The Fixer's Daughter

by Hy Conrad

  Now, what was it she’d just promised herself? Oh, yes. MySugar. It was something she’d been putting off. Several times she’d gone to the website, which displayed cheery photos of young female models laughing alongside middle-aged male models who were cuter than any middle-aged men she’d ever met. But there was precious little you could see without inputting your own information and she’d always chickened out. What if someone she knew were to see it? And what kind of spam or other untold dangers was she opening herself up to? Just the idea that her photo, even an artfully obscured photo, would be stored here for who knows how long, with her information, even artfully misleading information… And yet there was no way to get further into the site. There was no way of seeing what Briana might have written about herself, what might have attracted the man who might have murdered her. Callie wondered if her brother had already done this. Had States Rights McFee signed up as a sugar daddy? Had his pregnant partner signed up? Both ideas made her giggle.

  Callie brought her laptop into the kitchen and set it up on the marble island. State was at work, the kids in school and Yolanda out doing whatever she did for half the day. She took another sip from her water glass, went to the MySugar site and when she got to the registration window, suddenly remembered an email address from years ago. She had once tried to cancel this address, but it was still active. Every month or so she would check it, erase a mountain of spam and occasionally, maybe once every other month, find a message from someone she hadn’t talked to in ages.

  This little deception, using an unused email, gave her just enough confidence to start filling in the fields. She decided on a suitable screen name, Heather111, and a suitable age, twenty-one. The site asked for a headline and she wrote, “College girl open to new experiences. First time.” She spent the next few minutes pulling back her distinctive hair into a bun – it was a stringy mess today, anyway – and taking a suitable selfie, something alluring, she hoped, something that realistically took off five years, with her face strategically in the shadows. The site was free for sugar babies, which made sense since the girls were the ones without the money, so there was no need for her to divulge a credit card number.

  MySugar required a personal description as well as an outline of what Callie was looking for. She tried to mimic what Briana might have said – an out-of-state student, a little lonely here in Austin, looking for mature companionship as a way to defray expenses and even become spoiled. On her daddy request, she tried to keep things open. She didn’t mind a married man, she wrote. And she was attracted to all races. Callie had no illusion of actually finding Briana’s daddy. And how would she know if she did? But she had to do something.

  Without stopping to think, she pressed “JOIN”, and was almost relieved when it didn’t go through. A line of red letters popped up. “Please designate your SUGAR PREFERENCE.” After all that, she had neglected to choose between wanting a “sugar momma” or a “sugar daddy”. She clicked the “daddy” button then instantly had misgivings. What could she possibly have to learn from joining? And what if her father found out? Or worse, Yolanda.

  Callie was still mulling it over, her finger poised over the mouse – join or not – when the doorbell rang. Thankful for the diversion, she walked into the entry hall and didn’t bother to check the peephole.

  It took her a few seconds to recognize the young, fleshy woman standing on the porch. “Nicole?” Back in their intern days, Nicole had dyed her hair red. It had come out a dark auburn, not the same shade as Callie’s. That had never been the intent, but it was flattering just the same, both to Callie’s ego and Nicole’s skin tone. Since then, Nicole had let her hair revert to its natural, mousy brown and had it cut shorter, framing her face. “Hi. Wow!” Callie was taken aback. “I’ve been meaning to call. How did you know I was in town?”

  Nicole seemed puzzled by the question. “Last night.” Callie didn’t react. “You called me in the middle of the night. We talked for like an hour. What are you saying? You don’t remember?”

  “I called you? Really?” Callie laughed. “I have absolutely no memory. It must have been the Ambien.”

  “We talked like forever. About your dad. About us. How much you missed the two of us working at the station. Were you drunk, Callie, is that it?”

  “No.” She pronounced it like a three-syllable word. “But I may have been asleep. I know that sounds crazy, but you hear about people taking Ambien and then walking around or getting into conversations. God, in the middle of the night? I am not taking that again. Nicole, I’m so sorry. Come on in.” She moved aside and ushered her friend inside.

