Winter Gets Hot

By David M. Hamlin

“...a town where the moralists were power-mongering phonies, the feisty reporters who saw through them were just beginning to be women, and rock ‘n’ roll still ruled the AM dial.”—Mike Miner, Chicago Reader

“What I find so compelling is Emily’s determination...I wish I’d met her at Riccardo’s in 1975.”—Rick Kogan, WGN radio host: "After Hours"

Winter in Chicago journalist Emily Winter is the first reporter on the scene of a gruesome murder in the offices of CARD, a civic organization that investigates corruption in City Hall. Although she has proven herself to be a skilled reporter with at least one headline making story to her credit, her new TV boss assigns her to a more “ladylike” beat—lifestyle and feature stories.

Determined to overcome the sexism that inhibits her career, Emily works her way into hard news coverage, including the story of the murder at CARD, but she faces major obstacles on all fronts as she pursues the killer.

As the case twists and turns, Emily navigates the city she loves, relishing Chicago’s architecture, neighborhood restaurants, culture and her beloved, if hapless, Chicago Cubs.

Will she uncover the murderer and bring justice for those who depend on hard-working journalists to write the stories that define their lives? Find out in Winter Gets Hot!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Books
• Release date: Jan 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370681839

David M. Hamlin

DAVID M. HAMLIN is the author of three Emily Winter mysteries (Winter in Chicago, Winter Gets Hot, and Killer Cocktail), two nonfiction books (The Nazi/Skokie Conflict and Los Angeles’s Original Farmers Market), a wide range of freelance news and feature articles for daily and weekly newspapers, short stories and flash fiction published in several literary journals, and a political satire column. After a career in activism in the 1960s—which included serving in VISTA, the domestic peace corps—David was an Executive Director of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) for nearly a decade and then a partner in a Los Angeles public relations agency. David resides in Palm Springs, CA, and he can be reached via www.dmhwrites.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Emily Winter was the first reporter to arrive at the gruesome crime scene.

She was not supposed to be there.

Emily was on her way to the Shubert Theater, where a touring company of Annie was auditioning local child actors to fill out the chorus of orphans. The auditions were taking place over two days; Emily scheduled a visit to the first session on her own to get a feel for the process and the people involved. She was scheduled to return on the second day with a cameraman to shoot the story.

When she pitched the idea to Bert Presley, News Director at WSMP-TV, he had been more than enthusiastic.

Great, Emily. You get a bunch of cute kids, it’ll be a feel-good, we’ll close out the evening newscasts warm and fuzzy.

I thought I’d talk to a stage mom or two, show how parents feel about their kids being in show business, said Emily. I can talk to the casting people about what they look for, too, and maybe get the director to talk about the special challenges of working with children.

Love it all, Winter. Go get it.

She had set out to do just that. She took the 151 bus downtown and was walking through the Loop when she saw a half dozen Chicago police cruisers clustered in front of an office building on Wabash, a couple of blocks shy of the Shubert.

She could not resist.

She pulled her press identification out of her large canvas satchel and walked into the building where a uniformed officer met her.

Sorry, ma’am. This is a crime scene, closed to the public.

I’m not the public, officer. I’m with ‘SMP news.

She held her ID tag up for him to examine.

Can’t let you go up there, he said. Strict orders from the detective who caught the call, no public, no press, nobody.

Who caught it?

Jack Potter.

Emily smiled.

Use your radio to let him know I’m down here waiting, she said.

The cop didn’t move.

Listen, Officer—Emily checked the name tag on his uniform—Officer O’Reilly. Detective Potter and I go way back. Just ask him, OK? He’s going to ok me, going up there.

O’Reilly wasn’t impressed; he snorted at her.

Sorry, he said with a shrug.

So, when I report that Officer O’Reilly was uncooperative, you’ll be ok taking the heat?

He scowled, but he unclipped his radio unit from his belt and walked away from her.

Potter says you can go on up, but no camera, no sound.

That’s fine, she said, I don’t have a crew with me anyhow. Where am I going?

4th floor, ma’am. The CARD office.

The Chicago Alliance for Responsible Democracy was a civic organization which devoted its time and treasure to fighting corruption, graft and other political chicanery. Reports about the group occasionally used gad fly to describe them, but over the years CARD had exposed a couple of salacious scandals and, most recently, a secretive arrangement among City Council members which involved trading votes for favors.

