Tabloid Love (2 of 4 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Tabloid Love by Bridget Harrison. Copyright 2006 by Bridget Harrison.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PROLOGUE (CONT'D)

Panting now, I weaved my way through the gawkers, checking for other reporters. Then I spotted them, the only white guys on the block. They stood a few meters down the street, gathered around a burly, bald man in a beige detective's suit and scribbling earnestly in their notepads. Shit, the press briefing and I was missing it. I dodged a cop and sprinted across the road towards them, pulling my notepad out of my bag as I went.

". . . she was strangled, lying on the floor. He was hanging from a pipe," the detective drawled as I pushed into the group.

"We're hearing they were in the bedroom. Can you confirm that?" asked one of the reporters. His green press tags said Newsday.

"Yeah. They were in the bedroom. The three-year-old son found them," replied the detective.

"What did he strangle her with?"

"A nylon cord. It was around her neck."

"So . . . he came into the bedroom, strangled her with a nylon cord, then hung himself from the pipe. Then the kid came in. Was it with the same cord?"

My phone buzzed. I shoved it under my jaw while scribbling "she floor, he pipe, nylon cord, bedroom, three-year-old son" in my notebook.

"Hey, you crazy Brit. Jeff here. Hope we're still on for tonight?"

Bugger. My date. "Um, hi. Yes, of course we are."

"The nylon cords he used appeared to be different. The one he strangled her with was thinner than the other," said the detective.

"Was one from a dressing gown?" asked the Newsday guy.

"How about eight at Olives in the W at Union Square? They do awesome martinis. And then we can decide if we want to go on from there," said Jeff.

Union Square was a fifteen-minute dash in a cab from where I was now. "Go on from there" meant he was waiting to decide how much he liked me when he saw me again. "Awesome martinis" meant drinking on an empty stomach--a classic start to a New York date.

"No, it wasn't a dressing-gown cord, it was more like synthetic rope. You should also know there was a prior history of abuse," said the detective.

"Jeff, fine, see you there." I dropped my phone back in my bag.

"So where's the little boy now?" I asked.

"With his aunt. You're not getting near him," said the detective.

My phone rang again.

"City Desk, hold for Jack," said a copy kid at the office when I answered it. My heart did a flip.

"Hey, are you nearly through on that murder-suicide? We've got early deadlines tonight." Jack's familiar voice was terse. I adopted a similar tone.

"We're just getting the details now. I'll file as soon as I can."

The line was already dead.

Two hours later I was in another taxi, speeding back up Allen Street. I held my left eye open while trying to apply mascara after having pulled on a cashmere V-neck that I'd had stuffed in my bag all day. I'd interviewed (with translation from a Spanish-speaking photographer) the Dominican brother of the man who strangled his wife, on whose door the little boy had timidly knocked, saying, "I think my Mommy and Daddy are dead." Then I'd found two tearful nieces who said the husband drank and had a bad jealous streak and that they'd begged her to leave him--and now it was too late.

I'd phoned over my story, waited for the two body bags to be stretchered into an ME van, and now at 7:55 P.M. was about to be ten minutes late for Jeff. By now all I wanted was quality time with my sofa.

I had met Jeff, a gynecologist with salt-and-pepper hair and insanely blue eyes, at a singles mixer in a ritzy steak house called Houston's on the Upper East Side. The event had been like a cocktail party on a cruise ship, except you could boldly flirt with any guy without worrying that he was someone else's husband--at least not any longer. Jeff had asked me for my number--and I had always wondered if gynecologists had hidden talents.

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