News Blues (22 page)

“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 Star-bucks, 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.”

“But you didn’t want to?”

“Well, I gave it the old college try and all that. But found it wasn’t for me. Completely different style of writing—I just
couldn’t get a good handle on it. In fact, I got so burnt out on it that I decided to just quit altogether. Which was fine
with Jen. She’d rather have me on her arm at her insufferable Hollywood parties than locked in my study typing away.”

“Well, I like the idea of you locked away writing.”

“Well, I like the idea of you locked away writing.” I grinned. “I think it’s kind of sexy, actually.”

He smiled, leaning forward to plant a kiss on my lips. “Well, you’re welcome to come over and play my little muse anytime
you like. We’ll lock ourselves away together.”

“Sounds perfect. What are we waiting for?”

Normally News 9 producers didn’t really dress up for the job. Only reporters and anchors, armed with a station-funded clothing
allowance, donned smart business suits everyday before work. Producers, having the luxury of being behind the scenes (and
lack of money to hit Armani), usually settled for sloppy chic.

But on the morning I scheduled to go interview the Drug Enforcement Agency—the DEA as everyone knows them—I decided that jeans
and a cute top might not cut it and instead wore my best interview suit. I wanted to look as professional as possible so they’d
take me seriously.

It had taken some major hoop jumping to even secure the interview in the first place. The DEA’s public affairs officer had
been very suspicious when I told her I wanted to interview them about drug tunnels. She demanded details, which I wasn’t about
to give up. After all, there were still missing pieces to this puzzle and I wanted to have a solid case before I aired the
piece and alerted the Feds. My plan was to give them the completed story and the documents the day the story was scheduled
to air. That way they would have all the evidence they needed to arrest the bad guys and I’d have my exclusive story to impress
Newsline
with.

The San Diego branch of the DEA’s offices was located in San Ysidro, right on the border of Mexico and the United States.
Guess they wanted to be close to all the drug-smuggling action. Jamie and I parked the News 9 SUV and headed inside the building.

The public affairs officer, a smug-looking woman with a pinched nose, black-rimmed glasses, and a severe-looking navy suit
greeted us at the door and demanded our IDs. Evidently they ran a tight ship at the DEA. After proving we really did work
for News 9 and didn’t just pick up a professional video camera and tripod at our local Wal-Mart, she allowed us inside and
into a small conference room. As Jamie set up the lights, a thirty-something man with sandy blond hair entered the room. His
tailored suit screamed “narc” and I hoped he didn’t specialize in undercover work as any druggie in a fifty-yard radius could
probably point him out.

“Hi, I’m Maddy Madison, News Nine, ” I said, holding out my hand.

“Hello, Ms. Madison. I am Mr. Mann.”

I had to do everything in my power not to laugh when I heard his name. How ironic. “The Man” was literally named Mann.

Jamie motioned that he was ready for me to begin the interview, so we took our seats and I started asking my questions. “First
off, tell me a little about drug tunnels, ” I said. “Are they common?”

“The Mann” (ha!) nodded. “We’ve found several tunnels over the years. And most likely there are more that exist. Border patrol
keeps a constant eye out and we keep our ear to the ground as well. The thing about tunnels is you can’t move them. So, sooner
or later some druggie, hoping to get a lighter sentence, drops the dime on the tunnel’s location and a bust becomes imminent.”

“And has the infamous Lopez cartel ever been involved in a tunnel?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “No. I think Ronaldo preferred to send lackeys over the border the old fashioned way. That’s
how he got busted a few years back.”

“What about his son, Felix? Do you think he might have taken over his dad’s business?”

“No, ” Mr. Mann said, “There’s no evidence at all of that. Felix is an upstanding citizen and businessman. He graduated magna
cum laude from UCSD back in the day and hasn’t looked back to his family for years.”

UCSD? Excitement pumped through my veins. It was probably a coincidence, but wasn’t that where David said Senator Gorman and
Rocky Rodriguez had known each other from? Maybe they had been pals with Felix, too! Of course, lots of people had gone to
UCSD. But still, they all seemed around the same age. . . .

“Is this Felix Lopez?” I asked, switching topics by pulling out Miguel’s brother’s photos from my manila folder. I knew it
was, but I had to get videotaped confirmation from the expert for my story.

“Yes. That is Felix Lopez, ” Mr. Mann agreed, after studying the photo. “Where was this taken? And when?” He looked agitated
and suspicious all of a sudden, and I wondered why.

“It doesn’t matter, ” I said, grabbing the photo and sticking it back into the envelope. “I just wanted to make sure it was
him.”

“Ms. Madison, what is this all about? Do you have something you’d like to share with me?” the official demanded.

“Not yet. Maybe soon, though, ” I replied, doing my best to keep my cool. Couldn’t let The Mann get me down, after all. “And
when I do, I swear you’ll be the first to know.” Which reminded me, I had to tell Richard about this story soon so we could
schedule an airdate. He was going to be so psyched when he learned about it. Surely it’d be the best story all year.

“I hope so, ” Mr. Mann said. “Because keeping this kind of information from your government in hopes of getting a lead story
on the evening news isn’t very patriotic. Or”—he added, narrowing his eyes at me—“very legal.”

The intercom on his desk buzzed. Saved by the bell.

“Senator Gorman is here to see you, ” a female voice announced. “He says he’s ready for your golf game.”