Emily admired CARD’s determination and resolve and she, along with most other reporters in the city, appreciated and drew on the group’s well-deserved status as a source of reliable news and information in and about City Hall.

She dodged her way around the cops milling in the hall, nodding to a couple she knew and flashing her credentials to those who stepped forward to impede her progress to the organization’s suite of offices.

Looking for Potter, she said to the uniform standing in the doorway. He gave me access.

He’s down that hall, the officer said, but I don’t think you wanna go in there, lady.

Of course I do, she said. It’s my job.

Yeah, right, he said with a smirk. You see what’s in there, you may wanna find other work. Down the hall to your right.

He stepped aside and she entered the CARD reception area. The offices were alive with the bustle of coroner technicians, a few detectives in suits and several uniformed officers. She weaved her way down the hallway to the doorway with yellow tape in place.

When she stepped into the office, her first instinct was to turn and run.

The wall behind the desk in the office was splattered with blood and hair and something Emily didn’t recognize.

She forced herself to take a step closer, her stomach churning, and identified the remnants of somebody’s brain and shards of cranial bone plastered against the wall.

You have a way of finding me in the most unpleasant circumstances, said Jack Potter. I keep tellin’ you, Nails, we gotta stop meeting like this.

Emily swallowed hard. Her mouth tasted foul.

Hello, Jack, she said. What happened here?

Murder, pure and simple. Somebody came in that door—he gestured to a second entrance into the office which Emily calculated opened to the hallway where she had exited the elevator—and blew this guy’s brains out.

He pointed to a body lying behind the desk; the body was covered with plastic sheeting but blood had seeped well beyond the covering. The blood was congealed. There was lots of it.

Who is it?

Mark Crittenden. He was—

He was CARD’s Executive Director, said Emily.

Yup, that’s the guy.

Who did this?

We don’t know, said Potter. If we did, I wouldn’t tell you, but it’s just too early in the game.

Some game, said Emily.

Yeah, said Potter. There’s gun powder residue in his hair and on his shirt, so the shot was real close, gun no more than a foot from his head. And I got a sawbuck says the coroner’s gonna find what’s left of a hollow nose round, tumbles on impact, designed to do maximum damage. A real sport, this shooter.

Emily gazed at the wall once more and her stomach went into spasms.

I’ve seen all I want to, she said. Can I use one of the phones in the reception area?

Yes, said Potter. He tapped one of the technicians on the shoulder and pointed to a box of latex gloves on the floor. The technician handed him a pair and Potter passed them to Emily.

Wear these, he said. I don’t want our investigators to find your prints, add you to the suspect list.

Emily took the gloves and nodded, turning away from the body and carefully avoiding another glimpse of the carnage.

Chapter Two

"Bert, I want to postpone the Annie thing."

No.

Listen, I’m in the CARD offices, there’s been a murder here. Mark Crittenden, their Executive Director. Somebody literally blew his brains out.

Any other press there?

Not yet, at least not in the office. I’m the only one here. We can scoop it. Send a mobile unit over, I’ll have interviews and a wrap set up by the time they get here.

No.

Bert—

Stop, Emily. It’s not your beat and you know it. Murder’s not entertainment or life style. Gary Easton covers crime for us, you know that, too. I’ll get him on the horn, send him over with his crew. You go do the job you’re supposed to be doing.

Emily paused. Easton had been on the crime beat at the station for decades. His ubiquitous trench coat and pork-pie hat and his signature sign-off were as much a part of Chicago as the lakefront. If there was a crime worth reporting, Easton reported it, closing with his prolonged S—Gary Easssss-ton, WSMP News.

Easton wasn’t an inquisitive fellow. Emily knew he would regurgitate whatever Jack Potter told him, either verbatim or with limited, unimaginative changes. Easton wouldn’t ask any questions or dig a millimeter deeper than he needed to, but he would sound authoritative and he’d bring high energy to his report. If he worked true to form, Easton would be the only one on camera; he’d report the crime, but the crime would take a back seat to Easton’s on-air personality.

Emily? You still there? Bert Presley sounded impatient.

