Love at 11 (20 page)

“No prob,” he said with a shrug, looking a bit embarrassed.

I cleared my throat. “Look, Jamie, I’m—”

“So, uh, it says that the refinery is owned by a company called Reardon Oil,” he interrupted, effectively giving me an invitation to change the subject. I stared at him for a moment, unable to read the emotion behind his beautiful eyes.

At last I gave up, keeping that last shred of dignity intact. I glanced down at the letter, forcing my thoughts to focus on more important matters than my doomed love affair.

“Reardon Oil, huh?” I repeated, giving it the old college try. If Jamie could be professional, so could I. “Never heard of them.”

He shook his head. “Me, neither. But then, I’m not really up on the whole oil industry, obviously.”

“True, true. Let me see what I can find out.”

I turned back to my desk for some computer-assisted reporting. Last year I’d taken a course on how to use online resources to help research stories, but had never gotten a chance to put any of my newfound knowledge to use.

“So, uh,” Jamie said, still awkwardly lingering. “They found my bike.”

“They did?” I exclaimed, turning around again. So much for keeping the conversation professional. “That’s great!”

I wanted to hate him. Wish for his misfortune. But instead, seeing the relief in his eyes, I realized I only felt delight that he’d gotten his precious motorcycle back.

“Yeah,” he said. “Someone evidently took it on a joyride, then dumped it a few miles away. A patrolman spotted it and called it in. Only a few scratches. No major damage.”

“That’s great, Jamie. Really great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic as my heart pounded at the awkwardness between us. It was as if we were strangers now. Next thing you knew he’d be bringing up the nice weather we were having lately. I couldn’t bear it.

“So, um, tonight we’re scheduled to go to Mexico,” I informed him, trying to turn the conversation back to work-related stuff before I broke down. “My whistle-blower, Miguel, is going to take us to the other end of the drug tunnel. You up for it?”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Actually, I could use the overtime.”

There were probably a million reasons he could use the overtime. Rent. Fixing the scratches on his bike. A cool computer he saw advertised on Craigslist. But there was only one reason my brain could latch on to.

Wedding expenses.

Jamie was getting married. To Jen. To have and to hold, ‘til death did they part. I swallowed hard and attempted to will away the ache in my heart. I had to accept this. Start seeing him as just another coworker. A soon-to-be-married coworker. Otherwise I was seriously going to go crazy working with him. I felt my throat constrict as regret threatened to consume me.

If only I had left him alone to begin with. Not allowed myself to start something I knew in my head could only lead to disaster and heartbreak. But, no. I’d pursued a man who was unavailable. I deserved this misery.

“Um, right now, though, I have nothing for you to do,” I said hastily. I could feel the tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. I needed him to leave. Fast. Before he saw the hurt. Before he saw how much he meant to me. “You should go check in with News. They probably have some fires for you to chase or something.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No!” I retorted, throwing him a glare. A glare to hide my embarrassment at being called onto the carpet. “It’s just that … Richard … um, told me if I didn’t have anything for you to do, I should give you to News. They can always use an extra photographer.”

“Fair enough.” Jamie rose from his seat and headed out of the cubicle. “Have a good day, Maddy.”

I waited for a moment, until I heard his footsteps fade away, then put my face in my hands. I rubbed my eyes in frustration, probably ruining my eye makeup. Why did this have to be so hard?

“Madeline!”

What now? I looked up, surprised, as Terrance entered the cubicle. He sat down in David’s chair. Oh great. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. The last thing I wanted was for Terrance to see me crying. He was the biggest gossip on the planet.

“Did you see the piece?” he asked, his eyes shining his enthusiasm. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” I told him. “And I’m sure it is wonderful—Mike’s a great editor. But—”

Terrance huffed. “Mike is a pain in the ass, if you ask me. I had to sit in there the whole afternoon, telling him how to do his job. If it weren’t for me, that piece would look completely different.”

I was pretty sure he was right about that one. But perhaps not in the way he meant.

