She smiled as the surprised policeman tried to slide out of the booth and stand to see her out. He was so heavily muscled that the operation was too complex, what with napkin retrieval, milk glass placement, breathless sliding and so on, for him to get out and up on his feet before she had nearly reached the doorway.
“You’ll see,” he called. “You can trust Will McMillian!”
Karli nodded, gave a small wave, and headed out the door.
Three NewsFirst newsroom
Des Moines, Iowa
Monday, October 14
“Vince, I need to talk to you about crewing a tip,” Karli said. She approached Vince during a momentary lull in the newsroom’s frantic activity, so as to keep others from overhearing.
“What’cha got, kid?” Vince asked, never taking his eyes from the schedule on his monitor.
“A drug bust. Supposed to be the biggest in Iowa history, if the cop knows what he’s talking about.”
Vince looked up at Karli, examining her carefully. “Sophia has the police beat, Karli. Should she do this one?”
“No way, Vince,” Karli whispered in indignation. “This tip came to me. I didn’t go out and develop the source or anything. This was a cold call to me, because the cops like my reporting. They wanted to give the story—as an exclusive—to me, not Sophia.”
“Okay, okay,” Vince pressed his hands placatingly toward her. “What time?”
“I need Jake to be in the car, loaded and ready to roll, by 6:00 tomorrow morning. They’re going to serve the warrant at 6:30, and I want to be set up to catch the door getting kicked in.”
“Jake, huh?” Vince looked thoughtfully at his schedule again. “He has been taking personal time for a while now. I don’t know if he’s going to be in tomorrow.”
“Vince, I need him, not some wet-behind-the-ears noob. This should be a big story, and I need some great video to make it work. Can’t you get him for me?” Karli did her best wide-eyed pleading look and saw instantly that Vince was not going to bite.
“Besides,” she quickly added, “this is the kind of exclusive that will set us up for ratings next month, plus we will be able to use it in promos for months. But only if we have great video. We get one shot at this bust—no do-overs. Give me the best, Vince.”
She could see Vince considering her pitch—this time seriously. “Okay,” he relented. “I’ll call him. But I can’t make him come in, okay? He has enough leave to take off till Christmas. I’ll let you know later today.” As he very deliberately dismissed her by turning back to his computer, Karli knew that she’d won and that Vince would persuade Jake to come back to her.
As she thought about seeing Jake again after his mysterious absence, she felt a warm anticipation of the brilliance he brought to her reporting. He had an understanding of what she was writing for each story that other photogs couldn’t touch, and he framed that deep comprehension with images that complemented her efforts seamlessly, as though the finished story sprang from a single creative spirit rather than from two individuals working in different disciplines.
The iPhone buzzed against her hand, and Karli looked down to see the notification: a text from her father. Sighing, Karli swiped to unlock the phone and read, “Things are moving here. If you’re tired of your corny life, I can put you in with some of the biggest names in town. Word is that Condé Nast tags Charleston as a Best City in the World. Not too shabby!”
Karli’s chest heaved with another sigh. Oh, Dad. You don’t get it. There may be corn here, but at least it’s real and not some crazy Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous nonsense. I’m going to beat everyone on a big story, and with Jake’s help we’re going to make it a landmark story for Des Moines.
Thinking about working with Jake made Karli’s pulse leap again, and the tension in her center coiled again as though ready to be sprung loose.
But why hasn’t he been in to work? she wondered. There wasn’t enough rain to make him catch cold or anything, so it must be something else. She thought of his steady hands guiding his camera to yet another great shot and felt a flutter in her stomach. Fine, she thought with an oddly reluctant feeling of resignation. I admit it. I miss him. For more than just his pictures. But pictures are what I need right now.
Chapter Nine
Des Moines, Iowa
Tuesday, October 15
5:45 a.m.
