cheek. “Sammy, if you didn’t prefer boys, I would lock that door and fuck your brains out here and now.”
“I do not prefer boys,” he said. “I like men. What do you think I am, a priest?”
CHAPTER SIX
Washington, DC
October 2004
She took the elevator up to the editorial floor, stalking down the narrow corridor, thrusting her wooden cane angrily onto the beige carpet. The news director’s secretary greeted her warmly and offered coffee as T.P. signaled through the glass enclosure of his office that his meeting with three staff members would be over shortly.
By the time she had finished her coffee in the reception area and settled into the leather armchair beside T.P.’s desk, she had calmed down appreciably.
“The rough cut of your Preacher tape looks good,” he told her.
“I finally have some hard leads on the artifact.”
T.P. pushed the rolled sleeves of his blue chambray shirt above his elbow, his expression neutral. “What?”
“A couple of sources claim the biggest challenge the thieves would have had was getting the
treasure out of Iraq. If anyone saw anything suspicious or was bribed to look the other way it would have been an MP.”
“You find a suspect?”
“In the process.”
“Pretty thin, Andy.”
“Another strong possible is an apparent high number of casualties in Bravo Company. If we can nail those down to a squad or two in Mitchell’s Second Platoon, the KIA’s were probably sustained in the Bedouin firefight, and/or the thieves got themselves listed as deceased to avoid detection.”
T.P. shook his head in negation. “Duncan wants you off the artifact until you have hard evidence, not just wild geese.”
“How the hell am I going to get evidence if I don’t look for it?”
“Our lead human interest story is the Preacher Lady.”
“Like everyone else.”
“You have an inside track with that interview. Go back out and follow it up.”
“She’s an idiot. She’s preaching a premise designed to anger every religious sect and person on the planet.”
“That’s news, Andy!”
Andy exhaled, lowering her shoulders. “I’ll flesh out my notes to bracket the tape. When do you want me to air it?”
“Duncan wants Frank to do it.”
“Duncan! Hang tight, Toilet, because I’ll square this away pronto.” She pushed up from her chair and T.P. stood with her, holding his hand up. “Sit down, Andy, you can’t win this.”
“He can force me to cover the Preacher, but I will not play girl reporter feeding my copy to
Frank.”
“Why do you always create problems?”
“Randy ‘Boy’ Duncan’s got the problem, Toilet. Brushing my artifact research aside for background on a certifiably crazy religious fanatic.”
Andrea stared poison darts at Viola for several seconds. “If you’re going to shackle me to this loser Preacher, I’m going to own it.” She grabbed her cane and bolted through the door, stumbling at the threshold when her left leg almost gave way beneath her weight.
“Andy,” he called after her. “Andy!”
Andrea limped down the corridor to the elevators, jabbed the ‘UP’ button half a dozen times, glanced at the floor indicator, then toward the stairwell. She massaged her left thigh wondering again what was wrong with it. Once on the executive floor above, she marched past the receptionist, ignoring her call to stop, rounded a corner leaving a half-dozen secretaries with their eyes popping, flung open the door of Rand Duncan’s office and burst inside it with his administrative assistant sputtering behind her.
“Why did you give Frank Morrissey my Preacher interview without even the courtesy of telling me?”
Rand Duncan occupied the head of a conference table reflecting the overhead lights off polished nara wood, with several VPs and department heads gathered around him.
“Come back later, Madigan,” he said, clenching his fists on the gleaming surface. “I am quite busy at the
“I do not prefer boys,” he said. “I like men. What do you think I am, a priest?”
CHAPTER SIX
Washington, DC
October 2004
She took the elevator up to the editorial floor, stalking down the narrow corridor, thrusting her wooden cane angrily onto the beige carpet. The news director’s secretary greeted her warmly and offered coffee as T.P. signaled through the glass enclosure of his office that his meeting with three staff members would be over shortly.
By the time she had finished her coffee in the reception area and settled into the leather armchair beside T.P.’s desk, she had calmed down appreciably.
“The rough cut of your Preacher tape looks good,” he told her.
“I finally have some hard leads on the artifact.”
T.P. pushed the rolled sleeves of his blue chambray shirt above his elbow, his expression neutral. “What?”
“A couple of sources claim the biggest challenge the thieves would have had was getting the
treasure out of Iraq. If anyone saw anything suspicious or was bribed to look the other way it would have been an MP.”
“You find a suspect?”
“In the process.”
“Pretty thin, Andy.”
“Another strong possible is an apparent high number of casualties in Bravo Company. If we can nail those down to a squad or two in Mitchell’s Second Platoon, the KIA’s were probably sustained in the Bedouin firefight, and/or the thieves got themselves listed as deceased to avoid detection.”
T.P. shook his head in negation. “Duncan wants you off the artifact until you have hard evidence, not just wild geese.”
“How the hell am I going to get evidence if I don’t look for it?”
“Our lead human interest story is the Preacher Lady.”
“Like everyone else.”
“You have an inside track with that interview. Go back out and follow it up.”
“She’s an idiot. She’s preaching a premise designed to anger every religious sect and person on the planet.”
“That’s news, Andy!”
Andy exhaled, lowering her shoulders. “I’ll flesh out my notes to bracket the tape. When do you want me to air it?”
“Duncan wants Frank to do it.”
“Duncan! Hang tight, Toilet, because I’ll square this away pronto.” She pushed up from her chair and T.P. stood with her, holding his hand up. “Sit down, Andy, you can’t win this.”
“He can force me to cover the Preacher, but I will not play girl reporter feeding my copy to
Frank.”
“Why do you always create problems?”
“Randy ‘Boy’ Duncan’s got the problem, Toilet. Brushing my artifact research aside for background on a certifiably crazy religious fanatic.”
Andrea stared poison darts at Viola for several seconds. “If you’re going to shackle me to this loser Preacher, I’m going to own it.” She grabbed her cane and bolted through the door, stumbling at the threshold when her left leg almost gave way beneath her weight.
“Andy,” he called after her. “Andy!”
Andrea limped down the corridor to the elevators, jabbed the ‘UP’ button half a dozen times, glanced at the floor indicator, then toward the stairwell. She massaged her left thigh wondering again what was wrong with it. Once on the executive floor above, she marched past the receptionist, ignoring her call to stop, rounded a corner leaving a half-dozen secretaries with their eyes popping, flung open the door of Rand Duncan’s office and burst inside it with his administrative assistant sputtering behind her.
“Why did you give Frank Morrissey my Preacher interview without even the courtesy of telling me?”
Rand Duncan occupied the head of a conference table reflecting the overhead lights off polished nara wood, with several VPs and department heads gathered around him.
“Come back later, Madigan,” he said, clenching his fists on the gleaming surface. “I am quite busy at the
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