“Anyway, Madeline, you were
so
lucky I had some time to spare to teach Mike how to do his job. I mean, did you really plan to simply leave him alone to edit without any guidance? What would you have done if I hadn’t stepped in? Though, I have to say, my efforts paid off handsomely. The piece looks—”

“Fabulous. I get it.” I sighed. “But, Terrance, do you think maybe that you might have just perhaps possibly added one too many, um, shots of a certain kind?”

Terrance scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. Obviously I couldn’t be subtle here.

I swallowed. “What I’m trying to say is, we need to take out some of the shots of you.”

“Some of the Terrance shots? You can’t take out the Terrance shots,” the anchor exclaimed, shocked. “A Terrance piece must have Terrance in it! The audience expects it. The fans demand it.”

I didn’t know what I found more disturbing—seeing Terrance so upset about being taken out of the piece or him referring to himself in a Bob Dole–like third person.

I shrugged, taking the coward’s way out. “I know you what you mean. But Richard insisted. You know how management is. I’m just a lowly producer. What can I do?”

“Well, to start, you can tell him that a Terrance piece needs Terrance. Why would I bother to do a segment if I wasn’t going to be in it? The segment is called ‘Terrance Tells All.’ How can Terrance tell all if the audience does not see Terrance doing any of the telling? Is Terrance some sort of invisible superhero? No, I think he is not.” He stamped his foot in emphasis, and I had to bite my tongue to stifle a giggle. He looked so wide-eyed and anxious. Horrified, even. An expression you might see on a man who’d been told dingos had eaten his baby.

“I’m sorry, Terrance,” I managed to say, straight-faced. “I don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t you go talk some sense into Richard? I’m sure he’ll listen to you.” I wasn’t at all sure of this, but at least that would take the pressure off me.

Nodding, Terrance rose from his seat and patted his anchor-perfect hair. “Yes. I will do that. Good day, Madeline.” And with that he stormed off.

I sighed. If this place were filmed for a reality show, everyone would think it had been exaggerated for television.

I turned back to my computer-assisted reporting project. Who was Reardon Oil? I hit LexisNexis first, this great subscription-based web service, which archived newspaper and magazine articles. You could type in a key word and BAM! Out popped hundreds of articles. If anything had ever been written about Reardon Oil, Lexis would find it.

Only one article popped up. A story about a fundraiser for Senator Gorman, held back during his first election bid. Reardon Oil evidently gave quite the campaign contribution to our favorite Republican. Could it have been a bribe of some sort?

As if he read my mind, David picked that moment to waltz into our cubicle and sit down.

“Hey, Maddy, did you know Senator Gorman blinks twice as many times per minute than Democratic challenger Bill Barnum?” he asked with a completely straight face. “They did a study. And we’re live at five with the exclusive results.”

“Fascinating.” I chuckled. “And this should change my vote, why?”

“Well, according to the taxpayer funded study, more blinking means you’re more likely to be lying.” David blinked a few times himself, in illustration.

“I see. In case anyone wasn’t completely convinced of Gorman’s truth-telling after his lower gas price promise last election?”

“Oh, Maddy! Our viewers can’t be expected to remember something as
tedious
as campaign promises,” David said. “They need something simple to focus on.” I laughed. “So true. And what is the promo department calling this story? Blinking Bad Guys?”

“Oh no, much better than that. They’re calling it ‘Lying Through Your Lids.’”

“Beautiful. Congrats on getting to be a part of such an election-changing story.” I patted him on the back.

“Indeed, I cherish these moments and think how lucky I am to be a part of democracy in action.”

“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but have you ever heard of a company called Reardon Oil? Big contributor during Gorman’s first bid for senator?”

David narrowed his eyes in thought. Then he shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Though it’d make sense since it’s an oil company. Before he was elected senator, Gorman worked for the California Environmental Protection Agency. He would have had to sign off on any oil drilling applications. Make sure they’re not damaging the environment, that sort of thing.”

“So whoever owns Reardon Oil could have promised him a big bribe if Gorman would sign on the dotted line for something not on the up and up?”

“Why, Maddy, It’s not
bribery
! It’s called
lobbying
. And what
are
you implying about our illustrious senator?” David asked in feigned horror. Then he laughed. “Sounds like the Gorman I know and love.”