Jake rolled up to Karli’s apartment building with all of his gear tucked neatly into the cab of his pickup truck. He watched with an artist’s appreciation as Karli looked up from her iPhone, saw him at the curb and walked toward his truck. There was nothing of the hip-swaying model’s strut in her walk; Karli moved more like a sprinter walking to the blocks—all her movements revealed a straight-ahead energy restrained by strict economy. The breeze her pace created fluttered the hair that was still cut short around her elegant features, and the bright parking lot lights behind her limned her physique and highlighted its compact strength. The time she spent in the gym showed in every line of her sleek workout shirt, which drew Jake’s eyes to the small breasts riding high on her chest. The sight made Jake’s hands twitch for his digital Canon SLR, but he had come for work. It was time to go shoot the drug bust, not Karli’s bust.
Jake’s breath caught at the suddenly imagined sensations his view of Karli unguarded sparked. She had a dramatic, sharp-angled beauty that glinted around the eyes. That glint underlined her beauty somehow, animating it with keen intelligence. She looked powerful, yet somehow deliciously accessible. Jake felt the insistent appeal, knowing that he wanted to be close to that Karli. Physically close, yes, absolutely; yet he was interested in knowing her, comprehending her, just as much. He shifted in his seat with the realization that the twitch he felt wasn’t for a camera at all.
She opened the passenger door of his Ford Ranger and swung in her backpack ahead of herself. “Good morning, stranger,” she said, her attention on jostling the pack into place so there was room for her feet. “We’ve missed you at work. Vince tells me you hit a rough patch. I hope everything is working out okay for you.”
“Um, sure,” Jake replied, surprised at Karli’s oddly distant sympathy. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I guess.” He knew he was only making polite noise to humor her. Nothing would ever be okay; he had learned that much. But it was time to work, and he could at least take pictures without hurting anyone. And today he could help keep people safe by capturing a story about danger, while doing his best back-to-work work on a story that Karli obviously was into.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Karli glanced at her iPhone’s messages and gave Jake the address. “I just got the text as you were pulling up. Oh crap,” she exclaimed, as her phone chirped an alert tone and a warning flashed up on the screen. “my battery. I forgot to plug it in last night.”
She went over the scanty information she’d gotten from the police officer. Jake already knew all the details from his phone call with Vince, but he’d worked with Karli long enough to know that she liked to review her background information aloud more than once on the way to a story, so he waited for her string to play its full length into her back. “I was reading up on the web last night,” she continued, adding something new. “And it looks like heroin rings are starting to work like rum-runners did during Prohibition: they work at high margins for upper- and middle-class clients and they don’t go in for all the guns and violence.”
“Well,” Jake said, making the last turn before their destination, “let’s hope they don’t use their guns. Bullets can spoil good video.”
After he parked the truck and snared out the royal blue PortaBrace bag that held all his camera gear, Jake looked around for the cops’ vehicles. He saw the oddly lumpy tactical truck turning into the block behind him and began flicking switches to power up his gear and get it ready for recording. From his bent-over position, he swiveled his head to talk to Karli and found her breasts at an intriguing eye level. Changing quickly from natural appreciation, he looke
d carefully and sharply at them. He examined them openly, first one, then the other, until he heard Karli clear her throat with mild feminine indignation.
“Hey, Karli,” he said, with a quiet urgency in his voice, “get your vest on. Even if the drug guys don’t use guns, the cops might.” The last comment was directed back over his shoulder as he strode off to shoot the cops filing out of their vehicle.
Jake found a spot with good perspective on the police truck, shouldered his camera, and leaned against a tree to steady the telephoto shot. He pressed the ‘record’ button as cops began jumping out of the truck like so many Rambo-clowns from a circus car. Once out, they were obsessive and nearly fetishy about adjusting their gear and checking their clattering shotguns, rifles, and pistols. The last ones out carried a four-foot metal cylinder with handles along its length. Jake recognized the door-breaking ram and readied himself to sprint after the cops and toward the entrance they were about to force. Just as he pressed the button to pause the recording, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Karli’s eyes, wide open and terrified. Something had transformed the confident reporter he’d just driven with; something that rendered her nearly speechless.
