Free Justice at Risk by John Morgan Wilson

waltzed right by. Came up in the elevator.”
    “Not good.”
    “Sneaking in?”
    “Lack of security. It means they’re stretching everybody as thin as they can. Another sign the Sun is on the financial skids.”
    “It’s been on the skids as long as I can remember.”
    “This time it’s serious.”
    “So where’s Harry?”
    “In a closed-door meeting with Roger Lawson, trying to figure a way to save the paper.”
    “Roger Lawson—the weasel management brought in last year to trim fat?”
    “He prefers the term managing editor.”
    “From what I hear, he’s management’s hatchet man.”
    “He’s been behaving that way, putting the screws to Harry.”
    “This sounds serious, Templeton.”
    She glanced up, rolled her eyes.
    “I just said that, Justice.”
    “So what are you working on?”
    “ Trying to work on, while you keep bothering me with meaningless chatter.” She flipped some pages in her notebook, found what she was looking for, deleted a few lines from the screen, resumed writing. “It’s a piece on the selection of the new police chief. Front page, Sunday edition.”
    “You got the assignment you wanted.”
    “Correct.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Same to you. For the TV gig.”
    “You heard.”
    “Oree called. It’s nice to know somebody cares enough to let me know what’s going on in your life.”
    “Sorry. I’ve had a full schedule. Learning a new trade and all.”
    “So why aren’t you at home working on your script? Or out chasing people with a camera. That’s what Mike Wallace would be doing.”
    “I have a favor to ask.”
    “Bad time, Justice. This story’s industrial strength. I see it heating up as a black-white thing. Could be explosive.”
    “Are you sure you can be objective?”
    “Screw you, Justice! You’re telling me some lily-white reporter is going to be any more—”
    She broke off, glanced up, saw my grin.
    “Gotcha. Templeton.”
    “Very cute.” She swiveled in her chair to face me. “Now that you’ve completely destroyed my concentration, what is it you want?”
    “There’s this kid at the production company, Peter Graff. Not a kid exactly. Two years out of college. A friend of his turned up dead this morning. He’s pretty broken up about it. Wants to know more about what happened.”
    “I thought you made a New Year’s resolution not to get involved in anyone else’s troubles until sometime well into the next century.”
    “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you’d take it off my hands.”
    “Sorry. Not with my workload.”
    “He’s drop dead gorgeous, Templeton. Smart, sensitive, hard-working.”
    “Straight?”
    I nodded.
    “This might be the one.”
    “Now look who’s playing Cupid.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re not a little bit lonely out there in Santa Monica in that big condo of yours. Now that the Laker with the big hands is gone.”
    “Let’s not go there, shall we?”
    “Maybe you could just give Peter a call. Fax him a copy of the police report in a day or two, when the dicks have something down on paper.”
    “Talk to Harry, Justice.” She spun in her chair, facing her computer screen again. “I really have to get this piece finished.”
    I’d forgotten just how tough Templeton could be, now that she was a few years into the reporter’s trade. A lot of that toughening came from Harry, some from me. An occupational hazard. I forgave her.
    “You told me Harry’s in a meeting.”
    “I think it’s ending.”
    She nodded at a computer message at the top of her screen: I’m free if you need me. How’s the page one coming?
    She erased his message, hit the command for a clean memo of her own, addressed it to Brofsky H , and typed in: Making progress. Sending Justice your way. Please keep him out of my hair. She punched the send button, and the message disappeared.
    I did the same, heading for Harry Brofsky’s office, where Roger Lawson blocked the doorway, with his sizable butt filling most of it. Lawson was