The American Girl by Kate Horsley Read Free Book Online Page B

WikiLeaks if his wife would ever let him out of the house; but he has strict instructions from both his old lady and his doctor to cut back on work, booze, and cigarettes. The fact that he’s done none of these might escape his doctor, but not his eagle-eyed wife, Nina, who by the sound of his voice when he spoke to me was sitting in the room.
    â€œWhat’s up, Swift?” he asked, trying to sound jovial.
    â€œNothing much. Enjoying the red wine and all that jazz.”
    But just as I know Bill’s voice, he knows mine. Knows for certain when I’m holding something back. It’s not just the journalist in him—it’s the dad.
    â€œRough day at work?”
    â€œWell . . .” I took a swig of whiskey, toyed with a cigarette. “There’s good news and bad news. First the good: I went to see the girl in the hospital, like you said. While I was there, I found out some stuff about the Blavettes . . .”
    I started telling him about the police putting a bulletin out on the Blavette family, about going to their house, meeting Valentin. I could tell I’d grabbed his interest by the way he tip-tapped on his laptop as I spoke, probably Googling the news item.
    You see, the main idea for American Confessional is that we take on stories of police incompetence or just general corruption, and find the real story. One day after he was retired and I’d just lost a job, we met for a drink and came up with the idea of a talking heads show based on old-fashioned undercover work and pavement-pounding. Our first series was a long haul and probably the hardest work we ever did on a case: a miscarriage-of-justice story about Manatee Mack, a poor, black guy from Florida who we argued had been framed by the police for his white teenage girlfriend’s murder. We came close to clearing his name, got the Innocence Project on board, garnered support from millions of listeners, only to see the story end in the death chamber at Florida State. Both of us wanted to quit after that and did for a while. It was just too sad.
    Maybe that was the reason the second series dealt with the opposite kind of injustice: Mindy Kaufman, a wealthy old lady who rented apartments on the Upper East Side and who everyone knew had poisoned her husband and housekeeper after she caught them together. Most of what we pulled together was gossip and hearsay, but we had a theory Mindy had used a slow-acting pesticide called Victor Cockroach Gel. The police had either been paid off or scared off, though: they wouldn’t pursue it. In a marvelous piece of dumb luck, we got Mindy on tape chattingabout the murder to her pet mynah bird. Our listeners devoured that one.
    In the end, what started out as a nostalgia piece became a popular show, not to mention a good earner because of paid ads and keen fans. I’m the anonymous roving ear who records the footage and sends it to Bill. He shapes and edits cleverly and generally protects my secret identity. He really knows how to pitch a story.
    Finally, I told him about the whole mistaken-for-a-relative thing.
    â€œYou mean, they think you’re the aunt or something?”
    â€œI guess. At first I only said that to the receptionist to get in for a minute, then when I was sitting in the girl’s room . . . a nun came. She was so thrilled that a family member had visited I started to feel pretty weird.”
    â€œSo you haven’t ’fessed up?”
    In the background of the call, like echolalia, I heard Nina’s commentary. “‘’Fessed up,’ Bill? What has she gotten into this time? Should you be involved, in your condition?”
    â€œYeah, I guess I should, really,” I said, talking more to myself than Bill, who was now busy bickering, “though I don’t have to go back to the hospital, since—”
    â€œDon’t you have a casserole to heat up, Nina? Leave me alone,” Bill shouted, “and, Molly, for God’s sake.