Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) Read Online Free Page B

receiving that honor: being first is what journalism is all about.
    But I was unconvinced that St. Clare of Assisi deserved sainthood. She was named patron of television because, bedridden with illness, she apparently heard and saw Mass on the wall of her room—even though the service was happening miles away. Was her experience a thirteenth-century miracle or a mere hallucination?
    And while I felt that I could make a persuasive case to be deemed patron of lost causes, St. Jude had already locked that one down.
    All this may have been for the best. The downside to being a patron saint was that you had to be dead.
    I turned off my computer and crawled back between heavy flannel sheets; the fuzzy bedding was to fabric the equivalent of what mashed potatoes are to food—ultimate comfort. All that religious exercise checking out saints had proved worthwhile; by then I felt drained and ready to rest—albeit fitfully.

CHAPTER 8
    I t was a slow news day in the Twin Cities, and Bryce wanted fresh ideas at the huddle. Neither of us mentioned the teeth. We had an understanding to keep our mouths shut about that story.
    Ozzie spoke up. “A viewer called, mad about the Mall of America’s curfew. Says they only enforce it against minority kids.”
    “The mall has a curfew?” Bryce asked.
    “They like to call it a ‘parental escort policy,’ ” I said. “Anyone under sixteen must be accompanied by an adult after four o’clock on Fridays and Saturdays.”
    Bryce looked puzzled by the rule. “Isn’t that bad for business? After all, they have an amusement park in the middle of that giant mall. Who do they think is going to flock there if not teens?”
    “They used to have a gang problem,” I said. “Shoppers were feeling unsafe, or so the mall claimed.”
    “But that was at least a decade ago,” Ozzie added. “Once they started the curfew, things calmed down. Except for that one fight with all those kids throwing chairs in the food court that went viral off someone’s cell-phone camera over Christmas break. Now they’re expanding the curfew to school holidays.”
    Bryce seemed to be mulling over this information. “We’ve been doing some focus group research.”
    After those words, I zoned him out by pretending I’d received an important text message. TV stations like to hire research companies to help them figure out how better to appeal to viewers between the ages of 25–54, the most coveted age bracket for advertisers. To me, that seemed like media hocus-pocus. All I cared about was doing the best reporting I could, and trusting that the ratings would follow.
    “The Mall of America tests well with our key demographics,” he continued. “Maybe we should investigate this curfew idea.” He turned to look at me and smiled as he said the word investigate . “Riley, what would it take to nail this?”
    I would have been elated to chase the story, except for one thing—location, location, location.
    I didn’t want to set foot in the Mall of America. My former betrothed, Nick Garnett, was director of security. Things had been said during our breakup that would have been better left unspoken. I had since vowed to do my shopping online rather than cross his turf.
    “Riley?” Bryce was sounding exasperated. “What would it take to air this?”
    “Sorry.” I stopped daydreaming about lost love and focused on how to convince Bryce to steer clear of the Mall of America. “Trying to document this story would demand a lot of time with no guarantee we’d be able to prove any discrimination. It’s a long shot.”
    “That’s for me to decide,” Bryce said. “What would it take?”
    “Well, we’d have to set up some surveillance and watch which teens got kicked out,” I said. “Maybe even use some undercover kids. Might be best to have someone hang out there casually some weekend to see what they could observe before bringing in a full team with hidden cameras.”
    Ozzie interrupted to point out that the