"You're a busy man," McLeod finally said.
"I detest inactivity. I assume since you wrote Mayor Spurgess into office, you are going to protect his name. Miss Kent, could you excuse yourself for a moment?"
Tracy waited until McLeod nodded, then stood up and mumbled something about going to powder her nose. McLeod lit a cigaret and waited.
"Now we can talk," Wainwright said. "Recognize the spirit in which this is said, McLeod: you're a fine reporter."
"Thanks."
"But you're as good as dead. We've written your obituary."
Strangely, the announcement brought no fear. Although it had only been a couple of hours, McLeod felt as if he'd been living with the idea for years. "You haven't printed it yet."
"In time. But we don't have to print it. Naturally, it's news, McLeod. You have a well-known name. But there are others equally well-known. More well-known. We can come up with a wrongo occasionally. Basically, we want to kill you because you're too valuable to the Star-Times."
"Your motive doesn't interest me. And I have some news for you: I'm a long way from dead."
"Don't be melodramatic, McLeod. We'll get you. A routine assassination-accident doesn't often become a wrongo, you know that. We have decided to make an offer to you."