Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer
is breathing down our necks.”
“How long do you have to fix the paint problem?” she asked.
“Two weeks,” Terell said.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Way to spill the beans, T-Rex.”
“Two weeks is not long.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Are you planning to raise funds, or do you have an account set up for emergencies?”
“An account!” Terell started laughing again. “Did you see any of these kids pay to get in here? None of our donors are handing over enough money to set aside extra, ma’am. We pulled together the start-up money from what was left after my NBA days with the Magic, and now we’re basically what you’d call a charity case.”
“You played professional basketball, Mr. Roberts?” she asked, writing fast.
Sam eyed his friend in dismay. “You’re going to give her enough for a book, aren’t you, Terell? Sure, tell her everything.”
“No way, man. Not about DFS and all that.”
“Division of Family Services?” Ana spoke up. “They have a problem with Haven, too?”
“I can hardly wait to read the article,” Sam growled.
“Well, why don’t you handle it then?” Terell glanced at his gold Rolex watch, one of the few remaining luxuries from his once-lucrative career. “It’s time for activity change, anyhow. I’ll take care of it, and you talk to Miss Burns.”
“I don’t want to talk to her. I want her to leave.”
“Listen, Mr. Hawke,” she said. “I already have enough information here to include Haven in my article, so you might as well fill in a few holes. I can always talk to DFS myself.”
Sam stared at Terell. Terell stared back. Ever since their basketball days at Louisiana State University, the two had butted heads. Sam was intense, driven, edgy. Terell loved everyone, saw the silver lining in each situation and would give away his last dime. Sam had practiced on the basketball court for hours, honing his skills, pushing himself to his limits. Terell arrived late to practice, barely passed his college classes and led the team to one victory after another on raw talent. Sam trusted no one. Terell believed the best about everyone he met. So-called friends had conned, manipulated and cheated him out of most of his money, yet he never held a grudge. The two men loved each other like brothers.
“I’ll talk to her,” Sam said finally. “You’ve got five minutes, Miss Burns.”
“Ana.” She smiled, radiant and suddenly prettier than he’d realized.
“Shall we go to my office?” he asked. “It’s quieter.”
“Your office?” The smile vanished. “We can talk here. I don’t have a problem with noise.”
He studied her for a moment, observing the brown eyes and reading in them something he hadn’t expected. Fear. So, Miss Ana Burns had a chink in her armor. She didn’t want to go into his office. His turf. Seeing an advantage, he seized it.
“I’d like to sit down,” Sam told her. “Been on my feet all day, you know. Follow me.”
“But…” she tried. “But I…”
Ana matched his stride as Sam headed across the room. Unusually long legs, he noted. Most women barely reached his shoulder, but a tilt of this one’s head would put her face disconcertingly close to his.
Military training had taught Sam the art of inspection, and instinct took over despite his determination to ignore the pesky reporter. Her firm chin and aquiline nose created a sharp profile, he noted, which was softened by large brown eyes and full lips. Squared shoulders eased into gentle curves. Her topknot had clearly started the morning tightly coiled. But the day had loosened it, and now wisps of dark hair trailed around her ears and down the back of her long neck. The combination of prickly and soft intrigued Sam—which in turn, irritated him no end.
A short distance away, Terell blew the whistle for activity change. Like jelly beans, kids poured out of the little classrooms, down the stairs and across the basketball court. Despite his annoyance at her intrusion, Sam felt glad that the reporter was seeing the large numbers of children and teenagers who had found a secure place to spend their summer days.
Without Haven, most would be loitering on the streets, vulnerable to the drug dealers, drive-by shootings, prostitution and gang activity that proliferated in these neighborhoods. Here, they stood a much greater chance of not becoming a statistic—one of the hundreds of young men who ended up in hospital emergency rooms with knife or bullet wounds, or one of the countless unmarried teenage girls who became pregnant each year.
Giving them hope was Sam’s passion. His mission. He had blown assignments in the past. Made mistakes. Fatal flaws. This time he would not fail.
He stepped into the front office and clapped a hand on Caleb’s back. “How’s the computer, buddy?”
“A pile of junk.” Caleb squinted into the screen as he spoke his familiar refrain.
“Hey, get on the Internet and see if you can dig up a little dirt on somebody for me—her name’s Ana Burns.”
“There’s no modem on this old thing, sir, and I—” Caleb glanced up, saw the woman, and then laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, hey there, Miss Burns.”
“Hello, Caleb.”
“I thought you wanted to talk to Terell.”
“I intended to, but it looks like I’m stuck with Uncle Sam.”
The teen grinned. “Lucky you.”
“By the way,” she addressed Sam as they walked down a short hallway to his personal office. “My name is Anamaria Cecilia Guadalupe Burns, and you won’t dig up any dirt on me. I’m clean. Your dog can vouch for that.”
“Your name…you’re Hispanic?” he asked, pulling the door shut behind him and pointing her to a chair.
She stood statuelike, eyeing the room, her knuckles white on the handle of her purse. Then, moving suddenly, she turned and jerked open the door. With two quick paces, she stepped to the chair and sat, her hips on its edge as though she intended to leap up at any moment.
“I prefer the term Latina, ” she said, flipping open her reporter’s notebook. “My mother was born and raised in Mexico. My father’s ancestors came from Scotland. I grew up in Brownsville, Texas, graduated from UTB with a degree in English and worked at the Brownsville Herald before moving here five months ago.”
“Ah,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk.
“And you?”
“Wyoming.”
“What brought you to St. Louis?”
“Haven.” He straightened a stack of papers, tamping the edges before setting them back on his desk. “I thought this interview was about lead paint.”
“And I thought you wanted a broader story.”
“You don’t need my background for that. Write about the kids. Most live in government-subsidized housing projects. Few have a father in the home. We have a mix of African-American and Caucasian, but we—”
“So I’ve observed.” Her eyebrows lifted like a pair of raven’s wings. “Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind if I asked the questions?”
Sam leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. The lady was a major pain.
“I like your office, by the way,” she said, brown eyes flashing from one side of the small room to the other. Long dark lashes curled up almost to her eyebrows. “Orderly. Neat. But you ought to clean the front area. That pile of wet towels is sprouting mold.”
“Would you like to take over management of our