Risking Trust (9 page)

He hadn’t wanted to blindside her. She couldn’t be mad about that. Even the photos… None of it was his fault. Other than marrying the anti-Roxann.

What am I doing?
She’d made this deal with him to get an exclusive for the newspaper. She wanted the big story. To prove herself as a publisher. That’s what she needed to stick to.

Wasn’t this all old news anyway? What was the point of rehashing it? They needed to move forward. Get back to business. If they got back to business, Roxann could bury the emotional carnage.

She blew air through her lips. “Let’s focus on our task here. I’m only part way through the first box and I think it’s safe to say we can add a few people to the suspect list. And just for kicks, I’ll have Phil call Senator Findley and ask him about his affair with Alicia Taylor. If nothing else, it’ll make him squirm. Bastard.”

Michael stood, held his hands out. “That’s it? We’re back to Phil and the story?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

She glared at him. “Not really. The
story
is the only thing keeping me sane right now. You came to me with the idea of teaming up to find Alicia’s killer. I never imagined I would have to sit here, in your office, looking through boxes that detailed your
wife’s
transgressions. A woman who shared your bed night after night while I was left to wonder what made you marry her and not me.”

“It wasn’t—”

But Roxann blew right past that. “And you know what? I’m still wondering.” She grabbed the file off the table and smacked him in the chest with it. “We could have had it all and this is who you gave up on us for. I simply do not understand.”

Michael snatched the folder away. “She had nothing to do with it. Not until I came home and found out you had moved to Philly, but I’m not getting into that tonight.”

Typical. “Great, Michael. Be honest about the things you want to be honest about and keep the rest to yourself. Nothing has changed.”

He tossed the folder on the table, sending a few of the photos scattering. “A lot has changed.”

“Feel free to share because I’m not seeing it.”

“Here’s what I know. If I could go back, I’d have never married her and that’s not easy to say. I threw away years of my life and not one good thing came out of it. I now know I should have pounded on your door and talked you into taking me back. I should have fought for you. That’s what strong men do. They fight for what they want. Seeing the woman you’ve become, the fierce businesswoman who only wants to do what’s right, I know it would have been damn good to have you by my side. I’ll always regret not fighting for you. That’s what has changed.”

Her head caved in. Just
bam
. Damn him for that little speech and making her once again yearn for what might have been. Well, that was long gone now. Besides, he could be playing her. Pushing her buttons to get her cooperation. Would he be that manipulative?

She didn’t think so. Something in the way he stood so tall in contrast to his puffy, tired eyes made her think that this time he’d given her all the truth he could manage for one night. For whatever reason.

She glanced at the bags of food and wondered if a bite to eat would give them a distraction. Something needed to. “I don’t want to fight over this anymore. If we’re going to work together, I can’t do this emotional chaos. I have too much of that with my father being gone and running the newspaper. Let’s just call a truce on this subject and move forward so we can find a murderer. Can we do that?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah. We can do that. But eventually, I want to settle it. For good. You don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. I had my reasons for leaving twelve years ago, and I know I made a mistake, but I can’t change that. I’m sorry I hurt you. And I’d like a shot at making it up to you.”

What was he talking about? “Make it up to me? How are you going to do that?”

He held up a finger. “Glad you asked. The way I see it, we’ve got two choices. You can tell me for the hundredth time our relationship will be strictly business. Or we can say screw that and see what might happen between us. I’m sick of dancing around twelve years of bullshit.”

He just didn’t get it. “Michael, think about this, your wife—”

“Ex-wife.”

“—was just murdered and I happen to own a newspaper large enough to convince the masses you didn’t do it. Forgive me if I don’t think it’s wise to become sexually involved with you.”

Michael stepped forward and his gaze wandered over her face. She shifted her eyes away.
Not
good. A spiraling panic swirled in her chest. This must be what the electric chair felt like just before they threw the switch.

Time to be honest. “You hurt me. It’s going to take more than a couple of weeks to undo it and you need to understand that. If you can’t, then we have nothing to hope for.”

“I can be patient, but you need to give me a fair shot. Don’t keep making me serve my penance for hurting you. I won’t do it. If we’re going to have a chance, we need to start over. I understand if you don’t want to be out in public with me, but I want to spend time with you.”

She stared at him. After all this time, he wanted to court her. And darn it if she didn’t like that idea. Her mind wandered back to laughter filled walks on the lakefront, nighttime picnics on the beach where they would lay side by side staring at the sky discussing their hopes for the future. Back then, he knew he wanted his own business, but didn’t know what it would be.
She
dreamed of watching him conquer his demons and succeed. It seemed so simple and yet she’d never gotten it.

