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Authors: Diana Dempsey
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forced Kip to scramble to get out in
front of her. Most unseemly , he thought, his stomach
clutched in yet another knot. Thank God no one who counted had
seen.
*
Milo hadn’t covered a press conference in a
long, long time. Unless it was happening at the White House, State,
or Defense, a presser was a low-prestige event passed over by
network news stars of his caliber.
He sipped the low-fat latte he’d procured at
Starbucks and wondered when this show would get on the road. No
sign of the D.A. and it was already twenty after nine. Milo was one
of several dozen reporters, TV camera crews, and print
photographers massed in front of the Monterey County Courthouse, a
three-story structure built of oatmeal-colored sandblasted concrete
that looked like a mix of New Deal construction and neoclassical
pretensions. Carved heroic heads paid tribute to the Spanish,
Mexicans, and Native Americans who’d once claimed California as
their own. The building took up most of a city block in downtown
Salinas, downtown being distinguished by two traffic lanes in each
direction. Curb lanes on both Alisal and Church Streets were
jam-packed with news vans and ENG trucks, their masts high in the
air.
It was sunny, unlike the prior afternoon, but
hardly warm. Salinas was twenty miles inland and got a lot less
fog. On a day like this, though, Milo still needed his
overcoat.
“Milo Pappas?” A thirty-something guy in a
tie and trench coat held out his hand. He had to be TV. He was too
well dressed to be print. “Jerry Rosenblum, Channel 8.” The local
WBS affiliate.
“Good to meet you, Jerry.” Milo took his
hand. “You guys are being terrific hosts, as always. We really
appreciate it.”
Network people always felt compelled to be
nice to the local affiliate folks, who often were tremendously
helpful when a net crew blew into town. They provided local
knowledge, editing bays at the station, and in this case an ENG
truck. The locals usually felt both one up and one down to the
network. They knew the terrain backward and forward but aired their
reports only in that market, whereas the net reported to the
nation.
Rosenblum nodded. “It’s our pleasure. You
might not have to be around for long, though.”
Milo’s ears perked up. “Why do you say
that?”
“Well”—the reporter looked pleased to know
something Milo Pappas didn’t—“once the D.A. names the suspect today
and we get past the funeral, there won’t be much to cover till the
trial.”
“So Penrose will name the suspect today?”
“So I hear.”
“And it’ll be Treebeard?”
Rosenblum nodded. No news flash there. The
only surprise was that it had taken this long to become
official.
Milo was pleased. Maybe the gods would grant
him his wish to get off the Monterey Peninsula sooner rather than
later. He truly didn’t want to see Joan. It hadn’t been too
difficult to resist her out-of-it invitation from the prior
afternoon, though he couldn’t quite forget it, either. It lingered
at the edge of his brain like the proverbial apple dangling from
Eden’s tree.
It still embarrassed him how snookered he’d
been by Joan back when they’d dated. Of course, he’d been a lot
younger then, and though he wasn’t exactly wise now he was no
longer quite so impressionable.
It wasn’t as if she were exceptionally
beautiful or fascinating. Sure, she was good-looking, but in the
way women with money were good-looking. They were so pampered, so
cared for, so thin and well dressed. They did the most that could
possibly be done with what they were given and ended up looking
pretty damn good.
No, the bottom line was that it was a damn
sexy thing dating American royalty. Certainly his own background,
as the son of a diplomat, imbued him with a certain glamour. But
dating Joan was a stamp of approval from the highest of the high,
from a Rockefeller or a Bush or a Kennedy: a family with money,
fame, power. His acceptance into their magic circle boosted him in
the
front of her. Most unseemly , he thought, his stomach
clutched in yet another knot. Thank God no one who counted had
seen.
*
Milo hadn’t covered a press conference in a
long, long time. Unless it was happening at the White House, State,
or Defense, a presser was a low-prestige event passed over by
network news stars of his caliber.
He sipped the low-fat latte he’d procured at
Starbucks and wondered when this show would get on the road. No
sign of the D.A. and it was already twenty after nine. Milo was one
of several dozen reporters, TV camera crews, and print
photographers massed in front of the Monterey County Courthouse, a
three-story structure built of oatmeal-colored sandblasted concrete
that looked like a mix of New Deal construction and neoclassical
pretensions. Carved heroic heads paid tribute to the Spanish,
Mexicans, and Native Americans who’d once claimed California as
their own. The building took up most of a city block in downtown
Salinas, downtown being distinguished by two traffic lanes in each
direction. Curb lanes on both Alisal and Church Streets were
jam-packed with news vans and ENG trucks, their masts high in the
air.
It was sunny, unlike the prior afternoon, but
hardly warm. Salinas was twenty miles inland and got a lot less
fog. On a day like this, though, Milo still needed his
overcoat.
“Milo Pappas?” A thirty-something guy in a
tie and trench coat held out his hand. He had to be TV. He was too
well dressed to be print. “Jerry Rosenblum, Channel 8.” The local
WBS affiliate.
“Good to meet you, Jerry.” Milo took his
hand. “You guys are being terrific hosts, as always. We really
appreciate it.”
Network people always felt compelled to be
nice to the local affiliate folks, who often were tremendously
helpful when a net crew blew into town. They provided local
knowledge, editing bays at the station, and in this case an ENG
truck. The locals usually felt both one up and one down to the
network. They knew the terrain backward and forward but aired their
reports only in that market, whereas the net reported to the
nation.
Rosenblum nodded. “It’s our pleasure. You
might not have to be around for long, though.”
Milo’s ears perked up. “Why do you say
that?”
“Well”—the reporter looked pleased to know
something Milo Pappas didn’t—“once the D.A. names the suspect today
and we get past the funeral, there won’t be much to cover till the
trial.”
“So Penrose will name the suspect today?”
“So I hear.”
“And it’ll be Treebeard?”
Rosenblum nodded. No news flash there. The
only surprise was that it had taken this long to become
official.
Milo was pleased. Maybe the gods would grant
him his wish to get off the Monterey Peninsula sooner rather than
later. He truly didn’t want to see Joan. It hadn’t been too
difficult to resist her out-of-it invitation from the prior
afternoon, though he couldn’t quite forget it, either. It lingered
at the edge of his brain like the proverbial apple dangling from
Eden’s tree.
It still embarrassed him how snookered he’d
been by Joan back when they’d dated. Of course, he’d been a lot
younger then, and though he wasn’t exactly wise now he was no
longer quite so impressionable.
It wasn’t as if she were exceptionally
beautiful or fascinating. Sure, she was good-looking, but in the
way women with money were good-looking. They were so pampered, so
cared for, so thin and well dressed. They did the most that could
possibly be done with what they were given and ended up looking
pretty damn good.
No, the bottom line was that it was a damn
sexy thing dating American royalty. Certainly his own background,
as the son of a diplomat, imbued him with a certain glamour. But
dating Joan was a stamp of approval from the highest of the high,
from a Rockefeller or a Bush or a Kennedy: a family with money,
fame, power. His acceptance into their magic circle boosted him in
the
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