Pete filed his first article on the Malone case and waited while Friedmann read it over, pacing the strip of carpet between the metro and crime desks until Jack Lamont told him to knock it off. He poured a cup of stale coffee from the pot in the hallway and took two sips before giving up and asking Janine to get him a Coke from the drugstore. Checked his reflection in the men’s room mirror and tried a smile to hide his apprehension. And then Friedmann bellowed from his office.
“VO-NICK-EE! In here, now!”
Friedmann had the piece in front of him. Every line was scored with blue pencil. He nodded at Pete to sit and then tapped the pages on the desk.
“This”—tap, tap—“is a piece of shit. It reads like a fucking college assignment. I don’t give a fuck about the weather, what it felt like to be on the scene, who else was there. I just want the fucking story, and so do the readers. What?”
This last was to Jeff White, who was standing in the doorway holding a couple of sheets of paper. He put them on Friedmann’s desk, waited while he skimmed them. Pete looked around him: at the stacks of files, the shelves of reference books, and then at the huge fish tank on the wall behind Friedmann. Rumor had it that they’d had to double the thickness of the wall, reinforce it so it was strong enough to hold the tank. Pete looked at the fish collecting at the glass, felt they were gathering to watch him. He stared back at their round, unblinking eyes, their open mouths, and shuddered.
Friedmann gave the pages back to White. “Get confirmation. A quote, anything—but something we can print. Then run with it.”
White dismissed, Friedmann leaned back in his chair, pushed Pete’s article aside, steepled his fingers.
“You know what sells papers, kid?”
Pete opened his mouth and Friedmann shook his head.
“Don’t fucking talk when I’m talking. You’ll know when it’s your turn.”
He took a gulp of something from a mug on his desk.
“Stories. Stories sell papers. Stories about shit that happened. Not shit that you’re describing in a fucking essay. Shit. That. Happened. Got that?”
Pete nodded.
“Readers want three things, Wonicke.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “They want to see the money. Or the lack of it. To feel envious, or superior.”
Another finger, bent back. “They want sex. There’s always a hot dame. Or a dame we can work up into hot. There’s always an angle we can use.”
A third finger. “And every story needs a bad guy. Every story needs fear.”
Another swig.
“I’m guessing there ain’t much money on . . . uh . . . 72nd Drive, so you got to play up the sex and the fear. Where’s the sex appeal? Is it the mother? The babysitter? I want a sexy broad. The readers want a sexy broad.”
Pete nodded.
“And the fear: What should they be scared of? What are the neighbors scared of? Is there a maniac out there targeting kids? What did he do to them? Where’s the other one, the boy?”
Pete nodded again and Friedmann leaned forward. “Is there a nut job out there?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“What do the cops think?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Of course you don’t fucking know. So you find out. Your job is to find out.”
“Right.”
“How you plan on doing that?”
“I asked the cops at the apartment. They weren’t talking.”
Friedmann sighed.
“Who’s the lead detective on this?”
Pete flipped through his notes.
“A Sergeant Devlin.”
“Okay. The—Jesus Christ, what?”
This time it was one of the secretaries who needed him to sign a check. Pete stared again at the fish. At the slow, languid movements, the flickering colors. And then at Friedmann—the wiry gray hair, the glasses with the square black frames. Suddenly the eyes behind them met Pete’s.
“Where were we? The cops. Okay. So your job is to stick with this . . .”
“Devlin.”
“Devlin, right. You find him and you get on his ass. You stick closer to him than his own wife until this case is done. Where does this guy live? What time does he get to work? Where does he park? Where does he get his fucking coffee? Mr. Devlin don’t do shit without you knowing about it. Every place he goes, every conversation he has, you’re half a step behind and you get everything down. Okay?”
Pete nodded, but Friedmann was looking at the report again.
“And the photos. Jesus. The fucking photos are terrible.”
He shoved half a dozen prints across the desk and Pete flipped through them. They were all close-ups of Ruth Malone. His eyes roamed over her long lashes, her thick soft hair, her pouting lips.
Pete looked up, puzzled. Friedmann jabbed the pile with a wide forefinger.
“This is a grieving mother? Where’s the fucking grief? Huh? Where’s the tears? Take Reilly out with you. Tell him to get a shot of her crying, whatever it takes.”
He leaned back, and when Pete didn’t immediately stand to leave, he raised an eyebrow.