Every Second

“Dan Fulton, manager of the SkyNational Trust Banking in Roseoak Park, Queens, takes a quarter million dollars from his own branch after scrawling a note that ‘they’ have placed bombs on him and his family.”

“That’s solid? You’ve got it confirmed, Kate?”

“A person who was there when it happened detailed it for me. I don’t think anyone has what we have, Reeka. I think this is a national interest case. We don’t know where the manager is, or where his wife and nine-year-old son are. They’re all believed to be strapped with bombs, and no one seems to have a clue who’s behind it all.”

“Okay, get this on our news budget and give me a story within the hour. Did we get art with it?”

“Yes. Gabe Atwater’s got some dramatic stuff.”

“All right.”

“There’s still a few people I need to talk to.”

“I want a story in an hour, Kate. You can update through the day.”

“And the conference?”

“We’ll send a stringer.”

Kate ended her call.

As she turned to look for Gabe, she stepped directly into FBI agent Nick Varner.

“You’re something else, Kate, I’ll give you that.” He was tapping her business card in his hand and shaking his head. “You want to know everything, and you want to know it now.”

“I’m a reporter, Agent Varner. It’s what I do.”

“You’re doing a helluva job.”

“Well, that’s what I’m paid for. What’s your problem, anyway?”

“I’m telling you for the last time.” Varner jabbed a finger toward Kate. “Do not jeopardize this case.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m not going away.”

17 (#ulink_e7b2ac51-e8db-50d1-943b-b48420cf2dfa)

Roseoak Park, New York

Gabe Atwater’s Jeep Patriot accelerated down Orchard Boulevard. Destination: Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance, Lori Fulton’s employer.

Kate eyed the dashboard clock.

Like all reporters, she worked to a perpetual deadline ticking down on her. Most would be writing their story right now. They would’ve made a quick phone call to the company, plugged in its response and filed.

Not Kate.

She was old-school and still believed in digging for information face-to-face, abiding by the wisdom a rumpled old police reporter in San Francisco had once passed to her. Phone somebody, you get one story. Talk to them in person, you’ll get more than one story.

“Almost there,” Gabe said, glancing at his GPS.

Kate would make her deadline. She was a fast writer. She reviewed her notes, mentally shaping her story, still vexed by Tilden and Varner for jamming her at the Fultons’ house. Why were they in her face? Especially Varner, the good-looking FBI agent. Why was he being a hard-ass when she was only doing her job?

Maybe I’m getting close to something...

“Here we go.” Gabe stopped in front of a six-story rectangle of blue-tinted glass that reflected the small plaza across the street. “You’re on your own, Kate. I’ve got to get to another job in Brooklyn. Call the photo desk if anything breaks. We got plenty of freelancers in Queens.”

“That’s fine. I’ll write in the coffee shop in there—” Kate nodded to the plaza across the street “—then cab it back to the office. Thanks, Gabe.”

* * *

Dixon Donlevy was on the fifth floor of the glass building.

As the elevator rose, Kate weighed the pros and cons of making a cold visit. Sure, showing up without an appointment wasn’t ideal, but her competitors may have already called—even been here in person. She had to keep moving.

She stepped from the elevator, went down a polished hallway and passed through the brass-plated doors of Dixon Donlevy Mutual Life Insurance.

The lobby floor gleamed against the dark wood desk where the receptionist sat. A huge shield encircling a mountain range against a blue sky and the company’s name graced the wall behind her.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She placed her card on the counter. “I’d like to speak with Lori Fulton’s supervisor. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Sorry, but I’m facing a tight deadline.”

The receptionist took Kate’s card and examined it.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, nodding to the waiting area.

The cushioned chairs were inviting, but Kate chose to stand by the gurgling water of a hanging wall fountain.

“Excuse me?” The receptionist called to Kate a few minutes later, her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m told we’re not making any statements to the press at this time.”

“I understand, but it’s important I speak with someone while I’m here, to ensure my story is accurate concerning this company. Someone could talk to me now, or explain to their boss why they didn’t after the story is published.”

“One moment.”

Kate couldn’t hear what the receptionist said into the phone, so she turned back to the fountain until she ended her call.

“Someone will be out shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Kate moved from the fountain, admiring the landscape paintings, the palms in the floor planters, all the while shaping her story and checking the time. She was glancing at a glossy travel magazine featuring treks across Iceland on the cover when a tall woman in a well-cut navy skirt suit arrived.

“You’re Kate Page?”