Free Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery by Tatiana Boncompagni Page B

sputtering vents and a strip of fluorescent lights hugging the ceiling tiles. Conference Room A, on the other hand, was a spacious, window-lined room outfitted in leather and glossed mahogany furniture. It was reserved for meetings with important advertisers, network heads, and skittish guests who needed a little hand-holding before they agreed to go on camera.
    I should have been listening, but my mind was on who might have called me from Olivia’s office that morning. Jon Wallace, Georgia’s executive producer who went by his last name, pointed at me, snapping his meaty fingers impatiently. “Earth to Clyde. Could you be so kind as to honor us with a rundown of the Kravis story?” He was well aware of my feelings about the Monday morning meeting, and apparently not inclined to cut me any slack for being the victim’s best friend.
    I recounted to the group everything that we’d learned so far. Some crime-scene info, a few leads. A lot of questions.
    “We’ll want a couple in-house guests. A prosecutor and a family member,” Wallace said.
    “We’re getting Delphine Lamont, Olivia’s stepsister. I’m waiting on confirmation from legal that we’re a go for tonight,” I replied, my eyes not lifting from my notebook paper. “As for Rachel Rockwell’s side of it, her husband’s a definite no and Frank Uffizo, the Rockwells’ attorney, is a long shot. I’ve already called him a few times.”
    “He’s talking to Today ,” piped up Barton Oberlink, one of our senior bookers. “Word is Lauer’s interviewing him tomorrow a.m.”
    “I knew it,” I said, swearing under my breath. Aside from being able to identify Rachel Rockwell before anyone else, we weren’t as far ahead of the competition on the story as my bosses would have liked. GSBC had scooped us on purple fur, CNN on the number of blows Olivia had sustained—twenty-seven—and now Today was landing Uffizo.
    Wallace leaned back in his chair, his arms spread wide. “Well, anyone got any other ideas?”
    I looked up. “The Kravis Foundation. Olivia’s assistant might give us an interview, help establish a timeline for Friday.”
    Wallace rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Who’s got the timeline?”
    “I’m working on it,” I replied.
    “What else we got?”
    The team debated our strategy while I marked the time on the wall. I was itching to hit the pavement, but, as much as I didn’t want to be holed up in an airless conference room, meetings were an important part of my job. I couldn’t afford to be cast as anything but a team player.
    I’d worked my way up over the years, cultivating sources inside the New York, Washington, D.C., Chicago, L.A., and San Francisco police forces, plus a Rolodex full of the best private investigators, psychologists, and medical examiners. I’d landed exclusive interviews in the investigation of Natalee Holloway’s disappearance, the Laci Peterson and Caylee Anthony stories, and countless other national crime sagas. If I was ever going to move my career to the next level, I needed to show my worth beyond landing the occasional blockbuster interview. I was on the wrong side of thirty-five, and even for those of us behind the camera, you can only be young and hot for so long.
    Sabine Weller was both. Diskin’s most recent hire, she was twenty-something and curvaceous, with a face that looked camera-ready at every angle. Suddenly she was in the doorway in a formfitting sweater dress, her cheeks flushed. “Alex just called,” she said to me. “He’s got a woman who says she saw Rachel arguing on Friday night with a man.”
    “What time did she spot them?” I questioned.
    Sabine shook her head. “Alex didn’t say.”
    “Take a camera,” Wallace said to me, standing up. “Meeting adjourned.”
    Running out the door, I grabbed my bag and jacket from my desk and met my team—minus Alex, who was already waiting for us at the scene—in the van. A few minutes later we’d gotten around the snarl of west