Butcher! Seth’s all over it. He wants Cassandra to interview you for Sunrise Manhattan . They don’t call him the fresh prince of TV news for nothing.”
“I’m here to interview him, not the other way around. I just gave a press conference. I don’t have time to do another.”
Ashley’s chipper expression turned petulant. “I’ll tell him what you said, but he’s not gonna be happy,” she announced, and flounced off on her high-heeled boots.
A few minutes later, Ashley reappeared. “Follow me,” she said flatly.
This time, Melanie was led up a shallow flight of stairs toward a glassed-in cubicle overlooking the brightly lit newsroom set. Everything below was in motion—people, cameras, video cables, flashingimages on numerous TV screens. A glamorous brunette in a low-cut dress sat at a desk fussing with her hair, the network logo glowing neon blue behind her.
“I have flyaways. I see them in the monitor. Get Maurice,” she ordered.
Ashley opened the glass door and motioned Melanie inside. Opposite the glass wall was an entire bank of televisions screens, each displaying the brunette from a different angle as a slender guy in tight pants sprayed something on her hair. Seth Parker paced the tiny space, his eyes on the monitors, talking into a headset in a flat, affectless voice. He glanced over at them as they entered, holding up a finger to tell them to wait.
“You seem incapable of processing basic information this morning, Howie. I said investment-bank prostitution scandal, then rat infestation on Park Avenue. What’s difficult about that? Are those two stories interchangeable to you?…Good. In the future, please follow my instructions.”
Seth clicked a small switch that hung from his headset by a cord, disconnecting the call, and turned to them. He was thin and pale, with shaggy light brown hair and a wispy soul patch like a smudge of dirt on his chin. In his frayed corduroys and ratty sweater, he looked about fifteen, and he acted like a surfer dude on heavy meds.
“Is this Ms. Vargas?”
“Yes it is, Seth,” Ashley said.
“Fine. Refill my coffee. Then go to the Green Room and tell the hip-hop guy we’re moving him up five minutes. I’ve already cued Cassandra.”
“Yes, Seth.”
“Don’t stand there like a retard. Go.”
Ashley whirled and rushed out the door.
Seth indicated a leather director’s chair opposite his own swivel chair. “Have a seat.”
They sat down facing each other, their knees virtually touching in the small space. Before Melanie could say a word, he’d clicked the switch again and resumed talking into the headset in his strange monotone. The interruption gave her a chance to pull her credentials from her handbag.
“No, cut her intro by forty-five seconds. I want time for the kid with stigmata…Do it. No back sass, please.” He clicked off abruptly and looked at Melanie.
“Mr. Parker,” she began, “as I explained over the phone, I’m a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m working with the FBI to investigate the murder of Suzanne Shepard, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Ashley tells me you have some kind of problem being interviewed?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“I’m here to interview you . This was a very brutal murder, and the killer’s at large, so this is urgent. I need to find out why Suzanne Shepard was in Central Park last night, and I’m thinking maybe it had something to do with a story.”
“Yes, of course, I understand. Now, when and where was the body was discovered?”
The question struck her as odd, but then something occurred to her. “Are you taping this conversation, Mr. Parker?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Taping?”
“Lying to me in the course of this interview is a crime. That’s why Martha Stewart went to jail, if you recall.”
“Are you threatening me?” Seth demanded.
“I’m trying to protect the integrity of my investigation. We have to control what information is
“I’m here to interview him, not the other way around. I just gave a press conference. I don’t have time to do another.”
Ashley’s chipper expression turned petulant. “I’ll tell him what you said, but he’s not gonna be happy,” she announced, and flounced off on her high-heeled boots.
A few minutes later, Ashley reappeared. “Follow me,” she said flatly.
This time, Melanie was led up a shallow flight of stairs toward a glassed-in cubicle overlooking the brightly lit newsroom set. Everything below was in motion—people, cameras, video cables, flashingimages on numerous TV screens. A glamorous brunette in a low-cut dress sat at a desk fussing with her hair, the network logo glowing neon blue behind her.
“I have flyaways. I see them in the monitor. Get Maurice,” she ordered.
Ashley opened the glass door and motioned Melanie inside. Opposite the glass wall was an entire bank of televisions screens, each displaying the brunette from a different angle as a slender guy in tight pants sprayed something on her hair. Seth Parker paced the tiny space, his eyes on the monitors, talking into a headset in a flat, affectless voice. He glanced over at them as they entered, holding up a finger to tell them to wait.
“You seem incapable of processing basic information this morning, Howie. I said investment-bank prostitution scandal, then rat infestation on Park Avenue. What’s difficult about that? Are those two stories interchangeable to you?…Good. In the future, please follow my instructions.”
Seth clicked a small switch that hung from his headset by a cord, disconnecting the call, and turned to them. He was thin and pale, with shaggy light brown hair and a wispy soul patch like a smudge of dirt on his chin. In his frayed corduroys and ratty sweater, he looked about fifteen, and he acted like a surfer dude on heavy meds.
“Is this Ms. Vargas?”
“Yes it is, Seth,” Ashley said.
“Fine. Refill my coffee. Then go to the Green Room and tell the hip-hop guy we’re moving him up five minutes. I’ve already cued Cassandra.”
“Yes, Seth.”
“Don’t stand there like a retard. Go.”
Ashley whirled and rushed out the door.
Seth indicated a leather director’s chair opposite his own swivel chair. “Have a seat.”
They sat down facing each other, their knees virtually touching in the small space. Before Melanie could say a word, he’d clicked the switch again and resumed talking into the headset in his strange monotone. The interruption gave her a chance to pull her credentials from her handbag.
“No, cut her intro by forty-five seconds. I want time for the kid with stigmata…Do it. No back sass, please.” He clicked off abruptly and looked at Melanie.
“Mr. Parker,” she began, “as I explained over the phone, I’m a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m working with the FBI to investigate the murder of Suzanne Shepard, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Ashley tells me you have some kind of problem being interviewed?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“I’m here to interview you . This was a very brutal murder, and the killer’s at large, so this is urgent. I need to find out why Suzanne Shepard was in Central Park last night, and I’m thinking maybe it had something to do with a story.”
“Yes, of course, I understand. Now, when and where was the body was discovered?”
The question struck her as odd, but then something occurred to her. “Are you taping this conversation, Mr. Parker?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Taping?”
“Lying to me in the course of this interview is a crime. That’s why Martha Stewart went to jail, if you recall.”
“Are you threatening me?” Seth demanded.
“I’m trying to protect the integrity of my investigation. We have to control what information is
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