Thicker Than Water (8 page)

“What?” Julie asked, looking from one face to the next. “What's going on?”

No one looked her in the eye, until Allan shrugged and cleared his throat. “Sit down, Julie. Drink your coffee.”

Frowning, suddenly very worried, she sat. There was a folder in front of her customary chair. She pretended to look through it, while knowing, deep in her gut, that she was about to be fired. They knew about her walking into that crime scene last night. The cops had told—or more likely that rat bastard Sean MacKenzie…

…whose face was smiling up at her from an eight-by-ten glossy. It sat inside the folder, opposite his professional bio.

Lifting her head slowly, she speared Allan Westcott with a look that should have set his hair on fire. “You didn't—you
wouldn't…
”

The door opened, and a man walked in. She felt him before she even turned to look at him, standing there, looking fresh and handsome and smug. “Hope I'm not so late I get fired on my first day,” he said. Then he met her eyes. “Morning, partner.”

She rose slowly from her chair, not smiling, not speaking, not quite able to process anything she was seeing.

Allan Westcott cleared his throat. “Julie, meet your new coanchor.”

Sean, still smiling, extended a hand. She took it automatically, without even thinking, and he pulled her close, as if to give her a friendly embrace, and whispered close to her ear, “Breathe, Jones, before your head explodes.”

Then he released her. She turned around and sank into her chair, feeling as if someone had just hit her with a stun gun.

“Welcome to WSNY, Sean.” Allan had come around the table now and was pumping MacKenzie's hand as if they were best friends.

“When did all this happen?” Julie asked. “I haven't even tested with him. I thought we had another two weeks before we had to decide who would replace Jim.” She blinked and shot a glance at MacKenzie. “I didn't even know you'd sent an audition tape.”

“Julie,” Westcott said, “I know this comes as a surprise, and I wanted more time to break it to you. The truth is, Sean's the best man we've interviewed for the job. We'd planned to see
a few more applicants before making any decisions, but since you and he were both on the scene of the murder last night, we thought it best to move fast.”

“I didn't give them much of a choice, Jones,” MacKenzie said quickly. “If they hadn't hired me, I'd have taken the story elsewhere.”

Bryan vacated his seat beside Julie, pulling it out for Sean and waving him into it. MacKenzie took it.

“You blackmailed yourself into a job,” she interpreted.

Sean shrugged. “At least now I won't scoop you.”

She blinked at him. “They call you at the last minute with a job offer based solely on their desire to stop your show from scooping ours, and you accept?”

He shrugged. “Actually, I called them. They made an offer only an idiot would have turned down.”

She was certain her eyes must have been flashing fire by then. “What about your radio show?”

“I've been trying to land this job for a month, Jones. It's not like I didn't plan ahead, just in case hell froze over, and I got it.” MacKenzie smiled at her. “The radio station's playing a taped show today. I'm under contract for ten more shows, which translates to another two weeks, but I can make arrangements to go in and tape the new stuff when I'm not busy here. Don't worry, Jones, I'll have plenty of time to work with you on this.”

She looked from him to Allan, who was still standing. The look he returned told her this was a done deal. Not to argue. So she didn't, not right then, anyway. Allan returned to his seat and started with the daily briefing. She sat there, using the stoic face she had to put on when reading news that made her want to cry, barely hearing him, glad that Bryan was there rapidly taking notes so she could catch up later.

Finally the meeting ended, and she got up, went to her office, turned to close the door behind her—and bumped it against the body that stood there, blocking the way.

“We should probably talk,” MacKenzie said. He pushed the door wider, waltzed inside as if he owned the place and then closed it behind him. As he did, she saw a crowd of co-workers looking on curiously, but they all scattered as soon as they saw her looking.

Then the door was closed, and it was just the two of them.

“You have an office.” He sounded impressed. “I figured a cubicle in the newsroom.”

She shrugged. “You figured right, up until two months ago. This was Jim's office. He was a legend, you know. There's a street named after him. He'd been here twenty years. He rated an office of his own.”

