The Hotshot

Truman wasn’t interested in the public relations article. He was determined to solve the city’s latest, high-profile case, which had been dubbed the Glass Slipper case by the New York News. The case had been assigned to him, but if he wound up doing a drive-along with a reporter, he wouldn’t have time to work it. He had too many other more important cases on his desk. The Glass Slipper was special, though, since it involved film celebrities and rock stars. Cracking it would garner Truman enough attention to get him his full detective’s shield. He loved his work, hated bogus cases, and was tired of moving up the rung so much more slowly than his brothers.

“And now I’m supposed to find a wife?” he muttered.

“Speaking of women and your patrol car,” said Rex, fishing in his pocket for a piece of paper. “Some girl left this under your windshield wiper. I brought it in. Maybe you can marry her.”

Truman glanced down at a note written in lipstick. Officer Steele, I saw your car. Nice meeting you yesterday. I’d really like to get together for dinner. Call me. Candy.

Truman had enjoyed meeting her, too. Unfortunately, he’d been arresting her for being drunk and disorderly. Carefully pocketing the note in case his search for a bride came to that, he leaned in the doorway, glancing away from Sully’s room and the model planes and boats Sully had spent hours building as a kid, into Rex’s room, which was full of books, and then to his own, which was decorated with sports trophies and school pennants.

“Candy’s cute, huh?” asked Rex, referring to the note.

“Drunk and disorderly,” corrected Truman.

“But there will be others,” Sully said dryly, making Truman smile. Truman never beat his older brothers at anything, but Sully was right. Truman attracted the most women. He enjoyed their company, too. He just didn’t want to set up housekeeping. Until now. How would his mother know whether or not he really loved his bride? She wouldn’t, he decided, a new goal forming in his mind. In addition to cracking the Glass Slipper case, he’d be the first Steele to marry—though not for love, of course.

“As soon as my latest case broke,” Rex was saying, “I was going to take vacation. I’ve racked up four weeks leave time.”

Sully raised his eyebrows. “Where?”

Rex offered a typical Rex response. “Wherever the wind takes me.”

“It better be some place with women,” Truman warned. “Seeing as we’ve only got three months to get married.”

Three months. Or they’d lose fifteen million dollars. “Can you guys believe this?” Sully said rhetorically. The way he saw it, they might as well hand the money over to the turtles right now. His last serious, long-term relationship had lacked passion he couldn’t live without, and when he’d found passion, the relationship hadn’t included a meeting of the minds.

Absently, Sully reached for a shelf, lifting one of the models he’d made as a kid—a ship inside a bottle. Rarely given to whimsical behavior—that was Rex’s domain—Sully imagined himself writing a letter detailing what he wanted in a bride, putting it in the bottle and tossing it into the Hudson River. All his life, he’d done the tried and true…the dinner dates, boxes of candy, bouquets of flowers, and he was still single. For years, he’d wanted the kind of relationship his parents shared. Why not send a message in a bottle…?

“It’s us or the turtles,” Truman prompted.

“Well, Truman,” returned Sully, thoughtfully turning the bottle in his hands and surveying the ship inside, a classic Spanish galleon of a sort that had comprised treasure fleets and been manned by sixteenth century pirates. “Maybe the reporter from the News will be female, and you can marry her.”

“Right.” Truman smirked. “The News always sends a guy on the drive-alongs.”

“YOU’RE SENDING ME ON A drive-along? With the NYPD? For two full weeks?” Trudy Busey didn’t try to hide her disappointment. She told herself she was a trained professional and needed to prove she could be cool under fire, but as she glanced around the table and took in her co-workers, among them Scott Smith-Sanker who, as usual, was getting all the juicy assignments, she decided there was only one way to claim turf in a newsroom—fight.

The city editor, Dimitri Slovinsky, otherwise known as Dimi, raised a bushy eyebrow. Overweight, over fifty and slovenly in appearance, only the sharp bite in his dark eyes gave away his superior intelligence. “Are you having a problem, Busey?”

She braced herself, wishing Dimi would trust her with bigger stories. Scott wanted her to quit the News. And her own father, who owned the Milton Herald in West Virginia never took her dreams seriously. Yesterday, Terrence Busey had the nerve to call the News a “mere tabloid.”

This, she thought now, from the man who, before semiretirement, had handed the Milton Herald over to her brothers, Bob and Ed. The weekly’s circulation had dropped by 50 subscribers, and now only went to 300 households. None of which would be happening if her father had named her his successor. His lack of belief in her hurt, cutting to the core. Why couldn’t he see she was a good reporter? Why couldn’t Dimi?

