The Hotshot. Jule Mcbride
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been raised on a hometown paper, and the News had hometown roots—in the country’s biggest hometown.
“Dimi,” she began, fighting frustration, but determined to defend her position. “There are so many great stories begging to be written. The drive-along isn’t the best use of my time.”
It was an understatement. The drive-along was pure fluff. Human interest. Good publicity the News generated every year as a favor to the mayor at the beginning of tourist season.
Dimi eyed her. “What did you have in mind?”
“The Glass Slipper story.”
“Scott’s on that.”
Of course he is. She tried not to react, but the mere mention of Scott Smith-Sanker’s name sent her through the roof. If he scooped her once more on a story that was rightfully hers, she was going to implode. “Well, what about the lottery?” she suggested. “Whoever claimed the fifteen-million-dollar jackpot wants to remain anonymous. We need to find out who it was. After all our hype, the public wants to know.” The story was every bit as important as the Glass Slipper.
“Ben’s following up on the lottery.”
It wasn’t easy to tamp down her anger. “There was a murder just twenty minutes ago on the East Side. What about that?”
“Keith’s headed there already.”
“Okay,” she said patiently. “It’s not a city story, but we need to follow up on the Eliza.” She glanced toward a News cover showing the oil tanker that had run aground near the Galapagos Islands.
“A stringer’s on it.”
Not about to worsen the situation by making a scene, Trudy waited until the meeting was over and the others filed out before turning to her boss and saying exactly what was on her mind. “If this is the kind of work you want me to do, why did you even bother to hire me?”
“Your assignment’s a good one, Trudy.”
“It’s busy work,” she pushed back.
“High profile. You’ll liaise with the mayor.”
Maybe. But that wasn’t the kind of reporter she was meant to be. She’d had this same conversation with her father and brother for years, whenever they handed her grunt work, hoping to discourage her from working for the Herald. The ploy had worked. She’d left the Herald in a huff. But she was not leaving the New York News, and she intended to get real stories. The hard stuff.
“The Glass Slipper,” she reminded, not usually one to toot her own horn, but understanding she no longer had a choice. “I thought of calling it that. The name sold papers, Dimi. The allusion to Cinderella and Prince Charming captured the imagination of our readership.”
The case had begun two months ago when wealthy, famous female New Yorkers began reporting the bizarre theft of expensive, custom-made shoes. At this point, over a hundred pairs were missing from over a hundred apartments, and the police, unable to discern a motive and confused by how the thief gained access to so many well-guarded homes, were hot to solve the crimes.
Trudy had written the News’s first headline, “Can These Cinderellas Find Their Glass Slippers?” Her next was, “Who is Prince Charming?” Ever since, along with the growing lottery jackpot, the story had captured the imagination of news-hungry New Yorkers. Newspaper sales had skyrocketed.
“Circulation’s up,” she continued. “And we’re getting more hits online, too.”
“Your contribution’s been noticed,” Dimi conceded. “And soon, Trudy, we’ll have a hot tip that’s—”
“Right for me?” She wasn’t in the habit of cutting off her boss, but she’d reached the end of her rope. “I’ve been here two years. I’ve been patient. I’ve gophered. I’ve gotten coffee, picked up lunch and worked double time. Just how many dues do you expect me to pay before you’ll let me wedge a toe in your old buddy club?”
Dimi considered. “You think this is a chauvinist atmosphere?”
“How could I not feel discriminated against?” she returned, not backing down. She’d have left before now, but she wanted the experience of working on the nation’s longest running daily, even if she cursed the ambition that made her want to conquer it. She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You’re cute, Trudy. If you want to go into news, why don’t you try television?” Occasionally, he’d generously point to weather girls as models.
Trudy Busey was no weather girl.
Dimi stared at her as he peeled silver foil from a roll of antacids and began chewing one—all the while thinking he ought to give in and do what doctors kept telling him: lose weight. But then, doctors didn’t understand the pressures of being an editor in a big-city newsroom, no more than the stress of managing people like Trudy. She wanted the Glass Slipper and lottery stories? Well, the distressing fact was, she deserved them.
“Why did you bother to hire me?” she asked again.
Because she’d possessed two main prerequisites for the job, Dimi thought now. She was eager and pushy. During their interview, she’d been fiercely determined. Along with college newspaper clippings, she’d submitted human interest stories she’d written for her father’s newspaper, and Dimi easily read between the lines. Her father didn’t want her in the news business, but she was hell-bent on succeeding, not to mention jealous of two, less talented brothers who’d been handed the Milton Herald on a platter.
Dimi had wanted to give her a chance. Trouble was, one look at Trudy, and Dimi wished he was thirty years younger, fifty pounds lighter, and a much nicer guy. She was the one person in years who’d actually located his soft spot. Once he’d given her the job, he simply couldn’t stand to set her loose in a town he feared would eat her alive.
She was petite. Five foot four, with smooth skin and fine, yellow-blond hair that just touched her shoulders. Every time he looked at her, Dimi understood her father’s sentiments. There was something pure and untouched about her, evidenced by how Scott Smith-Sanker slid stories out from under her with the ease of a well-lubricated machine. Dimi feared, once she was on the street, her soft West Virginia twang would peg her as an easy mark, too. How could he train her wide, adventuresome eyes on a crime scene? Or put her in a position to get chewed up by angry cops and hustlers? Leave that to the Scott Smith-Sankers of the world, Dimi thought now. Guys like Scott were born and bred for life’s ugliness.
Trudy had been watching him, trying to guess what was going on inside his mind, and now she told herself not to say it, but then did. “Please,” she said, hating begging. “At least give me the lottery story. Or the Galapagos oil spill.”
Looking guilty, he shook his head. “You’re on the drive-along with a cop from Manhattan South named Truman Steele. And you better get moving.”
She was stuck with a poster boy for the NYPD, Trudy thought angrily as Dimi gave her the rundown. Truman Steele was from a family of cops, with a father in the Commissioner’s office in Police Plaza and two brothers in downtown precincts. Her mind still on the Galapagos Islands, the lottery and the Glass Slipper story, she glazed, regaining her attention when Dimi said, “Manhattan South is—”
“I know where the precinct is,” she snapped, her voice steely as Dimi thrust a file into her hand.
Right before tucking it under her arm, she glimpsed a photo of the most interesting-looking man she’d ever seen. Her heart clutched. Truman Steele was bare-chested and seated in the open door of a patrol car. Sucking in a breath, she realized this was one of the candied photos the NYPD’s public relations department had posted around the city last year, depicting cops out of uniform, so they’d seem more accessible to the public.
Her eyes skated over a smooth, muscled chest, unable to ignore that the nipples were erect, as if the picture had been taken on a cold day. The face was unusual in a way she’d rather not notice. Very arresting. Flyaway wisps of straight, light brown hair fell longer than