Free Hush by Anne Frasier Page A

by.
    A few years back, the Herald had hired a new
CEO and gone through massive restructuring. During that time, some
lamebrain had come up with the idea of changing everybody's job
title. Gone were the more militant-sounding titles like "chief' and
"deputy." Now people were "directors," and "advisors," and
"overseers." In effect, they'd edited the edit out of editing.
    His advisor's name was Maude Cunningham.
Maude was probably called a broad in her younger days. She could
have been anywhere between sixty and seventy. She'd started when
the paper was a male-dominated ship and female reporters had to be
tough and resilient. She smoked, and Alex suspected she drank
fairly heavily because she had that dried-up-prune look people got
after indulging for decades. Her voice was a harsh rasp, and the
air that came from her lungs was as stale as a mausoleum's. Alex
figured she was one X-ray away from a cancer diagnosis.
    "We can't run that." She was perched on the
corner of his desk, tapping a long red fingernail against a yellow
front tooth.
    Alex reread it.
    It was an out-of-control defamatory piece,
full of adjectives and qualifiers used to describe Sinclair's
callous treatment of Alex. There wasn't a newsworthy bit of
information in the entire thing.
    "I was just shitting around." He clicked the
cancel button, then tried to exit the program, but the software
wouldn't let him off the hook so easily.
    Do you want to save file Abraham
Sinclair?
    The question blinked at him.
    He hit the "no" button, deleting his
article.
    "I'd like to do some research on Sinclair,
find out what he had to do with the Madonna Murders," he said.
    "Are you talking a revenge piece? That's not
what this paper is about. I don't want you using the paper to carry
out a personal vendetta. You have to grow a thicker skin if you're
going to stay in this business. Every day you're going to run into
people who don't even know you, but hate you because you're a
newspaper reporter. That's because writers have power. Don't abuse
it. Go ahead and look in the archives, but stay off Sinclair's
back. I can tell you he was in charge of the Madonna case years
ago. It cost him his marriage and he ended up having to go to a
treatment center in Minneapolis to dry out. Try to see it from his
side for a moment, and maybe you won't resent him so much."
    "So I have your approval to see what I can
dig up?"
    "I want you to have something ready in case
we need it. If any more murders occur, or if the police come up
with a solid connection between these new cases and the Madonna
Murders. In the meantime, just try to stay abreast of the current
situation without making enemies of the entire police force." She
smiled at him in a tough-broad, I-like-you sort of way. "I realize
those two things might be a little hard for you to accomplish, but
please make an effort."
     

Chapter 9
    The lady Ethan was trying to serve couldn't
decide what she wanted. She stood staring up at the wall menu,
waiting for something to hit her in the face, as if expecting the
menu to change or start flashing or something. Who knew?
    Ethan wished lightning would strike them
all.
    It was a bagel shop, for chrissake, not some
five-star downtown snobbery where Ethan's next step would be to
suggest a hundred-dollar wine. Why couldn't people make up their
minds?
    He waited impatiently while the line behind
her grew until it reached the door.
    Finally she said, "I'll have a plain bagel
with cream cheese."
    That's how it was with the people who
couldn't decide. They always ended up ordering the most boring
thing on the menu.
    "Light or regular cream cheese?"
    "Huh?"
    "Light or regular cream cheese?" He shouldn't
have asked, but customers like her were also the ones who would
return the bagel to demand a different cream cheese. He got off in
a couple hours, but he wasn't looking forward to it. His dad was
picking him up and they were going to a movie. Didn't Max get it?
Couldn't he see Ethan didn't want to hang around