Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) by Julie Kramer Read Free Book Online

celebrated German shepherd.
    I’d always considered Old Yeller the most notable of dead dogs, until I cried my eyes out reading Marley and Me.
    But then Buddy came along. And live, on the air, I lost it.
    The anchors led the newscast with how journalists prefer to lead with good news and how unfortunate it is when good news turns bad.
    Then they tossed to me to explain to viewers what they were talking about.
    I’d scripted my story to read smoothly on the teleprompter. The narrow column of copy times out to a second a line to make it easy to gauge story length, and so the anchor’s eyes don’t shift back and forth. My piece should have been routine.
    ((RILEY LIVE))
EARLIER TONIGHT, I TOLD YOU
HOW A DOG NAMED BUDDY WAS
RESCUED FROM A HOT PICKUP
TRUCK. SO MANY OF YOU CALLED
THE STATION ROOTING FOR HIM . . .
    Just then my throat got tight and I started choking up.
    ((RILEY LIVE))
BUT NEWS STORIES DON’T ALWAYS
END THE WAY WE WANT . . .
    My voice got raspy. It wasn’t a question of knowing what to say—I had a script—it was getting the words out. The harder I tried to enunciate the more constricted my speech became.
    ((RILEY LIVE))
TONIGHT I HAVE TO REPORT
THAT BUDDY . . . THAT BUDDY . . .
BUDDY . . . BUDDY HAS DIED.
    During the course of my news career, I must have reported a hundred grievous deaths of people—young and old, rich and poor. Most of them decent folks who didn’t deserve their lives to end violently.
    Never once did I break down on the air.
    But unlike Buddy, I hadn’t held any of those victims in my arms hours before their demise. The memory of his scratchy fur against my chin suddenly reminded me of Shep, a German shepherd who’d risked his life to save mine, and was now a star member of the police K-9 unit. And I couldn’t help thinking, What if Shep had died?
    By then I was crying too hard to talk.
    In my earpiece, I heard the producer tell the director to kill my mic and cut back to the anchors. Sophie jumped in to finish reading my story about how Buddy’s official cause of death was heatstroke.

CHAPTER 11
    T he next morning, all of Channel 3 gasped when they saw how many viewers had essentially watched Buddy’s obituary and my meltdown the night before. The ratings resembled the days before cable TV and the Internet shrunk network audiences.
    Television stations realize they can’t be first every day. Their measure of success is how well they retain their network lead-in audience. If they build on that viewership, ad revenue increases and everyone keeps their jobs. But if the numbers reflect a significant drop-off, that means trouble. And Channel 3 had shown a pattern of problems lately.
    So at the assignment meeting that morning, Noreen reveled in the numbers as concrete proof of her superior news instincts and management skill.
    “Keep the Buddy story alive,” she ordered. “Viewers will be expecting a follow-up report tonight. Don’t disappoint them.”
    No one mentioned my blubbering on the set. All of Channel 3 seemed embarrassed by my behavior. My hope was that they had made a pact never to mention my on-air collapse again.
    After the meeting, I followed Noreen back to her office to try to keep Kate’s homicide on her radar. My hunch was we could have a more candid conversation behind closed doors.
    “I’ll check with the county attorney this morning, Noreen, and see if she anticipates any harsher charges against Buddy’s owner.”
    Either way, we could pass that off as news.
    “I’m not going to ask what happened last night,” Noreen said, “You just need to assure me you’re going to be able to hold it together on this story.”
    “I can’t explain it either, but it won’t happen again. Ever.”
    I suspected that because she was an animal lover, Noreen was going easier on me than she might have otherwise. I thanked her for being so understanding. It wasn’t a line I ever expected to say to her, because she’d never been understanding before. Our track record