Love. Local. Latebreaking.: Book 1 in the newsroom romance series

by H. Laurence Lareau

  But he had been so relieved that she hadn’t expected him to do an ambush-style interview.

  Jake hadn’t watched any news or read the paper since he’d quietly left the newsroom late Saturday morning. He had had trouble keeping Karli off his mind—she had a highly unusual beauty when she was off-camera and off-guard. He recalled the deep kindness and compassion that he’d seen flicker across her beautiful face several times, most especially when she was deciding not to interview Darrin’s parents. Contrary to all indications, she had a heart and even empathy for others. And he had felt a pull toward her that was more fundamental than any list of honorable qualities. Something about her hooked into his body’s chemistry so that he felt incomplete whenever he remembered the smell and feel of her lightly perfumed skin. He looked at the yin-and-yang symbol on a student’s equipment bag and realized that she was complementary to him on a very basic, even glandular, level.

  But thinking about Karli was pointless. His terrible mentoring of Darrin was proof enough that he could never make the kinds of important decisions that go with a committed relationship and raising children. Jake wasn’t so much trying to find a wife and make kids as he was disturbed at the cheerless prospect of a life alone and without the completion his emotions and urges told him he could find in Karli. But he was even more terrified of destroying someone he would choose to become responsible for—or even letting down the children they might conceive together. Which was thinking absurdly far down life’s road—especially since Karli didn’t seem particularly interested in him other than as a photographer.

  So Karli thoughts were indeed pointless.

  Jake had reflected long on Darrin. But Jake couldn’t find any words for the loss that everyone was feeling. There weren’t any words. So he had decided to emulate his first karate instructor and hold a silent class. Darrin had loved training and competing, and the best memorial Jake could conceive for him was a demonstration of how fully alive Darrin had been while training. And Darrin had looked so forward to this January’s tournament in Chicago.

  Jake had put up signs to warn spectators and students alike that there was to be no talking during the training session. He was surprised at how many people had turned out in tonight’s silence. The visitor’s gallery was overflowing, and two of the black belt students had gone into the back to wheel out a cart of folding chairs for the unexpected crowd.

  There was almost no overlap between Jake’s news life and his karate. Mary Rose, sitting straddle-legged on the mat and stretching out over her left knee, was the only person from the station present, her platinum-and-blue hair even more startling than usual above her crisp white uniform. And she was a newbie, as the white belt around her waist attested. She looked up from her stretch and gave Jake an approving once-over. Her nod, smirk, and wink told him that she thought he was looking sharp.

  Jake looked over the rest of the students from the back of the studio. He had pinned nearly 40 black ribbons onto uniforms tonight, and the folks wearing them were all over 15. Jake would allow students as young as 12 to train in these sessions if they showed enough maturity, as Darrin had; but it was the session for serious, mature students, not kids. Noting the second hand sweeping to exactly 7:00 p.m., Sensei Jake stepped to the farthest corner of the mat, stood to attention, and bowed. When he strode onto the padded training surface, a 50-something man with a black belt around his waist jumped up from his stretching position on the floor and slapped his hands against his thighs as he stood to attention. All the other karate students heard the slap and rose as well. The black- and brown-belt senior students moved quietly among the color-belt students to arrange them by rank, facing the front wall of the dojo.

  Jake moved to that front wall and turned to face the large class. He took much more time than usual to make eye contact with each person, to silently remind them that this session would be a solemn memorial to Darrin who had found a home with them. Many eyes he saw brimmed with tears that either fell or threatened to fall silently. Every face, though, was encouraging and proud. Sensei Jake’s own eyes filled when even young Brian Johnson gave him a sharp nod to indicate that this was the right thing to do, that Darrin would have liked it, even if he couldn’t laugh out loud.

  After a series of formal bows to acknowledge the great martial artists in the karate tradition, Jake began the training by demonstrating and having the others repeat a series of lightning-fast blocks and punches, pivoting quickly to different stances for each set. After warming the class up with a sequence of hops and jumps and swinging movements, there followed a long series of basic techniques that Sensei Jake mixed together in different ways for the students to repeat after he demonstrated. Heavy breathing punctuated the techniques, as did the constant sliding and stepping of bare feet. Everyone in the class moved together, with the different abilities associated with different-colored belts apparent to all. Movements from the senior students were faster and more precise. Their speed and power was evident in their uniforms’ loud snapping sounds. After these drills, all of the students were sweating—most of them were nearly panting. Then Sensei Jake took the class through a series of rote attack-and-defend drills. The partnered-up students had practiced the drills many times together and knew what to do. As the time approached 7:45, Jake divided the class—still in silence—by rank groups to perform kata, prearranged solo sequences of karate movements.

  Finally, Sensei Jake seated everyone on the back edge of the mat and then strode to one of the gear lockers. He took a two foot-long polished wooden case with a glass front from the locker and walked to the center of the mat. There he bowed formally to all the students and marched close to where they sat on the back edge of the mat. He placed the box down reverently and so the closest students could see the black belt inside with Darrin’s name embroidered in gold thread. As Sensei Jake turned and went toward an equipment rack, students who could see the belt whispered and gestured to the others what was written upon it.

