From the Heart

in Missouri and a handful of other states until he had hung up his notebook in exchange for a desk in Washington.
    He was a tough news director, exacting, excitable. If he was bitter about the different path his career had taken, he was careful not to show it. Liv respected him, and had grown steadily fonder of him during her stint at WWBW. She’d had her own share of disappointments.
    “What?” It was Carl’s way of telling her to speak her piece once the break had come.
    “I want to follow up on Beaumont Dell,” Liv began. “I’vedone a lot of legwork on this already, and when he’s appointed Secretary of State, I want to put it on the air first.”
    Carl sat back and folded his hands over his paunch. He blamed too much sitting at a desk for the extra fifteen pounds he carried around. The look he aimed at Liv was as direct and uncompromising as the look he had aimed at the television screen.
    “A little ahead of the game.” His voice was roughened by years of chain-smoking. As she watched, he lit another, though a cigarette still smoldered in his overfilled ashtray. “What about Fitzhugh? And Davis and Albertson? They might question your appointment of Dell. Officially, Larkin hasn’t resigned.”
    “It’s a matter of days, probably hours. You heard the doctor’s statement. The acting secretary won’t be appointed permanently; Boswell’s not the president’s favorite boy. It’s going to be Dell. I know it.”
    Carl sniffed and rubbed a hand over his nose. He liked Carmichael’s instincts. She was sharp and savvy despite the born-to-the-manor looks. And she was thorough. But he was understaffed and the budget was tight. He couldn’t afford to send one of his top reporters out on a hunch when he could assign someone he could spare more. Still . . . He hesitated a moment, then leaned over the desk again.
    “Might be worth it,” he mumbled. “Let’s hear what Thorpe has to say. His report’s coming up.”
    Liv shifted in her chair in automatic protest, then subsided. It was pride that had her ready to object to having her assignment hinge on the words of T.C. Thorpe. But pride didn’t cut weight with Carl. Instead, she rose to sit on the corner of his desk and watch.
    The Washington anchor was broadcasting from the studio above her head. It was a much more stylized set than the one she had just left. But that was the difference between the local and national news—and the local and national news budgets. After his brief lead-in, the screen switched to the location shot and T.C. Thorpe’s stand-up. With a frown, Liv watched him.
    Though it was no more than thirty degrees with a wickedwindchill factor, he wore his coat unbuttoned and had no hat. It was typical.
    He had a rugged, weather-tanned face Liv associated with a mountain climber, and the streamlined body of a long-distance runner. Both professions required endurance. So did reporting. T.C. Thorpe was all reporter. His eyes were dark and intense, locking on the viewers and holding them. His dark hair blew furiously around his face, giving his report an air of urgency. Yet his voice was clean and unhurried. The contrast worked for him more successfully than flash or gimmicks worked for others.
    Liv knew his visual appeal was tremendous. He had the athletic, just-short-of-handsome looks that appealed to both men and women. His eyes were intelligent and instilled trust, as did the deep, well-pitched voice. He was accessible. She knew reporters were put into slots: remote, mystical, omnipotent, accessible. Thorpe was flesh and blood, and viewers could welcome him into their living rooms comfortably and accept his word. And there was the feeling that if the world began to collapse, T.C. Thorpe would report it without missing a beat.
    In his five years as senior Washington correspondent, he had built an enviable reputation. He had the two things most essential to a reporter: credibility and sources. If T.C. Thorpe said it, it was believed. If T.C. Thorpe needed information, he knew which numbers to call.
    Liv’s resentment against him was instinctive. She specialized in the political beat for the local broadcast. Thorpe was her nemesis. He guarded his turf with the ferocity of a dog in a junkyard. He was rooted in Washington; she was still the new kid on the block. And he wasn’t giving her any room. It seemed inevitable that when she had a hot lead, he had been there first.
    Liv had spent months looking for a viable criticism of him.