Exclusive by Sandra Brown, Sandra Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Brown, Sandra
couldn't be conducted without revealing the story.
To make matters worse, Howie's prostate was acting up again--of course, he had regaled her with all the disgusting details-so he'd been grumpier than usual. Jealous over the success of her series, he was assigning her the stories that other reporters refused to do, the ones placed last in the broadcast lineup. She covered them without complaint, and as quickly as possible, so she could spend more time on the story that consumed her. Even to consider that the First Lady might have smothered her baby son was treasonous. What was the penalty for treason these days? Public hanging?
Firing squad?
48 Sandra Brown
Barrie had come to fear that she, not Vanessa Merritt, was suffering a mental breakdown. She was hearing voice inflections that weren't really there, reading hidden meanings into offhand remarks. She should give up this ridiculous notion and concentrate her efforts on the stories Howie doled out to her, rather than hitch her future to a star that would probably explode and form a black hole around her and her career. But she couldn't give it up. What if, after a few setbacks, Bernstein and Woodward had given up the Watergate story?
She was in her cubicle, studying her notes in search of another new slant, when the director of the evening news interrupted her concentration. "Yo, Barrie. The intro on the story you did for tonight?"
"What about it?"
"There was a hum in the mike. Howie says you should do an intro live from the set."
She glanced at the clock on her desk. They were eight minutes from airtime. "In case you haven't noticed, I got soaked this afternoon, just as we finished shooting the story. My hair's still wet."
"And your eye make-up is all . . ." The hand gestures he made over his own face were discouraging. "But it's either that or ditch the story. Howie says this is your big chance at stardom."
"I'm not holding my breath," she sighed, "but to keep the peace, I'll do it." She grabbed her satchel. "If anybody's looking for me, I'll be in the ladies' room."
"I'll be out here praying for a miracle," the director called after her.
After the newscast, Barrie returned to her desk and checked her messages.
One was from a crank who'd been calling her for years claiming that the makers of a popular
EXCLUSIVE 49
laxative had put a voodoo hex on him that caused chronic constipation. One was from a newly acquired crank, identifying herself as Charlene and reviling Barrie for being dense and just plain stupid. And one was from Anna Chen, her source at D.C. General.
"Anna?"
"Hi."
Anna Chen's voice was hushed and cautious, and Barrie noticed that she hadn't addressed her by name, although she obviously recognized her voice.
Barrie automatically reached for a pad and pencil.
"The matter we discussed a few days ago?" the hospital clerk began.
"Yes."
"'There's no copy available."
"I see." Barrie waited, sensing that the woman had more to say.
"The procedure was never performed."
Barrie swallowed hard. "Never performed? Is it . . . an elective procedure? Under the, uh, unusual circumstances, wasn't it mandatory?"
"Ordinarily, yes. But in this instance, the attending doctor determined that it wasn't necessary. He ordered that the procedure be waived, and it was."
Dr. George Allan, the President's personal physician, had ordered the coroner not to perform an autopsy. Barrie bore down so hard on her pencil that the lead broke. "Are you certain?"
"I've got to go."
"Just a few more questions?"
"I'm sorry."
Anna Chen hung up. Barrie stuffed her notes into her satchel, grabbed her raincoat and umbrella, and rushed from the newsroom.
50 Sandra Brown
She hadn't actually expected Anna Chen to be waiting for her in her office at the hospital. Nevertheless, she was disappointed to end the office locked and dark. Back in her car, she used her cellular phone.
"Do you have a telephone directory?" she asked Daily the moment he answered.
"Good evening to you,
To make matters worse, Howie's prostate was acting up again--of course, he had regaled her with all the disgusting details-so he'd been grumpier than usual. Jealous over the success of her series, he was assigning her the stories that other reporters refused to do, the ones placed last in the broadcast lineup. She covered them without complaint, and as quickly as possible, so she could spend more time on the story that consumed her. Even to consider that the First Lady might have smothered her baby son was treasonous. What was the penalty for treason these days? Public hanging?
Firing squad?
48 Sandra Brown
Barrie had come to fear that she, not Vanessa Merritt, was suffering a mental breakdown. She was hearing voice inflections that weren't really there, reading hidden meanings into offhand remarks. She should give up this ridiculous notion and concentrate her efforts on the stories Howie doled out to her, rather than hitch her future to a star that would probably explode and form a black hole around her and her career. But she couldn't give it up. What if, after a few setbacks, Bernstein and Woodward had given up the Watergate story?
She was in her cubicle, studying her notes in search of another new slant, when the director of the evening news interrupted her concentration. "Yo, Barrie. The intro on the story you did for tonight?"
"What about it?"
"There was a hum in the mike. Howie says you should do an intro live from the set."
She glanced at the clock on her desk. They were eight minutes from airtime. "In case you haven't noticed, I got soaked this afternoon, just as we finished shooting the story. My hair's still wet."
"And your eye make-up is all . . ." The hand gestures he made over his own face were discouraging. "But it's either that or ditch the story. Howie says this is your big chance at stardom."
"I'm not holding my breath," she sighed, "but to keep the peace, I'll do it." She grabbed her satchel. "If anybody's looking for me, I'll be in the ladies' room."
"I'll be out here praying for a miracle," the director called after her.
After the newscast, Barrie returned to her desk and checked her messages.
One was from a crank who'd been calling her for years claiming that the makers of a popular
EXCLUSIVE 49
laxative had put a voodoo hex on him that caused chronic constipation. One was from a newly acquired crank, identifying herself as Charlene and reviling Barrie for being dense and just plain stupid. And one was from Anna Chen, her source at D.C. General.
"Anna?"
"Hi."
Anna Chen's voice was hushed and cautious, and Barrie noticed that she hadn't addressed her by name, although she obviously recognized her voice.
Barrie automatically reached for a pad and pencil.
"The matter we discussed a few days ago?" the hospital clerk began.
"Yes."
"'There's no copy available."
"I see." Barrie waited, sensing that the woman had more to say.
"The procedure was never performed."
Barrie swallowed hard. "Never performed? Is it . . . an elective procedure? Under the, uh, unusual circumstances, wasn't it mandatory?"
"Ordinarily, yes. But in this instance, the attending doctor determined that it wasn't necessary. He ordered that the procedure be waived, and it was."
Dr. George Allan, the President's personal physician, had ordered the coroner not to perform an autopsy. Barrie bore down so hard on her pencil that the lead broke. "Are you certain?"
"I've got to go."
"Just a few more questions?"
"I'm sorry."
Anna Chen hung up. Barrie stuffed her notes into her satchel, grabbed her raincoat and umbrella, and rushed from the newsroom.
50 Sandra Brown
She hadn't actually expected Anna Chen to be waiting for her in her office at the hospital. Nevertheless, she was disappointed to end the office locked and dark. Back in her car, she used her cellular phone.
"Do you have a telephone directory?" she asked Daily the moment he answered.
"Good evening to you,
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