Free Fury by G. M. Ford Page A

What Corso had taken to be jewelry was, instead, tattoos. A black barbed-wire bracelet on one wrist and a gold-link bracelet tattooed on the other.
    “We’re going to drive,” Corso said. “So we’ll need to leave around seven. It’s probably four hours or so each way. That work for you?”
    She said it did. “What kinds of shots are we looking at?” she asked.
    “A little of everything,” Corso said.
    “Interiors?”
    “Lots of dull metal and dirty linoleum. Overhead fluorescent lights. You’ll probably be shooting Himes through two inches of wire-mesh Plexiglas, so you’ll want to bring whatever you’ve got to reduce the glare.” She nodded. Corso went on. “Remember that whatever equipment you bring is probably going to get taken apart. Maybe more than once. Maybe even X-rayed. The people I’ve worked with before don’t load the cameras until they’re past security.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” she said, “I’d have shown up loaded for bear and wasted forty bucks’ worth of film.”
    “Seven on Wednesday, then,” Corso said.
    She offered thanks and good-byes all around and was nearly back to the door when Hawes said, “Blaine Newton will be going with you guys.”
    Unsure whether the remark had been directed at her, Meg Dougherty stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?”
    Corso cursed himself. He should have seen it coming. Hawes had his Leanne Samples exclusive. He was willing to take his chances on the rest of it. Clever little bastard knew exactly what Corso would say to the idea of working with Newton. Not only that, but he gets two for the price of one. Gets Corso to renege on his promise to Mrs. V. and then gets to spoon-feed a national story to his personal-reporter project.
    “I’m not working with Newton,” Corso said.
    “You’re working with whoever I say you’re working with,” Hawes said.
    “There’s a great deal of background work to be done here, Mr. Corso,” Mrs. Van Der Hoven said. “Not to mention the day-to-day follow-up. If you’re going to be lead man on the story, you’re certainly going to require some help.”
    “No question about it,” Corso said. “I’m definitely gonna need some help. But not Blaine Newton. Anybody but Newton.”
    Hawes’s scalp was beginning to glow. “Hey…,” he said. “You’re not making personnel decisions around here, Corso, I am. You don’t like my decisions, feel free to take it up the road. But don’t stand here and tell me how to do my job.”
    Mrs. V. jumped in. “Mr. Hawes believes that Mr. Newton will profit from the experience. That he can learn the rudiments of investigation at your knee…so to speak.”
    Corso kept his gaze on Hawes. Wishing like hell he hadn’t let himself get backed into a corner like this but too pissed to keep his mouth shut.
    “I’m not working with Newton,” Corso said again.
    The red glow had worked its way down Hawes’s ears. He was smiling like a piranha. Before Corso could open his mouth, another, calmer voice said, “I could do it.” Meg Dougherty from the doorway.
    “What?” Hawes growled.
    “I said, I could help out with the background and follow-up. Right after I got out of college, I did that kind of thing for Barton and Browne,” she said, naming the city’s largest law firm.
    Dead silence.
    “Works for me,” Corso said in a hurry.
    “That’s not the goddamn point,” Hawes snapped. “We’re not talking about what works for you, Corso; we’re talking about who and what works for me.”
    Hawes stood glaring at Corso. Weighing the value of a personal victory versus the magnitude of the story. Tough call. Super Bowls, both.
    “What’ll it be, Mr. Hawes?” Mrs. V. asked. She checked her watch. “As I see it, we have very little moral or ethical latitude here. We’ve got something like a hundred hours to do everything we can to see to it that a miscarriage of justice does not take place under our very noses.” She folded her arms across her chest. “The