Before he could ask what had her so scared, heavy-booted steps came to a halt on the other side of his tree, accompanied by heavy breathing that gasped, “Karli, you made it!”
Jake darted his eyes toward the cops with the ram; only a few seconds had passed, and they were not yet moving toward the house. Instead, he saw a grey-haired but sternly fit officer striding toward him instead of the house with a distinctly hostile look on his face. Then he snatched a look around the tree, saw Officer Will McMillian in cop camouflage that made him nearly as conspicuous in urban Des Moines as he would have been in a bikini, snorted in disgust, and looked back to Karli, a scathing remark about his bumbling acquaintance on the tip of his tongue. The snarkiness died before it could get out as he saw Karli’s unusually pale, wide-eyed face. “What’s wrong?”
Without turning her body, which still addressed Jake, Karli turned her head to glance distractedly at Officer McMillian and said to Jake, “What was that you said about a vest?”
“Didn’t you grab a vest from the station?” Jake asked. Then, turning to Officer McMillian, “You’re the one who gave her this tip aren’t you, Wil? Didn’t you tell her to wear a vest?” Jake’s expression was one of disgust, and he shook his head in frustration.
The look of mute surprise on McMillian’s face was a complete answer. “You moron,” Jake said. “And I’m guessing that guy,” and here he raised his lens to point toward an angry figure walking sternly toward the three of them, “is coming to ask what we’re doing shooting his super-secret drug bust that nobody is supposed to know about, right?”
McMillian grew brightly red, and he began to mumble something about she-was-the-one-who-knew-it-all only to be cut abruptly off by the Clearly-In-Charge Man who had now arrived at the tree. “You can’t be here with that camera, son,” he began, “so stand down and clear on out of here.” Then he glared at McMillian, obviously a member of the operation since he was wearing a vest with the word POLICE in six-inch highlighter-colored letters. “What are you doing with these news people?” he asked, as though ‘news people’ was a swear word. Then realization flashed across his face, along with sudden bulges in the veins of his neck and temples. “You tipped the press to this operation? You will be lucky to have a job waxing squad cars tomorrow, son.”
“We aren’t going anywhere, sir.” Karli’s clear voice cut through In-Charge Man’s threats. His head turned sharply, snapping his menacing glare onto Karli’s face. Seeing the shock in the man’s eyes, Jake could tell he was accustomed to unquestioning obedience. And from the set of her shoulders, the man saw he wasn’t going to get any obedience at all from Karli. Her face held none of the fear he’d seen when she was asking about vests.
Jake knew there was no time now, yet Karli wasn’t wearing the Kevlar vest she should’ve gotten from the station or from McMillian. If the guns started popping, nothing protected her from stray rounds. Jake set his camera on the ground and began to pull his shirt off.
Karli was still talking to the In-Charge Man. “When the press is on public property like we are right now, we have every right to record what anyone can see. You have no legal authority to make us leave, and we aren’t going to.”
Looking around at the distant and keenly attentive group of suddenly idle police officers, Jake began tearing open Velcro fasteners. Karli kept talking, as calm as if she were live and on the air, though the In-Charge Man was balling up his fists and crowding closer into her personal space. “If you push the matter,” she continued, “we will record every second of it so an army of lawyers can make sure you are the one waxing cars. And if you think you’re cute enough to take our recording, we will subpoena every single one of those officers watching us right now. All it will take is one with the guts to tell the truth, and you will be joining all the people you’ve put behind bars over the years.”
Jake picked his camera up and thumbed the ‘record’ switch. He slid right behind Karli, his front pressing neatly against her backside. Making a show of focusing on In-Charge Man’s face, Jake fought to keep himself focused as he inhaled Karli’s freshly showered scent and felt her firm curves pressing back against him. To let her know he was there and rolling and had her back, Jake dropped a reassuring left hand onto her shoulder.