“Well?” he prompted.

She cleared her throat. “Dinner at my house.”

He grinned.

“No gloating. We still have a twelve-year-old mess to clean up.” She strode to the table and their cold food.

“Dinner at your place is good.”

She smirked. Later, she’d probably realize getting involved with a man who is a person of interest in a murder would be emotional suicide.

John Callahan, the
Banner
’s associate publisher, knocked twice and entered Roxann’s office.

“Morning. I got a coupla things for you.”

She halted her inspection of the morning newspaper. “Hi. You’re in early.”

She gave cheerful a solid try, but knew she didn’t pull it off. She’d spent a sleepless night thinking about work and Michael and whether she’d lost her mind. Her early run helped clear her head, but she should have skipped it to conserve energy. Plus, she had hoped Michael would show up with coffee and muffins again and it didn’t happen. What a miserable feeling, this wanting him there and being disappointed. How had she allowed him to wind her up in such a short time?

John, looking dapper in a navy pinstripe suit, stopped. “Should I come back?”

“Nah, you’re here. What’s up?”

He took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

“First, the proof copies of
Progress
just came off, they look good.”

He handed her one of the copies of the newly printed section. Mental head slap. She had forgotten they were pre-printing the largest section of the year that morning. She unfolded and perused it.

The annual
Progress
edition had been Roxann’s baby. Touted as a business section,
Progress
had once been a cash cow in terms of advertising revenue, but over the past few years advertiser interest had dwindled. Roxann volunteered to lead the overhaul effort and, after working with the editorial staff and polling some of her business contacts,
Progress
was given a makeover and had become the largest section of the year. Digital might be on the rise, but people clearly still had faith in newspapers.

Flipping through the pages, Roxann smiled.
Progress
would be a success and she had a part in it. “This looks great.”

“It’s a damn nice section.”

Mrs. Mackey appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but Craig is calling from the pressroom. Also, Max called.”

“Put Craig through. I’ll call Max later.”

Roxann reached for the phone and tried to ignore the tingling on the back of her neck. A call from the production manager during the print run of the largest section of the year couldn’t be good.

“Craig, what’s up? Okay…Do I need to come down? Let me know…Thanks.”

Returning the phone to its cradle, she sat back in her chair while her chest seized. “There’s a problem with the press. They’re working on it.”

“How big of a problem?”

“It’s down.”

John’s face nearly slid to the floor. She couldn’t blame him. When was the last time the entire press went down?

“Shouldn’t we go?”

It took most of her self-restraint to stay put, but she needed to allow the supervisors to do their jobs. “Let’s let them have at it. If they don’t call in fifteen minutes we’ll go down.”

Mrs. Mackey appeared again. “Pressroom. Line two.”

“Too fast. Not good.” Roxann jabbed the speaker button, allowing her office to fill with frenzied, muffled voices from the other end. She and John exchanged a discouraged look.

“What’s happening, Craig?”

“You’d better come down. The blanket bar came off.”

“Off?” John said, his voice carrying the weight of disbelief.

“Yeah, it must have come loose.”

The blankets held the images to be printed and the blanket bar secured the blankets to each of the press units. Without one of the bars, the entire press would be down. A knot ripped into Roxann’s shoulders.

Hadn’t anyone checked the bar to make sure it was secure? Was it wedged in the press? How long would it take to replace the damaged parts? Would they be able to print
Progress
before Saturday night to ensure its inclusion in Sunday’s paper?

A cold panic shot up Roxann’s spine. “I’m assuming you called maintenance.”

“They’re here now,” Craig said.

“We’ll be right down.” She punched the button on the phone and retrieved her suit jacket from the back of her door. “Here we go. Buckle up.”

Nothing disturbed a newspaper publisher more than staring at a quiet three-story press when there should have been the glorious
pfft-pfft-pfft
of churning machinery. The city-block-long room buzzed with the hyper activity of twenty pressmen huddled around the back of one unit of the enormous twenty-four unit press.

The pressmen on the lower landing, stared at the catwalk overhead as Craig and two others reviewed the situation. Roxann, cursing herself for wearing a skirt, took a breath and marched up the stairs. Lovely. Giving a room full of men a free show would be great for negotiations. How humiliating. She couldn’t worry about it now. With one hand, she pulled the skirt taught and ascended the stairs, her shoes clickety-clacking against the metal. A woman in a man’s world.

