Dead Shot by Jack Patterson (adventure books to read .TXT) 📕

about your photos. Don’t tell anyone, OK? It’s for your own good. Just think of those photos as your insurance.

The phone quit buzzing. Their conversation prevented Cal from answering until he knew they were on the same page about their story.

He dialed Guy’s number.

“Where have you been?! I told you to come straight back to the office. That was over an hour ago!”

“Sorry, boss. We had to pay a little visit to the coroner.”

“The coroner? Who do you guys think you are? Starsky and Hutch? It’s not your job to investigate a murder — it’s just your job to report it.”

“I understand, boss. But almost no one has been giving us straight answers today.”

“That’s because you’re acting like a gumshoe cop instead of a journalist! Did you ever think about that, boy wonder?”

Kelly stomped on the gas pedal.

Cal knew what she was doing. He mouthed a “thank you” to her while continuing to cringe from the verbal tirade Guy was on. Guy was never this cruel in person and Cal was eager to get back in order to stop this nonsense.

***

Trailing about one hundred yards behind Kelly’s car was the F-250. The driver carefully calculated where he would make his move.

But there wasn’t a chance just yet. Kelly was driving through a main road that led back to downtown. All the local businesses on either side of the road made it very difficult to fulfill his mission.

He eased off the gas. He knew where they were going. Tonight would give him a better chance. He would finish his assignment then.

Chapter 17

When Cal and Kelly returned to The Register, the newsroom was still full of faithful staff, preparing as much of the paper as they could for that week’s edition slated to go to press Tuesday night. Cal’s deadline was more than 24 hours away, but he still needed to do some of his other mundane duties before he called it a day.

Cal could sense Guy’s growing angst as the day progressed, but by 5:30 in the evening, angst had given way to dirty office politics and the abuse of power. By the way Guy was acting on the phone, Cal guessed Guy hadn’t even stepped outside The Register’s office all day for anything other than a smoke break. But Cal never would’ve guessed what came out of Guys’ mouth next.

“I hope you’ve got something for a reaction piece cause this is all you’re writing, understand?” Guy bellowed from behind his desk.

A reaction piece? In the journalism world, a reaction piece is slightly above a man-on-the-street poll. It’s a story that just about any numbskull can write without screwing up. You talk to people about a certain topic or issue or event. You quote them. They are the story. The “reporter” more or less transcribed an interview. Even a high school intern could do it.

With that re-assignment, Cal’s spirit was crushed. Pulitzer award-winning story? Gone. Strong article for the clip file? Doubtful. Cal’s Monday started with so much promise, but hope for a positive conclusion was fleeting faster than William Hung’s 15 minutes of fame.

He almost took it without a word. Almost.

“Seriously, Guy? A reaction piece? I’ve been tracking down this story all day long and there’s more to it than three teens overdosing on drugs—that much I’m sure of.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, this is Mayberry, not New York City. Sensationalizing the unfortunate death of these kids is not something that people here want to read. So, unless you’ve got something other than the off-the-record whispers and innuendos you mentioned earlier, I’m not interested.”

“But, boss—”

“Are you that slow, Cal? We’re not doing a triple deck murder story headline, especially when there wasn’t a murder. Now go get me a cutline for that board of education meeting you covered last Thursday and get out of here.”

The problem with protesting one of Guy’s decisions in The Register’s tiny office was that everyone heard him dressing you down. Cal took Guy’s rare tirades better than most, a sure sign that he might make it at a large daily metro. But today wasn’t one of those days. Cal left Guy’s office red-faced, thoroughly eviscerated professionally.

Cal began wondering what happened to Guy. Was that serious newspaper editor once known as Guy Thompson really left for dead in Utah? As a newspaper man, there wasn’t one ounce of curious intrigue into the previous 24 hours’ strange happenings? Cal had more questions than answers at this point, but he found it odd that his editor was more concerned with his whereabouts than his findings.

Cal sat down at his desk and obliged Guy. He pounded out the cutline and filed it. He spent the next hour working on some re-writes Terry requested for Wednesday’s edition. Most days, Cal didn’t mind Terry’s editing, but Cal was in a mood, thanks to Guy. Must he make my report on the Rotary Club meeting sound like an act from a Shakespeare play?

“Thy edits are complete, my Lordship,” Cal said to Terry in a mocking tone.

Terry furrowed his brow and squinted. The context of Cal’s medieval language was obviously lost on him. He grunted a “thanks” and looked back at his computer screen. But such interactions weren’t unusual for The Register newsroom, known for attracting more oddball personalities than a traveling circus.

By 6:30, Cal began gathering his notes and stuffing them into his briefcase, willing to follow up with some phone calls from home. He hoped to bring something substantial into the office to change Guy’s mind.

He glanced back at Kelly, who was preparing to leave as well. At least the day wasn’t a total waste. Spending it with her and all her spunk made everything else palatable.

Cal broke the silence.

“Ready to do it again tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Today was fun, wasn’t it? But I don’t see how tomorrow could be any more interesting than today.”

Cal then noticed Kelly sliding a small piece of paper with a note scrawled on it.

“Call my cell when you get in your car.”

Cal slid the note