Fury rolled off the In-Charge Man like waves of heat from a radiator. Jake was unmoved, though, as he had long practice controlling his breathing and posture to hold the camera nearly as steady as an actual tripod. And Karli held to her place as the Man’s fury washed over her.
Looking from reporter to photographer with a final, mostly swallowed bark of rage, the Man suddenly turned and left without a word.
As soon as In-Charge Man’s back was turned and Jake saw that he had displaced his anger into gesturing furiously at the police standing ready to begin their operation, Jake quickly put his camera down, picked up the vest, and slid Karli’s arm through one of the openings. “That was great, Karli,” he said, holding her wrist and pushing the vest onto her shoulder. “Let’s strap this on you and go get the story.” Her deep breath of relief made her chest move in a way that caught and held Jake’s attention while he worked to secure the vest. He could tell from the sudden slackness in her posture that Karli was sagging with post-adrenaline relief now that she was done with the In-Charge Man. As soon as he had tightened the last strap, he found her eyes and heard her whisper, “Thanks, Jake. I feel a lot safer now.”
Things kept moving fast, too fast for Jake to reply. He heard the thudding of McMillian’s boots running away from their position and toward the other officers. Looking toward the cops, Jake saw that they were spreading out to cover all sides of the house. Glancing urgently from group to group, Jake saw with relief that the cops with the ram were headed to the front door. He snared his camera off the ground, quietly told Karli, “Come on!” and took off at a sprint to line up a shot of the door-busting.
From somewhere on the other side of the house, cops threw flash-bang stun grenades in through a window. That was the cue for the guys with the ram.
Screaming, “Police! We have a warrant!” the cops smashed the front door open, dumped the ram, drew their guns and charged into the house. As soon as the cops entered, Jake pushed in behind them. Drawing on skills developed through long and thoughtful experience, he made quick, extreme adjustments to his camera during the transition from the long, early-morning sunlight of the outdoors to the house’s dim interior, all while rolling. He flicked through filters, increased gain, and re-balanced colors, all while recording the raid’s tense visuals and sounds in vivid, intimate detail.
One of the suspects stared at a cop’s pistol inches from his face, shaking in the broad-shouldered officer’s two-handed grip. The cop was shouting so loudly—and all the other cops were shouting just as loudly, all at the same time—that his words
were indistinct: “Get down, motherfucker! On the floor!” The man was transfixed by the gun in his face, paralyzed by fear, completely immobile.
Jake swung his camera to frame another suspect who was starting to leave his seat at a table about five feet away and put his knees onto the floor. Another cop charged up to him, shotgun jutting from his shoulder: “Don’t move, asshole, or I’ll shoot you!”
Movement was everywhere, and Jake turned to see cops kicking guns away from men they had just knocked to the floor while screaming, “Get your hands where I can see them!”
“Get up against that wall right now, fucker!” And Jake framed a shot of two cops shoving a man halfway across the room to where the wall was unobstructed. Then, his words punctuated by tugs of his booted foot dragging the man’s ankle to one side, “Spread your legs now!”
And Jake swiveled again to another cop who was screaming at a man whose hands were placed on top of one another in a pile on his head: “Show me where the dope is, now, before I tear this place apart and you with it!”
Up close, the drug workers’ quivering fear was nearly tactile. Jake backed out of the room into a doorway, rolling the whole time and reaching to feel blindly behind himself with his left hand so he could frame a wider shot of all the cops and suspects at one time. As he backed through the doorway and felt nothing behind him, he sneaked a peek out of the viewfinder to see where he was. His eyes nearly popped as he saw what looked like the main re-packaging room. He swung to pan across the room, but police officers entered right behind him and jostled him and shook his shot. Jake kept rolling. He recorded every moment as the cops discovered scales, packaging materials and tools, a table piled with guns and several fork-lift pallets of shrink-wrapped heroin. The shrink-wrap was peeled back from the top of one pallet where the workers had been taking large packages of heroin to the work tables for weighing and putting in street-sale size packages.
Love. Local. Latebreaking.: Book 1 in the newsroom romance series Page 10