In Plain View (23 page)

“No. They aren’t there.” He sounded pretty sure about that. “Where else could they be? A whole bunch of them.”

Jenny raised her shoulders up around her ears. She didn’t know. Really.

He threw the medicine in the air and said a bad word. “Okay. This is really important, Jenny. Are you listening? Don’t say anything to your aunt about me and your mother. Do you hear me? Something bad might happen if you do.”

His hand reached out, like he was going to touch her or something, and she squeezed herself against the car door. He leaned across her body to jerk her door latch. Jenny’s fingers fidgeted for her seatbelt button.

“Get out,” he said.

Jenny didn’t argue. She scrambled out, pulling at her jacket where it caught on the seatbelt.

“Take a look around. You know where you are? It’s a dangerous road. Cars everywhere. None of us are safe, Jenny.”

She shook her head
yes, yes, yes,
but all she could think about was getting out of that car. Her feet crunched on the gravel as she practically fell out the door. There wasn’t any sidewalk. The shoulder of the road was white gravel and weeds. The car pulled onto the road. Jenny took a few giant steps backward and fell into a tangle of bushes, poking, scratching, tearing at her clothes. The car drove away.

Jenny watched him go. She looked down at her feet and saw the packet, the silver square carrying white bubbles of medicine. It must have fallen out of the car when she opened the door.

A car whooshed by. Jenny’s heart jumped.

She picked up the medicine, turned and ran. She didn’t run toward anything. She ran away from the car, away from him. When she was tired and out of breath she stopped, sat down hard and put her head on her knees.

More cars passed. They were loud and windy and scary. Cars could hit you and kill you. They were like dinosaurs or alligators. Big, dangerous, stupid cars. Jenny crawled backward, away from the road until she bumped into a fence. She hid in a cave of branches between two big bushes.

Safe.

4:25:00 p.m.

It was one thing to see Tom Jost’s story begin to make sense. It was another thing entirely to turn what I knew into commercial television. The high that came with understanding made the crash back to WWST reality all the more painful.

“What the hell? No office?”

Barbara squinted at me over the top of her cat-eye glasses. Glasses like hers are the secretarial equivalent of a bleeding-dagger tattoo and a gold front tooth. “You got no call to use that kind of language with me.”

“What kind of language do I need to use to get an office with a fucking phone? French? I have a New York conference call coming in ten minutes. Am I supposed to take that in the lobby?”

Barbara hit the intercom. “I’m not dealing with this, Richard. She’s using the F-word again.”

“Goddamn it!” Gatt shouted in stereo. The sound of his voice came through the intercom and the wall at the same time.

The door to the inner sanctum banged open and Gatt hollered, “Get in here, O’Hara.” He stumped back behind his desk. “This, I do not need today.”

Schmed was in the office lounging in one of the faux-leather chairs. He shot me his signature snarky smile. Unpleasant memories of Saturday night’s conversation came rushing back. It was pretty clear what he and Gatt had been busy discussing. Schmed leaned back, crossing his ankle over one knee. The chair sounded like it was gasping its last fart.

“Say excuse me,” I told him.

“Why? You’re the one interrupting.”

“Quit acting like a couple of juvies,” Gatt said. “We got five minutes to resolve this. You’ve got a conference call, don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Okay. Here’s the deal. Jim gives up one of his people’s office spots and you do his story on what—?”

Schmed jumped in right on cue. “Local car dealerships.”

“No way—”

“—I’m thinking something along the lines: The Industry that Saved the West or maybe Rotten Reputation, Respectable Reality. I’ll give you a list of contact names.”

A hairball of disgust formed at the back of my throat. I considered hocking it at Schmed. Instead I asked him, “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Like I’d tell you. You planning on putting sugar in my gas tank, O’Hara?”

Not a bad idea. “No. I’m asking what model. I’ll bet you’re an SUV man.”

“Stay away from my car,” Schmed said.

“I knew it. You and your dealership buddies are going to have to find another way to lure the suckers.” This conversation was not taking me to my happy place. I went for the door. “You’ll never sell that to network.”

“Come on, O’Hara,” Gatt whined. “Don’t bust my balls here.”

“Selling it to network is your job, honey,” Schmed said.

