She flipped to page seven.
“See this? You guys are making the tabloids now. Impressive.”
Bob glared at the headline. “What the…?”
“First heard it on the radio. Is it true?”
Bob reddened when he saw Chrissy’s byline.
“No, no, no,” he said in disbelief. “When did she start writing for this paper?”
“Robbie, is the story true or not? Did she speak to this guy at the plant or not?”
“Yeah, she spoke to him. But she got it all wrong. There aren’t any lakes. They are plumes, not lakes.”
“What the hell is the difference? They sound like lakes to me, and not the kind you want to swim in.”
“Bitch.”
“I beg your parden?”
“Not you. Chrissy Dolan. What a bitch.”
“Looks like this little chickie has you over a barrel. Wonder how Lou Padera will write this up. Him I’ll believe.”
“He’s not getting this version, Ma. He’ll get the real story, if he gets it at all.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Nuclear Power? Is this the scenario where you hold back information from the press?”
“Look, Ma. It’s unfathomable that Chrissy Dolan compared these plumes to the size of the Central Park Reservoir. More incredible that the Metro Record editors believed her.”
He grabbed the paper and stood up to get ready for work.
“You going to talk to Padera and dish out another ‘no comment.’”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have plenty to comment on.”
“My guess is he’s chasing after the story as we speak.”
“Keep guessing, Ma. Padera’s byline may become obsolete.”
“Oh yeah? You heading up a nuclear posse to hunt down the outlawed journalist? Or something along those lines?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Chapter 39
Lou lounged on the bleachers under a bright sun at the county baseball park, home playing field to the local minor league. He watched the newest addition to the team, a young, sturdy pitcher who was creating a buzz. Lou was composing a hard-hitting profile of the kid in his head.
His cell phone rang. It was Owen.
“Where are you?”
“Baseball park. Need me?”
“You see the Metro Record? That little Ms. Dolan has defected to the tabloids. Get back here ASAP.”
Lou stiffened. He looked at the players getting ready for batting practice and briefly longed for the simpler days when he was just a sports reporter.
When he got back to the office, a copy of the Metro Record story was on his desk. Since when was Chrissy Dolan writing for a big city paper? He heard Owen’s footsteps coming up behind him.
“How come she got it and we didn’t?”
“I have no idea. The real question is why did she scoop her own paper? That’s if she’s still working there.”
“It doesn’t matter who she’s writing for. This is a story in our own backyard, dammit. How did we miss it?”
“It happens, Boss, you know that,” he said, sitting down calmly at his desk. “And you’ve been yanking me off the nukes for more sports stories, remember?”
“Drop the complacent crap. You need to do both—all the time. Get your act together, call ALLPower, the NRC, the experts. Push the story forward, get new information. Write something better than this tabloid shit. I want a full spread by five tonight.”
He marched back to his office and slammed the door.
Lou read Chrissy’s story. There wasn’t much to it, and there were a lot of unanswered questions, as if stuff was left out. He pulled up his contact list on the screen. He’d write a reaction piece, a response to Chrissy’s story. A weak premise, but it could work. It had to work. Just as he was about to make his first call, his phone rang.
“It’s me,” Diana said. Her tone was cool.
“Hey.”
It had been two days since they last spoke—the night he told her about being followed to the sex house. He respected her silence and hoped she would reach out to him. Her timing wasn’t great, but it was still good to hear her voice.
“I take it you’ve seen the Metro Record story by our own hometown girl Chrissy Dolan?” she said.
“Yeah. Owen’s pissed we were scooped. My batting average ain’t so good right now, all things considered.”
“Will you follow up?”
“Damn straight I will.”
“Are you okay? Want to talk later? E-mail?”
“Sure. Diana?”
“Yes?”
“Are things okay at school?” He hoped there was no blowback from their nocturnal escapade. The rumor mill at schools could be vicious.
“So far, everything’s quiet. I’ve moved past the anger, but I’m still on edge. I’m more worried about you.”
“Thanks. But listen. This stuff happens all the time. Papers get scooped but then they can write a better follow-up story. Owen’s such a lunatic. He’s stretching me thin and wants me to be in two places at the same time. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“Yeah. Gotta go. Can I call you later?”
He hung up and immediately punched in Bob’s number only to get his voice mail. He tried Bob’s cell phone, but no luck. He called the county executive, Al Kresch, who said he would e-mail him a prepared statement.
Lou called Dan Lipsey, the ALLPower man quoted in Chrissy’s story. The phone rang several times before he finally answered.
“Mr. Lipsey? Lou Padera here from the Daily Suburban. I have a few questions about the underground lakes.”
“That story in the Metro Record is bogus. I have no comment.”
“What do you mean, ‘bogus’? Are you saying it’s not true?”
“I have no comment.”
“Mr. Lipsey, if you’re saying the lakes don’t exist, now’s your chance to say so publicly and discount that story. The public needs to hear your voice, don’t you think?”
There was momentary silence.
“There’s no lakes. That’s it. No lakes.”
“What about the size? How did Chrissy Dolan get those measurements?”
He heard the man flip open a cigarette lighter, his voice muffled as he lit up.
“We’re really just guessing. We don’t know the real parameters of what’s leaking underground.”
“So there is leaking below the plant, you just don’t know to what extent or how much is feeding into the lakes?”
“Not lakes. Plumes.”
“What’s the difference?”
Lou heard the man blow smoke into the phone.
“The water is leaching into layers of bedrock—it’s not a large body of water, it’s more like water in and around the layers of rock.”
“Is that how you explained it to Chrissy Dolan?”
“She got it all wrong. Look, Mr. Padera. I’ve said more than I should have.”
“Wait. Can I quote everything you’ve told me?”
The phone went dead.
The NRC was no better.
“Yeah, we know about the plumes,” Dick Isling drawled into the phone. “But this is the first time I heard it called ‘lakes.’ Check with our NRC inspector who is stationed right there at the plant.”
The NRC inspector at ALLPower couldn’t verify the actual size of the lakes.
“We have rough measurements of how much water is leaking out, but nothing conclusive about the volume of water. Sorry, that’s all I know right now.”
Lou wasn’t getting any real facts. He tried Bob again,—not that he would shed any real light on the story. If he couldn’t get a quote from the bastard, he would go with Lipsey’s statement and assume it was on the record.