White Collar Girl by Renée Rosen Page A

a creeper.
    Ahern came on the line.
    â€œI need to meet with you,” I said.
    Thirty minutes later we were at a hot-dog stand outside of Grant Park. “A lot of these guys aren’t injured,” I said to Ahern, declining his offer for a hot dog. “Some of them claim they never saw Zucker, or saw him once for something besides what’s on this list. Do you think MacAleese is working with O’Connor? Do you think McCarty and MacAleese are in cahoots together?”
    He took a bite of his dog. “All I can tell you,” he said with his mouth full, “is that someone’s getting rich here—and it’s not those police officers. They may have thrown a couple of them a few bucks to get them into Zucker’s office, but that’s pocket change.”
    â€œI don’t know where else to turn. I got nothing from MacAleese or McCarty. O’Connor wasn’t much—”
    â€œZucker,” he said.
    â€œI tried to talk to Zucker. I’ve already been to his office. I can’t get past his receptionist.”
    â€œTry again.” He dabbed a bit of mustard off his mouth. “Go back. Check again, Walsh. Dig a little deeper this time.”
    After meeting with Ahern, I stayed and roamed through Grant Park to clear my head and think of how I was going to get this story. A cluster of pigeons on the pathway burst into a flurry of flapping wings and took flight as I approached Buckingham Fountain. I knew there was something wrong going on, and now I was going to have to do something wrong myself in order to prove it.

Chapter 8
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    B y the next morning I had a plan. It had come to me sometime after midnight, and even though I thought it was a viable idea, it didn’t sit well with me in the darkness and felt no less uncomfortable in the light of day. In fact, the whole idea made my stomach ache. But it was the only way I could get this story.
    I was so preoccupied that morning I was already zipping my skirt before I realized my sweater was inside out. By the time I made it to the kitchen, I was clammy and out of sorts. I made a pot of coffee, grateful that no one else was up yet. I’d never done anything this gutsy before, but I’d weighed the consequences and the risks and determined that it was worth it to get the scoop. I reminded myself that Marty Sinclair would have done anything to get a story. What I was planning to do was probably nothing compared to the lengths he’d gone to. I told myself that if it was okay with Marty, then it would be okay with me.
    Marty Sinclair . . .
I wondered how he was doing. I’d heard that his lawyer had challenged the subpoena. And because Big Tony had recently been arrested on another murder charge, it appeared that the state’s attorney no longer needed Marty’s testimony. They had Big Tony and that was all they cared about. Iwas thinking all this when my mother came into the kitchen and startled me.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    I reached for a towel and dabbed up the coffee I’d just spilled.
    â€œDid you eat breakfast already?” she asked.
    I shook my head. My stomach was too jumbled and I couldn’t have forced anything down. My mother was chatty that morning. I nodded, I spoke, I may have even asked her a question or two, but later that day I couldn’t recall a single thing we talked about. I only remembered leaving my coffee untouched and going straight to the city room, acting as if it were business as usual.
    I checked the assignment book, said hello to the slot man and Higgs, the rewrite man coming off the night shift. I spent the morning working on a few celebrity sightings for the They Were There column and a piece on “Boardroom Etiquette” for White Collar Girl. I’d also begun doing some work for the fashion department along with society news and was finishing up a piece on