4 Shot Off The Presses

by Amanda M. Lee

  So much for playing nice – or even faking it.

  “You’d have to ask him about that,” I replied, dunking my toast in my eggs enthusiastically. “I can set up a meeting if you want.”

  “I already have a meeting with him set for tomorrow,” Christine said smugly. “I have a few concerns regarding your coverage that I want to discuss with him.”

  If she thought that was going to bug me, she was wrong. Fish was many things, but loyal was at the top of the list – right above trapped in the 1970s fashion cycle. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “You do?”

  “I do,” I said. “I think you’ll find that Fish might have a few things to tell you about how a newspaper and the coverage he selects work.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Eliot agreed.

  It wouldn’t be fun for Christine. I could pretty much guarantee that.

  Nineteen

  Christine made a polite – if hasty – retreat when she realized I couldn’t be goaded in the way she initially thought. I took the move as a way for her to regroup. I knew she wouldn’t give up, but I figured she’d plan a different tactic for our next meeting.

  Once she was gone, Jake let loose a genuine sigh of relief.

  “Why are you having breakfast with her?”

  “She thought it would be a good idea if we spent some time together in a casual atmosphere,” Jake said. “She thinks we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “There is no good footing for a spy.”

  “Yeah, she doesn’t seem to get that,” Jake agreed. He watched me down my glass of tomato juice while grimacing. “That’s gross.”

  “It’s good,” I countered.

  “It’s the only way she eats anything even remotely healthy,” Eliot said. “I encourage it.”

  “So,” Jake said after a few beats. “What are you really doing today?”

  “I’m taking her to the gun range,” Eliot said. “She wants to get a feeling for the shooter.”

  “Don’t let her shoot a gun,” Jake cautioned. “That could be dangerous.”

  “I’m the one that taught her to shoot a gun,” Eliot reminded him.

  Jake frowned at the memory. “That’s how you guys met. I forgot. She bought a gun in your store.”

  “Yep,” Eliot agreed. “It’s all been downhill since then.”

  I kicked him under the table.

  “What happened to that gun?” Jake asked suddenly.

  “It’s in a safe place,” I said evasively.

  “Locked up? Some place Lexie can’t find it?”

  “I said it was in a safe place,” I said irritably.

  “It’s in a Darth Vader cookie jar in her office,” Eliot explained.

  “That sounds safe,” Jake said sarcastically.

  “Lexie is about all things yoga now,” Eliot shrugged. “She can’t be all Namaste with a gun.”

  “Yeah, but she has terrible taste in men,” Jake said. “That hasn’t changed, has it?”

  “Not in the least.”

  After breakfast, Eliot drove us to the gun range. This was only the second time I had been there and I was no less amazed to see the amount of people that managed to congregate there instead of at work.

  “Don’t these people have jobs?” I asked Eliot when we entered the building.

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe they can just set their schedule like you can.”

  “That seems unlikely,” I glanced around. “It’s like a Duck Dynasty convention.”

  “You like Duck Dynasty.”

  “I did at first,” I corrected him. “Now they’re setting up too many scenarios.”

  “It’s a television show.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s supposed to have some basis in reality, though. Everything on the show is scripted now.”

  Eliot led the way to the front desk, greeting the clerk with a familiarity that didn’t exactly surprise me but did catch me a little off-guard. “Hey Randall,” he said to the fortyish man in Army green behind the counter. “Is Terry around?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the back,” Randall answered, glancing in my direction. “Who is this? Is this the girlfriend we’ve been hearing so much about?”

  I saw that Eliot had reddened a little at Randall’s question. “This is Avery.”

  “What does he say about me?” I asked Randall curiously.

  “He says you’re a wonderful woman,” Randall said stiffly. He clearly realized he’d made a mistake.

  “I’m sure,” I said, rolling my eyes at Eliot. “I bet he told you what a great cook I am.”

  “Yes,” Randall agreed. “Said you made him dinner every night.”

  Eliot groaned behind me. “And that I was an immaculate house keeper, too, right?” I pressed on.

  “He said you’re a cleaning dynamo,” Randall said energetically. “There’s no toilet you can’t scrub.”

  “And that I’m a total honey in the sack, too, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re very bendy. Wait. No. No. He didn’t say anything like that.” Randall was getting flustered now.

  “It’s alright, Randall,” Eliot sighed. “She’s just messing with you.”

  “That’s that weird sense of humor you were talking about,” Randall laughed hollowly.

  “We’ll be in the back.” Eliot grabbed my arm and led me towards the gun range. “You’re just mean sometimes.”

  “I can’t help it,” I shrugged. “He looked like such an easy mark.”

  “Just keep in mind, everyone isn’t as easy as Randall,” Eliot cautioned as he paused at the door that led from the store to the gun range. “And don’t call them gun nuts. They’re not going to like that.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Eliot cocked an eyebrow.

  “Fine. I’m not that stupid.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  A gun range, I’ve decided, is just like a spa for men. Instead of getting pedicures and steams, though, it’s a place where they can boast and be manly together. It’s just a gossip session – with firearms – for men.

