MELISSA: Long and skinny branches.
RODRIGO: Yeah, and they hurt a lot.
MELISSA: Where does she hit you?
RODRIGO: On the butt. Or sometimes our legs. I don’t mind for me so much, but for the littler ones, I get so scared.
MELISSA: Have you ever gone to the police?
RODRIGO: Once I did, but he just went and talked to the social worker. She lied to him. He never even came and talked to me. They said I made it up to make trouble.
MELISSA: I’m so sorry this is happening, Rodrigo. I promise you I’ll do everything I can.
She couldn’t take his story to the police. It had already been “investigated.” The police would assume she was an overeager reporter taken in by an adolescent con man. Which was a possibility. He sounded sincere to her—scared and traumatized—but she had to keep an open mind. His story might not be true. If it was, she had to find proof.
Rodrigo’s foster family lived in Fern Acres. It was one of the worst neighborhoods in town. It was also where she’d grown up. When she’d first come back to San Gabriel, the last thing she wanted to do was visit her old neighborhood. But she’d forced herself to, bearing business cards, for the sake of future news tips. Now it was time for another trip.
As she walked to the far corner of the parking garage where her car was parked, she saw Ella’s cream-colored convertible BMW pull into the prime parking spot, reserved solely for her. Ella hopped out, wearing a gold Juicy Couture sweat suit. With her huge Chanel sunglasses and perky ponytail, she looked like a Spice Girl. Newsy Spice, perhaps.
“Hello, slut,” she called cheerfully to Melissa.
“Nothing happened,” said Melissa defensively. “It was the dog, he kept attacking my leg.” She planned to stick to that story, as ludicrous as it sounded.
“What is the problemo, darling? That guy was hot. Nothing like Hoagie, of course. Did you hear the nickname Hoagie gave me?”
“No, what?”
“SOH. It stands for Slice of Heaven.”
“Are you sure?” Slice of Hell worked too, but she refrained from mentioning that. “He must be really into you.”
“He’s sweet. You don’t think he’s too young for me, do you?” Something like real anxiety crossed over Ella’s face.
“If he doesn’t think so, and you don’t think so, what does it matter what I think?”
“But I don’t know what I think. And he doesn’t know how old I am.”
Melissa reminded herself that boosting Ella’s ego was part of the job. “I think you’d be the best-looking couple I’ve ever seen. Like Brad and Angelina.”
Ella’s smile returned. “Good point. Now, darling, we have to talk about the dinner. You know I don’t have time to do any cooking . . .”
“I know, and that’s why I think you should hire someone, a caterer maybe. I found some names and numbers, and I can set the whole thing up for you.”
“No. We have to do the cooking. I said we would.”
“But I’ve got a project I’m working on and I’m not going to be able to—”
“You can’t work all the time. And it’s just one evening. I have some ideas about what you can make.”
“Me?” And the truth comes out, thought Melissa.
“I mean ‘we,’ of course, you know we’re a team. But I’m not going to have much time. I’ll contribute the ideas. You can execute. You’re the producer, after all.”
Since when did “producer” mean “personal chef”? Brody’s words echoed in her mind. Just go out there and lay down the law.
Maybe later. “Ella, let’s talk about it when I get back. I’m already late.”
“Fine. I’ll start brainstorming the menu.”
Melissa groaned and headed to her car. Okay, so Brody would probably laugh at her pathetic non–laying down of the law. What did it matter what he thought anyway? Put that man out of your mind!
It took her fifteen minutes to reach Fern Acres. Driving down the main avenue, she wondered why the most terrible places always had such lovely names. Fern Acres sounded like a rainforest or a country club. But in her Fern Acres, 7–Eleven convenience stores appeared every few blocks. Liquor stores were even more plentiful. Melissa had no idea how much money her father had handed over to those liquor stores over the years. Broken glass littered the streets. Anyone who parked a car here was asking to be vandalized. The few ramshackle churches had graffiti scrawled on the outside walls. Kids gathered in vacant lots to bounce basketballs and make trouble.
