Meyer didn’t question my panic. He ordered his two men to go investigate, then watched the action on the monitors.
“I’m sorry to be abrupt, Mrs. Meyer,” Rod said into the phone, “but I really—”
I yanked the phone out of his hand and hung it up. “Val Boyle’s cousin is here,” I whispered. “He may know the police are after me. We have to run.”
Rod giggled.
I put a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s going to be okay, but we have about five seconds to think of an excuse for Meyer.”
“No matter what, it’s going to look suspicious,” Rod said. “But you should say as little as possible. People see right through you.”
I whipped my hand away. “I may be bad at telling lies, but you’re bad at coming up with them.”
“Then you come up with the lie and I’ll tell it.”
“Fine. Say we got an emergency call about breaking news. Make it some huge thing and we have to race to the scene.”
“Oh, that is smart.” His smile faded. “But I don’t have my cell phone. Bud took it.”
“Meyer won’t know.” I pulled Rod out of the office.
Meyer heard us and turned around. “Everything okay? You two look a little shook up?”
“Got an emergency call about breaking news,” Rod said. “Hazmat situation at an orphanage. They think it might be some kind of toxic gas.” We both moved toward the door. “We’re so sorry to run out of here, but it’s a huge story.”
I pulled Rod outside. “Bye. Thanks for everything. It’s fastest if we go out the back where our car is.” We hurried across the dirt lot. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the Honda entering the open gate behind us. “Hurry.” I started running and Rod joined me. We sprinted around the side of the main building. On the back side of the property we found the hole in the fence and crawled through.
We jumped in the Fury and sped away. Out on the main road, I watched in the rearview mirror, but no one followed us. I relaxed a little.
“Do you know what happened to Bud?” I asked.
“No. I was walking out to the main road to find a pay phone when that SUV almost ran me over. I thought there might be trouble and doubled back, but I never saw Bud.”
“We’ll go to the restaurant and see if he turns up.” I waited a moment, then took the plunge. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
I kept my gaze on the road and didn’t look at him. “Coming in and saving me instead of running away and saving yourself.”
“Anyone would have done the same.”
I wasn’t so sure. Rod had put his reputation, his career, and himself in jeopardy. Most people would need a big payoff to attempt something so risky.
“Fortunately we’re no worse for wear.” He paused. “You do still have the tape?”
“In here.” I pulled it out of my pocket. “Check and make sure it wasn’t damaged when they tackled me.”
He removed the tape from its protective case and held it up to the dashboard light. “Looks fine.”
“Good. And we’re actually better off. I discovered what Sonoran Fancy is.”
“Really?” He slipped the tape inside his suit coat. “I’m betting drugs. Bud said pot, right?”
I almost asked for the tape back, but feared such a strong statement of mistrust would be hurtful. “Nuts.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sonoran Fancy is a kind of almond. If Val Boyle sold an entire semi full of the stuff, then he potentially had five hundred thousand dollars on him when he was killed.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I said. “And that’s not all. The almonds belonged to none other than Leland Warner—and I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who appreciates getting robbed.”
“Wow.” Rod’s voice sounded light and upbeat. “We got Sinclair’s phone number and solved the mystery of the Sonoran Fancy.”
My eyes glanced from the road to his smiling face. “What do you mean we got Sinclair’s number?”
Rod pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket. “Meyer gave it to me. Off-the-record, of course.”
FIFTEEN
The Top Hat Café turned out to be exactly where and what Bud had described. English and Spanish holiday greetings filled the windows. Inside, families with kids filled slightly worn green booths and maintained a constant hum of conversation and laughter.
The hostess greeted us with a friendly smile. “We stop serving dinner at ten, but I can still get you in.”
Rod looked around. “We’re looking for the bar.”
She gestured to our right. “Through there.”
We entered and had to pause to allow our eyes to adjust. Candles flickered on small tables, and soft, low light came from green lamps hung overhead. The walls were alternately covered in a silky, green fabric and beige tile bearing the image of a martini glass. I suspected that on closer inspection the fabric would be soiled and the tile chipped, but from a distance it looked swank.
A large group of office workers sat around a small table in the corner, but the bar itself was empty. Rod and I each took a seat on worn but comfortable red stools.
The bartender took a break from filling a jar with candy canes. He was Latino, with gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. “What can I get for a pair of sweethearts tonight?”
Rod glanced at me.
Drinking was the last thing I wanted to do, but Bud had said to blend in. “One tequila shooter. No chaser.”
The bartender turned to Rod. “And for you?”
He hesitated, then said, “A cosmo, please.”
“Only take a minute.” The bartender ambled down the bar to make our drinks.
Rod gestured to the jukebox. “How about some music?”
I shrugged, but the bartender said, “Great idea.”
Rod crossed the room and peered into the glass case where the songs were listed. “Hey, they’ve got Culture Club. I used to love them.”
