Judy Merrick sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. Around her was the familiar hustle and bustle of the newsroom of a major newspaper, with the ringing of phones, the tapping of keyboards and the conversations of nearly two dozen reporters, all working on their stories for that night's edition. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning, but 'early bird catches the worm' and all that.
Judy's glance shifted from the computer to the picture of her family she kept on her desk. There they were: her husband Jamie, tall and handsome still at 42; George and Harry, their two sons, 14 and 11, and herself, now age 39. She took a moment to scrutinise her appearance in the photograph. It was 3 years old, but she still looked the same: shoulder-length blonde hair, a pretty enough face, medium height and build, with a (still) firm body. True, she wasn't as tight and trim as she'd been at 25, but then again, no one ever was. A few more lines on her face as well, but she still looked good, especially with her makeup in place. Good B-cup breasts, sagging only slightly (pretty good for a mother of two, she thought with a touch of pride) and the sort of legs and arse you paid for with sweat on a Stairmaster. Today she wore her hair in a bun at the back of her head, and horn-rimmed glasses framing her large blue eyes. She was wearing black pinstripe pants and suit jacket, with a pale grey blouse underneath.
Letting her gaze wander back to her monitor, Judy sighed with frustration. An idiot complaining about unfair treatment from the parking wardens. As if that was something new. She'd been stuck with this sort of petty stories for the past month. And all because of that pompous prick Trenchard.
Judy had been sent out by Mitchell, her editor, to get an interview with a man named Trenchard, who had the inside story about a corruption scandal in the city council. They'd been at his home, the interview well underway, when he'd put his hand on her thigh. At first she'd brushed him off lightly, politely, afraid to antagonise him. However, he became more insistent, and eventually sat next to her on the sofa and stated fondling her tits. That had been it for Judy, and she'd slapped him so hard her hand still stung. He'd started huffing and puffing, but Judy was a professional reporter who'd been around the block a few times, not some easily intimidated trainee, and she'd told him exactly what she thought of him. He, being a little shit, had stormed off in a snit, and the interview never happened.
Needless to say, Mitchell wasn't happy about this, especially after a competing newspaper got hold of the story and ran with it. She'd tried explaining, but to no avail; Mitchell was old school, the type who'd bleed himself half to death without complaint to get a story, and ever since, she'd been out of his good graces. It was bloody unfair, and she knew it; she was a good reporter, who'd paid her dues, and shouldn't have to put up with that sort of thing just because she was a woman. But nevertheless, here she was, stuck covering dog exhibitions and people who were angry because they'd gotten parking tickets.
Judy was still fuming over the injustice of it all when her phone rang. Two short rings; that meant it was internal. She picked it up. "Judy Merrick," she said.
"Judy, I'd like to see you in my office," the voice of Brett Mitchell, her editor, said.
"Right away," Judy replied, and hung up. Then she got up, smoothed down her pants over her hips, and walked to the glass-walled office of the editor.
"Close the door behind you," Mitchell said when Judy entered. She did, and stood in front of his desk, waiting. Mitchell was on the phone, making notes with one hand on a notepad. "Yeah, mm-hm. Right. I'll do that. Right away," he said into the phone, before hanging up and focusing his attention on her.
Mitchell was a man in his late fifties, balding and developing a paunch from the inactivity of his desk job. His eyes, though, were those of a 30-years-in-the-business newspaperman: sharp, cynical and missing nothing.
"Judy, I have a job for you," he said without preamble.
"What, someone's exhibiting a particularly nice Pekingese?" Judy replied, unable to keep the bitter sarcasm out of her voice.
Mitchell ignored it. "You screwed up that time. Fine. I'm giving you a chance to make it right."
Judy was fuming at the remark, but deep down she knew he was right. She had screwed up. The thing that kept her from taking it out on Mitchell was that she knew he didn't treat her like this because she was a woman; if she'd been a man, and she'd been sent to interview a homosexual man who'd come on to her, she'd have gotten exactly the same reaction from Mitchell. He was the ultimate unprejudiced person; he didn't care about your gender, religion, race or politics. The only thing that mattered to him was that his reporters got the story. If not, they'd screwed up, and he wasn't shy about letting them know it.
"Here's the story," Mitchell went on. "Rumour has it that someone is aiming to buy their way into Dunne Technologies. Apparently, this someone has a couple of representatives in town. They're registered at the Marriott, under the names Hunt and Richardson." He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "I want you to get down there and see if you can get these people to talk to you."
"If they're representing a buyer, they won't want to..." Judy began. Mitchell raised a hand to stop her.
"I know it's not easy, but someone's got to try," he said. "And besides, you're motivated. If you can pull something out of this, you'll be officially back in my good graces." A lopsided grin. "Just don't mess up."
"And what if I do?" Judy asked, mostly just to say something.
"There's a dog show on the West Side this Saturday," Mitchell replied, his face and voice expressionless.
Judy nodded, mostly to herself. "I'll get right on it," she said with a confidence she didn't quite feel.
# # #
In their suite at the Marriott, John Hunt and Evan Richardson were getting fed up with waiting. They'd been sitting in the damned hotel for three days, waiting to be contacted. They'd been given strict orders to remain at the hotel at all times; this was a business trip, not sightseeing. For three days they'd waited, and they were now getting thoroughly sick with it.
Today they'd finally gotten the phone call they'd been waiting for, only to be told that nothing would happen until later that evening, and that they had to remain in the hotel and wait for further instruction.
John Hunt was the negotiator. He was tall and in good shape, with black hair, brown eyes, movie-star good looks and a presence that could charm or dominate a room full of execs. Evan Richardson was the numbers man, who would make sure no one tried to pull a fast one just before the papers were signed. He was a little shorter and skinnier than his partner, with brown hair and eyes, and a narrow, clean-shaven face and round glasses that made him look like a student. Although they looked different, the two men, both in their early thirties, had worked together for years, and made a formidable team.
"God, I'm so sick of this place," fumed John Hunt. He was pacing up and down the floor, burning off nervous energy.
Evan Richardson looked up from the sheaf of papers he'd been studying, and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. He was just as annoyed as his partner, but concealed it better. "I know what you mean." He shrugged. "Maybe there will be some good-looking ladies in the hotel bar later on," he said wistfully.
Hunt shrugged. "If nothing else, there should be a classy hooker or two," he said. "At least that means we're sure to be getting some."
Richardson dropped the papers. "On the other hand, why wait?" he asked rhetorically.
