Active Shooter (7 page)

“No, I didn't think so,” she answered her own
question with a grin. “I guess I'm picking up a few tricks.”

“Careful how many magic acts you pull,” I
said. “You may succeed in letting them know you're up to no
good.”

“How nasty is that. They get you whether you
are clueless or whether you take care to protect yourself.”

“Just be selective, that's all. Make it
count, don't over-use it.”

“Thanks. But I figured this would be a good
occasion to look a little suspicious.”

The waiter interrupted us with a bread basket
and the bottle of Chardonnay she'd ordered.

I thanked him as he served us, and when he
stepped away, I said, “So, this breakthrough--”

“They stepped on their own shoelaces.”

“They did, did they.”

“Yeah. I have proof positive that someone's
been ginning up that whole second amendment story to grab the news
cycle away from you. Complete with hacked blogs posting topics they
would normally not touch, Twitter and Facebook campaigns from more
hacked accounts, and so on, and so forth.”

“That's a little too obvious.”

“Meaning?”

“It sounds like someone wants to get
caught.”

“Sounds like a desperate Hail Mary to me.”
Bridget leaned forward and lowered her voice. “As it turns out, it
doesn't matter whether the guns-are-evil-campaign is real. Even if
someone catches
and
reports on the falsification, the
spotlight is still
not
on you, is it? And going from, hey,
'who hacked that site' to drawing a conclusion someone wants to
dampen
your fame is quite the quantum leap, don't you
think?”

I made an attempt to shrug that came across
more like an awkward twitch. My try at taking a sip of the wine and
staring out to sea didn't fare much better.

“What's up, Andre? Are you still in can't
confirm or deny mode?”

“You really didn't listen to me, did you?” I
turned to face her. “How did you confirm this thing about hacked
blogs and social media accounts?”

She grinned. “I got people.”

“Your source.”

“Hmm. Other people.”

“Hackers.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Remember what I said about playing your
cards selectively?”

She sighed. “I get it, OK? I know hackers
poking around can trigger alarms. These guys are good. They've done
work for me before, and they're still around.”

I considered how best to tell her about all
the angles that could go askew when you hired people you didn't
really know. For all she knew, these guys were working for the very
people she was trying to ensnare. Above all, I came close to
sharing with her the skill and capability of the organization she
and her hacker platoon faced this time.

In the end, however, I took an approach I
thought would have a much higher chance of getting her
attention.

“When's your meet with your source?” I
asked.

The grin fled her face. She sat up a little
straighter.

“That's why you're here, isn't it? In sunny
L.A., to meet with your source?”

“How would you know that?” she asked.

Now I took my turn to lean forward and lower
my voice. “I got people,” I hissed. “Not that I trust 'em, or like
them, or want much to do with them. They're the kind that clamp on
to your back and you can't make them go away. But they're good at
what they do. Very good.”

“Yeah, very impressive. For a guess, that is.
She's in L.A., so she must be here to see her source.
Brilliant.”

“Except that this is exactly what you're
doing. You didn't come all the way out here to make a pass at me or
tell me about your breakthrough.”

She shook her head and sighed again.
“Actually, Andre, I'm here because she wants to meet you, and she
wants me to set it up.”

Her words jolted me, not so much because they
surprised me, which they did, but because they made me face the
reality that I was getting sucked back into my old life, the one
without art, the one whose palette allowed for little more than
brushstrokes of death and deceit.

“When?” I asked.

Bridget leaned back and didn't say another
word until our salads came.

“I need to know you're with me,” she said as
she mixed her dressing into her greens.

“What do I need to show you to prove it?”

“Is dampening real? Tell me that, at
least.”

“It's real, though when I saw it at work, it
was inside a lab, all simulation, not real world.”

“Manipulation of news cycles. Amplification
of information. News story transforms. Can you confirm any of
it?”

I looked her in the eye and said, “Thought
experiments. Nothing beyond that. Years away from being
operationally viable. Whatever you're seeing out there could have a
million other explanations.”