“Please, no,” I begged. “I can’t handle Boy George tonight.”
“How about Joni Mitchell?”
I sighed. “Okay.”
Rod put money in the machine and pressed some numbers.
The music started slow and dreamy, and Joni’s older, deeper voice sang “At Last.”
Rod returned to his stool. “You look relieved.”
“I was expecting a song about being miserable. It’s been too rough a day for that.”
“Hey,” the bartender called while yanking the cocktail shaker back and forth. “Why don’t you dance with your boyfriend? A nice handsome boy and a nice romantic song like this—don’t waste it.”
Rod leaned toward me. “He’ll get suspicious if we don’t.”
“Not a chance.”
Rod took off his suit jacket and placed it on the stool next to him. He glanced down the bar, then whispered, “It might help us blend in.”
“I don’t think so.”
The bartender brought us the drinks, winked, and retreated.
Rod lifted his martini glass. “Here’s mud in your eye.”
I touched the tip of my shooter to his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” I swallowed half my liquor while Rod took a sip of his.
He set the glass back down and straightened his tie so it went smoothly into his vest. “Do you think it’ll take Bud long to get here?”
“It depends on what happened to him. But he’s the kind of guy who always has a backup plan. Maybe the SUV picked him up.”
“He’s quite a character.” Rod laughed. “Half the time I have no idea what he’s saying.”
“When I was a kid, I thought he was making phrases up as he went along.”
“There’s an episode of Star Trek, Next Generation, not the original,” Rod explained. “Captain Picard gets stranded on a planet with a member of an alien race and they can’t understand each other’s language. It turns out the alien’s language is based on metaphor, and if you don’t know the stories the metaphor is based on, yo
u can’t understand it.” He smiled. “That’s what being with Bud is like.”
“I think that’s the first time Bud’s ever been compared to a character from Star Trek.”
Rod took another sip of his drink. “I have the DVD, if you ever want to watch.”
I pulled back and stared. “Are you a Trekkie?”
“Absolutely. Star Trek is a gateway drug.”
“Gateway to what?”
“Science fiction and then fantasy, and then one day you turn into a hard-core tweaker and graduate to manga.”
I looked at the bar, then back at Rod. “I would not have thought that about you.”
He picked up his cosmo and took a bigger drink. “What about you? What do you like?”
“Mysteries, I guess.”
“I’m open to reading a mystery.”
“You say it like you’re agreeing to move in with me.”
He held up a hand. “Hey, it’s a big step. I’ve been on a steady diet of science fiction since I was a teenager.”
The door opened and we both turned, hoping to see Bud. Instead an older man in a rumpled suit shuffled in and took a seat on the opposite end of the bar.
I raised my shooter to Rod and offered a toast. “To Uncle Bud.”
He tapped my glass. “Uncle Bud.”
I swallowed the rest of the liquor. I wasn’t drunk or even tipsy, but I did feel a whole lot more relaxed.
“Is he literally your uncle?” Rod took a sip. “He seems too old. And why does he call you Little Sister?”
“I think it’s a Southern expression, but I am the younger sister in my family.”
“So that’s your permanent label?”
“Something like that. And technically he’s my half uncle. He and my father were born decades apart to different mothers.” I couldn’t suppress a knowing smile.
Rod noticed. “What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. You’re not telling me something.”
I shook my head, but contradicted myself by giggling. “There’s a kind of rumor. I don’t know.”
Rod scooted closer. “What?”
“My sister told me once, but she’s not reliable.”
“About Bud?”
I nodded.
“What is it? You have to tell me.”
“It’s possible …he might be my uncle and my grandfather.”
Rod recoiled. “What?”
“Not by incest. Nothing gross. Just sleazy.” I laughed. “My grandfather was an old man when he married his much younger second wife. He died of a heart attack before my dad was born.”
“And?”
“My sister said she heard something once.”
“What did she hear?”
I covered my eyes and giggled again. “That Bud got busy with his pretty, young widowed stepmother.”
Rod’s jaw dropped. “And got her pregnant?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does your grandma say?”
“She died when my dad was still a little boy.”
Rod’s eyes practically bulged out. “Wow.”
“I can’t believe I told you that. I’ve never told anybody that. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s great. The biggest secret we’ve got in my family is that Uncle Arthur blames his farts on the dog.”
I laughed. “My dad would kill me if he knew I repeated that story. It’s probably not even true.”
“I won’t tell him, I promise.”
I laughed, but this time it was softer and a little more awkward. “He passed away.”
Rod’s smile faded. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I took it bad, but it’s fine now.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen. He worked in the oil fields and there was an accident. Just one of those things.”
“It must have been terrible.”
“After it happened, I messed up …everything. I couldn’t keep a job and I ran up credit-card debt. Those years were bad. My mom and I fought all the time. She kept trying to sue the oil company because they wouldn’t pay dad’s insurance. It was very stressful on her and I didn’t help.”
