mouse, eyes narrowing as he read.
"Mayor Perez called a news conference for noon today.
Costas Paradis will be in attendance."
I looked at Jack, who was staring at the screen, thinking.
The fire was just starting to burn, and I felt it, too.
"I want you both there," Wallace said. "And I don't care
The Guilty
45
what you do or how you do it, get something different to run
with tomorrow. I need angles here that won't be covered by
the other papers."
"Angle is my middle name," Jack said.
"Yesterday you told me it was Glenfiddich," replied Wallace.
"Mine is Shane," I said proudly. They both looked at me.
I wasn't proud anymore. "I mean it's Angle, too."
Jack shook his head. "Wine cooler. That's your middle
name. Get a good story and I'll promote you to Zima."
"And Henry," Wallace said, "if anyone asks about the quote
the killer used, you have your 'no comments' at the ready. Am
I correct in assuming you're not hiding anything? That you have
no reason to think this is anything but an awful coincidence?"
"I swear I have no idea," I said honestly. "Trust me, after last
year I'd just as soon stay out of the spotlight as much as
possible."
"Then let's keep it that way. We have to assume the suspect
used it simply because the quote was relevant, or that he has
some serious bats flying around in his belfry."
"That might work better than a 'no comment,'" Jack said.
"Now get a move on," Wallace continued. "I have no doubt
there'll be some fireworks at this conference. You won't want
to watch from the back row."
6
Paulina Cole sat at her desk, holding a warm cup in her
hands. She took a sip. Coffee and Xanax. Better than toast and
a runny omelet. She'd squeezed Dr. Shepberg's name into an
article naming the best psychiatrists in NYC and ever since
then the prescriptions arrived in her mailbox once a month.
Behind Paulina's desk were half a dozen picture frames
containing front pages pulled from the New York Dispatch.
Stories she'd broken, papers so hot they'd sold out their print
runs and been dissected on blogs around the world. Since
she'd joined the Dispatch, the paper's circulation had grown
1.5 percent, a number many tried to attribute to a new marketing campaign, but those in the know knew it was solely
because of her. Ted Allen, the Dispatch' s publisher, had said
as much during the last shareholders meeting, and promptly
given her a ten percent raise. He said Paulina Cole represented
the bold new direction the Dispatch would be taking into the
twenty-first century, that despite all the perils facing the print
industry, technology simply couldn't compete with an oldfashioned nose for news. According to Allen, the Dispatch
was tired of being the number two newspaper in New York.
And come hell or high water (possibly both) they would even- The Guilty
47
tually best their number one enemy. Even if it meant simply
hiring away their top reporters.
That's how he phrased it. Their enemy. This wasn't business, this was war. The longer you stayed satisfied being
number two the more likely you'd fall out of the race completely. Nobody remembered the guy who lost the election,
the ex before meeting your soul mate. The second-best were
forgotten, pulped. If you weren't willing to kill to grab the
lead, you deserved to get trampled.
That was Paulina's job; to do the trampling, to sell newspapers.
And for all the battles waged between the two newspapers,
the coverage of Athena Paradis's murder could be the Dis-
patch' s Gettysburg. Athena was the most recognizable
woman in the world, more than the president's wife, more
than Princess Diana (hell, most of Athena's fans were too
young to have even heard of Lady Di), even more than that
lucky gal who scribbled the words Harry Potter on a notepad.
The battles lines had been drawn. More newspapers were
going to be moved during the Paradis investigation than any
event save a terrorist attack. Of course Paulina could argue
that more