That Others May Live by Sara Driscoll

Author:Sara Driscoll [Driscoll, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2023-09-07T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

Progressive Collapse: The failure of a building’s structural element that causes adjacent elements to fail due to the impact of additional load, leading to the runaway collapse of a large part of the structure or its entirety.

Wednesday, December 19, 11:41 AM

The Washington Post

Washington, DC

McCord rapped his knuckles on the door, beside the brass plaque that read MARTIN SYKES–EDITOR, and opened it at the call to come in from the other side.

The room beyond was a testament to the work of the Washington Post, with every wall covered with awards and framed copies of award-winning stories. Sykes, a solid man with a broad build and short steel-gray hair, sat behind a desk piled with papers and newsprint, but it was the other reporter and the stranger who sat opposite Sykes who captured McCord’s attention.

“You wanted to see me?”

Sykes waved him in. “Yes. Come in and close the door. I want to bring you in on Prescott’s work. Grab a chair.”

McCord shut the door, then crossed to the round table in front of the window overlooking K Street NW and Franklin Park beyond. He paused for a moment, gazing across the park to the southeast, to where the collapse site was located, a mere four blocks from where he stood. From here, the downtown appeared entirely normal, as if unspeakable tragedy wasn’t only minutes away. Upon turning away from the window, he dragged one of the chairs over to join the other two men.

Steve Prescott sat on the far side. McCord didn’t know him well—he’d been at the Post for only about six months—but what he’d seen of his work was solid. He was about McCord’s age, dressed in sneakers, jeans, and an untucked button-down shirt, and had pale skin and thinning reddish hair. The office scuttlebutt said he was never without a travel mug of coffee; McCord’s gaze dropped to the floor to find a tall, covered mug beside his chair.

Never doubt the accuracy of office scuttlebutt. “Prescott.”

“McCord.”

The man between them was older, with a thin face and tidily cut hair, and was wearing a well-cut black business suit with a conservative charcoal tie. A leather briefcase leaned against his chair leg, and he held a tablet on his lap.

McCord stuck out his hand. “Clay McCord.”

“Jack Burke.” Burke shook hands with him.

McCord sat down, then looked expectantly at his editor.

“Mr. Burke has been working with Prescott on the Talbot Terraces collapse,” Sykes said. “And since you were at the site itself on the day of the collapse, and because you’ve been looking at who might have been a target if the collapse was actually caused by explosives, I thought he might have some information that could help you.”

“Appreciate that.” McCord turned to Prescott. “You’re making headway?”

“We’ve turned up some interesting things, yes. Immediately following the collapse, we gathered together technical details about the building,” Prescott said.

“We?”

“Robbins, Sanz, and I together. We wanted to move fast, and we worked well together on that lottery bribery story, so with Sykes’s approval, I pulled them in to help.

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