Growing up in Fern Acres had been hell.
Except for Mr. Guildenback, the English teacher who had encouraged her to write, and taken her on a tour of the local newspaper. She’d latched on to the dream of being a journalist as though it were a parachute thrown from a crashing plane.
Shaking off the memories, she turned onto Alden Drive. Rodrigo’s foster parents’ house was located in the middle of the block. She scanned the bedraggled tract home crammed between two other houses, its front yard littered with toys. If kids were being beaten in that house, wouldn’t the neighbors hear? Wouldn’t they call the police? She had checked her police sources, and there had been no complaint calls from neighbors.
At the moment, all was quiet. She checked her watch. The kids must be home from school by now. In the backyard she could make out several small figures. One kid was pushing another on a swing. It appeared to be a perfectly normal scene. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
She gnawed at her bottom lip. Maybe Rodrigo had invented the whole thing to get attention. Maybe she needed to get him some psychological help. Maybe she needed to forget this investigation and focus on cooking Ella’s firehouse dinner.
Then, just as her car rolled past the far side of the house, she noticed a tree in the front yard. A very graceful tree, unusual for the dry Southern California conditions. A weeping willow, whose long branches dipped to the ground and swayed in the breeze. “Long and skinny” branches.
Not exactly evidence, but enough to make her continue the investigation. She checked her watch. Time to get back to the station. The afternoon news meeting started in ten minutes. And she’d had enough of memory lane for one day.
Chapter Ten
Back at the TV station, she dashed up the stairs to the conference room, where she found an argument in full swing. She slid into an empty seat.
“What are we fighting about?” she whispered to the intern.
“Flying the news chopper at night.”
“Again?”
“It’s a classic.”
“News can break any time of the day, why not at night?” The nightside producer hammered home his point with annoying, rapid-fire clicks of his ballpoint pen.
“You can’t see anything from the chopper at night anyway,” answered Blaine, the assistant news director.
“You can see lights.”
“Then why don’t we just run stock footage of lights, no one would know the difference.”
“That’s unethical.”
“So is wasting our money so people can see a bunch of lights. And stop it with the pen.”
“If it’s a money issue, the ratings increase will make up for the cost.”
“So it’s all about the ratings, is it?”
Melissa had heard all sides of the argument many times. She took out her notebook to write down her impressions of Fern Acres and the willow tree. The willow tree didn’t prove anything. But her instincts told her Rodrigo was on the level. She should arrange to meet him as soon as possible. What about giving him an undercover camera . . . a lipstick camera? She’d have to check with legal. She jotted the words, “Check with legal.”
Lost in thought, she barely noticed when her name surfaced in the discussion. “Earth to Melissa!” She looked up to find a ring of excited faces looking her way. Blaine grinned at her. “I love it. It w
ill make an excellent Thanksgiving special.”
“What? No!” she protested. Were they already slotting in the Rodrigo story? She hadn’t even shot any footage yet. “It won’t be ready by then.”
“Oh come on. How long could it take?” He was already writing in his big day planner.
“It’s very delicate. I don’t even know if it’s for real.”
“Oh, it’s for real. I already checked with the PIO. They’re jumping up and down over there. They love the concept.”
Jumping up and down at the Child Services Department? In utter bewilderment, her eyes scanned the room and caught Ella’s. The anchor wore a smug smile. Uh-oh. “What are we talking about?”
“Thanksgiving with the Bachelor Firemen, hosted by our own Ella Joy. Produced by our own Melissa McGuire. Our viewers will freakin’ love it. Great way to end sweeps.”
“What? It was just going to be us cooking dinner. I mean, Ella cooking dinner.”
“Well, now it’s a special.”
“My idea.” Ella flicked an imaginary speck of dust off her gold sweat suit. “I’m a genius sometimes.”
Melissa groaned. “I can’t do it. Ask Loudon. I’m on special assignment right now.”
