News Blues (16 page)

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 ‘Ter-rance 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 me-ow.” 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.” 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.”

“So, what do you think our chances are tonight?”

“Oh, we’re a shoo-in, ” I say with a grin. “Our
Newsline
investigative pieces have won National Emmys six years in a
row. What’s to stop us from taking number seven?”

“You’re amazing, ” Jamie says, looking adoringly into my
eyes. “And to think I almost lost you due to my stupidity.”

“Yes. You could have married that awful bitch Jennifer.
I can’t believe you were once engaged to the waitress at Deb’s
Diner.”

“Back then she thought she’d be an actress.”

“Yeah, right. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“I’m so glad I fell in love with you.You are the sunshine of
my existence. My perfect rose. My amazing, talented,
Newsline
producer. I love you, Mrs. Hayes.”

“I love you, too, Mr. Hayes. Now, shush, while they announce
the winner.”

The orchestra picks up, a vibrant tune as the head of the
National Academy ofTelevision Arts and Sciences steps up to
the podium.

“And the winner of this year’s National Emmy for Outstanding
Investigative Work goes to . . .”

I hold my breath. Will it be me? Will he say my name? The
envelope rustles. . . .

“Sleeping Beauty!”

Huh? Sleeping Beauty? What the . . . ?

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you ready to go?”

I lifted my head from my desk, groggily recognizing the Sleeping Beauty comment to be coming from Jamie. And not gorgeous
tux-clad husband at the Emmy awards ceremony Jamie, but jeans and T-shirted, engaged to another woman Jamie.

Real-life Jamie.

Thanks a lot, subconscious. We were supposed to be forgetting
the fantasy, remember? Not rehashing it in our dreams.

I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep. After David had left the cubicle earlier, I’d decided a quick eye-shutting was in order.
After all, I was still exhausted from the Calla Verda adventure. But I’d only wanted to close my eyes for one second. Evidently
my brain had other ideas. How long had I been out for?

“What time is it?” I asked, yawning. Hopefully no one walked by and caught me napping. Well, except Jamie, of course. I wondered
if I looked cute and sleep-tousled or disgustingly disheveled. More likely the latter. At least he couldn’t tell what I had
been dreaming. That would be super embarrassing.

Jamie glanced at his watch. “Six. You said we were supposed to meet Miguel, right? We’d better get a move on.”

“Okay.” I stretched my arms over my head, trying to wake up. I’d never fallen asleep on the job before. “But I need major
coffee first.”

“I think that can be arranged, ” he said with a grin. I smiled back, unable to help myself.

I could do this. I could work with him without wanting to jump his bones. We didn’t have to simply be coworkers. We could
be friends. Just not lovers. Definitely not lovers.

I got up from my chair and followed him through the hallways, trying not to stare at his perfect butt. Friends did not stare
at each other’s butts, after all.

We hit Starbucks and grabbed ice Americanos with four shots of espresso. So strong they were barely drinkable, but I definitely
wouldn’t fall asleep on the job.

Now armed with caffeine, we hopped back in the SUV and drove down to Mexico. In order to not arouse suspicion, we had decided
to park at the border and walk over. Then, Miguel would drive us in his car to the tunnel opening. On the way down, Jamie
hooked up his iPod and blasted ’80s music, eliminating the need for much conversation. It was just as well.

Getting out of the SUV, we walked through the clanging metal one-way revolving doors that led to the Central American country.
Going into Mexico always reminded me of one of those Chinese finger traps: Anyone could go in—they never even checked IDs
at this border. But you had to have major documentation to get out.

As we headed to the main square, delicious meaty smells wafted from nearby taco stands, tempting us to stray from our destination.
But there would be no margaritas or food that evening. No fake-purse shopping. We had a more important mission. A dangerous
undercover mission. I felt a little like James Bond—except, without the cool car, gadgets, and license to kill, of course.

“Hi, Miguel, ” I greeted as we approached his stand. He grinned back his own semitoothless greeting.

“Maddy!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back to Tijuana.”

“Thanks, ” I said, my eyes unwillingly drawn to his wares. Wow. It looked like he’d gotten in a brand new stock of purses!
Wait ’til I told Jodi. Wait—was that a Kate Spade with a sewn on label?

Maddy, stop it.You’re on an important undercover mission,
not a shopping trip.

I willed myself to stop looking; I could always come back another day with Jodi. Tomorrow after work. Surely no one would
buy the Kate Spade purse before I could return, would they? Then again, it was pretty rare to find a counterfeit Kate Spade
with a sewn on label. Most were glued. What if someone came by tomorrow while I was at work and realized what a find it was?
What if they bought it before I had a chance to—