Love at 11 (26 page)

Pacific Coast Cars was located in the Mission Valley section of San Diego, off of Route 8. There were a number of other cookie-cutter dealerships along the same road. For easy comparison shopping, I guess. Pacific Coast Cars was the farthest down the road and had the requisite colorful balloons and streamers to celebrate its “low, low prices!”

We parked near the front and headed into the glass-walled showroom. The cold blast of air conditioning hit us as we walked inside and wove through the shiny new cars to the information desk.

“You must be Madeline from News Nine,” a male voice drawled from behind me as we reached the desk.

I whirled around, a bit too nervously. No doubt about it, it was the man in the Internet photo. Of course today, the heavyset, fifty-something car dealer wore a completely different outfit—this one complete with spurs, jodhpurs and the stereotypical ten-gallon hat. He looked so silly that I had to stifle a giggle. Then I reminded myself that while this man may look like a total fool, he was involved in aiding and abetting a huge, illegal drug cartel, which made him somewhat less funny and a hell of a lot more scary.

“Yes. Hi. You must be Rocky. You can call me Maddy.” I held out my hand. “And this is my photographer, Jamie Hayes.” My boyfriend and the love of my life, I almost added. But I guessed Rocky wouldn’t really care about that little piece of trivia. It was funny how some things seemed monumental to you and meant diddly-squat to the rest of the world.

He shook my hand in one of those manly finger-crushing grips and I made every effort not wince. Then he motioned to the door.

“You said you wanted to do the interview outside. Well, let’s get out there then. I’ve only got about ten minutes before I start shooting my TV commercial.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Ah, a TV commercial. At least that explained the outfit. It was strange to think this John Wayne wannabe ran with an international drug cartel crowd. He looked so fat and stupid. Guess you couldn’t judge a drug dealer by his cover….

We walked outside, past a menagerie of animals that were, as Rocky explained, props for the commercial. I never really got why car dealers thought llamas and elephants and fifty thousand helium-filled balloons would help them sell cars, but who was I to judge? I couldn’t have sold life rafts to Titanic passengers.

We reached a good spot to do the interview (far, far away from the zoo animals) and Jamie set up his tripod. I realized my hands were shaking like crazy and shoved them behind my back. No reason to get nervous now. Okay, so there was a very big reason to get nervous, but I refused. Besides, what could happen? He had no idea why we were really here. How could he?

Jamie signaled he was ready and I started with a warm-up question.

“So, tell me a little bit about this dealership, Mr. Rodriguez.”

He grinned a toothy grin. “Well, little lady, my grandpa started this dealership back in 1954 …” He launched into a long speech about the history of Pacific Coast Cars and how he had single-handedly made it into the successful dealership it was today. He was so long-winded I felt like asking him for a hit of his drugs just to stay awake.

“Okay, thanks,” I interrupted when he paused for breath. “I think we’ve got what we needed.”

He looked surprised. “Really? But I didn’t tell you about all the great deals we offer our customers. Like how if you come in right now, we’ll give you a free toaster.”

Wow. How generous. “I’ll be sure to squeeze that into the piece,” I assured him.

“And when is this going to be on the TV?” he asked. Oh shoot, I forgot he might be wondering about an airdate. “I’m not sure,” I bluffed. “A couple weeks, maybe. I’ll be sure and let you know.”

“Great. ‘Cause I want to get my whole family to watch it. Just don’t wait too long. My grandpa—the dealership’s founder—is ninety-five years old and has a bad heart. Could go any day now. But when he heard I was going to win an award, he said to me, ‘Boy, you give me a reason to hang on to living. To see my life’s work honored by a major TV station like News Nine.’”

I stole a guilty look at Jamie, who raised his eyebrows back. While I had no qualms about exposing a guy involved in dealing drugs, I didn’t like thinking I’d be making an elderly gentleman keel over in shock, his whole life’s pride and joy crumbling during his last few breaths. Still, what else could I do?

“We’ll make sure to get it on the air soon,” I forced myself to assure Rocky. “For Grandpa.”

“Well, that’s great.” He shot me another toothy grin. “If we’re finished then, I’ve got to get over to the llama. These commercials don’t shoot themselves, you know.”

“No problem. Thanks for doing the interview. Do you mind if we go around and shoot some video of the dealership?”