“Such as?”

“Hackers hack. People spin.”

Bridget shook her head. “Not like this. Not
with this level of coordination and sophistication.” She tapped on
the table. “I've seen the data.”

"Data?"

"Yeah,
the
data."

“Jesus, Bridget. Do you know how deep you've
gone? I mean, can you even realize you've lost sight of the top of
the mine shaft?”

“I think I know exactly what I'm into. Do
you?”

I looked away again, toward the end of the
pier, straining to make out the detail on the red tiled roof of the
building that stood there. Then I scanned the ocean, dotted with a
few surfers in search for the worthy wave that a placid ocean
wouldn't give them. Closer, on the sand, I saw kids scooping sand
into bright green and pink pails, moms at their side, seagulls
aloft watching them from above.

I fought the longing to go out there, to join
the rest of the world, to have nothing better to do than walk on a
pier, or curl my toes into the sand, or splash in the water.

“When am I meeting her?” I asked.

“As soon as she tells me.”

We finished our salads and our entrees in
another thirty minutes.

***

An hour later we arrived in my apartment. I
watched Bridget set up her laptop on my kitchen table to work on
the story she was supposed to report on during her outing to the
west coast. She barely acknowledged me when I excused myself to go
downstairs.

Alone in my garage, I assembled my matted
prints and framed them. With all four of them propped along my work
bench, I felt none of the satisfaction manual work brought me a few
hours before. Neither did I enjoy seeing four of my photos as
finished images. The dread of what might come robbed me of that
joy. It stripped me of the passion I'd felt when I photographed and
developed those four images. I could not summon even a glimpse of
it now. And I hungered for it. More than anything I yearned for the
world of beauty I saw through my camera's lens to rescue me from
the one pressing in and down on me now.

As if to pull me out of my wallowing, my
phone rang with a call from Lucia.

“Got it done?” she asked.

“Looking at ‘em right now, Ma'am.”

“Great. Maybe you can bring them over.”

“Sure. How about tomorrow?”

“How about tonight,” she said, not a
question, almost an order. “I’ll throw in dinner if that persuades
you. Are you up for some Paella paired with a nice Rioja vino?”

“Well, I have out of town company.”

“How many?”

This was my out. Tell her fifteen, and I was
off the hook. “Just one.”

“Just one. Hmm. Sounds like a she?”

I don’t know if it was the way my mouth had
watered at the mention of Paella, or my awkwardness at being found
with a girl, but all I could manage to say was, “What time?”

“Perfect,” she said and told me to be at her
place by 7:00 PM, “or earlier if you want to sample this nice Rosé
I picked up in Paso Robles last week.” Then she promised to text me
her address, along with instructions on how to gain access to her
condominium complex.

Back upstairs, in my apartment, Bridget,
mouth half open, eyes fixed on her laptop screen, acknowledged my
return with an absent “Hmm.”

For a few moments I fought the impulse to
look over her shoulder or ask her what she was working on. Her
rather submerged immersal into her work gave me pause, but she was
a hard working gal, and her level of concentration, I supposed,
aligned with the intensity of a go-getter trying to get things
done.

I turned on the TV, on low volume out of
consideration for her impromptu work environment, even if this was
my house, even if I had no idea whether having her stay with me
would prove wise. I watched a mid-afternoon talk show, and as it
wound down, I broached the topic of dinner at Lucia's.

Bridget answered with laconic, almost terse
answers that more or less communicated she had some things to take
care of. She could drop me off at Lucia, and I could call her once
I was ready to go home, she suggested. This way she could pick up
her stuff from the hotel, she explained. If I was up for it, that
is, and I said sure, why not.

As I walked up to Lucia's front door a couple
of hours later I pondered the implications of meeting these two
women within a matter of days. I could not shake the thought that
their convergence held more meaning for me than that of passing
coincidence.

“Art must be good to you,” I said to Lucia as
I stepped into her place.

