Free The Murder Channel by John Philpin Page B

“Let’s just do Jake’s.”
    In weeks, I was cooking crab curry for her in her apartment on Lime Street. It was a rebound relationship for me, a lark for her, until I could no longer tolerate her narrow view of life as a high-powered career, and she could not stand the same fuck night after night. Besides, New York was calling her. We parted amicably.
    I parked on the Riverway and walked through the snow to the Towers. The Boston Trial Television directory next to the elevators did not list its owner. I found her name on the third-floor list for Pouldice Media. I signed in at the security desk and indicated my destination.
    Pouldice’s secretary was a pleasant young woman whose nameplate identified her as Hannah. “Do you have an appointment? Ms.Pouldice can’t be expecting you. She’s downstairs in the studio preparing for the evening news. It’s been quite a day.”
    “We’re old friends,” I said. “I think she might grant me five minutes.”
    “I doubt it,” Hannah said as she punched numbers on her phone.
    She talked briefly, listened, then looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You must be good friends. Take the elevator down to the second floor, turn right, and go to the end of the hall to the doors marked Studio.”
    I thanked Hannah, followed her directions, and found myself on the set for
The BTT Evening Report with Bob Britton.
Donald Braverman sat just inside the door. At close range, Braverman’s muscular bulges were more impressive. So was a significant bulge under his jacket on the left side of his chest. He did not look up from his copy of
Bawdy Boston.
    Talk about oxymorons.
    Wendy Pouldice materialized from the darkness. “Lucas Frank, you haven’t changed a bit.”
    “Bullshit,” I said.
    She exploded in laughter. “See?”
    She’d had her cheeks jacked up, eyes tightened, hair rendered platinum, and no doubt plastered the package in place with various sprays, mists, compounds, and pastes. When she laughed, I expected her to crack.
    “Last I knew, you were headed for New York,” I said.
    She shrugged. “That didn’t work out. What can I say? The money wasn’t right, the timing … something. Their mistake. Why did Bolton haul your ass out of the woods? Is he worried?”
    Twenty years earlier there had been an unmistakable quality of desperation about Wendy Pouldice. She wanted New York; New York did not want her. Now she was the TV queen of Boston, still hungry for the edge, but far from desperate.
    “You’ve talked to Zrbny. Does Bolton have reason to be worried?”
    She smiled. “Like I said, some things don’t change. You do look good, a little heavier maybe, but good. Do you still cook that marvelous curried crab? You must. Anyway, we can’t talk now.”
    Braverman set aside his magazine and stood. It was impossible for him to be unobtrusive.
    Pouldice gave me her personal card. “Nine tonight, top floor. Security will let you through. I’ll show you an amazing view of the city. It’s better at night, I think, especially when it’s snowing.”
    “Wendy …”
    “Tonight,” she said, and disappeared into the set, the powerful scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
    Without a word, Braverman opened the door and waited for me to leave.
    On my way to the elevator, I stopped at a bathroom,kicked open the door, and stared into the mirror. Damn it, I did look heavier. I had gained weight, although I had no idea how much. The jeans expanded in size and I studiously avoided the scale. Twenty pounds? Twenty-five? My doc had alerted me to weight, smoking, and the perils of salt. The salt, curiously, had not been much of a problem. Cigarettes and I had an on-again, off-again affair. The weight gain was due to eating and cooking—two passions of mine.
    My third passion, apparently, was denial.

“NO ONE SEES ANYONE ELSE,” I WHISPERED to the window.
    “What?” Sable asked.
    “Britton.”
    Sable was silent.
    “The man in Guzman’s,” I said.
    “He was rude,”