“Interesting,” I mused.

“Let me ask Brock though. He may know more.”

I grinned knowingly. “Ooh, things still hot and heavy with the senator’s son?”

“Hell yeah, sister. He is the cat’s meow.” David beamed.

“Does his dad know you two are an item?”

“Uh, that would be a negative. Brock’s still technically in the closet. But he has one toe out. And I’m confident by the end of the month he’ll manage a whole foot. Maybe even a kneecap.”

I chuckled. “Okay, my patient little lover boy. Let me know what you find out.”

I turned back to my computer. Now done with my LexisNexis search, I decided to try top-secret investigative reporter tool number two:

Google.

I wondered what reporters had done before the Internet. They must have actually had to use the phone. Called people and asked them stuff. But then, that was before voice mail hell. These days getting through the navigation maze of “Press one if you want …” and actually getting a live person (who then probably got paid two dollars an hour from his outsourced office in India and didn’t know anything anyway) was next to impossible.

I typed Reardon Oil, but all I got back was some kind of comic book reference and a rather disturbing site about horsetail art.

I hit the “back” button to return to the search field. This time, I selected the “images” tag. Maybe I could get a photo.

However, unlike when one typed “Ewan McGregor” into Google and got 8,680 photos to gaze dreamily upon (NOT that I’d ever done that!) Reardon Oil only brought up one: a photo of an extremely heavyset man, squeezed into a tuxedo, shaking Senator Gorman’s hand. Was this the owner of Reardon Oil? Unfortunately there was no caption on the photograph so I still didn’t have a name. I hit “print” anyway.

Grabbing the desert undercover videotape off my desk, I headed to the viewing station to reexamine it. I didn’t think Tuxedo Man was the same one out in the desert, but I had to be sure. I fast-forwarded to the spot where the Mercedes pulled in. Nice car. Drug dealers were so lucky to afford such sweet rides. The man in question opened the door and stepped out.

Disappointment washed over me. Definitely a different guy. The man in the desert was thinner and had a full head of curly black hair, unlike the balding old guy in the penguin suit. I guessed that would have been too easy. Even if Mr. Reardon Oil did own the property, it was highly unlikely that he’d come pick up the drugs himself.

“Who are you?” I asked quietly, more determined than ever to find out.

I was about to eject the tape when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The Mercedes’s license plate. Unfortunately in California, after some actress got stalked and killed, the DMV no longer gave out any personal info if you had a license number. But what I did notice might be equally valuable.

The car had dealer plates.

“David?” I called. “Come here a sec, will you?” David popped out of the cubicle and came up behind me. “What’s up?” he asked.

I pressed a finger against the monitor. “See that? The car has dealer plates. Can you ask Brock if his dad had any campaign contributors who are involved in car dealerships as well as oil refineries?” It was a long shot, but I couldn’t rule anything out.

“What
are
you working on?” David asked curiously. “It looks way too interesting to be a News Nine report.”

“Well, it may be something and it may not be,” I said. “So for now, can you keep it all on the down-low?”

“Sure thing, sistah. On one condition. You let me borrow your spangly tank top for Saturday night. Brock and I are going dancing.”

“No problem. Just don’t stretch it out with those broad shoulders of yours. And wear plenty of deodorant. I don’t want sweat stains.” After David swore up and down that he’d dowse with Degree before setting foot on the dance floor, I walked over to the printer and grabbed the photo with Tux Man and Gorman. I handed it him. “This is our Reardon Oil guy. If you can find out who he is, you can keep the shirt. I’ll even let you have the matching skirt.”

“Ooh, you know how to strike a hard bargain.” David grinned. “Consider it done.”

*

I always loved the look of Armani, but this dress had to be Giorgio’s pièce de résistance. The black silk hugs my body in all the right places. As I sit down at the banquet table, I can hear the other guests murmuring their approval.

“You look beautiful,” Jamie whispers. I glance to my right, where he sits, dressed in a sexy tux. He reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Like a winner.”

I smile and return the squeeze. “So do you, my darling. As always.”