“PATEL!”
At the sound of her name, Rani Patel’s head jerked up from where she sat hunched over her keyboard. She leaned back in her chair to peek around the partition separating her desk from the reporter next to her.
At the far end of the row of cramped cubicles, Tommy McIvers, City Desk Editor for The Standard, waggled a finger then jabbed a thumb to his right. Translation: My office. Now.
My office. Now.Rani nodded, but McIvers had already disappeared in that direction.
She sighed to herself. After four years with the City Bureau, she’d grown used to her editor’s style. “Brusque” would be the polite term she’d use if she ever wrote an article about him—ideally his obituary. She favored several other descriptions, none of them polite—or printable in a Toronto daily.
Grabbing her tab
