Blood of Others Read Free Page B

first encountered each
other as fiercely competitive young reporters at the Associated Press in San
Francisco. Reed had broken a story about Russian mobsters, had been
short-listed for a Pulitzer, then accepted a job at the San Francisco Star as a crime reporter. It had angered Brader, who openly exaggerated his
contribution to Reed’s mob story. The lanky ambitious Texan soon got a job on
the cop beat at the Chronicle where he began ascending the management
ladder. Several months ago, to Reed’s horror, Zeke Canter, his beloved editor,
left the Star for USA Today. He was replaced by Brader, who was
now in a position to bury Reed.
    The day after Brader arrived to
start his new job at the Star, he summoned Reed into his office, leaned
back in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head.
    “Reed, your file has been shit
for the longest damn time.”
    It was true he hadn’t hit many
out of the ballpark recently. “It’s a bit of a slump.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Brader was three years older
than Reed, a few inches taller. Married. Two daughters. Thick wavy
salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly groomed. Wore expensive button-down shirts and
silk ties. Liked to wink, show his white teeth, do a lot of shoulder touching
whenever he talked to female staff.
    “You’re stale, Reed. I saw
that when I was at the Chronicle. You need a change.”
    “I like the crime beat.”
    “Lifestyles wants to expand
coverage of whatever the hell it is they do. Here,” Brader looked at the
section of that day’s edition, ‘Choosing the right name for your pet’. What do
you think?”
    “This a joke?”
    “No joke.”
    “I’m not interested.”
    “Get interested.”
    “Why?”
    “Unless you show me something
in the next few weeks, you’re going to Lifestyles.”
    “What is this?”
    “This damn newsroom needs
recharging.”
    “All these years and you can’t
let it go. You still got a problem with me, that it?”
    Leaning forward, Brader stared
hard at Reed.
    “I have a problem with your
damn ego.”
    “My ego?”
    Reed made a point of surveying
the wall behind Brader. Covered with full-page reproductions of Brader’s major
stories, awards, and photographs of Brader with celebrities.
    “Tom, I know you. I’ve looked
damned hard at your stuff in the past year or so and frankly, you are
overrated.”
    “Is that what you thought at
your old rag when I was killing you?”
    Brader ignored him.
    “These are the facts, Reed.
You are not a relentless investigative reporter. You’re a mediocre reporter
with the luck of a jackass. No room for a jackass on a Brader news team,
sorry.”
    “Clyde.”
    Brader’s face tensed. Reed
knew he hated his first name. “I’m not a threat to you and you know it.”
    “Three weeks, Reed. If you
don’t dig up a real damned story by then, you’re going to Lifestyles. Got it?
Now get out.”
     
    Reed was determined to prove
Brader wrong, but his weeks of pumping cops and street contacts were futile,
leaving him to seek sanctuary in war stories at bars with other reporters from
the paper. Coming home drunk or late had become his routine. Again.
    After the Keller nightmare, Reed
had vowed to Ann that he would never return to his bad ways. This
morning she let him know that he had and she issued a warning. “Better THINK
about what you’re doing, Tom. You made promises to us.” That was how she
ended the note she left him on his mirror about her trip and Zach’s schedule.
    He threw on jeans, a T-shirt and
a plaid L.L. Bean he left un-tucked and unbuttoned.
    Maybe he should quit and finish
his book. Ann’s children’s clothing stores were doing well. They could make it
without his salary. But he couldn’t focus on his book and he would never
surrender to Brader.
    Reed searched the kitchen for
Zach’s doctor’s number, ashamed he didn’t even know her name, or the name of
Zach’s teacher. He would have to call the school.
    “Zach.” He rifled through
cupboards and drawers.