When Day Breaks by Mary Jane Clark Page A

What are we going to do about it, Annabelle?”
    You mean, what am I going to do about it ? thought Annabelle, refusing to get flustered. “I’m not sure, Lauren,” she said aloud. “Our hands are pretty well tied. If the cops won’t let us in, they won’t let us in.”
    “Exactly the kind of defeatist attitude I love to hear from my producer,” Lauren answered. “If that’s the best you can come up with, we’re in even more trouble than I thought.”
    B.J. stood within earshot, listening to the exchange. He glanced at Annabelle, who subtly shook her head from side to side, warning him not to say anything. He knew that Annabelle could take care of herself. She had one of the best reputations at KEY News. Correspondents were constantly asking that Annabelle be assigned to produce their stories. Yet B.J. ached to put Lauren in her place. Experience, though, had taught him that there was a price to be paid for contradicting or even speaking up to the on-air talent. He had tried that when he’d worked as a producer-cameraman with Constance—and when his contract was up, he wasn’t renewed as a producer. Only his union membership had saved the cameraman portion of his job. B.J. was certain that Constance had been instrumental in cutting him down. He suspected that Lauren might also be capable of destroying anyone who got in her way.
    He’d been debating whether to mention to Lauren what Boyd Irons had told him when they were in the men’s room. Just the day before, a dead dog had been found in the woods that surrounded the country house. B.J. didn’t know if that would turn out to be a coincidence, but screw Lauren and her bad attitude. He wasn’t going to share any editorial information with her at all. He was going to concentrate solely on the video he recorded. He would still do his utmost to get the best pictures he could, though—since that was what he was going to be judged on.
    He approached Lauren and Annabelle. “I’m going to cut through these trees and see if I can get in there and get some pictures of the pool,” he said, softly so that none of the other newspeople could hear.
    Lauren nodded approval. “Finally somebody’s doing something,” she said.
     
     
     
    Making sure nobody was looking in his direction, B.J. made his way through the high grass at the side of the road and slipped between the trees. His shoes sank into the soft, muddy ground, and he cursed himself for not wearing his work boots. He’d thought he’d be shooting at Constance Young’s luxurious country house, not traipsing through the woods.
    As he went deeper, B.J. began to hear voices, which he assumed to be the police searching the property. He followed the sound, coming to a high fence. Tall evergreens on the other side blocked the view to the pool, but the bushes also shielded B.J. from sight. If he wanted pictures of the pool, he was going to have to climb the fence. Getting the camera over would be no small feat.
    Taking off his belt, B.J. threaded it through the handle of the camera and fastened it, creating a long leather circle, which he pulled over his head. Then he carefully slid the camera around to his back. With his hands free, B.J. reached upward and boosted himself off the ground, managing to grab onto the top of the fence. He tried to hoist himself up, but he couldn’t make it over, and the leather strap, weighed down by the camera, nearly strangled him.
    Standing on the ground again, B.J. could hear the voices coming from the other side of the evergreens.
    “Something new has been added.”
    “What is it now?”
    “We’re supposed to be looking for a unicorn.”
    “A what?”
    “A unicorn. You know. Those horses with the long horn coming out of the middle of their heads? Well, we’re supposed to look for a little ivory one.”
    “What’s the deal?”
    “It’s some sort of antique, and it’s missing from a museum, and Constance Young was seen wearing it around her neck. We’re supposed to