“Go right ahead. Just make us look good, you hear?” Score! I resisted the urge to high-five Jamie as Rocky walked away and left us unescorted. Time for our real assignment to begin.

“Okay, let’s pretend we’re looking for stuff to shoot,” I said in a low voice. “And we’ll start hunting for that Mercedes.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jamie hoisted the camera off the tripod and onto his shoulder. “There’s got to be an employee lot where the cars that aren’t for sale are parked.”

“Cool. Let’s go walk around the back.”

Casually, as if we really were there to shoot San Diego’s best car dealership, we sauntered around the parking lot. Jamie made it look as if he were shooting various cars and signs on the way. A couple customers gave us curious glances, but were surrounded by eager salesmen, arms full of toasters before they could think to ask us what we were up to.

We reached the back of the lot, closed in by a wire gate. The padlock had been left hanging unclipped and we could easily open the door. I looked around, nervously wondering if anyone was watching.

“What do you think?” I whispered. “Go for it.”

Before my normally cautious nature could dissuade me, I detached the padlock and pushed open the wire gate. We slipped inside, pulling the gate closed behind us.

As we had guessed, it appeared we’d entered an employee parking lot. Several fancy cars—Jags, Beamers, and Mercedes—sat parked side by side. But it was one car in particular that caused my breath to catch in my throat.

The Mercedes SUV from the desert.

I knew it even before I checked the license plate. It sat by itself at the far end of the lot, the desert dust still clinging to its tires.

I grabbed Jamie’s arm and pointed with a shaky finger. His eyes widened and he nodded silently, lifting the camera to shoot video of the vehicle. After getting a few shots, he motioned for us to go closer.

“Do you think it’s unlocked?” I whispered. “Maybe we could shoot the secret compartment where we saw them storing the drugs.”

Jamie shot me a worried look. “Aren’t we going a little bit too far? What if they have security cameras and see us?”

“We’ll make up some excuse,” I said, reaching for the back door hatch. The handle turned easily. Not locked. “Yes!” I cried in delight. I motioned for Jamie to start shooting as I lifted the top hatch and lowered the bottom gate. Then I crawled into the back, feeling along the floor for an opening. The James Bond feeling was back in full force and this time I would definitely still have enough energy to shag a Bond Boy when I got home.

“Did you find anything?” asked the Bond Boy in question, still shooting from outside.

“Not yet—wait …” My fingers curled around an indent in the floor and pulled. The secret compartment sprung up. “Open sesame,” I muttered. It’d almost been too easy. “Are you getting this on tape?” I asked.

“Getting what on tape?” asked a male voice—definitely not belonging to Jamie.

Oh, shit. We were caught. Fear shot through me like a lightning bolt as I released the trapdoor, which closed with a damning thud.

In the meantime, Jamie had turned around to address the man who’d approached. “Hi,” he said, and I could distinctly hear the tremble in his voice. “I’m Jamie Hayes, photographer at News Nine. We’re shooting ‘San Diego’s Best Car Dealership.’”

I stared at the man who’d approached us, the fear now crawling from my fingertips down to my toes. No doubt about it. The black curly hair was unmistakable. It was the guy from the desert who had shown up for the drugs! And now he’d caught us shooting video of the SUV he’d stored them in.

“Yeah, well, these cars aren’t for sale. I don’t know how you got back here, but this is the employee lot,” he said with a growl.

I scrambled out of the back of the SUV, ready to turn on every ounce of charm my body had in it. “Oh, really? I’m sorry. It was just that there are some really, really cool cars back here. I mean sure out there you’ve got your Toyotas and Fords, but these Jags and BMWs are truly stunning. Take this Mercedes SUV,” I said, gesturing to the car. “I was just saying to Jamie what a roomy interior it has.”

“I’m going to get Rocky,” the man said.

I felt my face flush with horror. “Oh, no,” I said with a nervous laugh. “No need to trouble Mr. Rodriguez. He’s busy shooting that commercial and all and ... well, we’ve got what we needed anyway.”

The guy narrowed his eyes. “And you needed the inside of Rocky’s personal Mercedes, why?”

I gulped. He wasn’t going to let us go. He was on to us—saw through our weak cover story. Any minute now he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me in the head. “Well, it’s just such a cool car,” I stumbled. “And …”

“I’m getting Rocky.”

