Bylines & Deadlines - Kimberly Vinje

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with administrative assistants.

      Her subtle manipulation of people bordered on the brazen. She finessed people using two rules: 1) a man’s vulnerabilities stemmed from ego and libido and 2) a woman’s vulnerabilities resided in ego and maternal instinct. If she could find common ground, she could work a person into revealing what she wanted to know. She almost always had an ulterior motive for engaging someone on the personal level, which she justified by convincing herself the ends justified the means.

      She spent so much energy making contacts outside the office she didn’t show much interest in her co-workers. She spent her time away from work working. She would listen to police scanners, read old news stories written by journalists she admired, or she’d go to a bar where she knew people with potential stories and secrets would be drinking…and talking too much.

      There was one exception to her disposable view of people - a man named Derrick. Derrick was a nurse at one of the busiest hospitals in the city. Privacy laws prevented patient information from being freely given by medical professionals, but Derrick liked to talk even if he wouldn’t see his name in print. He seemed to get some pleasure from knowing he was “an unnamed source” or maybe it was sticking it to the establishment that drove him. Most likely it was that he liked knowing things others didn’t and wasn’t good at keeping secrets for strangers. Either way, what had started as a reporter luring someone into her network of sources had turned into the closest thing she had to a friendship. Derrick didn’t give you the option to ignore him, and he was likable. So, Kristine allowed herself an occasional Sunday afternoon shopping or trying a new restaurant with him, but she always seemed to have one ear tuned to the conversation next to her. He was everything she wasn’t - a free-spirit and more interested in his personal than his professional life. He had different priorities, and Kristine found him interesting, even if she didn’t understand him.

      On the rare occasion Kristine stopped chasing her next byline, she could be enjoyable. No one saw this side often enough to admit it existed, though. In fact, no one really knew too much about her - and really, she didn’t either. Becoming a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist was her goal - okay, obsession - and the rest of her life could wait. Kristine had no idea how little time she had.

      This is the story of the demise of Kristine Larkin.

       Chapter One

      It wasn’t every day Kristine Larkin took time to notice something as inconsequential as a pretty sky. Today was different. The sun had just risen and the sky was so blue it reached out to touch you. Kristine had just come out of her favorite coffee shop with her vanilla flavored (and very expensive) coffee. The smell of the shop meant a new day, new opportunities and a new byline. She inhaled deeply and smiled to herself at the excitement of the possibilities of the story she would dig up today. She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and smoothed the hair where the glasses had been sitting. She stopped at a crosswalk and took a sip of coffee while she waited.

      It was already hot. The air was so thick with humidity it stuck to your skin. Summer in New York. It was oppressive at best. It also smelled - really bad. Urine from the homeless or a drunk guy who thought it was a good idea to relieve himself on a sidewalk after a night of bar hopping baked into the concrete. Garbage cans along the street sped the deterioration of discarded food and acted as a beacon for rats and roaches from what she was sure were the depths of hell. When Kristine moved to New York, the rodents were the toughest part of her culture shock. Oh, and the sewers… the sewers were sewers. Enough said.

      Kristine hiked her bag up on her shoulder and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. She flipped her long, thick brown ponytail over her tanned shoulder as the “walk” light flashed white, and she started across the street. She had gotten sun just from walking around town every day. The tan made her eyes seem even greener.

      There weren’t many New Yorkers up and about at this hour so the streets were just busy and not jam packed. As she dodged people crossing the street against her, someone slammed into her so hard her coffee splashed through the little hole in the white cap. She jumped back to avoid being splattered with coffee.

      “Hey! Watch where you’re going,” she called as she turned a bit to see who had practically run over her. There was a woman hurrying away, hastily turning from her. Kristine thought she may have looked nervous, maybe distracted. She also knew if she didn’t get out of the street she’d be fair game for traffic when the light changed. New York was always in a hurry. The people walked with a purpose - like they always had someplace to be and were hell-bent on getting there. Kristine could relate to that.

      Once across the street, she looked down at her white, spaghetti strap top. There were no signs of coffee stains, and it was still neatly tucked into her navy and white pinstriped skirt. It was too hot for her suit jacket, which was draped over her bag.

      “You’re here early today,” Ed the security guard said as she walked past his desk. Ed was probably 80 years old and resembled Yoda more than the Terminator. Ed wasn’t going to stop anyone who wanted to come into the building. He had a nightstick, a walkie talkie and a case of bursitis.

      “Good morning, Ed. You know you say that to me every day,” Kristine called back as she walked into a waiting elevator. She pushed her sunglasses back on top of her head. She punched the button for the 17th floor, sipped her coffee and wondered why anyone bothered to remove the 13 from the buttons. If 13 was truly a bad number, did it matter there was no button? The poor fools on the 14th floor were still on the 13th floor no mater what you called it. She sighed, took another drink of her coffee and thought how silly the superstitious could be.

      The elevator car dinged, and the doors opened. The lights on the floor were on. They were always on. No one ever bothered to turn them off when they left. Of course, she thought, the evening shift, which was mostly copy editors, left only hours before the reporters showed up in the morning. She walked down the hall past the desks piled high with old newspapers, files, books and other materials that would make that person seem busy. The thing about being a reporter is you could take off during the day chasing a “lead” and actually be in the park playing Frisbee - well, unless you had an assignment and a deadline. Kristine was sure there were people who did this, but she wasn’t one of them. If she didn’t have an assignment, she would listen to police scanners waiting for something interesting or start going over public records looking for something - anything - that would make a good story.

      She rounded the corner and headed for her desk. This was the best time of the day - when Burt Newman wasn’t in the office. Burt was a slob. He was the stereotypical news guy from the movies times 10. He always had coffee dribbled down his shirt and white stuff collecting in the corner of his mouth. She took a second to consider what that white stuff was…never mind, she thought. She didn’t want to know. Burt’s belly lapped over the top of his pants, and his shirt gapped between the buttons over his midsection. His ties were always too short and didn’t match the rest of his attire, which usually consisted of a cream colored, short sleeve shirt, which in the past decade had most likely been white. Yellow arm pit stains accessorized the shirt. She considered the stains proof Burt rarely, if ever, bothered with antiperspirant. He must have either had a closet full of brown, polyester pants with a thick waistband absent of belt loops, or he wore the same pair over and over. She shuddered at the thought.

      It gets worse. Burt was crowned with gray, greasy hairs. Well, maybe there was just one long hair he wrapped around his head over and over again. His black, thick-framed glasses had a coating of gunk on the lenses that probably impaired his vision. These were the trademark fashions of Burt Newman. If that wasn’t bad enough, his personality wasn’t exactly congenial either.

      If there was a group of people about whom Burt could be intolerant, he was. He said America was being taken over by foreigners. No amount of arguing about how anyone who wasn’t Native American was a foreigner, or how one of the strengths of the USA was the fact it was built on the blending of so many different cultures could convince him otherwise. The only thing Kristine had in common with Burt was a stubborn streak and a dislike of each other.

      Perhaps even more annoying than his lack

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