Free Makeovers Can Be Murder by Kathryn Lilley

Morgan
     
     
    I arrived at the Channel Twelve studios just before ten a.m. Thursday morning, clutching a light latte that I′d picked up on the way. I trudged on autopilot from the parking structure to the newsroom, almost unaware of my surroundings. My emotions were too busy reeling from the blows of Jana′s death and Jonathan′s betrayal. The only thing I had left in my emotions bank was an overdraft.
    The newsroom was suspended in its morning lull between the end of the morning report and the ramp-up to the midday news. Reporters were scattered about shooting the bull or hunched over newspapers. The one person who appeared to be actually working was the summer intern, whose job it was to monitor breaking news. She was sitting in a swivel chair making notes in front of a bank of screens that were tuned to cable TV stations.
    I scanned the whiteboard. To my relief, I saw that I hadn′t been assigned to work on anything yet that day. All I needed to do was make a few calls before getting back to the hospital to check on Shaina.
    ″Tell the desk not to put me on anything today. I′m here today, but not really,″ I announced to Rob, the studio director. He was dubbed Jumpy Rob for the way he constantly ejected from his seat in the control room while screaming camera directions into his headset.
    Rob didn′t even look up from the TelePrompTer scripts he was laying out on a large desk in the middle of the bullpen.
    ″Gallagher, here today but not really,″ he echoed. ″Doing a little legwork on your bikini story, are you?″
    ″It′s not a bikini story,″ I retorted. ″I′m doing a five-part series about weight-loss scams.″
    ″But the bikini′s the money shot.″ He bent his head low to sniff at a page of script. ″What′s this ?″
    Picking up the script between two disdainful fingers, he demanded of the newsroom at large, ″Someone calls this an intro?″
    As Rob crumpled the offending intro into a ball and tossed it into a trash can, I trudged across the carpeted floor to my cubicle and threw my purse at the desk. My aim was off, and it thumped against the cubicle wall.
    ″ Hey! ″ Crystal protested from the other side of the wall. ″You made me spill my double espresso. ″
    Crystal is a former public defender who traded in her attorney briefs for an on-air career as a legal reporter. The camera loves her quartz gray eyes and caramel complexion. She′s the only one of us who dares to go on the air without foundation.
    Poking her head over the cubie wall, Crystal said, ″Bad day already?″
    Then taking a look at my face, she added, ″Uh-oh. We′ll talk as soon as I finish this script.″
    I couldn′t muster a reply as I checked my cell phone messages. One from Evelyn was marked urgent. She said there was going to be a gathering of the Newbodies later that day in the Duke Forest. The Newbodies were going to have a Memory Ceremony to honor Jana.
    Frank poked his head into my cube. Frank′s my favorite videographer. He′s only five foot six, but he′s got the muscled shoulders and bulldog stance of a heavyweight.
    ″I′ve been looking for you, Kate,″ he said. ″What the heck happened between you and Lainey last night? The overnight crew said she was stomping around this morning, claiming you made her screw up her carjacking story. She says you told the police not to speak to her.″
    Stifling a grin, he added, ″Beatty was all over her ass because we got scooped by news radio.″
    ″A friend of mine was killed in that carjacking, ″ I replied. ″Lainey and her scoop can go piss in the goddamn wind as far as I′m concerned.″
    Frank′s expression turned serious. ″I′m really sorry to hear about your friend,″ he said. ″I heard there were two victims. I heard that on the radio , mind you.″
    ″Her daughter′s alive but still in the hospital. In fact, I need to head back over there to be with her. I guess I′m not thinking straight—I can′t even remember why I came in here