82 Desire

run it by her editor, who, in turn, would call in lawyers, though probably not till she had a first draft. She’d also have to call Seaberry and Favret for their sides, and of course, she’d have to ask Bebe and Beau’s wife if they knew anything. She didn’t at all like the idea of making those last four phone calls—two people were dead for sure, and maybe a third. But by the time she made them it would be too late to bother killing her—the story would be only hours from running.
    She felt another frisson. Better call superjerk David Bacardi—her editor and ex—before she did another thing. If she died, at least she wanted someone to know why.
    His wife answered. What fun , Jane thought. “Hi, Lisa, it’s Jane Storey. Sorry to call on Sunday…”
    “Hi, Jane. I’ll get him.” A bit abrupt, but that was just Lisa. She was a lawyer—what could you expect?
    David himself was damn near nasty. “You better have a story that’s gonna keep the lid on this town.”
    “Bacardi, this is big. Swear to God I’ve got something here.”
    “Give it to me in ten words or less.”
    “Corporate shenanigans leading to the murders of Allred and Cavignac.”
    “Okay.” He spoke in a pleasanter voice. “Start talking.”
    As she ran it down for him, he peppered her with questions that got more and more excited as she went on. He was buying it completely. Finally, he said, “How fast can you do it?”
    “Well, it’s a Sunday, so I might be able to get people at home. If I can, first draft by tomorrow. We run it by the lawyers in the morning, while I work on confirming everybody’s story, and then I call the honchos at United—at absolutely the last minute. It runs Tuesday morning. That fast enough for you?”
    “You’re a journalistic dreamboat. I love ya to death, Storey.”
    She spoke in as sultry a voice as she could muster. “I hate it when you talk like that.”
    And then she got to work.
    The list was a gold mine. Three of the first five people she called were home and eager to talk, and mad as hornets. Seizing the moment, she asked to come over right away.
    Five hours later she had the story in her pocket. Some days , she thought, it pays to get up in the morning.
    It was late when she got back to the paper, and hardly anyone was in the newsroom. She was going over her notes when a phone rang somewhere in the distance. And then Jane’s phone rang. “This is Angie in the library. The Miami Herald called for clips on Russell Fortier—you want to take the call?”
    Jane’s heart thudded. “Bet your bootie.” She picked up the phone. “This is Jane Storey in the newsroom. The library transferred you to me.”
    “Hey, there. John McGonagil at the Herald. We’ve got a story working about a Coast Guard rescue involving a guy named Russell Fortier and some New Orleans cop. I called ‘cause I thought y’all might have some clips on Fortier—seems like I was right.”
    “You’re kidding. Russell Fortier’s alive?”
    “Who is he, anyway?”
    “Who’s the cop?”
    It went on that way until they both managed to calm down enough to exchange information, and when it was done, each had a mouthful of canary feathers.
    Jane looked at her watch—only ten o’clock. They could easily get the story in if they wanted to—and she was sure they were going to want to. She sauntered over to the night city editor. “I’m about to make your day,” she said, and proceeded to do so.
    Then she went back to her desk and started placing calls to Fort Lauderdale. First she confirmed the story with the Coast Guard, then she mentioned casually that she was a friend of Detective Langdon’s, and asked if anyone there knew where she was.
    Her source yelled at someone, “Hey. You know where Langdon went?”
    Jane heard the yelled-back answer: “Fort Lauderdale PD.”
    To her surprise, Skip actually took the call. “Jane. Don’t run this. I’m begging you.”
    “Why not?”
    “Can’t it wait a day or two?”
    “There’s absolutely no way to stop it—the wires have got it. It’s probably coming over now.”
    “Damn.”
    Jane couldn’t imagine what the big deal was. But one thing she knew—Skip was going to be furious when she saw Tuesday’s story. However, there was nothing to be done about it. Cops did their job, reporters did theirs.
    Still, it didn’t seem right. Something nagged at her. Not a sense of professional courtesy, exactly—more like an unwillingness to blindside a