The Good Byline

by Jill Orr

  “Riley,” Holman said calmly, “that relationship was never going anywhere. You can pretend it ended because I made you suspicious of Ajay, but you and I both know you are not ready to move on. You’re still tangled up with Ryan.”

  What? I was not tangled up with Ryan! If I was still tangled up with him, I would have agreed to his crazy plan to keep seeing him while he had bizarro-baby with Ridley. But I didn’t. I cut that off. I was ready to move on. Which is exactly what I was about to tell Holman when he pulled off the highway and onto the access road toward the construction site for Little Juan Park. We’d be there in under a minute.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “And later when we aren’t on a stakeout I can explain to you exactly how wrong you are. But for now, I need to concentrate.”

  “Whatever you say.” His voice dripped with self-satisfaction.

  After a few silent moments, he cut the lights as we slipped onto the gravel road that provided access to trucks and other heavy vehicles at the back entrance to what would be Little Juan Park in a few more weeks. As of now, it was just a privately owned construction site. That we were about to break into.

  I was equal parts electrified and terrified. I’d never done anything so dangerous in my life. It was fully dark by now, and Holman had pulled into the heavily wooded area just about behind the construction fence. We opened our doors, and Coltrane practically bolted out of the back seat. Luckily I had a hold of his leash and was able to stop him from running off. Holman pocketed the keys, came around to my side of the car, and put them on top of the right front tire. “In case we get separated.”

  He gave me a look that was filled with meaning. It was as if he wanted me to understand that this wasn’t a game. The stakes were real, and if one of us got into trouble, it’d be up to the other to save themselves and go for help.

  I nodded.

  We walked silently along the edges of the bushes toward the park. It was dark and quiet, except for the crunching of twigs under our feet. The moon was full and bright, and it helped light our way as we walked down the road that ran along the back of the future park.

  As we nestled into the trees, Holman took out his phone and checked the time. Then he reached into his fanny pack (yes, he had a fanny pack) and drew out a Phillips-head screwdriver. He whispered, “For the door. Just in case.”

  Coltrane seemed to be in his element. Focused. Alert. Scanning the dark, ears up at attention. I wondered how many other stakeouts he’d been on? How many times had he assisted in solving crimes? Looking at him now, so full of determination and purpose, I felt badly for him. Put out to pasture because of one tiny flaw.

  Holman checked his watch and signaled to me by holding up one index finger. I felt confident that we were well hidden in the foliage, but I was still so nervous that my heart thundered against my chest wall. I held tight to Coltrane’s leash and stroked his head—a gesture he hardly seemed to notice as he surveyed the dark around us, seeing and hearing more than Holman and I ever would.

  Seconds later we heard the sound of a vehicle; I guessed a golf cart by the quiet whine coming off the motor. Holman reached out and put a hand across me, like a mom does when she stops too suddenly in the car. Coltrane’s head whipped up to Holman at the gesture. I stroked his head again, assuring him that I was all right.

  The golf cart got closer, and we saw a flashlight beam scan the area, sweeping left, then right in wide swaths. After a couple of minutes that felt like hours, the golf cart retreated, taking the light along with it. The night was once again dark and silent, save for the quiet panting sound of Coltrane, who was most assuredly ready to get to work.

  “Follow me,” Holman mouthed. We slipped out of the trees and crossed the gravel road until we were just behind the Tacos Los Locos truck. Holman, holding his screwdriver, motioned for me to stay back near the cover of trees while he tried to jimmy the door open. It was hard for me to imagine him having very good jimmying skills, but the more I got to know him, the more I was surprised by his range.

  Having had no luck with the door, he moved his attention to the order window. Coltrane and I hung back, and I could just make out Holman’s long, spindly arms as he tried to remove the hinges from the window. I heard a snapping sound loud enough to turn Coltrane’s head but not so loud as to echo into the night. We were in. The problem was how to actually get inside. The window was at least five feet off the ground.

  “C’mon. I’ll give you a boost.” The whites of Holman’s wide eyes were visible even in the dark of the night.