  “You asked me to come over today. If this is a bad time…”

  “It sort of is.” She immediately regretted it. “I mean, no. I was in the middle of something, but I’m being a total, total ass. I mean, I wake you up just to blabber and then you come all this way . . . Come in, come in.” Nicole protested but at the same time followed Callie into the living room, stepping around a minefield of toys along the way. “Can I get you something? A lemonade or iced tea or some coffee?”

  “A Coke, if you have it. Not Diet. Hate the taste.”

  “I remember. One Coke it is.” Retreating into the kitchen, she kept up a barrage of small talk, just to fill the air. “What are you up to? You probably told me last night, so I apologize. Are you still at KXAN? Do you want ice with that?” If Nicole had heard her or was talking back, she couldn’t tell. Callie moved as quickly as possible, taking the last can of Coke from the wet bar and filling a water glass with ice. To make her own drink look a little more like water, she added ice cubes and a straw then brought the can and both glasses into the living room. “You wanted ice with it, right?”

  “Thanks.” Nicole poured her Coke over the ice, all the while keeping focused on Callie. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. You know, there’s all the stress of coming home and then my new job.” Callie averted her eyes. “Did I happen to say anything about my job – like the stories I’m working on?”

  “No, not much.” Callie was relieved. “You were mostly going on about your dad and your pain-in-the-ass boss.” Nicole’s face brightened. “Oh, speaking of jobs, I’m a segment producer now. Evening news. I know I told you that last night, but…”

  “Hey, congratulations.” Callie smiled and sipped and wondered how far she would have gone at the station in those same three years had she not said what she’d said, live on air. Her very first time on air, a trial run, to see if the famous man’s daughter could make the transition from assistant editor to on-air talent.

  It had been a standard puff piece on Barton Pharmaceuticals, a local company that was expanding right here in Austin. The company spokesperson mentioned to Callie, just in passing, that the stock was worth twenty times what it used to be. And Callie, also just in passing, trying to put a personal spin on the story, mentioned that their father had given her and her brother stock in Barton Pharmaceuticals a few years ago for Christmas, old-fashioned stock certificates hidden in a big box of tissue paper. It had seemed like a peculiar Christmas present at the time, but in hindsight… In hindsight, what a gift! And from that innocuous anecdote, the trouble began. One thing led to another, led to Callie’s testimony in a closed-door session with federal prosecutors, led to Lawrence “Buddy” McFee’s disgrace and resignation.

  “You’re not looking too good.” The words had come blurting out. Nicole instinctively covered her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry. But you really don’t.” And this from a woman who was always twenty pounds overweight and used to mimic Callie’s hair and clothes and everything else about her.

  Callie ran a hand through her curls. Maybe tonight she would wash her hair. “You caught me at one of those moments.” She tried not to glance at her water glass. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “You’re taking Ambien, you said? My grandmother takes Ambien.”

  “This piece I’m working on… Kind of stressful.”

  “I get it.
” Nicole looked away. “Hey, maybe we should do a raincheck.”

  They agreed that a raincheck might work best. Callie promised to call her when things weren’t quite so stressed. Perhaps a nice brunch at Tommy on the Lake. Nicole had heard of the place and said she looked forward to relaxing and catching up. Callie promised to call. Soon. Maybe next weekend. It would be fun.

  Callie waved good-bye from the front porch, water glass in hand, then retreated back inside and got as far as the living room before collapsing onto the sofa. After digging an ounce or two of Fruit Loops from between the cushions, she fell soundly asleep.

  When she woke up, Yolanda was standing over her and what sounded like a pair of juvenile car alarms were screeching through the house. Larry and Brad had returned after a long day of school, ready to reclaim their territory. “What is this?” Yolanda held up the water glass and glared over the rim. Callie thought she was about to be reprimanded for not using a coaster. “Bradley almost drank this. My son almost drank this.”