Yes, Bert, still here. Listen, I’ve got a good rapport with the lead detective here, Jack Potter. I’m sure he’ll give us quality stuff for airing. I’ve covered CARD, too, so I know some of the folks who work here. I can get them to talk to us, I’m sure of it.

Don’t care, said Presley. You’re supposed to be at the Shubert, that’s your job today. I’m sending Easton.

But—

No buts, Winter. Get out of there.

His tone told her she wasn’t going to get what she wanted and she sensed as well that pushing harder would produce a real donnybrook. Since she was relatively new on the job, still finding her way and still learning how to present news on camera, unsheltered by the anonymity of radio, she decided that this was not a fight she wanted to make. She wasn’t happy.

OK, she said. I’m on my way.

There’s a good girl, said Presley.

Emily had long ago figured out that no matter how hard a telephone was slammed onto its base, it sounded like a normal disconnect at the other end; Presley would only hear her hanging up.

She hammered the phone down so hard that two of the cops in the reception area jumped and one of them reached for his revolver.

Before she left, Emily walked back down the hall and stood in the door to Crittenden’s office until she caught Jack Potter’s eye and beckoned him.

They’re sending Easton, she said. I’m waved off, but once you know more, maybe have a lead or two, I’d like to check back with you. That be OK?

Anytime, Nails. Anytime. Too bad you can’t cover it, but I’d have to throw you out anyhow—we’re going to move the body in a couple of minutes. Easton, eh?

Yep.

Well, then said Potter, I’ll make sssssure to give him my bessssst sssstuff.

Emily grinned.

In the reception area, Emily noticed a young woman curled up on the couch. She was hugging herself as if the room was freezing, which it was not, and rocking back and forth gently, her chin against her chest. Emily approached and laid a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder.

Can I get you something? A glass of water?

The girl looked up. She was pale, her eyes swollen and red, her face sagging perceptibly.

Better still, said Emily, I’m on my way out. Come with me and we’ll get you some fresh air.

The girl shuddered.

No, thank you, I have to stay. The rest of the staff is down the hall in the conference room, but I was late this morning and they—she nodded to the police milling around—say I can’t go down there yet. They told me to sit here.

Emily sat next to her so they’d be at eye level.

Is it true? Is Mark really dead? Somebody shot him?

Yes, said Emily. It’s true.

That’s horrid. He was so nice. I’m an intern, but he treated me like everybody else, gave me real work to do, checked in on me now and then. He made me feel like I belong here.

The girl’s face contorted as she fought back another round of tears.

Emily said, That’s a good way to remember him, then. Just concentrate on the good memories.

I can’t believe it, she said. Did this have something to do with the fight?

The fight?

Well, argument. A couple of days ago, earlier this week. Mark and Marvin Bell were screaming at one another. No, that’s not quite right. Mark was calm and quiet, but Marvin was in a rage. He was so loud the whole office heard him. It was kinda scary.

The police don’t know a lot yet, but you should tell them that. It might be important.

OK.

Good.

Emily could almost hear Bert Presley ordering her to get to her assignment, so she gave the young woman a gentle shoulder hug and rose.

I have to go. You take care, OK?

I’ll try.

Emily turned toward the doors and took two steps before her instincts compelled her to stop and turn back.

What were they fighting about, do you know?

Everybody knew. Hard not to hear Marvin, you know? He was screaming about spies.

What?

Infiltration. Marvin said we had to find out who the fink is—that’s the word he used—and throw them out.

I don’t understand.

Emily moved to sit with the girl again, but a uniformed officer approached them before she could speak.

I’m sorry ladies, but you’ll have to leave now. We’re transporting the body and you can’t be here.

I can’t leave, said the girl. The detective told me to wait here until it was OK to join the staff down there in the conference room.

Then get down there, the officer said. Now.

The cop looked at Emily.

What’s your story?

"Annie, said Emily. My story is Annie. Pretty exciting, huh?"

The cop gave her a quizzical look.

Never mind, she said, I’m leaving now.

When she exited the elevator in the building’s lobby, Emily saw two crews from other TV stations setting up to report and Don Kipper, her colleague from her days at WEL radio. Kipper was arguing with Officer O’Reilly about access to the crime scene.

Hey, Emily! Don’t tell me you scooped us all again. How’d you get up there?