“Don’t worry,” cooed Ella in her sweetest voice. “I cleared it with Bill myself. He agreed that as a special project, this falls exactly into your job description.”
Melissa felt the Rodrigo investigation slipping away. How would she have any time to work on it when she was producing an on-air special? A Thanksgiving special . . . good God, would she have to cook a turkey?
“Cooking is not in my job description.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll be cooking,” said Ella. “You just have to get everything ready. Then I’ll do the stirring or basting or whatever. I have the most adorable apron to wear. Oh, I know! We can make Channel Six aprons, and sell them. The Sunny Side of the News . . . how cute would that be on an apron!”
“I love it,” said Blaine. “Take care of it, Melissa.” Melissa nodded numbly. In the old days, she would have kept arguing. But if Everett had taught her anything, it was the futility of going up against “the talent.” The last time she’d tried, he’d humiliated her, and her career still hadn’t recovered.
Besides, she was still reeling from the image of Sunny Side of the News aprons. What would those go for on eBay?
When the meeting ended, she headed straight for Loudon’s office. How was she going to produce an hour-long special and a major investigation at the same time? They’d have to tape before Thanksgiving, which didn’t leave much production time. She’d just have to beg Loudon to take her off the firefighter special.
But as she got closer to his office, her steps slowed. If Loudon heard how little proof she had in the Rodrigo investigation, he’d probably kill the story. She couldn’t let that happen. Besides, he always sided with Ella in the end. Especially for a chance to get the Bachelor Firemen on the air. And besides that, if she did the special, she’d see Captain Brody again.
For reasons she didn’t want to examine, that was the clincher. No matter what she’d decided last night.
Thanksgiving with the Firefighters, renamed when Melissa reminded everyone about One and Two, the female firefighters, quickly became Ella’s pet project. The anchor revealed a previously undiscovered domestic-goddess side. At a preproduction meeting in her office, she announced to Melissa the menu had to be traditional, but with a twist.
Melissa, hardly able to believe her career had come to this, suggested lentil loaf in place of turkey.
“You’re not taking this project seriously.” Ella pouted.
“You said you wanted a twist.”
Ella tossed Melissa a copy of a cooking magazine. “Deep-fried turkey. It says here it comes out crisp on the outside, tender on the inside.”
“But it’s deep fried. Is that the best thing to promote to our viewers?”
“No one said anything about promoting it. We’re just cooking it.”
“You don’t even eat fried food,” Melissa pointed out.
“This is not about me,” said Ella loftily. “This is about the guys. I asked Ryan, and he said they’d love it.”
“Fine.” Melissa gave up. Maybe they could run a viewer calorie advisory. “Did you happen to ask Ryan if they have a deep fryer?”
Ella’s face lit up. “Hang on, I’ll give him a call.” She picked up her rhinestone-studded cell phone and pointedly waited for Melissa to leave.
Meeting over, apparently. Melissa happily left, marveling at how Ella managed to maneuver things so cleverly to suit herself. Early on, she’d announced that Ryan represented the typical firefighter, and they’d better run everything past him. Ryan got the final call on mini hot dogs for appetizers and marshmallow fudge pie for dessert. Somehow, Ella always got the job of checking in with him.
The whole project, Melissa suspected, was a way for Ella to put the moves on the hellaciously handsome Ryan Blake. Melissa’s head spun at the speed with which she’d gone from producer to chef to matchmaker.
She just hoped Ryan wasn’t falling head over heels for Ella. She liked Ryan, and when it came to men, Ella had a very short attention span.
With the menu finalized—deep-fried turkey, roast ham, mashed potatoes with parmesan cheese, a vegetable medley, cream of squash soup, rolls with butter, cranberry sauce, three different kinds of pie, and the inevitable chocolate truffle cake—Melissa arranged a site survey. She brought along the production manager, Kevin, a brusque man in his mid-fifties. Rumor had it he’d been injured while shooting a riot in Burma and had been given a job for life as compensation. With a job for life, he had no interest in getting along with his coworkers, and no time for fools who didn’t know a satellite truck from a news van. Melissa did know a sat truck from a news van, so he managed to tolerate her. Barely.