  Her sister-in-law’s sanctimonious tone brought out Callie’s belligerence. “Did he drink it or not?”

  “He could have. He was sniffing it.” Yolanda lowered her voice but not her energy. “What the hell are you doing, drinking in the daytime. With a straw, no less? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I’m working from home.”

  Yolanda grunted. “This is work for you, really? Sleeping on the couch and drinking?”

  “Mom!” came a voice. “Larry’s playing with Aunt Callie’s computer.”

  “Am not. I’m just looking at it.”

  “Whatever you two are doing, stop it. Stop it now.” Yolanda handed Callie the glass then marched toward the kitchen.

  It took Callie longer than it should have to piece together the situation. If Yolanda got this upset when one of her boys sniffed a glass of watered-down wine, what would her reaction be… “No, no, no,” she moaned then tried to get up. A pounding sensation surged through her head and on her first step, she realized that one of her legs, the one tucked underneath, was asleep. She hobbled through the throbbing and the stinging. But she was too late.

  Yolanda had already shooed the boys away from the laptop. “My Sugar?” she asked but it wasn’t really a question. “Welcome to My Sugar,” she read. “Let’s take the first step in finding you a sugar daddy.” Yolanda scanned the photos and text then looked up from the screen, eyes wide. “Is this your new career goal? Finding a sugar daddy? Good lord, Callie. Good lord!”

  “I want sugar,” Larry bellowed. “Mom, can I have a cookie?”

  “We’re not supposed to have sugar,” Brad reprimanded him. They were fraternal twins, not at all alike, even at the tender age of five.

  “But the computer says…”

  “Boys, go up to your room,” Yolanda said in a voice that no sane person would argue with. “Now.” And the boys scurried off.

  Callie grabbed the laptop away from Yolanda. “Did he press ‘join?’ Oh, my God, your son pressed ‘join’. Why? Why did he press ‘join?’”

  “Because it says sugar. ‘Do you want some sugar?’. He wanted sugar.”

  “You mean they can read?”

  “They can read ‘sugar,’ yes. It’s on everything I won’t buy them at the store.”

  “I wasn’t serious, for God’s sake. I just need to get information. For a story.”

  “A story about hookers and sugar daddies?” Yolanda scowled. “Does the story also involve daytime drinking and sleeping on the couch?”

  “I can’t believe your stupid son pressed the button.”

  “My sons are not stupid.”

  “Sorry.” Callie tried to back it up. “Yolie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Look, you can ask State about the website. He knows.”

  “You’ve been discussing sugar daddies with my husband? Your own brother? Callie, I need you out of my house. Now. Today. Seriously. I don’t care where the heck you go.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Callie hated it when people stood in her cubicle while she reviewed their work. She felt uncomfortable and put on the spot, which was probably how they felt, although they could avoid it all by going away and coming back later, damn it. She kept her eyes on her screen, plowing through to the end of the second installment before looking up. Jennie Larson was still there, trying not to pace, looking even more uncomfortable. “So, what happened to that single father – what’s his name?” Callie scrolled back to the top of the article. “Todd Brenneman.”

  “What do you mean, what happened to him?”

  Callie did a word search in the article, just to be sure. “You have several very emotional paragraphs about him trying to get his daughter into a non-religious charter school. Very good, by the way. But we never hear from him again.”

  “His daughter didn’t get in,” Jennie said. “I thought I made that clear. Page two.”

  “You did, except we still need a follow-up. Did she adjust any better to the public school? Is Brenneman happy or sad or angry? Is he going to try again?”

  “I thought about that, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with the direction of the article. It felt like a diversion.”