“No way.”

“Phone in your complaints,” he tossed back at me. “Lines are always open.”

Gatt heaved a high-drama sigh even though I didn’t bother to answer. Men with buffed nails have no power in my universe. But his jab pushed a button, and a light came on.

I spun around to stare at Gatt. “Tell me again about the Amish story. When did the tip come in?”

TV people are better than most at following quick cuts between subject matter. Gatt thought for a few seconds and said, “Right before I met with you on Thursday. Barbara passed me the call. Male. Guy said there was ‘something to see.’ Said fire and sheriff had been called. I assumed he was a bystander.”

“Why?”

“Cell phone call. Sounded like he was outside.”

“Traffic sounds?” I asked skeptically. There weren’t any cars on that road.

“No. Bugs and wind.” Gatt had a producer’s ear for audio.

“Got it. Thanks.” I turned on my heel and headed toward Barbara’s desk.

“Does this mean you’re not quitting?” Gatt called sweetly.

I raised my right hand and waved goodbye with the single most appropriate digit.

At Barbara’s desk, I stopped. She continued to ignore me, mouth in a lemon pucker.

“If I promise never again to use the F-word against you, would you please let me have four Excedrin on a pair of Tums?” Might as well take some calcium with my caffeine.

She handed me the pills but the face didn’t change. This time there was no offer of a cracker.

“Is there a phone in the big conference room?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where I’ll be.”

I’d written up a shot list for Ainsley to run down at his convenience, by tomorrow morning. I needed pick-ups logged, library materials, things we needed to review before next week’s story. My main thought was to keep him out of my hair, give me time to think. Luckily, I had a two-hour conference call ahead of me.

Part of the fun of working in television is learning to break down the world’s constant stimulus. I can block out the sight of six monitors and focus on one. I can hear both a speaking voice and the hum of an air conditioner that might ruin the audio track. To do the job right, I have to be able to see all the parts, separately, before reassembling them into something meaningful.

Having a flexible attention span is critical. Which is exactly what made conference call time so productive.

“Maddy O’Hara, this is the operator. Are you on the line?”

“Here.”

“You are the last caller being connected. Everyone is present. Your conference may begin.”

There was some opening bullshit where everyone pretended to be so glad I was “on-board,” and I had to say something cheerful. As soon as that was done, I clicked on the phone’s privacy feature and took out my cell phone.

“This is Maddy O’Hara. I need to speak to Corporal Curzon—Nicky Curzon, please.”

Ainsley pushed the AV cart with the HD8 through the door. “Where do ya want it, lady?” He made a face when he realized I was engaging in teleconference bigamy.

“Park it where I can reach it,” I told him. “Yeah, I’m still holding,” I said to the woman at the police station. “College, I’ve got a new to-do list for you.”

The speakerphone called for me and I shot Ainsley a finger
shh.
“Sorry, I missed that. They’ve got me working in a temporary space that’s noisy as hell. Say again?”

“We’ve got a suggestion on the table for theme weeks, set in advance that you’d customize a story for in your market. Can you get behind that, O’Hara?”

“Who decides the themes?”

“Good question,” New York answered.

“Ms. O’Hara? Are you still there?” the police operator asked.

I popped the mute on the conference speaker. “Here!” I answered and then rotated the cell phone one-hundred-eighty degrees on my ear. “Plug me in would you, College?”

“Transferring you to Corporal Curzon at extension 2-2-8.”

The speakerphone crackled. “All the producers participating will agree on themes. New York has the final say.”

Typical. I hit the voice button. “As long as they don’t ream us during sweeps with crap like Sexual Perversion in the Vatican, I’m in.” There were a few grumbled affirmatives. Somebody decided to bear witness on the topic. Mute on.

“I’m in, too,” Nicky answered. “What’s going on?”

Ainsley held up two cassettes.

“Run the stuff we shot this morning.” I twisted the cell phone down in front of my mouth. “Hey, Nicky. Thinking about something you said yesterday, that I forgot to follow up on—do you mind?”

“Shoot.”

“Is that safe to say in a police station?”

“Funny. Don’t quit your day job.”

The speakerphone called my name. “O’Hara? You with us?”