“No need. We’re done. We’re off.” I grabbed Jamie’s arm and tried to lead him away as fast as possible. “Thanks again!”

“Hey!” the guy called after us.

“Yes?” I turned around, trembling with fear.

“Who else won?”

“Huh?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “San Diego’s best car dealership. Who were the other finalists?”

I swallowed hard. Think Maddy, think!

“Um ... there was …” Blank mind. Completely blank mind. Probably a hundred car dealerships in San Diego county and I couldn’t even think of one of them. “Actually, I can’t tell you,” I said with what I hoped looked like a sorry shrug. “It’s a secret ‘til the segment airs.”

The man gave us a grimace. I just knew that he wasn’t buying my excuse. That he knew we knew about the drug tunnel. My heart pounded as I waited for him to call me on it.

But all he said was, “Yeah. I figured. You have yourself a nice day.”

*

It took about three hours of Jamie’s reassurance before I finally felt able to breathe normally again. Every time I heard a noise, I jumped a mile, thinking it was the drug dealers come to get me. I was that scared.

“He had no clue what we were doing,” Jamie insisted for the thousandth time. “How the heck could he know?”

He was right, of course. There was no way they could know. I’d made up this whole drama in my head. But knowing that didn’t help my state of mind. I couldn’t wait to get this story on the air and get the bad guys behind bars.

I somehow managed to get through the rest of the workday, even scheduling an interview with the Drug Enforcement Agency the next day. They were going to be a key interview for my piece.

At six, Jamie came to my cubicle and told me he was kidnapping me and taking me to Moondoggies for K9-Kosmos. Just the idea of sipping frozen drinks and breathing in fresh open air made me relax a bit.

Even better, when we got there and ordered our drinks, Jamie whipped out his surprise—pages of his brand-new novel in progress. Ecstatic, I practically ripped them from his hands.

“You can wait ‘til later to read them,” he protested. “No way! I’m reading them right this very second. After all, I loved your first book.”

He sat patiently as I slurped my drink and devoured the chapter. When I finished, I looked up with a smile.

“Oh, Jamie …”

“So what do you think?” he asked, looking a little nervous. It was so adorable how sensitive he was about his writing.

“It’s so good!” I exclaimed.

“I want your honest opinion,” he insisted.

“Okay, then.” I grinned. “It’s so very, very good. It’s uber good. Fantastic.”

He groaned. “You don’t have to say that.”

Honestly, for a guy who normally had so much confidence, he certainly became a real basket case when it came to his own writing.

“What makes you think I’m just saying that?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe so I’ll continue to do this to you?” He pulled his chair closer and nipped at my earlobe, sending a chill of delight down to my toes. “Or this?” His mouth traveled down to my neck.

“Mmm. You must be right. The book sucks, but I can’t bear to tell you for fear you’ll stop molesting me.” He groaned and pulled away.

“I’m kidding!” I cried, tugging him back to face me. “I’m so kidding! It’s great. Wonderful. Pulitzer prize–winning.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t give Pulitzers to sci-fi writers.” But he grinned nonetheless.

“Well, maybe yours will be the first,” I said stubbornly. “This is great, Jamie. You have a real talent.”

The thing was I wasn’t exaggerating one bit. It was good. Really good. And I was sure I wasn’t the only one who’d recognize it.

“Thanks,” he said, blushing a bit. He took the pages and shoved them back in his messenger bag. “I hope you know I never would have written this if it weren’t for you.”

Now it was my turn to blush. “Yes, you would have.”

“No. I’m serious. Until we had that talk in Starbucks, I’d all but given up writing. When you made me promise to take it up again, I had to force myself to sit my butt in that computer chair and stay put. I didn’t feel like it at all when I started. But a few minutes later, my hands were flying over the keyboard. And the story started gushing out of me. It was like a dam had burst or something.” He shook his head, remembering. “It was such a great feeling. I remembered why I used to get such pleasure out of writing.”

“Why did you give it up in the first place?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “You’re going to think this is completely stupid, but Jen used to make fun of it.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. You know how she’s all into the Hollywood snobbery and stuff? Well, she thought I shouldn’t be wasting my time on ‘pulp-fiction trash’ as she called it. Thought I should be writing scripts instead.”