“Why wouldn’t they pay?”
“I don’t know. They said some stuff. . . . I guess I didn’t want to know. I thought I was moving on, but all I did was screw up.” I traced a circle around the rim of the empty shot glass. “Then my friend Jake got me on at KJAY.”
“He was chief photog, right?”
“Eventually. He left before you got here. You would have liked him. Everybody likes him.”
Rod nodded. “I’ve heard.”
“We were old friends from high school. He vouched for me to Trent, got me on part-time. Everything got better after that.”
As if reading my thoughts, Rod said, “I’m sure Trent will hire you back. We’ll get everything straightened out and he’ll have to hire you back.”
“Thanks.”
Rod took another drink.
The silence was verging on uncomfortable so I blurted out, “Now it’s your turn to tell me a secret.”
“I’m a Trekkie. There isn’t much else.”
“How about your name?”
“Rod Strong?”
“No, your real name.”
Rod fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He opened it and showed me his driver’s license. “See for yourself.”
I read the name out loud. “Roderick Strong?”
“It’s true no one ever called me Rod until I came to Bakersfield. Trent said it would be better on the air.”
“What did they call you before?”
“Roddy.”
“Roddy,” I repeated.
“Feel free to call me that. I like it better.” He returned the wallet to his pocket. “Why did you think my name was fake?”
“Anchors do that, change their names.”
He shook his head. “I’m not an anchor.”
“But you want to be.”
He laughed, but shook his head again. “No, I don’t.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“Do you want to stay a reporter?”
Rod’s face contorted in horror. “No. Ideally I’d like to be a producer, but I’d take almost anything that’s not on camera.”
“Then why are you reporting?”
“Trent advertised for a producer, but when I interviewed, he said I needed experience out in the field first.”
My face scrunched up and caused my black eye to hurt. “What?”
“All my experience is from schools and universities. Don’t get me wrong, getting a doctorate in communications is an enormous amount of work, and I’m an excellent journalist, but I always managed to avoid working in the real world. I was afraid if I didn’t take Trent’s offer, I’d end up a professional student.” Rod shook his head. “It’s been hard reporting. I don’t have a natural talent for it.”
I thought back to the way Rod acted on assignment: the nervous giggling, the endless talking with people before the interview—almost as if he was stalling. “Do you have stage fright?”
He took a large gulp of his drink. “Please don’t tell anyone. It’s so humiliating. I say I need time alone in the van to work on my hair, but I’m usually in there hyperventilating.”
“But you were great just now with all the security guards.”
“That’s completely different. When the camera’s on, I’m a basket case.”
“I’m so sorry.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You should have told me. I thought you were a jerk.”
“I know.”
I paused. “What do you mean, you know?”
“I told you, you’re easy to read. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s pretty much written all over your face.”
I looked down at the bar. How many times had I hurt his feelings without even knowing I was doing it?
Rod leaned closer. “I’m not com
plaining about that. I grew up in Hollywood. My mom’s a producer and my dad’s a lawyer. When you meet someone who’s transparent—someone who’s not saying one thing and thinking another—you hold on, even if they think you’re a jerk.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Don’t worry. And don’t worry about my stage fright either. Trent promised me the six p.m. producer job when Susan goes on maternity leave. He’s been letting me produce the morning show with Marcie for the last month to get ready.”
I paused. “Trent told you that’s why you were shadowing Marcie?”
“Ah-huh. A friend from school put in a good word for me at KTLA and I got offered a job on the assignment desk. Trent promised that if I stayed in Bakersfield, the next producer job was mine.”
I didn’t know who had killed Val Boyle. I didn’t know why my life had been ruined in the space of a few hours. I didn’t even know if Bud was my uncle or my grandfather, but I did know that Trent was never going to take Rod off the air, no matter what he’d promised. Rod was too much of a star for Trent to let him slip away. I was sure the next producer opening Trent had in mind would be Marcie’s morning anchor job.
“Rod,” I started, then hesitated.
“What is it? I can tell it’s bad.”
“If you’re going to get what you want, you’re going to have to be more aggressive.”
“Oh.”
“You trust people too much. You’re a smart guy and you know what you want. You need to stand up for that.”
He glanced at the jukebox. “Are you talking about work or other things too?”
“I’m talking about everything.”
He smiled. “Want to dance?”
“What? No. That’s not what I meant.”
He offered his hand. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I shook my head.
“You’re going to hurt my feelings.” His smile wasn’t wide and toothy like on TV. It curled up modestly. “Here I am following your advice, being more aggressive, putting myself out on a limb.”
I felt my cheeks getting warm and looked at the bar. “What do you want to dance with me for? Half the girls in the newsroom are in love with you. They’d probably climb over my dead body to dance with you.”
Rod’s smile faltered and he took another sip of his drink.
“What?” I said. “You know it’s true.”
A Bad Day’s Work Page 17