  His back to the class, Sensei Jake took a breath deep into his body and visualized each movement of the bo staff kata he had planned to teach Darrin for the January tournament. Finished, he opened his eyes and took a staff from the rack. He then snapped into rigid martial formality and marched to the front of the mat. He bowed crisply to the class and began the kata. Each time Sensei Jake stepped into one of the kata’s many stances, his legs, hips, and core took on a granite-like stability. Extending from that stillness, his arms propelled the bo staff into a furiously blurring aura of wood. The dojo was no longer silent as the staff’s wood stroked the air into a series of humming vibrations, the canvas of Jake’s uniform snapped, and the hissing of his intensifying breath all communicated the irresistible power he focused into each movement.

  The performance transfixed everyone in the studio. Mary Rose sat cross-legged on the edge of the mat, a hand under each knee holding her own toes, her astonished mouth hanging slightly open. Senior students watched with rapt attention. The parents and other guests in the gallery sat forward, leaning in to better focus their attention on the barely contained explosion that was Jake’s performance.

  Jake finished the kata with a two-beat pause followed by a powerful final strike and a thunderous yell from deep in his abdomen, karate’s spirit-yell or kiai. Coming after more than an hour’s attention to the subtle sounds of a silent training session, the kiai startled everyone in the studio—on the mat and in the spectator’s gallery alike. Sensei Jake then snapped back to attention, breathing heavily, as the small cries of surprise tapered off. He bowed to the room, took up the polished wooden box and placed it with the bo staff on a table a few feet off the training mat. An open book and a pen rested on the table for people to sign and jot memories of Darrin. He signed the book, paused to regard box and staff for a final silent moment, then walked quickly to his office, closing the door behind him.

  The sweaty students left on the mat began to murmur questions about what was going on. They were cut off by the man who’d stood when Sensei J
ake walked onto the mat, who held a stern finger to his lips and shushed them. He bowed as he left the training surface and went to the locker room without looking back to see that the others would follow. Some headed straight for the locker room, others went to the table to look at Darrin’s posthumous black belt and to sign the book. Others paused in indecision, then headed for the showers so they could sign without dripping sweat all over the book.

  As the mat silently cleared and it became obvious that training was over for the night, one of the parents, who needed to talk to Jake about past-due tuition, knocked on the office door.

  Quiet sobs from behind the locked door were the only answer.

  Chapter Eight

  The Drake Diner

  Des Moines, Iowa

  Sunday, October 13

  Karli tucked her iPhone back into her purse, shaking her head at the photo her father had just sent her from his latest formal lunch meeting with South Carolina’s most powerful legislators. As she looked up, she saw the towering muscular uniform containing Officer Will McMillian shoulder its way through the Diner’s entrance. She took him in as he scanned the booths and long, neon-lit counter, seeking her: a buzz cut topped his probably 6’ 3” height, and judging by the impressive amount of rippling under the fabric he took weight lifting very seriously, yet his hands were as soft and uncalloused as Karli’s own. He had the air of a former high-school lineman who had found in the gym and the police force socially acceptable ways to channel the aggression that had stayed with him since puberty. His dark eyes were a shade too small and close-set for him to be classically handsome.

  She finally caught his eye and he smiled broadly, showing even rows of straight, whitened teeth. The breeze from the door swept away the delicious smells of the Diner’s signature comfort food—especially the open-face hot turkey sandwich Karli had been sniffing—and brought a strong whiff of the officer’s Brut cologne overdose. He strode past the hostess station over to her booth, shook her hand and introduced himself. “Will McMillian. Nice to meet you in person.”

  “Karli Lewis, as you know. So Officer McMillian, you’re the one who made the call to my private cell phone number.

  I still can’t figure out how you got it, but it’s creepy to have a perfect stranger call that number. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Whoa, there,” he said. “I was hoping we could talk about whether we should talk before we get right down to talking.” He grinned again and reached for the menu.

  “Fine. You do the pre-talking, and we’ll see where it goes. But I have to leave in 20 minutes to go to an interview, so don’t spend too long on the warm-ups,” she said, checking the Tag Heuer her father had given her for her graduation from Missou.

  “That’s what she said. . . in my dreams!” Will guffawed at his own joke. His laughter stopped abruptly as he saw that Karli didn’t share his zeal for foreplay humor. He looked back at his menu to hide his momentary embarrassment. “Okay, here’s the deal: We’ve been watching you for a while now, and we like your style.”

  “Who exactly are ‘we,’ Mr. McMillian?” Karli asked. Her pointed question kept McMillian on the defensive, and she could see he was going to need help to get the conversation on track. Especially since he was obviously attracted to the cute waitress who filled their coffee cups and asked for their orders. After he ordered—one of the Diner’s signature and massive blue-plate specials—Karli watched him closely as he cleared his throat and returned to the conversation.

  “Um, ‘we’ are the police, you know. We watch the news and pay attention to which reporters are doing a good job of being fair to everyone, even cops.”