Craig Rawlins, who had been with the newspaper a long time and knew how to run his pressroom, stood on the catwalk wearing his fifty years like a hundred. His thinning hair and extra forty pounds added to the layer of stress.

“Hey, Rox. Sorry about the call, but the bar is wedged between the blanket and plate cylinders. Maintenance says we have to replace the cylinders. They’re making calls to locate the parts.”

She glanced down. Thanks to the plank on the catwalk, the pressmen muddled below could not see up her skirt. She let go of it.

“How far into the run were we?”

Craig rocked back on his heels. “Maybe ten percent.”

Damn.

She did a quick calculation and turned to Craig. “If we get this fixed today, can
Progress
be off press before we need to print tomorrow’s paper?”

“If we’re up by noon. If not, we print
Progress
after we run tomorrow’s paper. Then we’ll do Sunday’s. The presses will be running all day tomorrow. It’ll cost us overtime.”

“I’m not worried about the overtime. We need to get
Progress
into Sunday’s paper.”

“What’s your gut on this, Craig?” John asked.

An anguished frown gave John his answer. She imagined her father whispering in her ear.
Stay calm and work this problem, Rox
.
You know what to do
.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to call the manufacturer and see what they can do. I’ll be in my office.”

Figuring out how to get the damn paper printed.

Her mind moved fast. Presses down. Overtime.
Progress
in jeopardy. Could they get the next day’s paper printed in time? She counted off ten to quiet the madness in her head.
Focus. Go to worst case scenario. Work backwards from there. Plan B.
She could handle this.

Pushing through the glass double doors leading to corporate, she spotted Mrs. Mackey, already springing from her chair, notepad in hand. Roxann cruised by her and the secretary fell into step behind.

“Get me Gil Collins at the
Chronicle
. Please. And no one comes in for ten minutes.”

She closed her office door, sped toward the desk and dropped into the chair before throwing her head between her legs. Still, the sickness rolled in her stomach and her thundering head drowned out the ringing phone.
Focus. Focus. Focus. Get the paper printed.
Even her father had never dealt with an incapacitated press.

She waited for the panic to subside, took a deep breath.

She could do this. She
had
to do this. She’d been around the newspaper industry her entire life, she had a good staff. They’d get the presses running again. She simply had to get through the repair issues. One step at a time. And if the repairs couldn’t be done today, she’d lease press time elsewhere. If that didn’t work, she’d put all the damned content on the website. The faithful newspaper readers would go crazy, but it would be better than nothing.

Mrs. Mackey’s voice came through the speaker phone. “Gil Collins. Line one.”

Deep breath. She picked up the phone, punched line one and said, “Gil, Roxann Thorgesson. Thanks for taking my call. I’m in a jam here and would like to lease press time.”

Five minutes later, Mrs. Mackey opened the office door to alert her of John Callahan’s presence. Roxann waved him in.

“I just finished with Gil Collins.”

John dropped into the seat he’d vacated earlier. “You think that’s necessary?”

He was obviously not happy about using the rival
Chronicle
’s presses, but options were few. A reciprocal agreement had been in place stating that, in an emergency, each newspaper would allow the other to utilize their presses. The agreement had been made years earlier between Roxann’s father and the former owner of the
Chronicle
.

When the
Chronicle
’s owner sold to a newspaper conglomerate, the relationship between the rival newspapers soured due to the
Chronicle
’s continual criticism of the
Banner
’s stance on everything from politics to little league.

“We don’t want to be hunting down press time at three o’clock.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

“We’re all tense. What’s happening down there?”

He shrugged. “They’re working on it. What did Gil say?”

She picked up a pen, tossed it down again and sat back. “He’s doubling our costs.”
Thief that he is
.

“Double?”

She held up a hand. “I know, but the agreement is loose. There is nothing regarding lease rates. I guess, at the time, they figured they’d work it out if necessary. Obviously, my father didn’t expect the
Chronicle
to be sold or he assumed the agreement would be rewritten.” How her father could have missed this, she’d never know.

“Jesus.” John rubbed his hand over his forehead. “What about the inserts?”

“Hopefully, we’ll be running by then because the papers would have to be shipped back here to be stuffed. A logistical nightmare. We’ll also have to go on press before the
Chronicle
, which means—”

“Earlier deadlines,” John said. “Our news will be old before it even gets in-home. Son of a bitch. What about trying the suburban papers?”

“The only one big enough is sixty miles away. The transportation time alone would kill us.”

“We’re fucked.”

“If we don’t get our presses running, we are indeed.”