At the last minute, Ella insisted on going along, even though site surveys were the kind of nuts and bolts part of the process she usually avoided. As the three of them walked into the station, Melissa’s heart raced. Her eyes immediately flew to the captain’s office. Empty. Brody wasn’t in the training room either. She felt the adrenaline drain away. No chance of an encounter with Brody. It felt like a wasted trip.
Then again, she wasn’t getting paid to lust after a fireman. Nope, they were paying her to babysit Ella while she lusted after a fireman.
She beckoned to Kevin, and they got to work noting down power sources and likely camera angles.
Meanwhile, Ella perched on the table next to Fred and Vader. “Where’s Ryan?”
“Called out to a fire. We’re just here to work out.” Vader leered at her. “And it sure did work out.”
“But he promised he’d be here when I came!”
“A fire’s a fire, Ms. Joy. Never know when we’ll get a call,” Fred explained.
Ella pouted. “Isn’t there some way to call him back? Can’t you talk to the fire truck or whatever?”
Uh-oh, thought Melissa. This sounded like trouble. She gave half an ear to Kevin’s grumbling about amps and the rest of her attention to Ella’s shenanigans.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Let’s surprise him!” Ella waved an imperious hand at Fred. “Won’t he just die when he hears me on the radio?”
“Captain wouldn’t like it,” said Fred uneasily. “I’m pretty sure it’s against the law.”
“Is the captain here?”
“Somewhere,” said Fred vaguely.
Melissa’s ears perked up. So Brody was somewhere. Did that mean somewhere in the firehouse?
Ella pinned Fred with her most mesmerizing smile. Melissa rolled her eyes. The poor kid didn’t stand a chance.
“If he’s not here, he’ll never know about it. Come on. Where’s that radio?” She pulled Fred to his feet.
With tightly folded lips, he
shook his head.
“Come on, Freddy-weddy, where’s the radio?”
“Ella,” called Melissa. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Ella, of course, ignored her.
“You don’t want to make me unhappy now, do you?” She traced a finger across Fred’s lips.
He heaved a helpless sigh and opened his mouth. “The radio is this way.” The poor fellow trudged across the room, followed by Ella, smug as could be.
“Ella, stop this!”
But neither of them paid any attention to her.
“What’s going on here?” Brody emerged from the apparatus bay with a rag over his shoulder, a dark frown on his face. Melissa felt every nerve shiver at the sight of him.
“She . . . she made me . . . she wanted to talk to Hoagie on the radio.”
Brody let out half a curse before snapping his mouth shut. He put one firm hand on Ella’s shoulder, the other on Fred’s, almost as if they were children, and maneuvered them back toward the couch. “Ms. Joy,” he said, biting off each word. “I’m sure you must have forgotten that misuse of a first responder frequency could cause quite a backlash.”
“It’s not a misuse. I just wanted to say hi.”
He stared at her, flabbergasted. Melissa got a certain amount of satisfaction from his expression. Now he’d find out what it was like dealing with Ella Joy, whose fists were clenched at her side as if she were one step from committing assault on an officer.
Brody let out a long breath. “That’s very friendly of you. Speaking of which, would you be willing to sign some of your calendars? One of the guys got them on eBay. Paid a bundle for them too. Fred, show her.”
At the magic word “calendar,” Ella smiled graciously. “Anything for my fans.”
She eagerly followed Fred toward the captain’s office. Melissa, astonished, stared after them.
“How did you do that?”
“You mean, how did I keep myself from strangling her? Believe me, I’ve been considering it these past few days. Or are you the one to blame for this?”
The look in his intense gray eyes made her shift uncomfortably. “Blame for what?”
The Fireman Who Loved Me Page 10