Front Page Teaser

As, at last, the cab turned onto Seventh Avenue, Ellen found Hasan’s eyes on her again. Paired with the tone of the conversation, his gaze instilled in her a sense of real dismay. Was he describing Ellen herself to his radio pal? But no, it must be someone else, she realized, as she heard him mention more than once a woman named Tina. Ellen indulged in a good-natured mental shrug, and asked herself if she would have been similarly uneasy if the driver were of something other than Middle Eastern extraction. Silently, she scolded herself for almost entertaining the prejudice that so many embraced after the towers she was about to visit were the targets of terrorist truck bombers in 1993. And, after all, wasn’t she on her way to make contact with a Palestinian who held major importance in her life?

The Twin Towers loomed ahead. She was almost there.

The cabbie pulled the taxi to a stop. “Here you are, lady,” he said, and collected his fare.

Ellen stepped out of the cab. “Shukran,” she said, on impulse, thanking the cabbie in his own language.

Looking over her shoulder to gauge his reaction, Ellen had to wonder if she was imagining what she saw.

The color seemed to drain completely out of the man’s swarthy complexion.

Chapter 1

Boston, December 18, 2000

Liz Higgins sat on the city editor’s desk and surveyed the sea of desks extending around her in the Beantown Banner newsroom. Unlike the tabloid’s competitor, the broadsheet Boston World—whose newsroom packed with cubicles was rumored to have all the ambience of an insurance office—the Banner’s digs were like something out of an old- time movie, minus the cigarette smoke and clatter of typewriters. There were no dividers between the many desks where reporters worked on outdated word processors. To maintain their trains of thought, newsroom hacks had to tune out their co-workers’ telephone conversations, ignore the voices of announcers on radios constantly monitored by lowly editorial assistants, resist listening to the engaging banter between editors at the city and photo desks, and overcome the urge to strangle political columnist Fred Constanzo, who read his work-in-progress aloud to himself, so as to better appreciate the flow of his golden words.

This was a place of bold headlines—in typeface and attitude. The Banner took pride in calling a spade a spade—or any term that took a dig at its subject. When a toymaker killed his wife and buried her in his backyard at Christmas, the headline read, “HOE, HOE, HOE!”

In short, the home of the Beantown Banner was a red-blooded, American newsroom.

And it was the place where Liz Higgins wanted to be taken as seriously as the breaking news she wished to cover. To that end, she spun around on her city desk perch and looked city editor Dermott McCann straight in the eye. That movement represented a calculated risk. The U-shaped desktop was littered with coffee cups damp with dregs of caffeine fixes past, a cardboard Chinese take-out box exuding a greasy odor, and waxy red china marking pencils, which the editors used to mark up copy. Since none of this detritus landed in McCann’s lap, he appeared to tolerate Liz’s in-your-face eye contact.

“What now?” he said, returning her gaze.

“Look, Dermott,” she said forcefully while running her hand through her wavy mane of auburn hair. “You know I’m a good sport about these soft news stories, but do I have to go to the mall again? Can’t you send the traffic reporter to write about the aggressive SUV drivers in the parking lot there? I’d say that’s his beat, not mine.”

“We’ve got him covering guys who don’t dig out the snow around their fire hydrants, Liz. You’ve gotta agree, his story’s got priority after that kid was killed in the house fire because firemen couldn’t get to the hydrants quick enough.”

“I agree the hydrant piece is more important, of course,” Liz said. “But I don’t agree that I should always get the assignment that’s bound to get less play in the paper.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Dermott demanded. “Didn’t you get a front-pager on that piece you wrote about the cute kid who rated the Santas? ‘Best white beard. Most jolly ho, ho, ho. Most believable.’ There’s a mall story that made waves.”

“That was only a front-page teaser, Dermott, and you know you only put that minuscule photo on Page One because the Santa she rated ‘Best’ worked for one of our major advertisers. The story itself ran on page thirty. You buried it as deep as a fire hydrant in a blizzard.”

“Bah, humbug!” Dermott said. “Now who’s the cynic? I seem to recall running the teaser because the Santa looked classic and the kid in his lap had a strawberry-blonde mop and the face of an angel.”

“If you could make out their features,” Liz interjected. “The photo was so small, the U.S. Postal Service should consider it for next year’s Christmas stamp.”

“Don’t give me attitude,” Dermott warned. “It might take the edge off your success. That story was a heart-warmer; I gotta hand it to you. You picked the perfect kid: polite, funny, cute as a button, and full of amusing requests for the seven Santas.”

“Yeah,” Liz said. “That was a bonus. We knew she was just at the age where it was safe to let her know a department store Santa is not the one who comes down your chimney. But she believed just enough to hedge her bets and ask for a different gift from each one.”

“Just in case they brought it on The Big Day,” Dermott said, warming to the subject. “What a hoot she was, asking the last Kris Kringle to bring her new wallpaper for her bedroom!”

“I guess she’d run out of big toy ideas after sitting in the laps of six Saint Nicks. I was impressed when she was hesitant to diss the skinny Santa at the South Shore Plaza.”

“Come to think of it, she did go easy on him. Considering she said the Bargain Bin’s Santa ‘didn’t have a clue about Ho, Ho, Ho-ing,’ and the Chestnut Hill guy was ‘as snobby as that mall.’ I’d have expected her to say more about a Santa with no gut.”

“She did have something to say, but she asked me to keep it off the record.”

“That kid has observed too many politicians.”

“Actually, it was more a question of political correctness. Or, I should say, some pretty great sensitivity for a young kid. She said he was ‘totally unbelievable,’ but added, ‘That isn’t nice to say because he comes from another country and his feelings would be hurt.’ She even said, ‘If they have Santas in Palestine, kids there might think he was real.’”

“That would have been a great quote,” Dermott said. “Too bad you didn’t use it.”

“Yes, and no,” Liz said.

The city editor chose to ignore that remark. “That kid’s a deep one,” he said. “What was the kid’s name again? How old is she?” Dermott asked.

“Veronica Johansson,” Liz said. “She’s eight years old. No nickname. Just Veronica.”

“Great kid. Like I said, great feature.”

Liz pressed her advantage. Leaning forward and crossing her legs she inquired, “Since I proved myself there, how about giving me a more exciting assignment this time around?”

“Shapely,” Dermott mused aloud. “Now that’s a word you don’t hear often these days.”

“What?” Liz asked, perplexed. Then she noticed Dermott ogling her legs.

“Maybe I’ll take pity on you and have you do a hosiery feature,” he laughed. “In a mall, of course.”

Before Liz could make a retort, editorial assistant Jared Conneely sidled over to Dermott. Simpering and oddly prim for his twenty-some years, Jared possessed an air of being up to no good. Behind his back he was known as the Uriah Heep of the newsroom.

“It seems there might be a bit of a to-do at Newton City Hall’s Hanukkah fete this afternoon,” Jared said, using the old-fashioned vocabulary of which he was so fond. “The Italian-American mayor thinks he’ll win Jewish voters if he dances the hora with them on the frozen lawn there. But I fear the poor fellow just might meet his