Act of Betrayal Read Online Free Page A

cold.
    â€œMy age,” I commented, for lack of anything else to say.
    â€œAt least you have a job.”
    â€œThat I do, and let me tell you, work isn’t everything.” Look who’s talking, I thought, as I flipped through my Rolodex for the family counseling hot line number. I doubted she would dial it. She sounded as though she relished her soap opera life.
    Then Lottie called, elated. Her suspicions about the Polish Prince were all “a misunderstanding,” and we conferred about what she should wear on their date that night. I shuffled my mail as we talked, hoping without luck for a letter from Louisville. “If you wear the gauzy black one,” I cautioned, “don’t wear the cowboy boots.” The lobby receptionist signaled me and I told Lottie I had to go. I had a visitor.
    â€œI’m not expecting anybody,” I said, irritated. “I’m working on a story for the street. Who is it?”
    â€œThink his name is Randolph, third time he’s been here. You weren’t in before.” She lowered her voice sympathetically. “I couldn’t steer him to anybody else. Said he had to see you.”
    Was her sympathy directed at him or me? I made an impatient sound. “Tell him I’m too busy … Then I hesitated, put the phone back to my ear, and added, “To see him for more than a few minutes.”
    The best stories sometimes walk in when you least expect them, I told myself, hoping my visitor was not some madman who would need to be hosed down and hauled away by security. He stepped into the huge newsroom looking bewildered, glancing around uncertainly, a lanky hard-boned man with thinning light-color hair. He wore work pants, glasses, and a crisp white shirt with QUICKY LUBE embroidered in red on the breast pocket. My heart sank when I saw his eyes. Reporters know the look. The eyes are a dead giveaway: wide, brightly burning, darting in search of help. These people are easy to spot; they haunt the newsrooms of the world, clutching stacks of file folders and spilling dog-eared papers from worn manila envelopes.
    Obsessed by lost causes, they fight city hall, the government, and their own families, and believe in elusive conspiracies. One brittle and aging mother remains adamant that her daughter’s death decades ago was no drug overdose, as ruled, but a murder conspiracy. Another still sues her ex-husband, a former judge, for broken promises, twenty-two years after their divorce. Every newsroom has its regulars, steered by the savvy to the newest, unsuspecting staff members.
    I steeled myself. This face was not familiar, but it wore the look. Sometimes a real story comes with the obsession.
    He scanned the newsroom, his eyes focusing on me. I smiled and stood up, vowing not to spend a lot of time. I saw the folder under his arm as he eagerly approached and groaned “Oh, no,” without moving my lips.
    â€œMr. Randolph,” I said heartily, two-faced as hell. He hesitated as I extended my hand. His knuckles looked raw, an angry pink, as though scrubbed too long and too hard with harsh soap that had nonetheless failed to remove the permanent grime line beneath his fingernails. Hesitation past, his handshake was solid.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I just left work. They said I should ask for you.”
    â€œThey?” I motioned to the chair next to my desk and he sat.
    â€œMy brother, Nick, and his wife.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “He said you were the one who worked on that story about the little Rafferty girl.”
    â€œMary Beth Rafferty.” I nodded. Not only did I lose a friend while working on that story, I lost my car and nearly my life.
    â€œThe murder that was solved after all those years.” He swallowed. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
    My phone rang and I scooped it up, smiling apologetically.
    A Florida highway patrolman with details about an overturned truck on