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The message light on Flak's phone was blinking like a debutante. He sat down at his desk, spun on the chair and punched the voicemail button. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the News 6 cameraman standing in the doorway, red light on. He suppressed a smile as he punched his password into the phone with efficient authority.
Two messages...first message:
"Flak! Johannson. The Commissioner wants a report tomorrow at 6:00 am. No more goddamn press conferences!"
Oh-kay, then, Flak thought and punched six to hear the next message.
Second message:
"Peter, it's Janey. I'm in trouble. It's Bannister. I can't believe this. You've got to come quickly. I'm in trouble and you're the only one who can help. Meet me at the Carstairs Hotel, room 215...I left the key at the desk. Hurry! Love ya."
Hmmph, Flak snorted. Janey was always a bit melodramatic. Great trait for a publicist, lousy for a friend. Fortunately, she's my publicist, not my friend, Flak thought. Or was...before she died.
Right! Dead! Forgot again!
She'd left a message on his home machine last night, but he assumed that was before she died. But this one ... it had to have been more recent... this morning.
Flak dropped the phone, and ran out the door, nearly upending the News 6 cameraman and tackling Reporter Samara Steele. He hastily untangled himself from the reporter and raced for the street.
"Let's follow him," Steele said.
"Like you had to tell me?" the cameraman said.
# # #
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