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He wasn’t thinking about being sweet in return.
She straightened. Nothing girlish about the predatory way she looked him over or the reaction it caused. Not a tired bone in his body now. “I’m all sweaty.”
“I like you sweaty.” He liked the salt tang in her skin, the earthy funk. He liked peeling her out of her tight pants.
“My mama taught me never to interrupt a man with a domestic appliance in his hand.”
The iron was hissing and steaming on its stand; the hothouse was them, inspecting, inciting each other. He bent and jerked the power cord from the point in the wall. “I’m done.”
She played with the tag on her zipper. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Inviting.” On his way to instructing, invading, adoring. Sunday nights she always called her mom. “Phone home, ET.” Family before pleasure.
She rumbled in her bag for her cell, fingers to the screen. “‘Busy tonight. Having fun. Call you later. Smiley face.’” She tossed the cell on the couch and undid her zipper. “Busy with you. Having fun with you.”
“I want to show you I’m sorry for the other night.”
The zipper top hit the couch. Martha got up and went to sit on it. The tank Derelie wore underneath was sweat-stained. “I’ve got ironing you can do if you want to show me how sorry you are.”
“I see—the way to your forgiveness is the application of domestic order.”
“I like the way you say domestic order.” She pulled her tank off and dropped it on the floor.
He didn’t let her say anything much in English after that, kept her mouth busy and her body in motion and later, tangled in the sheet and dozing in his arms, she accepted his apology. Before he left in the morning, he checked the Courier website for the Keepsafe story and ironed two of her dresses, a shirt and a skirt to cement the deal.
It was nearly midday before he got through promotional responsibilities and made it into the office. An hour later while he was still clearing messages, the photographer he’d had on stakeout outside Keepsafe’s headquarter got a shot of Bix exiting the building with a cardboard box. They were the first news site to run it, with a caption suggesting what the company’s press release later confirmed.
As a result of the discovery of the criminal intent to defraud Keepsafe policyholders, the board had removed CEO Robert Bix from his role, suspended the services of a number of consultant doctors, naming Noakes and Whelan, and launched an internal investigation. The chairman promised to cooperate with the police and regulators and see all victims were compensated.
The press release didn’t mention that it was Jack’s story that landed Bix and his cardboard box on the sidewalk or that the Courier’s investigation was what would bring justice to all the families like the Shenkers. But it didn’t have to. Syndicated, partner and rival media organizations were all talking about it. Jack had an email from the Courier’s owner congratulating him on the story, and he was ready to file the follow-up and go shave again so he was fit for evening television.
The next few days played out the same way. Another piece of the story would come to light and Jack would write it up and go talk about it on TV and radio. In the market one night with Derelie, he was approached by a man who insisted on shaking his hand. He was a Keepsafe policyholder and grateful for the exposé.
By the end of the week, there was nothing more to say about Keepsafe or Bob Bix, who’d been formally charged, and Jack was running on cloves, coffee and adrenaline when Madden called him up to Roscoe’s office.
“Come in,” Roscoe said. He wore a somber expression, which made Jack grimace. He could do without being sued again.
“How bad is it?”
“Sit down, Haley,” said Madden.
That bad. “What are they saying?” He took a seat.
Roscoe came out from behind his desk to close the door. “That’s not why we’re here. Go on, Phil.”
A lawyer, an editor-in-chief and an investigative reporter sit down in a room with a closed door... “What’s going on?” There was a staff meeting in half an hour—whatever this was, it was going to go down quickly.
Madden stared at the pile of folders on Roscoe’s desk. “We’re shifting from broadsheet to tabloid and dropping the Saturday edition. We’re going subscription on the website. That’s what I’m telling people at five.”
A heads-up. It accounted for the door, but not for Roscoe’s presence. “What does that mean for the business pages?” Less space, more of a shift to running stories online.
“We didn’t save enough money from the voluntary layoffs. I need to make more changes to staffing.”
Goddamn, Madden was going to ask him to single out reporters who’d lose their jobs. He could do his own dirty work. “Don’t ask me to—”
“The Courier isn’t in the investigative reporting business any longer.”
