Nift to come on her program. There was something about that guy that made people’s skin crawl, but they could no more look away from him than they could ignore a train wreck. Nift always declined, feigning professionalism. Minnie figured he was probably wanted somewhere and didn’t care to have his picture flashed around. She put Nift out of her mind and continued idly watching a DVD of the B-roll for tomorrow’s piece on the D.O.A. murders. She was in her apartment near the studio, reclining on the sofa and sipping a vodka martini. The sun was at the windows on the wall near where the big TV sat, and from time to time, in synchronization with puffy cumulus clouds blowing past, she had to squint to see the screen clearly. There was an establishment shot of the Far Castle across the street, the colorful umbrellas over the round white metal tables, the castle-like stone and tile building itself, then the low fence and the garden next to it, the precisely trimmed hedge maze. The sunlight seemed to cleanse while it brightened the place; everything looked picturesque and colorful, like a damned souvenir postcard.