Lucia smiled. She closed the door behind us
and gave her living room a round-house wave.

“It's my mini-gallery,” Lucia said. She
walked over to a faux fireplace and pointed at an oil painting that
hung above it. “This one's been here a little too long. I like to
feature samples of my artists' work in my space, and I know whose
piece will go here next.” She capped that remark with a wink.

I smiled back, then turned my attention to
the rest of that space Lucia seemed so proud of. A couple of
statues, one behind the sofa, the other next to her TV, stood like
sentinels. From their looks and styles, I deduced they came from
different artists, one more given to surrealism, the other more
pedestrian. I wondered which sold better, and I guessed the latter.
Two other paintings and one large black and white photograph hung
from three of four walls in the living room.

“Looks like you have plenty of space,” I said
pointing to one of the walls. “No need to displace anyone on my
account.”

“Nah-ah,” Lucia said. “I like to give art
pieces the space they need to breathe and project. Last thing we
want to do is give the impression of an over-crowded trinket
shop.”

She gestured for me to follow her into the
kitchen, a large space on its own right, and one apparently devoted
to the culinary arts at the exclusion of all others.

“No art pieces in here,” I noted.

“Grease and steam are poor art companions,”
Lucia replied with another wink.

“It smells great in here,” I said.

“Thanks,” Lucia replied with a sideways
glance as she approached the stove. “The Paella should be almost
done.” She crouched to peer through the oven's window. “You are a
little early, but I suppose that's the best way to ensure
punctuality.”

Lucia stood up and grinned at me. “I recall
reading a blog post on the importance of punctuality for a wedding
photographer, and all the things he does to ensure it. Personally,
I think it doubled as a thinly veiled suggestions to brides, grooms
and their entourages to be on time and not waste the talented
photographer's time.”

I could not help but laugh at Lucia's
quip.

The laughter subsided, and I said, “I take it
that's part of the research you did on Andre before you approached
him. I bet you do that with all your artists before you take them
on?”

Lucia's lips broke into a tight little grin.
“I'm sure I'm not the only one.”

"You lost me," I said.

"I mean I'm sure that gorgeous reporter of
yours researched the heck out of you."

I can only guess at why my mind visualized
Lucia and Bridget facing each other. I guess I had anticipated it
when Lucia invited us both over for dinner. Or maybe I was
fantacizing about the two of them sparring over me. Weird, I know,
but there they were, the two of them staring each other down, the
air between them tense in spite of the smiles. In this short
daydream of mine, Lucia, at around 5'4”, four to six inches
shorter, and maybe one to two inches wider than Bridget, stood with
one fisted hand propped into her hip and the other hand resting on
the kitchen's island counter. For a moment I visualized the unkind
image of a bulldog staring down a svelte racing hound. Lucia's
tanned, bronzed skin and dark brown hair played out the final
contrast against Bridget's fairer complexion.

Yet, once I got past the superficial, I
sensed they shared a drive to succeed, innate as well as learned
ability to strive toward achievement, and the well-measured
confidence that capped it all off.

“We can all be sure Ms. Suarez does
impeccable research,” I said, as much to break the awkward silence
as to awkwardly remind Lucia that she and the other gal shared a
Hispanic heritage.

When she didn't reply, I rushed to add, “I'm
impressed you cook Paella. Are you or any in your family from
Spain?”

A clock dinged, and Lucia went to work on
getting the Paella and a salad ready for serving.

With her back to me, Lucia said, “Nope. Not
unless you go back God knows how many generations.” She took out
the steaming metal pan containing the mix of rice, vegetables and
various meats. “I looked up the recipe on Google. No worries,
though. This is my fifth attempt, and after try
numero dos
,
I've been nailing it ever since.” She set the pan on top of the
stove's burners. “Looks like I did it again.”

I helped her carry platters and plates out to
the dinner table. The first few minutes occupied us with serving
food and pouring of the promised Rioja wine. A few more minutes of
jovial conversation about the quality of the food followed. Then,
we started talking.