Good to see you, Don. No scoop. I’m not covering this one, it’s all yours. And those other crews, too. You file quickly, you’ll beat the TV folks.

I’ll see what I can do. You OK? You still at ‘BBM?

Not any more. I’m with ‘SMP, doing soft news, celebs, entertainment. Earth-shattering stuff.

Seriously? TV? I figured you for radio forever.

Nope. Listen, get Officer O’Reilly to call up to Jack Potter. You drop my name, it might help, but you have to move quick if you want it before these other folks file.

Thanks, I’ll see what I can do.

Good. Take care, Don. See you ‘round.

Chapter Three

Emily arrived at the condo on the Inner Drive at Wellington after 4, changed into jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, flipped on the radio to an FM station where a young woman was doing the evening rush hour shift; the deejay wasn’t particularly entertaining, but the playlist was. Benjamin Winter walked in at half-past five and shed his suit and tie in favor of slacks and a flannel shirt. Emily poured wine for them both and he set the table while she put the final touches on tangy chicken breasts, roasted potatoes and a salad.

You first, m’lady, said Ben. How’d it go today?

Well, I found a couple of stage moms at the Shubert who are so pushy they’ll be good interviews and thirty, forty bubbly kids, most with at least some talent. I set up an interview with the director, too, so I should be able to file a pretty good piece tomorrow.

But?

What, but?

My love, I hear it as plainly as I hear your sweet voice—you’re cranky.

I didn’t think it was that obvious.

Trust me. You don’t exactly overflow with subtle when you’re annoyed.

So I’m told. Often.

So, give.

You heard Mark Crittenden was murdered today?

I did. Too bad. I think CARD’s effective in large measure because he’s good at his job. Or was.

Me too. I was the first reporter on the scene. Jack Potter was there, he’s the lead on the case, so I had an in. It was horrible, Ben, really grim. My tummy didn’t settle down for an hour or so, but I had everybody beaten.

I shall hazard a guess, said Ben. You called it in and—

And Presley waved me off. They sent Easton. Two other stations beat us to the story. I think Don Kipper at the El—sorry, Hits 98—got on the air first. Lord knows I didn’t.

And you’re frustrated.

More than. They won’t let me do anything except cute and cozy and it’s driving me crazy. I had it, Ben, I was right there. I don’t know how long I can take this.

Ben nibbled at his salad for a moment.

Worse than ‘BBM?

They had both believed the headline-making work Emily had done on the Beni Steinart story two years earlier would be her passport. She had broken an exclusive and explosive story about Chicago’s powerful and popular U.S. Attorney and she had scooped every paper and station in town in the process. Her boss at WEL, Dean Lyon, had let her stay on the morning drive news team until she got a better offer but he, Emily and Ben all knew she was destined for something more substantial than writing headlines for an AM rock station which preferred to broadcast no news at all.

WBBM radio, Chicago’s all-news station and one of the first such in the nation, offered her a slot and she accepted, leaving newswriting to become a full-time on-air reporter. Once on the job, the station’s management sent her to cover soft stories, features, exclusively. Emily took the assignments and handled them well, but she bridled at every one. Before long, her frustration led to confrontations which continued until management suggested a parting of the ways.

It’s no better, no worse, she said. It’s television instead of radio and ‘SMP has a strong audience, so the potential to do something good is greater. But I’m still doing lightweight nonsense. The guys get real news, I get kittens and kids.

I find that depressing, said Ben.

Me, too.

Have you a plan?

A plan? For what?

A plan for changing their minds. Something which gets them to appreciate your talent, a scheme which leads them to the perfectly sensible conclusion that you’re a fine reporter.

I suppose I’ll just keep fighting with them. I know we need the income and I am making a little more with the move to TV, but—

Emily, you know we can maintain a very suitable existence on my salary. If you want to leave, we’ll survive without undue discomfort until something more suitable comes along. And you know I’ll support your choices, pay raise or not.

You’re the best pal a gal could hope for, she said. But it isn’t just about the money. I’m a reporter, I want to report.

"’It’s A Hard Knock Life’ doesn’t meet that standard?"

Not by a long shot.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, watching the last of the evening rush hour wend its was along the Outer Drive.

And you, good sir? Did your day provide anything noteworthy?

"The usual tedious stuff. Vern Bovie came boiling into my office