handed the Milton Herald over to her brothers, Bob and Ed. The weekly’s circulation had dropped by 50 subscribers, and now only went to 300 households. None of which would be happening if her father had named her his successor. His lack of belief in her hurt, cutting to the core. Why couldn’t he see she was a good reporter? Why couldn’t Dimi?

      Despite her loyalty to the Milton Herald, Trudy loved everything about this paper that had started in 1803 as the New York Evening News and faithfully served New York ever since, becoming the longest continuously running daily newspaper in America. She loved how the smell of ink filled her nostrils as she pushed through the smudged glass doors every morning carrying coffee from Starbucks. She loved being greeted by the sight of harried reporters who’d been awake all night at desks strewn with overflowing ashtrays, foam cups and files.

      Without even looking, Trudy could name the blowups of past News covers hanging on the walls: the Kennedy Assassination, the Lindbergh baby, the Wall Street Crash of 1929, the murder of mob kingpin, Paul Castellano…

      The News was a hub. Its reporters had earned nearly forty Pulitzer prizes, and every time she walked through its doors, Trudy realized her finger was on the pulse of America. She had no interest in the conservative New York Times. She’d been raised on a hometown paper, and the News had hometown roots—in the country’s biggest hometown.

      “Dimi,” she began, fighting frustration, but determined to defend her position. “There are so many great stories begging to be written. The drive-along isn’t the best use of my time.”

      It was an understatement. The drive-along was pure fluff. Human interest. Good publicity the News generated every year as a favor to the mayor at the beginning of tourist season.

      Dimi eyed her. “What did you have in mind?”

      “The Glass Slipper story.”

      “Scott’s on that.”

      Of course he is. She tried not to react, but the mere mention of Scott Smith-Sanker’s name sent her through the roof. If he scooped her once more on a story that was rightfully hers, she was going to implode. “Well, what about the lottery?” she suggested. “Whoever claimed the fifteen-million-dollar jackpot wants to remain anonymous. We need to find out who it was. After all our hype, the public wants to know.” The story was every bit as important as the Glass Slipper.

      “Ben’s following up on the lottery.”

      It wasn’t easy to tamp down her anger. “There was a murder just twenty minutes ago on the East Side. What about that?”

      “Keith’s headed there already.”

      “Okay,” she said patiently. “It’s not a city story, but we need to follow up on the Eliza.” She glanced toward a News cover showing the oil tanker that had run aground near the Galapagos Islands.

      “A stringer’s on it.”

      Not about to worsen the situation by making a scene, Trudy waited until the meeting was over and the others filed out before turning to her boss and saying exactly what was on her mind. “If this is the kind of work you want me to do, why did you even bother to hire me?”

      “Your assignment’s a good one, Trudy.”

      “It’s busy work,” she pushed back.

      “High profile. You’ll liaise with the mayor.”

      Maybe. But that wasn’t the kind of reporter she was meant to be. She’d had this same conversation with her father and brother for years, whenever they handed her grunt work, hoping to discourage her from working for the Herald. The ploy had worked. She’d left the Herald in a huff. But she was not leaving the New York News, and she intended to get real stories. The hard stuff.

      “The Glass Slipper,” she reminded, not usually one to toot her own horn, but understanding she no longer had a choice. “I thought of calling it that. The name sold papers, Dimi. The allusion to Cinderella and Prince Charming captured the imagination of our readership.”

      The case had begun two months ago when wealthy, famous female New Yorkers began reporting the bizarre theft of expensive, custom-made shoes. At this point, over a hundred pairs were missing from over a hundred apartments, and the police, unable to discern a motive and confused by how the thief gained access to so many well-guarded homes, were hot to solve the crimes.

      Trudy had written the News’s first headline, “Can These Cinderellas Find Their Glass Slippers?” Her next was, “Who is Prince Charming?” Ever since, along with the growing lottery jackpot, the story had captured the imagination of news-hungry New Yorkers. Newspaper sales had skyrocketed.

      “Circulation’s up,” she continued. “And we’re getting more hits online, too.”

      “Your contribution’s been noticed,” Dimi conceded. “And soon, Trudy, we’ll have a hot tip that’s—”

      “Right for me?” She wasn’t in the habit of cutting off her boss, but she’d reached the end of her rope. “I’ve been here two years. I’ve been patient. I’ve gophered. I’ve gotten coffee, picked up lunch and worked double time. Just how many dues do you expect me to pay before you’ll let me wedge a toe in your old buddy club?”

      Dimi considered. “You think this is a chauvinist atmosphere?”

      “How could I not feel discriminated against?” she returned, not backing down. She’d have left before now, but she wanted the experience of working on the nation’s longest running daily, even if she cursed the ambition that made her want to conquer it. She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You’re cute, Trudy. If you want to go into news, why don’t you try television?” Occasionally, he’d generously point to weather girls as models.

      Trudy Busey was no weather girl.

      Dimi stared at her as he peeled silver foil from a roll of antacids and began chewing one—all the while thinking he ought to give in and do what doctors kept telling him: lose weight. But then, doctors didn’t understand the pressures of being an editor in a big-city newsroom, no more than the stress of managing people like Trudy. She wanted the Glass Slipper and lottery stories? Well, the distressing fact was, she deserved them.

      “Why did you bother to hire me?” she asked again.

      Because she’d possessed two main prerequisites for the job, Dimi thought now. She was eager and pushy. During their interview, she’d been fiercely determined. Along with college newspaper clippings, she’d submitted human interest stories she’d written for her father’s newspaper, and Dimi easily read between the lines. Her father didn’t want her in the news business, but she was hell-bent on succeeding, not to mention jealous of two, less talented brothers who’d been handed the Milton Herald on a platter.

      Dimi had wanted to give her a chance. Trouble was, one look at Trudy, and Dimi wished he was thirty years younger, fifty pounds lighter, and a much nicer guy. She was the one person in years who’d actually located his soft spot. Once he’d given her the job, he simply couldn’t stand to set her loose in a town he feared would eat her alive.

      She was petite. Five foot four, with smooth skin and fine, yellow-blond hair that just touched her shoulders. Every time he looked at her, Dimi understood СКАЧАТЬ