Journalistic Integrity
Copyright 2011, Jan Darby
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of erotic fiction, intended for adult readers and containing graphic sexual situations and explicit language. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Journalistic Integrity
Vanessa – or "Van," as her readers knew her – Burke concentrated on the conversation between the middle-aged men seated next to the window of the internet café. She'd recognized them as fellow columnists at the Boston Post, but they hadn't been talking about anything interesting until now.
She abandoned any pretense of reading her email and stared at the men, reading their lips to make sure she caught every word.
"I don't know how this Burke guy does it," the scruffily bearded one said. "He gets all the good stories, he gets them first, and he gets them right."
"You ever meet him?"
"No one has, as far as I can tell." Beneath his beard, his chin was undoubtedly quivering with indignation. "Probably just as well. Must be some kind of freak."
Vanessa shrugged. So what if her peers thought she was a freak? She should have expected as much. Her mother had told her often enough that eavesdroppers never heard anything good about themselves. But mom was wrong, Vanessa thought. They'd called her a freak, but they'd also complimented her work. She didn't care what names people called her, as long as they also called her with leads.
Vanessa turned back to her notes on the recent murder of a local politician, Steve Santos. The police weren't saying much. The official story was that the victim, a long-time member of the Massachusetts Senate who represented a western section of the state, had been shot in his Boston condo, and the widow was distraught.
Nothing much in the official press release to work with. Good thing she didn't rely on the police for her stories. She didn't even need access to the crime scene. Who needed forensics when witnesses were so much more interesting?
The trick was to find the right witness, and she had a hunch she'd already found the right one for this story. He'd called earlier, and she'd arranged to meet him at the latest in a series of short-term, furnished townhouses she rented for just this purpose.
***
Vanessa arrived early and kept an eye on the security monitor. Right on time, a young man in an expensive suit approached the townhouse's front door. When he was close enough for her to get a good look at his face, she tensed. She knew him. He worked for Senator Santos.
Keeping one eye on the screen, she flipped through her background research on her computer until she found a grainy picture from a charitable event attended by Santos. Her witness was there too, and the caption identified him as Glen Newhall.
She closed the file and stowed the computer in its case, out of sight beneath the sofa. She turned her full attention to the security monitor, which showed Newhall walking away.
Damn. Vanessa forced herself to sit still and wait to see what he did next. She chased stories, but never chased interviewees. They had to want to talk to her, need to talk to her, or their information wouldn't be worth writing about.