I felt a chill spin up my spine. Not so saved after all. They were buddies? Thank goodness I hadn’t spilled my suspicions
to this guy. How deep did this corruption go?

Mr. Mann broke out into the first smile I’d seen since I entered the place. “Excellent, ” he said. “I’ll be right out.” He
shot me a pointed look. “We’re all done here.”

“You sure this is the place?” I asked as Jamie pulled the News 9 SUV down a dusty, unpaved driveway in the desert town of
Ramona. At the end of the road squatted a dilapidated trailer, its vinyl siding a dingy white. The yard around it had the
stereotypical junkyard motif going on, and there was even a faded pink flamingo standing watch over a weedy garden of cacti.

“Fourteen Meditation Road, ” he said, glancing down at the directions. “It’s got to be.”

“When Switchboard dot com said Meditation, I was kind of thinking Koi ponds and Japanese pagodas. What is this guy meditating
on—the ancient American art of white trash?”

Jamie laughed appreciatively and put the SUV in park. “You are too much, Maddy.”

Seriously though, even he had to admit, this was the weirdest twist to the drug tunnel story yet.

Yesterday, on a hunch after the DEA interview, I’d gone to the UCSD student library and hit the yearbook section. I already
knew what year Gorman went to business school there—his bio was on a billion Web sites. So I’d grabbed what would be his senior
yearbook and dragged the dusty thing over to a table.

I flipped through it, trying not to pause and check out the funny outdated hairstyles and bell-bottoms, looking for some connection.
Some tiny clue that would link Gorman, Rodriguez, and Lopez together.

Well, I found a clue all right. And it wasn’t little, either. In fact, it was downright Mr. Snuffleupagus sized.

Not only did I find a picture of all three men together, but they were wearing crowns. Celebrating the launch of their student
company. And not just any student company. A student company named Coastal Kings. The same umbrella company now owned by Rodriguez
and encompassing his car dealerships and Reardon Oil.

Even more intriguing was the fact that there was a fourth “king” in the photo. A king named Bob Reardon.

I couldn’t be more excited than if someone handed me a platinum card and pointed me to a Prada sample sale. Not only did I
now have proof all these guys knew each other, I had a completely new “who” to add to my list. A man whose last name just
happened to match the faux oil company I wanted to find out about.

I had to talk to this Reardon guy. Pronto. I had this feeling he’d know the answers to every one of my questions.

So, now we were here. Not exactly the kind of place I’d expected an MBA to hang his hat. To make matters worse, I couldn’t
find a phone number, so he had no idea we were coming. What if he was some crazed psycho?

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door swung inward. A man with a shock of white hair that made him seem
older than he probably was stared at us from behind the screen.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, hi. I’m Maddy Madison of News Nine and this is my photographer Jamie.”

The door slammed closed.

Oh-kay then. Not exactly the greeting I’d been hoping for. I banged on the door, not willing to give up.

“Mr. Reardon? I’m sorry to intrude and all, but really we just had a few questions.”

Silence.

“A, uh, few questions about Reardon Oil and Rocky Rodriguez, that is.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted
them. What the heck was I doing? What if he opened that door with a rifle and shot me to kingdom come?

The door opened and Reardon (sans gun, thank the Lord) peeked through again.

“What the hell do you want to know about Reardon Oil?” he asked.

“Please, sir.” I took a deep breath. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“You best ask Rocky. He owns Reardon Oil now. I don’t have anything to do with that shit. I got kids, you know.” He paused,
peering at me with watery blue eyes. Then he raked a hand through his already ruffled hair and sighed. “You know about it,
don’t you? That’s why you’ve come asking.”

I nodded, wondering if that was the right move. I could barely breathe.

“Right. I knew one day someone would find out. That’s why I wasn’t about to get involved with it all. I always said someday
the shit would hit the fan and when it did, my nose would be clean.”

“Can you tell us the story?” I asked.

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure ’nough I guess. Long as you make sure it’s clear I had nothing to do with anything
illegal. I don’t want the cops knocking on my door. But if this is all going to be made public in any case, might as well
have the truth on record.”

My heart pounded with excitement as he ushered us inside. This was it! He was going to tell us everything. I stole a glance
at Jamie, who still looked a little wary.

At least the interior had undergone a decent housecleaning. It was small and the furniture worn, but it was clean and smelled
like lemon-scented pledge. It could have been much worse. Like the time I did the story on Backyard Breeders and we went undercover
to a woman’s house who kept fifty dogs (literally!) in a trailer. Bleh!

“I know it ain’t much, but it’s all paid for with honest, hardworking money. Not drug money, ” said Reardon.

We sat down across from each other, him on a ratty armchair and me on the flowered couch and chatted about the weather while
Jamie set up a few lights. A few minutes later Jamie touched me on the shoulder to let me know he was rolling tape.

“So, Mr. Reardon . . .” I began.

“Bob. Call me Bob.”

“Okay, Bob.” I smiled. I was calm. I was poised. I wasn’t going to get up and run screaming from the room at the first sign
of trouble. “I wanted to talk to you a little about Coastal Kings. I understand you and three others started the company back
in college?”

“Yes. Me, Rocky, Felix, and Senator Gorman, ” he said. “Of course, Gorman wasn’t a senator then, though I think the slime
bag had political ambitions even then.” He gave a toothy grin. “The man was always a smooth talker.”