But there was another person who could use some help restoring a reputation and getting back into the newsroom. I could take all this stuff I was getting from Brian Sandler and hand it over to Sarah. Let her write it, take the credit, get the hell out of Home!

I’d have to tell Sandler, of course. I didn’t want to mislead him. I’d tell him about the suspension, but not to worry, my wife was a seasoned journalist. She’d been an investigative reporter before moving up the ranks and becoming an editor. She’d do a better job putting this story together than I would, truth be known.

That’s what I’d tell Sandler.

If he ever showed up.

I glanced at the digital dashboard clock. It was 9:15. Okay, not really late. There were any number of reasons why he might be fifteen minutes late.

But it was harder to explain being thirty minutes late.

At 9:31 a.m. I dug out the slip of paper with Sandler’s phone numbers on it. With my own cell phone, I tried his cell. It rang four times, then went to his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Next, I tried his line at the city health department, and again, I got his voicemail. I wasn’t interested in leaving a message there, either. The only number I had left for him was home, and I punched it in.

After three rings, I figured no one was going to answer, but after the fourth, someone picked up.

“Hello.” Quiet, sullen. A young voice, it sounded like. Male.

“Hi. I’m looking for Brian? Brian Sandler?”

“Who’s calling?”

Should I say? Had Sandler told anyone he was talking to me, that he’d made arrangements to speak to a (suspended) writer from the Metropolitan?

“Just a friend,” I said.

“Well, he’s not here. This is his son. Can I help you?”

“Maybe you could tell me where I could reach him. I have his cell and office numbers, and tried both of them, but he’s not picking up.”

“He’s in the hospital,” the son said.

“What? When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“What happened? Is he sick? Was he in an accident?”

The boy paused. “He got all burned.”

My stomach felt weak. “I’m so sorry. Listen, is your mother there? Could I speak to her please?”

“My mom’s at the hospital. Me and my sister are waiting for my uncle and then he’s going to take us to see him.”

“Which hospital?”

“The Mercy one?”

“Okay. Listen, I hope your dad gets better real soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

I put the phone in my pocket, turned the ignition, and drove from Bayside Park to Mercy General Hospital. I parked in one of the short-term metered spots near the emergency entrance and ran into the building, approached the information desk.

“Brian Sandler,” I said. “He would have been admitted yesterday?”