Press a button. I chided all the fellas at once. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Local and long distance—they all grumbled.

Ainsley was the only one who fully appreciated the show.

The conference call continued with the mute on, topic—satellite problems—while I continued speaking to Nicky Curzon. “I heard you say you ‘did some checking’ before you sent the letter on Jost. I haven’t found anything to support the freaky image of Jost that the magazines suggest. Can you help me out?” I left it hang for a second. “Who’d you talk to?”

“I talked to the guy’s partner at the fire station. Friend of the family knows him.”

“Really? What’d he say?”

“Said Jost was a closet kink, hiding mags everywhere, all the time. Also said he’d had girl trouble before. Jost told the guys in the firehouse he’d left the Amish community over a girl.”

Ainsley hit Play on the stuff we’d shot earlier.

“What the hell? You kidding me?” I said, mostly to my college boy. He’d played with the angle, zoom and the registration. I had the doctor in black and white as well as colorized like a bad hallucination.

“No, I’m not kidding,” Nicky said. His voice dropped. He didn’t like me getting excited about something he’d said. “Look, I gotta go, Maddy.”

“Transfer me to the sheriff, would you? I got questions for him, too.” I went into transfer limbo.

On the conference call, a sales himbo was stroking himself over the marketing pre-sales.

“College, didn’t I tell you to quit screwing around with the artsy-fartsy shit?”

“It’s only the early stuff,” Ainsley assured me. “I was experimenting.” He hit the FF button until the picture was recognizable.

“Well, cut it out. You’re making me nervous.”

“If I’m making you nervous, why would I cut it out?” Jack Curzon asked.

Shit. I hadn’t heard the pick-up. “Hello, Sheriff. How’s your day?”

“Fine. Very open over the lunch hour. My appointment didn’t show.”

“Really? Listen, Jane Citizen would like to ask a question about Samaritan law in this fair county. How’s it work?”

“That’s state law, actually. Protects a citizen who tries to help from legal action. Requires anyone who is licensed as fire, police or medical personnel to assist if they see a person who needs help.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yep.”

“Ah.” So Tom Jost wasn’t trying to get his father in trouble for being a “bad Samaritan” by providing him that timely set of binoculars.

“Why does Jane want to know?” the sheriff asked.

“Jane likes to be informed.”

“Jane needs to get her ass in here to make a report if she wants to get any more cooperation from the sheriff’s office.”

If SUV-guy was trying to scare me, the last thing I wanted to do was look like I was running to the cops. Running encourages a bully to chase you.

It’d be nice to hang the whole thing on Schmed. I figured I better throw Curzon a bone to get him off my back about the reckless driving report. “Yeah, about that—I’m fairly certain the driver was a guy from the office.” Ainsley gave me a sharp glance over the shoulder. “I’m re-thinking the whole situation. Maybe I should try and resolve it in-house. I got to work with the guy every day, you know what I mean? I’m sure we can come to some kind of peace pact.”

Curzon remained silent.

Ainsley paused the audio on the interview. The conference call expanded to fill the dead air. Voices droned on about local issues, each market forecasting inevitable success. The bullshit factor was ten-plus.

“Fine.” Curzon blinked first. “I’ll let you slide. For now.”

“That’s all I got for this week,” said the guy in Boston.

I hit the speaker button and answered them both. “Great.” New York still had to give a report, so I hung in there with Curzon. “Jane’s got one more question for you, Sheriff.”

He sniffed a laugh. “Jane doesn’t give up.”

“Admit it, you love that about her.”

Ainsley rolled his eyes in disgust. I shrugged,
what?

“I don’t remember you mentioning, did Tom Jost have a phone with him when you found him?”

“A cell phone?” He thought about it and answered me with the question, “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

Another silence followed. The kind of silence that squeezes between moves when old guys play chess.

When Curzon committed to his response there was no hesitation. “We didn’t find a phone.”

“Really? Too bad. I had my next question all lined up. Thanks, Sheriff. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one. You’re running a tab now.”

“Bull. I got you off the hook with Grandma and the rest of the clan yesterday. I think you still owe me.” Best defense: be offensive. “And next time you need a beard, warn me so I can dress the part.”