  “So what do the cops want with me, Officer McMillian?”

  “Well, we’ve been doing some really good things—busting some real bad guys—and we have some big stuff coming up.

  So we wanted to get you to cover us when we do some of it.”

  “Are you offering me an exclusive on this really big stuff, or are you shopping this around to everyone?”

  “This is just about as exclusive as it can get. Not even all the guys know you’ll be getting this tip.”

  Karli looked skeptically at the big cop, who nearly filled his entire side of the booth. His cluelessness was just a bit adorable, she thought. He was the kind of guy she could lead around by the nose, and he wouldn’t ever hesitate to do whatever she asked. It was written on his boy-next-door handsome face. She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and leaned toward him, her eyes flashing with challenge. “So what is this super-secret amazing exclusive you have just for me?”

  “Whoa, there,” Will said, beaming around a mouthful of meatloaf. He chewed quickly and swallowed before continuing. “There are still some things to talk about before we get to that.”

  “Such as...?”

  “Well, we were hoping you could make sure not to show the faces of our undercover guys...” Will began.

  Karli cut him off quickly. “You’ve never done this before, have you Officer McMillian? We are not out to compromise law enforcement or to place your officers needlessly in danger. Their identities, after all, are not the story. If this were a corruption story about, say, undercover guys selling drugs for their own gain, there would be another set of questions before we decided whether or not to reveal identities, but that’s not this one, I’m guessing. So yes, of course we will pixellate any undercover faces we see. Just tell us which guys to keep safe.”

  “O-okay,” the officer stammered. “So, um, we were also hoping you could make sure to tell the story so everyone knows who the good guys and bad guys are.”

  “This really is your first time,” Karli said mostly to herself, barely disguising her scorn. “Officer McMillian, here are the rules. Please remember them for the next time you approach a reporter because they apply every time. I am not going to bargain about how I tell a story. I am the news reporter. You are the police. I won’t use your guns or tasers; don’t you start in with my pen or camera. If you want to look like the good guys, make sure you are the good guys. Then I won’t have much choice about how to tell the story. Got it?”

  Officer McMillian was rocked back by Karli’s abrupt education on law enforcement-press relations. He reached under the table to adjust his pants as his reaction to her sassiness began to get the better of him. He was distracted. Karli watched him try to reach for and fall short of finding a face-saving witty retort, then move hastily to deflect his own attention and perhaps hers to the huge amount of food on his plate. After a massive mouthful and a hefty gulp from his huge glass of milk, it was apparent to Karli that she was a lot harder to talk to than he had expected the pretty reporter from TV to be. Accustomed to the arrogance of her fellow journalists—and one photog in particular—Karli found Will’s defenselessness cute.

  Lacking the ability to change course once he had set out, he pushed ahead. “There’s going to be a multi-force raid on a big drug distribution operation on the near east side. The judge is signing the warrant tomorrow some time, and we only have 48 hours before it gets stale. So the bust will probably be Tuesday at 6:30 a.m.

  There’ll be feds as well as county and city cops, and it should be the biggest bust in Iowa history.”

  “Okaaay,” Karli said, drawing out the word to suggest to him that she was waiting for more details, which the cop apparently didn’t have.

  “Look,” he said, “everyone is going to see the drugs all piled up at the news conference, but you’re going to be there to see the bust going down.”

  “Tell me about the Ws, Officer McMillian: where and what kind of operation is this, who will be there when you do the bust, and how dangerous is this likely to be?”

  “The operation is in the near east side, in a big old house. Vans and RVs and cars full of bulk drugs come from the west on I-80, then it’s all broken down here and taken out in pretty much every direction. All the workers—probably 20 of them—should be there, and I don’t know how many vehicles will be there to load outgoing
shipments. It’s possible that it will be dangerous. We know they have guns in there. But they aren’t supposed to be the type to use them.”

  “How many law enforcement personnel will it take to bust a house full of people and drugs?”

  McMillian stammered again. Karli could see that he didn’t know as much about this bust as he’d thought. Disarmed, the officer looked less like the overly swaggering uniform who’d walked in and much more like a man she could talk to. And probably steer wherever she wished him to go. Big, manly, helpless and cute. “Well, l-l-like I said, there’s going to be feds and county guys as well as city police. I don’t know exactly how many.”

  “And the feds are going to be in charge?”

  “No,” McMillian’s growing unease was showing. He was pale and little beads of sweat were showing where flat-top turned to forehead. “It’s going to be a state warrant, I know that for sure.”

  Karli decided to relent a bit so as not to lose the story—or the man. “So how am I going to know where I’m supposed to be at 6:30 on Tuesday morning?”

  Relief showed on the officer’s face. He knew the answer to this question. “I’ll text you when they send the vehicles out to serve the warrant, and you can get there in plenty of time to get what you need.”

  “This isn’t a lot, Officer McMillian,” Karli said. “But I’m going to trust you this time and see if you really have something here.” She slid two dollars under her coffee cup and stood up from the booth. “I’ll see you Tuesday morning.”