A short clip from the novel A Highly Placed Source. By Michelle Dally
Middle Aged (35-54)
North American (General) , North American (US New York, New Jersey, Bronx, Brooklyn)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
So Jake collected both The Sentinel and The Herald from his front lawn Monday morning and treated himself to reading both of them before he got dressed. He'd woken up early, figuring he had plenty of time. He figured wrong. He wasn't even halfway through the Herald's local news section when the phone rang. It was probably another relative calling to remark on Saturdays. Profile. Jake thought or and he was excited about this Ricardo shock calling to confirm the interview on Tuesday. They had arranged, but it was neither. No, this was some Catholic priest, a father, Gilbert Chavez, calling to ask if he and Bishop John Sigh Brandy and another man, Hamilton, could arrange a time to speak with him. Why? Herron had asked stupidly, of course, he knew why. But despite the news stories, it still didn't seem quite riel. We're doing a routine inquiry into the prophecy, Chavez told him, trying to sound nonchalant. I'm Jewish, Herron had responded. I don't know anything about the prophecy that wasn't already in the papers. Chavez tried to sound comforting. We just want to find out more about who you are since you were named, Chavez assured him what the young priest really wanted to say is your part of the witch hunt that will begin today and not end until Peter Banks is crucified. But he didn't Thai Brandy and Hamilton were in the room listening. It had been their idea that he called the witnesses and arrange interviews, hair and just side. Why don't you call me at the office when I have my schedule in front of me? He had said he talked to Miranda later about whether he needed to deal with the Catholic investigation on this. Annoyed, he went back to his paper, but his concentration was shot. The loonies were everywhere and he couldn't escape them. Even the woman he met last night, the one who kept popping into his head this morning turned out to be one of them. He only had to remember her face to feel its stomach drop. He'd been out for a beer, hoping to relax a little feel like himself again, not some named witness the papers kept referring to He was sitting at the Little Corner pub on one of northwest Denver's most commercially successful blocks, and the woman started a conversation. I've never been to Denver before it seems really nice she'd set out of the blue as she slid into the bar stool next to him. She was attractive, tall, ish and slender, with glossy dark blond hair and deep green eyes, she took a sip of her white wine. For a moment, Jake wondered if his luck were changing. Yeah, it's a great town. I've lived here for years, he responded, immediately regretting how stupid he sounded, wishing he had some sort of smooth reply. She must have liked what she'd seen. He tried to reassure himself. She'd started the conversation after all. But her next sentence dashed any hopes. Hair in May of Held that it was his good looks, his Jesus like countenance. His Maddie would have said that was making the woman approached him. I had to come as soon as I heard about Peter Banks, she'd said. Herren was silent, picking up the pieces of his shattered ego. Your Jake Herrin, aren't you? She continued softly. Yep, that's me, Heron admitted. I'm sorry, she said. Then unexpectedly, you must feel like there's no place you can go to get away from it. I didn't plan on this, you know, I was here getting a hamburger and saw you come in. Your picture was in the paper. I was sitting over there. She pointed to a table in the corner, set for one. And then, as if to confirm her story, a waiter appeared, and they both watched for a moment as he hesitantly put down a plate with a hamburger and coleslaw at the empty place. I'll be right back, she said, hopping off the stool.