Private Scandals

hurriedly into her robe. He was already tucking a shirt into his slacks, as calmly as a man going to his office to work on tax forms. He’d survived air raids and earthquakes. Surely a skirmish in Greektown was nothing to worry about.
    “You’ll be careful.”
    He grabbed a tie, a jacket. “I’ll be good.” As she reached into the closet for the suit she’d chosen for her afternoon appearance, he spun her around for a kiss. “I’ll probably be back before you.”
     
    The worst kind of war was one with no front lines or battle plans. It was fueled on anger and fear and the blind need to destroy. The once-tidy restaurant with its pretty, striped awning and sidewalk tables was destroyed. Shards from the broken window sparkled like scattered gems over the sidewalk, The flap of the awning in the raw spring wind was smothered by the static-filled drone of police radios. Reporters held back by barricades swarmed like hungry wolves.
    There was another volley of gunshots from inside. And a long, terrified scream.
    “Jesus.” Sweat popped out on Curt’s brow as he held the camera steady. “He’s killing them.”
    “Get a shot of that cop there,” Finn ordered. “The one with the bullhorn.”
    “You’re the boss.” Curt focused in on a cop in a neon orange trench coat with a hangdog face and graying hair. Amid the screams and shouts, the weeping, the bitter threats and curses from inside the restaurant, the steely-eyed cop continued to talk in a soothing monotone.
    “Pretty cool customer,” Curt observed, then at a signal from Finn shifted, crouched to get a shot of the SWAT team taking position.
    “Cool enough,” Finn agreed. “If he keeps at it, they might not need the sharpshooters. Keep rolling. I’m going to see if I can work my way over and find out who he is.”
     
    The ballroom was filled to capacity. From where Deanna sat on the raised dais, she could see all three hundred and fifty people who had come to hear her talk about women in broadcasting. She was going to give them their money’s worth. She’d gone over her notes thoroughly once again on the drive from Chicago, letting her concentration lapse only when shecaught a glimpse of Finn on the limo’s television.
    He was, as Barlow James would say, in his element. And, it seemed, she was in hers.
    She waited through the flattering introduction, through the applause that followed it, then rose and walked to the podium. She scanned the room, smiled.
    “Good afternoon. One of the first things we learn in broadcasting is that we work weekends. Since we are, I hope to make the next hour as entertaining as it is informative. That, to me, is television, and I’ve found it a very satisfying way to make a living. It occurred to me that as you are professionals, you wouldn’t have much opportunity to watch daytime TV, so I’m hoping to convince you to set your VCRs Monday morning. We’re on at nine here in Merrillville.”
    That earned Deanna her first chuckle, and set the tone for the next twenty minutes, until her speech segued into a question-and-answer period.
    One of the first questioners asked if Finn Riley had accompanied her.
    “I’m afraid not. As we all know, one of the boons, and the curses, of this business is the breaking story. Finn’s reporting on one right now, but you can catch him on In Depth Tuesday nights. I always do.”
    “Miss Reynolds, how do you feel about the fact that looks have become as much a part of the criteria for on-air jobs as credentials?”
    “I would certainly agree with network executives that television is a visual medium. To a point. I can tell you this: If in thirty years Finn Riley is still reporting, and considered a statesman, I’d not only expect but demand, as a woman, to be given the same respect.”
     
    Finn wasn’t thinking about the future. He was too involved in the present. Using wile, guile and arrogance, he’d managed to gain a position beside the hostage negotiator, Lieutenant Arnold Jenner. Jenner still held the bullhorn but had taken a short break in his appeal to his quarry to release the hostages.
    “Lieutenant, the word I’ve gotten here is that Johnson—that’s his name, isn’t it, Elmer Johnson?”
    “It’s the one he answers to,” Jenner said mildly.
    “He has a history of depression. His VA records—”
    “You wouldn’t have access to his medical records, Mr. Riley.”
    “Not directly.” But he had contacts, and he’d used them. “My take on this is