Impulse Read Free Page A

reportervisiting a prisoner. Not this time. Al sniffed things out; she felt things in her gut. This time his nose had had a bit of help from an anonymous tip.
    If Rafe came up dry, then he’d give her the lead, for what it was worth, but not before. He guessed his caller was a neighbor. Rafe would find the neighbor; he didn’t have to worry.
    Al lit a cigar and looked down at the story Gene Mallory, the paper’s youngest political analyst, had written on the budget crisis facing the governor. Boring but top-notch. Attached to the article was a handprinted note with the names of his sources. Careful, careful Gene, a clean-cut preppie. Al couldn’t imagine what Rafe saw in him. Gene was a plodder; she was spontaneous combustion. Al couldn’t imagine the two of them ever sleeping together. Rafe would probably fall asleep while Gene went through his checklist of foreplay tactics. Al had heard something about a guy in the D.A.’s office. Maybe he was more promising.
    Brammerton, Massachusetts
That evening
    “Another glass of wine, Gene?”
    Gene Mallory shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, I’ve had enough. Tomorrow’s an early day for both of us, Rafaella.” He fiddled with the half of his Italian breadstick, then said, “I heard about your assignment to the Pithoe story. All the guys were talking about how you and Mr. Holbein were going at each other. No, don’t get upset, Rafaella. No one but me knows what you were yelling about. I—well, I just happened to overhear Mr. Holbein say the guy’s name and warn you about secrecy. I won’t say a single word, I promise. I’m just surprised Mr. Holbein decided to make you do it and not Buzz Adams. It’s a dirty mess, everyoneknows the guy’s as guilty as heck, and you’re—”
    “I’m what, Gene?”
    “Well, you weren’t raised to mix yourself up with that sort of garbage. After all, Rafaella, your stepfather
is
Charles Winston Rutledge III.”
    Rafaella slugged down the rest of her wine to keep her mouth shut. She felt tight all over, and the bolus of wine didn’t help. “And you were?” she asked mildly. “Raised for garbage?”
    “Of course not, but it’s more a man’s story—going to the grungy jail, speaking with all those guards and finally to that maniac. It wasn’t part of Mr. Holbein’s budget. He didn’t even mention the story in the news meeting.”
    “His name is Al. I’ve heard him tell you to call him Al. He didn’t make the story part of his budget because he wants to keep it under wraps, which is very important, critical, as you very well know. However, Sally, the cleaning woman, knows about it. How, I haven’t the faintest idea. She left a note on my desk.
He’s got a weak chin. Guilty, I know it.”
    “Mr. Holbein still should have brought the story up in the news meeting, and he shouldn’t have assigned it to you.”
    Rafaella forced herself not to get mad and tear into Gene. She didn’t know what his problem was, but he was showing himself to be a royal pain in the butt this evening. She hadn’t noticed it so much before. He’d interested her simply because he was so straight. And he was good-looking in a very fair WASP way, and had a body that was worked to its limit every day. He’d been on the
Trib
staff for only two and a half months now.
    She chose her words carefully. “I can handle any story that Al dishes out. My sex has nothing to do with anything. Or my background. Do you think you can interview men better than you can women?”
    “No, of course not, but I’m not certain about a woman psychopath.”
    He had a point there. “I’m not so sure about a male psychopath either. But I did it with Herr Lazarus Smith, if you’ll recall. Fascinating stuff, Gene—Freddy Pithoe, not old Lazarus.” Rafaella forgot her irritation and propped her chin on her folded hands.
    “Al was right; he got me so mad I was ready to kill him. Instead I boned up on Freddy, read everything we had in the library, then went to see