Free Outburst by R.D. Zimmerman Page B

hell of a story, no doubt about it. Intuitively he sensed that there was enough meat here to keep him going for weeks, if not more.
    That he had been at the murder scene—been not simply a witness, but nearly a victim as well—was spectacular. Virtually no other station in town could even begin to touch it. In television's perpetual race to be first, he'd stolen the show. The best that any other reporter could do was stand on the sidelines and report what Todd Mills was doing. Shit, he thought, a smile shining through his exhaustion. No way could anyone take this away from him. He was at the top of the pack right now. That much was already clear, for Nan, the producer, had watched the broadcasts of both WTCN and KNOR—it was regular practice to tape the competition just to keep apprised of the enemy—and both of them had led off not with the cop-killing, but the severe weather. The murder came second, each station stating that a suburban cop had been murdered in the city and that the police were pursuing the matter with the help of a firsthand witness. No mention was made, of course, that that witness had in fact been the competition's own Todd Mills. Uh-uh. That just wouldn't happen in today's broadcast world. They'd reported with great speculation and near glee when Todd had been outed and questioned for murder; they'd covered the darkest, most difficult days of his life, but no mention was or ever would be made of this success.
    He glanced at the dash, saw that it was five after seven. He was a tad late for their dinner reservation but not terribly so. Rawlins, the born-and-bred Minnesotan, was always either exactly on time or a few minutes early. Janice Gray, a defense attorney whose life was stretched in every direction either by a court case or a charitable board she volunteered for, was always a few minutes tardy. With any luck Todd would fall between the two.
    Entering downtown, he turned left, heading north on Hennepin Avenue. Both Minneapolis and St. Paul, he thought, noticing a group of vacant lots where once had stood several buildings, were teetering. Once a region of progressive planning, The Cities had taken a huge tumble in the last ten years—the leadership and the public interest both had waned just as things like the stupid Megamall had selfishly waxed—and they were taking steps toward becoming the Detroit or Los Angeles of the tundra. It drove Todd nuts.
    As he crossed onto the Hennepin Avenue bridge and over the Mississippi, he glanced downstream, saw the Third Avenue bridge and caught a glimpse of the Stone Arch Bridge way down there. Should he do a live broadcast from there again tomorrow, or would that be too repetitive?
    Crossing to the other side, he passed Riverplace and Nye's, that venerable old Polish restaurant and piano bar, and parked. He picked up his cell phone, switched it from ring to vibrate, and slipped it into his front shirt pocket.
    “Go out for dinner, yeah, sure, Todd,” Craig, the late-night news producer, had blessed. “Do that. Get something to eat. But don't go anywhere without your phone in case I gotta get ahold of you. And be back here by nine-thirty, not a split second later. Read me? You're on at the top of the ten o'clock.”
    Cafe Bobino was just a half-block ahead, and as Todd walked toward it, he realized just how exhausted he was. And no wonder. His adrenaline had been stuck on high ever since late this morning when Rawlins and he had discovered the body of Mark Forrest. Hopefully a good meal would restore him.
    What used to be a funeral home, then a cabaret, was now a hip restaurant and wine bar, proving that you could bring things back from the dead, and as Todd walked in several heads turned his way. Gay men, four of them seated at the bar, scanned him up and down in that queeny kind of way, then almost in unison returned to their glasses of cabernet. So what was the once-closeted-and-now-very-out Todd Mills, the television personality, to them? Hero or