Eye of the Storm (The Mystery Squad)

1. Rosalyn

Rosalyn Smith chose the parking garage. He thought it'd be discreet. Anxiously waiting in the expansive concrete tomb, he felt entirely exposed.

He was a tall, unusual man. An outsider. In the cool greys of the garage, Rosalyn wore a bright orange Hawaiian shirt with a yellow palm tree print. His hair was short, blonde, and messy under his signature bucket hat adorned with a dozen colorful pins. Some came from his past, some from nowhere, but they all had their secrets.

Thinking only one thing, he checked his watch.

Where the hell is she?

Elaine Nichols, the fast-talking reporter he'd been waiting for, was on her way. Or, she had been. Rosalyn hadn't heard from her all day. She was as intrepid as they come, but perhaps too quick for her own good. Always at the front of the crowd, askin' scathing questions about the latest, juiciest scandal. She was electric, frizzy hair looking like she'd been struck by lightning. Lowly Rosalyn couldn't command a moment of her attention—there was always somewhere else for her to go, some other story. But this time would be different. This time, he had the story.

With no way to contact her now, he could only twiddle his thumbs. Relax. It was a strange relief. Throughout the primaries, he'd never known a moment of boredom. Outside, the world was aflame. Super Tuesday had come and gone. Barrow was on the rise.

Perilous times for the average easy goer. The universe had aligned to produce the single opaquest man in the history of politics and television. In situations like these, he liked to remind himself of the true nature of humanity. Secrets. Rosalyn had never met a man or a woman without one. Hell, if a person like that exists, I'll eat my hat, Rosalyn thought. A big statement—that was his signature hat. Again he relaxed. His hat was safe. Everyone had secrets.

A metal clanking noise echoed through the garage.

"Who's there?"

No one answered.

He'd found Barrow's secret. The scandal free centrist still had his vices. Now he could prove it.

Where is she?

Rosalyn waited like this for half an hour, then Nichols finally arrived.

"You got the stuff?" she asked, unflinching.

He took a moment to understand her. Yes, she was here now, but she was late, what was she hiding? He shook his head, knowing he needed to answer her before she took off again. "Sure, right here."

"Hand it over."

"Where were you?"

"I said hand it over."

Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. You've gotta be kidding me, he thought. I risk my life for this chick—and this is how she treats me? What a bummer. "Chill out man," he said to her. "I've got your pictures right here. And you'd better believe they're worth the effort."

"Don't call me man." She snatched the pictures from his hand.

"Whatever."

"Did you take these?"

"No."

She poured through them, one after the other. But she was too quick. She didn't look. She didn't appreciate. She didn't see. Wait—you're missing all the good stuff. But she flipped, and flipped through the photos, reaching the end before he could tell her to slow her roll.

"That it?"

He blinked. "It?"

"I thought you said you had something—these are tabloid shots. I wanted something substantial, not gossip. I didn't trek all the way across New York for dribble. You're better than this Rosalyn. I can't print this."