here?â
âIâm sorry,â I told Ida Sweeting, and rose to leave.
âYou better be!â Lakisha screeched, as the smaller girl screwed up her face and began to cry. âYou be a lot sorrier, I catch you bothering me or my family again!â In my face, full of fury and outrage, she herded me unceremoniously out the door, slamming it hard behind me. Not the first time Iâd been cursed at, threatened, or given the bootâand certainly not the lastâbut I regretted Lakishaâs lousy timing. Just as I was getting somewhere. Damn.
She continued to shout, her voice carrying down the hall as I trudged to the stairwell. Ida Sweeting had known a lifetime of grief, and I regretted bringing her even a momentâs more.
Mad Dog, his cousin Parvin, and Cubby Wells, I thought. Not much, but it was something. I called to bounce them off Craig Burch as I drove back downtown.
Â
Ryan was at his desk, directly behind mine.
âBritt?â he said softly, as I checked my messages. âMy name is on your story.â
âI saw,â I said crisply.
âHow did that happen?â
âAn unsolved mystery,â I said.
âWell, itâs a great story,â he said. âIâve had nothing but compliments all morning.â
Villanueva stopped by my desk minutes later, dark eyes perplexed, the A-section in his hand. âI thought you wrote this.â His big voice turned heads.
âI had nothing to do with it,â Ryan piped up, face flushed.
âWhat the hellâs going on?â the photographer asked.
I shrugged. âLife is cheap and editors are treacherous,â I said. âGreat picture, by the way.â
Ryan answered his phone. âHi, chief,â he said cheerfully. He shrugged as Villanueva and I turned to stare. âYouâre welcome, glad you liked it.â He rolled his eyes at us. âAnytime, chief, your guys did a great job.â
âThe fire chief,â he announced, hanging up. âHe loved the story.â
Lottie arrived a short time later with the 411 from her buddies on the national desk. Gretchen had altered the story, but the front-page editor didnât like her changes and had restored the original copy.
Having a bad hair day, nearly frozen while being ignored by Sunny, given the boot by Andre Coneyâs cousin, unappreciated by my editors and the world at large, my psyche already bruised and bleeding, it seemed a perfect time to call on K. C. Riley.
We first met when I was a rookie reporter. K. C. had rescued her husky, seriously injured male partner by shooting his attacker in the knee. The headline writer had dubbed her a Hero Cop. Yet sheâd reacted angrilyto my story. How was I to know? Kathleen Constance Riley seemed a perfectly good moniker to me, and News style is to use full names rather than initials. But she took offense and warned me in no uncertain terms to never ever use her given name in print again.
Like most female cops, K. C. Riley had to fight for rank and respect, but her macho attitude always struck me as over the top.
I went to headquarters and called from the parking lot. Her secretary checked with Riley, who agreed to see me briefly, between meetingsâin ten minutes. Her usual MO. Agree to an impossible appointment, forcing the reporter to risk death or dismemberment, desperately racing through traffic only to beâtoo late.
âGreat,â I said sweetly. âIâll be there.â A PIO officer escorted me to my approved destination, no detours allowed. What would happen, I wondered, if I suddenly broke into a run? Would they lock down the station? Set off a terrorist alert? Call out the dogs to hunt me down?
The Cold Case Squadâs small officeâseveral desks, computer monitors, and three metal filing cabinetsâwas adjacent to Homicide on the fifth floor. The lieutenantâs glass-enclosed office on the north wall provided a view of Overtown, a
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