  Eliot led me to the far end of the range where a tall man, dressed in black pants and a USMC shirt was loading his weapon. Eliot was in good shape – built – but this guy looked like he could pop Eliot’s head off his shoulders without breaking a sweat. His neck was as wide as my thighs (which aren’t dainty, mind you) and the veins in his arm were pronounced.

  The man looked up when he caught the hint of movement we provided out of the corner of his eyes and then his face, which has previously resembled a pissed off Doberman, broke into a wide smile. “Hey Kane. What are you doing here? Getting in some target practice?”

  “Not exactly,” Eliot said, clasping hands with the behemoth in a friendly manner. “I’m actually helping Avery.”

  The man looked me up and down, never losing his smile. “This is her, huh? You didn’t say she was so cute.”

  “What did he say?” I asked curiously.

  “He just said you were blonde and sassy. I’m Terry Sherman, by the way.”

  I shook his hand. “Avery Shaw.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ever since I heard you were dating Eliot here, I started reading your stories in The Monitor.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you think?”

  “I think you’re good,” Terry said.

  He didn’t strike me as a literary critic, so I let that slide. “Well, I’m always glad to have a fan.” That was kind of an awkward statement. I wanted to take it back the minute I said it. Terry didn’t seem bothered by it, though.

  “Well, I’m definitely a fan then.”

  “We’re actually here for your help, Terry,” Eliot said.

  “My help?” Terry looked surprised. “On what?”

  “Have you heard about the freeway shootings?”

  “Yeah,” Terry nodded. “You don’t think I had anything to do with them do you?”

  “No,” Eliot shook his head quickly. “We’re more interested in your take on the
difficulty of the shots.”

  “I don’t know enough about them to offer an opinion,” Terry said honestly.

  “I know,” Eliot said. “That’s why I brought some visual aids.”

  Eliot opened the file he had been carrying and placed a series of aerial photos on the table next to Terry. The bridges were highlighted on them – and the location of the cars when the shots were believed to be fired was also circled in red. I was surprised.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “I told you I had errands to run last night.”

  “Where does one run an errand that garners them these? And at night?”

  “I’ve got a whole network of people you don’t know about little miss busybody,” Eliot said.

  Terry picked up the pictures and considered them for a few minutes. “This is the one on the Cass Bridge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How busy was the traffic pattern?”

  “Fairly busy,” Eliot said. “It wasn’t rush hour, though. There were still cars around.”

  “And it wasn’t dark, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What about this one?”

  “That’s the 12 Mile overpass,” Eliot said. “That one was during rush hour and it was dark. Not really dark at the time of the shooting, but it was dusk.”

  “Do we know if specific cars were targeted?” Terry asked.

  Eliot slid a sidelong glance in my direction. “We believe, at least in the 12 Mile shooting, that a specific target was probably in mind.”

  “We don’t know that, though,” I corrected him.

  “I’m not going to get into that right now,” Eliot said firmly.

  Terry glanced at both of us but didn’t acknowledge our little exchange. “I would say that the 12 Mile shot was actually relatively easy.”

  “Really?” Eliot looked surprised.

  “It’s a straight shot without any curves for at least a mile. And, even though it was dark, that whole area is lit up pretty well because of all the billboards and the big stores on either side of the freeway.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Eliot mused.

  “The Cass shot was also pretty easy,” Terry continued. “It was broad daylight. If it wasn’t a specific shot and just a crime of opportunity, that puts it in the simple realm.”

  “What about the Oakland shot?” I asked.

  “I’m not as familiar with that area,” Terry admitted. “Off the top of my head, though, that’s a pretty open area.”

  “So, you’re saying that whoever is doing this doesn’t necessarily have to be a pro,” Eliot said.

  “That would be my guess. Do you know what kind of weapon is being used?”

  “The cops aren’t releasing that,” I replied.

  “Figures.” Terry continued studying the pictures. “If you’re thinking military, I think you’re overreaching.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if this was a military trained sniper, I think he’d be going for harder targets,” Terry said simply. “This is like an adult playing Candyland.”

  “So, you’re thinking someone with reasonable gun knowledge but not the ability to take the hard shot?” I asked.

  “Pretty much,” Terry said.

  “Like a hunter,” Eliot mused.

  “Exactly like a hunter,” Terry agreed. “Exactly like a hunter. Only his prey is people.”

  Twenty

  Once we were done at the range, I had Eliot drop me off at The Monitor with a promise that I would call him for a ride back to his place when I was done. I hadn’t planned to go into the office at all, but I wanted to run some things by Fish.

  “This mother hen thing is starting to get old,” I told him as I jumped out of his truck.

  “Yeah, well you wouldn’t be saying that if you were dead on the street,” Eliot shot back.

  “If I was dead on the street, I wouldn’t be saying anything,” I pointed out.

  “Knowing you, you’d still find a way.”