“So…when he retired?”

“I asked for it and got it.” She shrugged. “I was as surprised as anyone when they said yes. You wanna take notes on this or…?”

“Photographic memory,” he said, tapping his skull with a forefinger. She would have preferred a sledgehammer.

“So why are you in here?”

He pursed his lips. “Up until last night, I didn't really think I had a chance in hell of landing this job. I'd have given you a heads-up when I first applied, if I had. Thought you ought to know that.”

She didn't think a reply was called for, so she didn't give one.

“Hell, I applied here ten years ago, as a photojournalist. That's how I started, you know. Behind the camera. But then I got ambitious. You know I applied for your spot, three years
ago, same time you did. I wasn't ‘on air' material, they said. Besides, they wanted a woman.” He pursed his lips. “Funny thing is, I haven't changed a thing. Not my style, not my look. The only difference is that now my radio show is a hit. My name is known as well as yours is, and I'm your polar opposite. To be honest, I think we could be dynamite together.”

She blinked, not missing the double entendre. “On the air, you mean.”

“Of course. What else would I mean?” Then he smiled slowly. “Oh, that. Gee, Jones, you don't waste any time, do you?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don't panic, Jones. I probably won't last a week.”

“Why not?”

He smiled, holding his arms out to his sides. “Look at me. Your boss was right the first time. I'm
not
anchor material.”

She did look at him. He was wearing faded jeans that looked sinfully good on him, a khaki polo shirt with a Syracuse Orangemen logo patch on one side of the chest, a baseball cap and an olive drab jacket that looked like army surplus. He hadn't shaved this morning, so there was a sexy whisper of prickly stubble on his face. He did look more like one of the photojournalists than an on-air reporter—and she had already known that was where he'd started, behind the camera, not in front of it.

He was right. He didn't look like an anchor. What the hell could Allan have been thinking, hiring him for an on-air spot?

“I figured you'd blackball me if you could,” he said finally.

It made her realize that she'd been looking him over pretty thoroughly for several seconds now, and that he was fully aware of it. Maybe even enjoying it.

“I would have, if I'd had a clue they were even thinking of hiring you,” she said. Then she sighed and moved behind her desk, sinking into her chair, hugging her coffee mug between her hands, even though it was nearly empty. “Might still try it, though I think Allan's mind is made up.”

He sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk, pulling it closer as he did. “Assuming they don't fire me in short order, I meant what I said before. I think we could make this work for both of us.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And look, if it's last night that has you worried, you can relax. I'm not going to say anything about your little snafu at that crime scene. I'm not out to get you fired.”

She lifted her brows. “Why not? Wouldn't that give you the anchor seat all to yourself?”

He probed her eyes with his. “Don't trust me as far as you can throw me, do you, Jones?”

“Less than that, even.”

His jaw tightened. “Okay, we'll put this on terms you might believe. I want to succeed.”

“So?”

“So every marketing study out there shows that viewers prefer news shows with male-female coanchors. Your boss was right about that when he hired you as Jim's partner three years ago. If I get you fired, they'll just hire someone else. I already know you're good. And for some inexplicable reason, you're popular. The viewers love you. The fact that your ratings have dropped since Jim retired isn't because of you, it's because he's gone. The other shows have coanchors, and they're picking up your audience because of it.”

She lifted her chin. “My ratings haven't dropped that much.”

“You were number one in Central N. Y. Now you're number three.”

“The difference between one and three is only a few points.”

“The difference between one and three is the difference between winning and being the second runner-up, kid. WSNY wants that number one slot. And now that I'm on board, we're going to give it to them.”

She lowered her head, shook it. “Maybe I'll just quit.”

He pursed his lips. “No, you won't. That would be unprofessional, and you might be a whole lot of things, Jones, but you are not unprofessional.”

She pursed her lips.

“Why do you hate me so much, anyway?”