Despite her loyalty to the Milton Herald, Trudy loved everything about this paper that had started in 1803 as the New York Evening News and faithfully served New York ever since, becoming the longest continuously running daily newspaper in America. She loved how the smell of ink filled her nostrils as she pushed through the smudged glass doors every morning carrying coffee from Starbucks. She loved being greeted by the sight of harried reporters who’d been awake all night at desks strewn with overflowing ashtrays, foam cups and files.

Without even looking, Trudy could name the blowups of past News covers hanging on the walls: the Kennedy Assassination, the Lindbergh baby, the Wall Street Crash of 1929, the murder of mob kingpin, Paul Castellano…

The News was a hub. Its reporters had earned nearly forty Pulitzer prizes, and every time she walked through its doors, Trudy realized her finger was on the pulse of America. She had no interest in the conservative New York Times. She’d been raised on a hometown paper, and the News had hometown roots—in the country’s biggest hometown.

“Dimi,” she began, fighting frustration, but determined to defend her position. “There are so many great stories begging to be written. The drive-along isn’t the best use of my time.”

It was an understatement. The drive-along was pure fluff. Human interest. Good publicity the News generated every year as a favor to the mayor at the beginning of tourist season.

Dimi eyed her. “What did you have in mind?”

“The Glass Slipper story.”

“Scott’s on that.”

Of course he is. She tried not to react, but the mere mention of Scott Smith-Sanker’s name sent her through the roof. If he scooped her once more on a story that was rightfully hers, she was going to implode. “Well, what about the lottery?” she suggested. “Whoever claimed the fifteen-million-dollar jackpot wants to remain anonymous. We need to find out who it was. After all our hype, the public wants to know.” The story was every bit as important as the Glass Slipper.

“Ben’s following up on the lottery.”

It wasn’t easy to tamp down her anger. “There was a murder just twenty minutes ago on the East Side. What about that?”

“Keith’s headed there already.”

“Okay,” she said patiently. “It’s not a city story, but we need to follow up on the Eliza.” She glanced toward a News cover showing the oil tanker that had run aground near the Galapagos Islands.

“A stringer’s on it.”

Not about to worsen the situation by making a scene, Trudy waited until the meeting was over and the others filed out before turning to her boss and saying exactly what was on her mind. “If this is the kind of work you want me to do, why did you even bother to hire me?”

“Your assignment’s a good one, Trudy.”

“It’s busy work,” she pushed back.

“High profile. You’ll liaise with the mayor.”

Maybe. But that wasn’t the kind of reporter she was meant to be. She’d had this same conversation with her father and brother for years, whenever they handed her grunt work, hoping to discourage her from working for the Herald. The ploy had worked. She’d left the Herald in a huff. But she was not leaving the New York News, and she intended to get real stories. The hard stuff.

“The Glass Slipper,” she reminded, not usually one to toot her own horn, but understanding she no longer had a choice. “I thought of calling it that. The name sold papers, Dimi. The allusion to Cinderella and Prince Charming captured the imagination of our readership.”

The case had begun two months ago when wealthy, famous female New Yorkers began reporting the bizarre theft of expensive, custom-made shoes. At this point, over a hundred pairs were missing from over a hundred apartments, and the police, unable to discern a motive and confused by how the thief gained access to so many well-guarded homes, were hot to solve the crimes.

Trudy had written the News’s first headline, “Can These Cinderellas Find Their Glass Slippers?” Her next was, “Who is Prince Charming?” Ever since, along with the growing lottery jackpot, the story had captured the imagination of news-hungry New Yorkers. Newspaper sales had skyrocketed.

“Circulation’s up,” she continued. “And we’re getting more hits online, too.”

“Your contribution’s been noticed,” Dimi conceded. “And soon, Trudy, we’ll have a hot tip that’s—”

“Right for me?” She wasn’t in the habit of cutting off her boss, but she’d reached the end of her rope. “I’ve been here two years. I’ve been patient. I’ve gophered. I’ve gotten coffee, picked up lunch and worked double time. Just how many dues do you expect me to pay before you’ll let me wedge a toe in your old buddy club?”

Dimi considered. “You think this is a chauvinist atmosphere?”

“How could I not feel discriminated against?” she returned, not backing down. She’d have left before now, but she wanted the experience of working on the nation’s longest running daily, even if she cursed the ambition that made her want to conquer it. She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You’re cute, Trudy. If you want to go into news, why don’t you try television?” Occasionally, he’d generously point to weather girls as models.

Trudy Busey was no weather girl.

Dimi stared at her as he peeled silver foil from a roll of antacids and began chewing one—all the while thinking he ought to give in and do what doctors kept telling him: lose weight. But then, doctors didn’t understand the pressures of being an editor in a big-city newsroom, no more than the stress of managing people like Trudy. She wanted the Glass Slipper and lottery stories? Well, the distressing fact was, she deserved them.