Spiked by Mark Arsenault Page A

openings for heroin addicts?”
    Keyes snickered. He sucked on the pop, and then pulled it out, waved it back and forth and said, “I don’t know why some reporters are drawn to this stuff. Must be some kind of liberal bent.”
    He’s going to torpedo the story
. “These people are as much a part of Lowell—”
    Keyes cut him off. “Aren’t there some respectable people you can write about?”
    â€œWhat do you mean by respectable?”
    â€œPeople who take lunch pails to work every day. How about them?”
    Eddie’s mouth dried out. “Nobody wants to read about the plane that lands safely.”
    â€œAnd so who are these bridge people? The plane crashes?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking.”
    Keyes leaned forward on his elbows. There was finality in his voice when he said, “If your dope-fiend friends go down in an airplane, you can write about them.”
    Eddie’s chest tightened. He said weakly, “You’re spiking this idea?”
    â€œConsider it spiked.”
    Eddie sat quiet for a moment. He got an involuntary mental image of his resumé curling black in the flame of Leo’s candle, under the bridge. Without thinking, he blurted, “What are you pulling here?”
    Keyes looked at Eddie. He crushed the lollipop between his molars and chewed the candy down. Then he said, “I’m pulling your idea. And if I don’t get some production out of my political reporter, I’ll be pulling you off the beat.”
    Eddie ignored the answer. He tried to ignore his shaking hands, decided he couldn’t, and tucked them under his armpits. “You forced Phife to rewrite my shooting story, you pulled the plug on the Nowlin follow-ups and now this. What’s going on, Frank?” He studied Keyes’ face for a reaction and saw nothing unusual, just heated arrogance.
    â€œI should be asking you what’s going on,” Keyes said. “When this paper took you back after all these years, it expected a better return on its investment.”
    â€œMe? What are you talking about?”
    â€œYou sensationalized the shooting. This isn’t a supermarket tab.”
    â€œThat story was dead-on.”
    â€œAnd now you want to glorify a bunch of drug dealers.”
    â€œThey’re not dealers, they’re addicts,” Eddie said, sharply.
    Keyes slapped his hands over his heart and rolled his eyes. “Forgive me,” he roared. “Wouldn’t want to slander their good name.”
    Eddie fought to get back to his point. “What about the Nowlin follow-up stories? You can’t pretend that’s not news.”
    Keyes shook a finger at Eddie. He lowered his voice. “That’s not for you to say. This organization will act in the best interest of everyone involved, including Daniel and his family. There’s no need to drag them through the mud.”
    â€œNot if it turns out to be accidental,” Eddie said. Not likely, considering his own experience. “But what if it was murder? You gonna sweep a murder under the rug?”
    â€œThere you go, sensationalizing again,” Keyes said. He glared at Eddie. “I have sources in this town, Bourque, people who wouldn’t tell you the time if you had a subpoena, and going by what they tell
me
, you got it all wrong.” Keyes paused, looked down at his desk and said, “There was no murder.”
    Keyes’ position did give him contact with the city’s powerbrokers, including the police. But what could he have learned about Danny?
    Somebody knocked three times on the glass door.
    The editor waved that somebody into the office. Detective Orr. She was out of uniform, taking “plain clothes” too literally in a long tan dress that hung like a sack.
    Eddie stood when she entered. Pain zapped him in the hip.
    Orr slapped her silver metal briefcase on Keyes’ desk and clicked the locks open.
    Keyes watched her open