“I don't hate you, MacKenzie. I couldn't care less about you. Don't flatter yourself by taking it personally. I'd feel the same way about anyone who was after my job.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Name one other journalist who went up against you for that anchor chair three years ago. Just one.”

She frowned, looking around the room as she searched her memory for names and found none. MacKenzie drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, glanced at his watch, whistled an uneven tune.

“Well?”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“Proves one thing,” he said, getting to his feet. “Proves it
is
personal. Hell, Jones, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're working so hard to hate me just to hide what you really feel.”

“Oh, please. This I've gotta hear. What does your warped little imagination tell you I
really
feel?”

He smiled at her. “You want me.”

She stared at him for a long moment—at his smoky gray eyes and full lips. And she said, “You're right. I do want you—in so many ways.”

“Yeah?” He looked surprised, and maybe a little bit turned on. “God, tell me more.”

She began counting on her fingers. “I want you drawn, quartered, gelded without anesthetic, beheaded and spit-roasted. But for now, I just want you out of my office.”

His smile didn't disguise the look of relief that flooded him. “
Damn,
I'm gonna love working here,” he said, and he turned, whistling off-key, and walked with a spring in his step out of her office.

But not, she feared, out of her life.

W
hen Sean returned to the newsroom, he noticed three things. First, the early-morning bustle of the place had slowed to a hum. Reporters were making calls from their partition-separated desks, and several had already left to cover stories. Second, his office door was marked for him by the handful of foil balloons tied to the knob. It was just past the newsroom on the right. An office hadn't been part of the initial offer, but he'd insisted on one as part of the deal, then been surprised that WSNY had agreed readily to that and everything else he'd asked for. Jones would probably be livid when she found out.

The third thing he noticed, after walking into his new digs, was the new suit hanging from a hook in the wall. A red tie, white shirt, navy jacket. They'd even included the pants. He pursed his lips and leaned back into the hallway, glancing toward the glass-enclosed office attached to the newsroom. The
news director was inside at his desk, the phone to his ear. He gave Sean a smile and a thumbs-up.

Sean took two steps in that direction before his beeper went off. “Hell.” He took it out, glanced at it and read the text message. Then he sighed and hurried across the hall to Jones's office, reminding himself that now that they were partners, scooping her was no longer the goal. Getting dirt on her would still be fun, but it would be purely for entertainment purposes. He walked in without knocking.

She looked up from her computer as if irritated. “What now?”

“Blackwood's name is being released. We got the go. They're holding a press conference in…” He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes.”

“Call them, get the details and meet me in the studio.” She was already around the desk, pushing past him into the hall and running for the newsroom, shouting Allan's name.

Five minutes later, Sean headed into the studio with a sheet of scribbled notes.

Jones was at the anchor desk, a hand mirror propped in front of her, wielding a hairbrush with one hand and a makeup brush with the other. She dropped the brushes and dug in her bag. “Where the hell is my mascara?”

Amazing. A few minutes ago she'd looked scattered, sleep deprived and a little wild. Now she looked smooth, composed and flawless. She'd tamed her hair into a respectable bun and slapped on a coat of makeup so fast it made his head spin.

He handed her the sheet of notes and sat down in the chair next to her.

“Sean, you need to change!” called a fresh-faced kid he
didn't know, the one who'd given up his seat at that morning's meeting and now stood nearby with the blue suit in his hand. “Just from the waist up. Hurry.”

From the control booth, a tinny voice announced,
“Thirty seconds.”

Sean glanced at the kid, licked his lips. Might as well get fired now as later, he thought. “Look, you guys need to get used to this. I don't do the suit thing. I'm not that kind of newsman.” As he spoke, he stuck a tiny microphone up underneath his shirt, out the neck and clipped it to his collar.

“Doesn't matter,” Jones said, scowling at him. “You don't need to be here at all.”

“Standby one.”

“I'm here, and I'm staying,” he said. “You just read the report and don't sweat it.”

She frowned so hard he thought her face would break.

“Roll one!”