  When I got into the office, I found Fish first and told him what I had found out. He took in the information like he always did, like he was bored and only half listening. “So, we’re looking for someone that doesn’t necessarily have military experience but knows their way around a gun?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Unless someone is trying to cover up that they have military experience and they’re doing it by going for easier shots,” Fish suggested.

  “That’s a possibility,” I ceded.

  Fish turned to Brick, who was leaning against the cubicles watching us. “What do you think, Killer?”

  Killer? What a fun nickname. Or not.

  Brick smiled at Fish and flashed an impatient glance in my direction. “I think that people are always eager to blame the military. I think it’s like a sickness with some people.”

  “Except I just said it probably wasn’t someone with military experience,” I shot back.

  “Unless it’s someone with military experience trying to pretend they don’t,” Brick corrected me.

  “He said that,” I pointed to Fish.

  “You agreed with him.”

  “You just don’t like women,” I grumbled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I like women fine.”

  When he was nailing them in the parking lot. I didn’t say that out loud, though. As much as I disliked Brick, I wasn’t about to tattle on him to the boss – unless he really pissed me off and I was backed into a corner.

  “Why do you think he doesn’t like women?” Fish asked curiously.

  “I just heard he was on his second divorce,” I explained quickly. “And he didn’t have anything nice to say about his soon-to-be ex-wife.”

  “Why should I?” Brick challenged me. “She told me she wanted to smother me in my sleep.”

  “I’ve met you,” I replied. “I can see the inclination.”

  “She also took my kids from me and none of them are talking to me right now,” Brick charged on. “She’s got them drinking the Kool-Aid. Do you think that’s right?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Are any of them girls? And what kind of Kool-Aid are we talking about? That blue stuff is pretty good.”

  “Two of them are girls. What’s that’s supposed to mean?” Brick looked like he was on edge – and I had a mad desire to push him over it to see what happened.

  “I wouldn’t let young, impressionable girls hang around you either.”

  I glanced at Fish; he looked distinctly uncomfortable with the conversation. He wasn’t telling me to shut my mouth, though, which meant he was also interested in hearing Brick’s response.

  “I’m a good father.”

  “Then why would she want your kids away from you?”

  “Because she’s a vindictive bitch,” Brick snapped back.

  “Why would she be vindictive?” I was trying to get him to talk about Chelsea.

  “She thought I was cheating on her,” Brick said, regaining some of the calm he had momentarily displaced. “Which I wasn’t.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Because she was spying on my Facebook account.”

  “If you didn’t have anything to hide, why would you call it spying?”

  “Do you want your boyfriend – or girlfriend, I guess, given your attitude – going through your Facebook account?”

  “I don’t think my boyfriend – why would you think I’m a lesbian, by the way – would give a crap about the gossiping I do with my cousins,” I replied tartly.

  “You’re a mean woman,” Brick said. “I just assumed that meant you were a lesbian.”

  I glanced at Fish to see what he thought of the statement, but he was steadfastly studying his computer screen and pretending the conversation wasn’t happening. Coward.

  “Have you ever considered women are only mean when they deal with you?” I asked pointedly, turning my attention away from Fish and back to Brick.

  “That’s what
my wife said, but she’s not too bright, so I didn’t really believe it.”

  She would have to be slow to marry him. “Well, I would revisit the statement and do some soul-searching.”

  “Or maybe it’s you.”

  I cringed when I heard the voice. Duncan. Of course he would get involved in this conversation. “Duncan, don’t you have something else you should be doing? Like a dirty job or something?”

  Fish lifted his head. “Speaking of that,” he started. “Avery said that’s not an original idea and you saw it on television.”

  Duncan flashed me an irritated look. “That doesn’t mean it’s still not a good idea and I would be tying it to jobs in the county.”

  “It sounds like a waste of time to me,” I said airily. “This is a community newspaper. These stupid features you keep dreaming up are just a drain on manpower.”

  “They get a lot of hits on the website,” Duncan countered, his weasel-like eyes narrowing in my direction. He thinks he looks like Tom Cruise, but it’s more like he looks like Tom Cruise’s cousin – the one that’s been locked in a basement to keep him away from people for a decade.

  “Your family clicking on your stories doesn’t count,” I shot back.

  “I got a thousand hits on my last extreme sports column,” Duncan said. “Tell her, Fred.”

  “He got a thousand hits on his last extreme sports column,” Fish mimicked Duncan.

  “Wasn’t that on in-line skating?”

  “So?”

  “How is that an extreme sport? Little kids learn to do it when they’re five. Your extreme ego column was nothing but a joke,” I continued. “We all thought it. We talked about it all the time.”

  “That’s not true.” Duncan looked to Fish for confirmation.

  “It was pretty stupid,” Fish said finally. “And I can’t help but agree that we need you to start covering more community news. I’m going to let you do the dirty jobs thing, but you only get one day a week to do it. That’s going on the job with them and writing the story. No overtime.”

  “That’s not enough time,” Duncan whined.

  “Yeah? Well you took an entire week to write each of those extreme ego – I mean extreme sports – stories,” Fish countered. “It was a total waste of time. That’s the offer, take it or leave it.”