  Callie swiveled and looked up, ready to dispense her pearls of wisdom. “Every time you tell a personal story, the readers care, or they should. It’s how we’re wired. Is this man good or bad? Do I want his daughter in the charter school, or do I want her to stick it out in public? Is it his fault or the system’s fault? And the way you phrase whatever happened to him influences everything. It’s your viewpoint speaking without you having to state it directly, which was what you did in the last two paragraphs, state it directly, which was too much. Too much editorializing.”

  Jennie seemed to understand. “You’re saying I should cut the editorializing and replace it with a follow-up on Todd Brenneman that does the same editorializing.”

  “Evokes the same emotion, yes.”

  “Isn’t that being manipulative?” Jennie asked. “I mean, making this guy evoke my point of view?”

  “All good writing is manipulative.” Why were these things so clear for her and so foggy for others? All through her childhood, she had seen firsthand the great persuasion of language, always couched in a joke or an anecdote. “If you feel a certain way after reading a story, it’s because that’s what the writer wants. Even if you think this is some unique, subtle insight that you alone are getting, the writer has been there before you. It’s not an accident.”

  It took Jennie a moment to process this. “Thanks. I’ll rework it.” She smiled and made eye contact, then her mouth went down at the edges. “Is everything okay?”

  “With me? Yes, of course. Why do you ask?” Why did everyone ask?

  Jennie looked away. “No reason. It’s just that you seem a little, I don’t know, frazzled this morning. Sorry.”

  “You mean this?” Callie’s hand went up to her unruly mop. “I was planning to wash it last night, but the evening got away from me.” She knew that wasn’t exactly what Jennie meant, but it gave both of them an easy out.

  “I know how that happens.” Jennie spoke evenly, without judgment. Good for her.

  “I’m fine, Jennie, really.”

  “Callie?” It was Billy, one of the interns, arriving at the mouth of her cubicle. He glanced at Jennie then lowered his voice. “There’s a detective here to see you.”

  She had been expecting this. State had called her three times last night and twice this morning. She could tell them right now that the detective was her brother. That’s all she needed to say. State himself could have explained that much to Billy when he walked in but had evidently chosen not to. “Oh, yes, the homicide cop. I was wondering when he’d come looking for me.” Billy’s face grew ashen and Jennie’s eyes dilated to the size of the buttons on her Ferragamo jacket. “If you guys will give us a few minutes alone…”

  Both muttered in the affirmative and rushed away. It had been a cruel little trick, easy to correct, and not re
ally her fault. Her brother had started it. “Detective,” she said as State strode into view. “Is this about last night?”

  “Why aren’t you answering my calls?” State said, his gaze shifting to the neighboring cubicles.

  “Are you here to explain why your wife kicked me out of the house?”

  “Jesus.” He held out his hands and lowered his voice. “Do you know how that sounds?”

  “I know exactly.”

  “Can we discuss this somewhere private, okay? Please?”

  Oliver’s office was the only part of the Free Press with four walls and a door. He was inside, on his computer, so they couldn’t ask him to leave. The best alternative was a stairwell connecting the building’s two floors. “Are you okay?” State asked as he closed the door. His voice echoed in the empty space. “I thought you might have gone home.”

  “You mean to the ranch? Oh, no. That’s the last place. I’d sooner sleep under a bridge.”

  “I think Dad would like having you home.”

  “You’re living in a fantasy. I spent the night at Briana’s.”

  “Is that a friend?”

  “Briana, your homicide victim.”

  State winced. “Ms. Crawley. I didn’t make the connection.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of options. Sherry Ann’s couch is just as comfortable as yours.”

  “So, you just called and asked to move in? That was nice of her.”

  “Very nice,” Callie said. “Although I did hint that your wife kicked me out due to my investigation of your investigation – which is true, basically.”

  “You get it from him, you know that? Your talent for spinning.”

  Callie ignored this. “Briana’s mother is using the other bedroom, but the living room has a pull-out couch, not as private as yours, but it’ll do for a few nights.”

  “I’m sorry about Yolanda,” he said. “I tried to explain about you and the sugar site.”