The transformation was instant and nothing less than amazing. Her frown vanished as she lifted her eyes to the camera in front of her. The monitor, which Sean could see off to the left, switched from a “News-Four Special Report” screen to her poised, elegant, no-nonsense face—a face that said “You can trust me” without a single word. She began to read almost without glancing down.

“This is a News-Channel Four Exclusive Special Report. Police have just confirmed the identity of the man found lying dead in an Armory Square hotel room last night as Harry Blackwood, brother of New York's own Senator Martin Blackwood. The death is listed as suspicious and is under investigation. I was on the scene of this story last night,” she
read, “with invaluable assistance from Team Four's newest member, and my new partner, Sean MacKenzie. Sean?”

“Roll Two!”
the control room announced.

The red light on camera one blinked out, and the one on camera two came on. Sean knew the monitor now showed both of them, and he tried to look serious as he recited the lines he'd planned on the way down the hall. “Thanks, partner,” he said. He saw sparks flying from her eyes, knew they were invisible to everyone but him and deflected them with a smug half smile. Then, facing the camera, “Team Four will have full coverage and late-breaking details of this tragedy as they unfold. Keep it here, folks. This is where you'll get the inside stuff. Until then, this is Sean MacKenzie…” He looked her way.

“And Julie Jones for News Channel Four,” she said, not missing a beat.

The light went out.

“You're clear.”

Jones yanked the microphone from her lapel, tugged it out from the back of her blouse—he hadn't thought of running the wire up his back, good tip—and got to her feet. “Invaluable assistance?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“That was not necessary,” she told him.

“No, but it was perfect.”

“What the hell was that ‘inside stuff' comment, anyway? I hope you don't think you can bring your tabloid techniques here with you, MacKenzie, because we won't tolerate that at this station.”

“Bullshit. Viewers are twice as intrigued now, and you can bet they'll be tuning in later. As for my techniques, I'm pretty sure they're what got me hired.”

She didn't growl at him, but he thought it was close. Then she swung her gaze away, pinning the news director to the floor with her eyes.

Allan returned a slow smile while rubbing his hands. “You two are dynamite together. Now, grab a cameraman and get to that press conference, pronto.”

“Both of us?” Jones asked.

“Julie, from now on everything you do, you do together. You follow?”

She closed her eyes, clenched her fists and left the studio.

Sean had to give her credit for speed. She didn't mess around—just dashed into her office, grabbed her jacket and a larger bag, and then joined him in the white SUV in the parking lot, sliding into the passenger seat, then turning to look at him as if he shouldn't be there.

“You keep frowning every time you look at me and you're gonna get wrinkles, Jones.”

“The photographers usually drive,” she said. “You're going to piss off whoever is coming with us.”

“No chance of that.” He started the car, put it in reverse, backed out of the parking space. “No one was available. All out on assignment, and we haven't got time to wait. Allan told me to handle it.”

She lifted her brows. “Sean MacKenzie saves the day, huh?”

He pulled into traffic. “You wanna hold the camera and let me do the report, I'll be more than happy to let you.” He glanced her way. “Buckle up, Jones.”

She pulled on her seat belt as he drove. “Where's the press conference? And who will be there?”

“Outside City Hall. Chief Strong, Senator Blackwood naturally, I don't know who else.”

“Those cops from last night, I hope.”

He glanced at her. “No word on your keys yet?”

She shook her head.

“You ever get your car outta there?”

“Allan said he'd send one of the interns for it this afternoon. I left my spare set of keys with him.”

“So it doesn't matter so much—about the other set, I mean.”

It did, he could see it did, but he didn't know why. “No,” she told him, and he knew it was a lie. “Doesn't matter at all.”

They arrived at City Hall. Several other news stations had reporters on the scene, setting up to cover the press conference, but none, he was pleased to see, had sent their evening anchors. To them, it had been just another murder in a year that had already broken the record for violent crime in Central New York. They hadn't been prepared, and the press conference was being given on very short notice.

“Perfect,” he whispered, pulling the Jeep into a parking spot at an odd angle and jumping out. He opened the back door, yanked out the camera and balanced it on his shoulder. With his free hand, he snapped on the headphone.

“You just stay behind the camera where you belong,” Jones said, adjusting her earphone, picking up the microphone case and getting out, as well.

She took the lead, shouldering her way through the other reporters, most of whom were, he guessed, a little too starstruck to call her on her rudeness. There was no question who was top dog among those present. No other local celebs stood around. None. The sea of bodies parted, grudgingly, to let them pass. Jones commandeered a spot near the podium that had been set up on the front stairs, then turned to face him and almost bumped into the camera.

He backed up two paces, looked through the lens at her, wondered who the hell had ever sculpted a face that perfect or eyes that full of mystery. He saw secrets in those eyes and wondered how the hell he'd missed them up to now.

“How do I look?” she asked, and he knew she wasn't fishing for compliments. She wanted him to tell her if there was spinach in her teeth or a hair standing up straight on top of her head. There wasn't.

“You'll do.”

She narrowed her eyes on him, brought the microphone to her lips, adjusted her own nearly invisible earpiece. “You ready back there?”

“Going live in thirty. Stand by.”

She cleared her throat, licked her lips.

“Ten seconds, Julie.”

She lifted her chin, faced the camera.

“Roll Live-Eye.”

“This is Julie Jones, coming to you live outside City Hall, where Senator Blackwood and Syracuse Police Chief Strong are expected to deliver a press conference any minute now. As some of you may already know, late last night, News-Channel Four had the only team on the scene when a man was found dead in an Armory Square hotel room. In a News-Four Exclusive, just under an hour ago, we were the first to report his name—Harry Blackwood, brother of Senator Martin Blackwood.”

Sean knew she was watching him, waiting for him to signal her as soon as anyone appeared at that podium up the stairs at her back, but no one had. He thought she was running out of things to say and worried about how she would fill the time if the press conference started late.

“Most Central New Yorkers know Harry Blackwood as a controversial figure, one who had numerous scrapes with the law and a less than stellar reputation. This leaves many of us to speculate on whether his lifestyle and known underworld associates could have any connection to his untimely death, a death police are calling suspicious, though I suspect we'll be hearing more on that shortly. Officially, I can say only that having been at the crime scene before Blackwood's body was removed, there was little doubt in my mind as to the cause of death. Without official permission, I cannot tell you much beyond that, except that the scene was a disturbing one that I'll see in my mind's eye for a long time to come.”

Sean lifted his eyes from the camera to look at her directly and gave her a slow nod of approval. Sell it, he thought. For someone who claimed to dislike sensationalism, she sure was a master at it.

“News-Four will continue to bring you complete coverage of this investigation as the day unfolds, and—”

The doors behind her opened, and Sean lifted a hand, finger pointed in that direction.

“And now it looks as if the press conference is about to begin.”

Sean turned the camera's eye on the podium, as Julie said, “Senator Martin Blackwood.”

Blackwood cleared his throat. He looked as if he'd had a long night without much sleep, but he'd shaved and slicked up for the event. “Good afternoon. It grieves me to have to be here to tell you that my brother, Harold Blackwood, was killed last night. The police have told me that they do suspect foul play, but I'll let them comment on that. I only want to say that this is a difficult time for my family. No matter what
people may have thought about my brother, he remained just that—my brother. I would be very grateful to all of the members of the press if you would allow me and my family the time and privacy to grieve the loss of a man we loved very much. That's all I have for you today.”

Immediately reporters began shouting questions. Jones, though, had the advantage of being dead center of the senator's line of sight, and probably, Sean added silently, the advantage of being stunning enough to stop any man's eyes from looking past her. Besides, her face was a familiar one.

“Senator, can you tell us anything about the funeral arrangements?”

The senator sighed, nodded once. “We're having a private ceremony, Julie, and we've chosen not to disclose the particulars, as I'm sure you understand.”