  “You’re crazy,” I whispered. “I’m not going in first!”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, kneeling down and cupping his hands for me to step into. “No one’s in there.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “Do you really think you can lift me?”

  “Can’t you just pull yourself up?”

  He shook his head. “I lack significant upper-body strength. I’ve been like this my whole life. When I was little, my mother tried to make me feel better about it by saying my strongest muscle is my brain. Of course she was speaking metaphorically, because technically it’s my gluteus maximus—”

  “All right!” I shout-whispered. I really did not want to veer into conversation about Holman’s gluteus maximus. I sighed and looked up at the window. I wasn’t happy about it, but apparently if we were going to get into that truck, it’d have to be me. With great reluctance, I handed him Coltrane’s leash, and he looked at it like it was a snake. On fire.

  “You want to lift him up too?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Fine.” Holman took the leash and tucked it under his armpit while he again bent down to offer me a boost. Coltrane whined as I put one foot in Holman’s hand and heaved myself up with my arms. It was tricky holding the window open with one hand while using the other to hoist myself up, but after a few tries, I was able to get myself through. On the other side, thankfully, I found a stainless steel counter that I used to balance myself before sneaking through the truck to unlock the door and let Holman and Coltrane in.

  “Good job.”

  “Thanks,” I said all casual-like, but on the inside I was fizzing with adrenaline. I felt as much like a badass as I ever had. And I was surprised at how much I liked it.

  Inside the truck it was pitch-black, the only light coming from occasional glints of moonlight against steel. My eyes were accustomed to the dark, but even still, all I could see were shapes of counters, and refrigerators, doors, and handles.

  “What are we looking for?” I turned on my flashlight.

  “Anything that looks out of the ordinary.”

  The place wasn’t big, and it didn’t take long for us to make an initial pass with our eyes, opening and closing cabinet doors and drawers, looking in every space we could see. It looked exactly how you’d expect a food truck to look. I started to worry that we were wrong, that this was just another entry for the batshit-crazy column.

  The more worried I got, the angrier I got. Holman was supposed to be this award-winning investigative journalist. How could he be wrong all the time? First, he’d been wrong about Ajay. Now it looked like he was wrong about the drug-dealing taco truck. His theories were based on little beyond instinct and imagination—so why was I so eager to believe him all the time? Meanwhile, Holman moved through the truck checking every dark corner but hadn’t come up with anything.

  “There’s nothing here,” I said.

  “There has to be.”

  “I think we should just go.” I gripped Coltrane’s leash tighter. The disappointment of not finding a shred of evidence hit me, and fear settled in beside it. I just wanted to get out of there before we got arrested for breaking and entering. Or worse.

  Holman stood with both hands on the stainless steel counter. He leaned forward, his body taught with concentration. “We’re just missing it…I know there’s something here.”

  “C’mon, let’s go,” I whispered.

  Just then, we heard gravel crunching u
nder tires. I immediately clicked off my flashlight, and we ducked down. It sounded like the golf cart was back. Coltrane, glued to my side, was silent. At that moment I was thankful for whatever police training he’d had that made him not bark in a situation in which most dogs would. He was still and focused, like he’d just been called up to the majors.

  The sound of the golf cart got louder. Then we heard a man’s voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like he was speaking into a radio or a phone. The voice got closer and my stomach flipped over. Holman reached out for my hand and squeezed it. It’s going to be okay, the squeeze said. I didn’t believe it, but the gesture comforted me just enough to stop my shaking.

  “I thought I saw something,” the man’s voice was now just outside the truck.

  Coltrane stood, ears at attention. If that man came inside the truck right now, I guessed there was no way I could stop Coltrane from attacking.

  “I had an all-clear at 9:45,” the man said, “but then I coulda swore I saw a light over this way when I was making a pass by the perimeter.”

  I grabbed Holman’s arm. His skin was clammy, and I wondered how worried he was despite his calm demeanor.

  “Nah,” the guard said. “I must’ve been seein’ things. Dreaming up ways to make this job more exciting.” He laughed. We saw a beam of light shine through the window and illuminate the tops of the truck walls. “We’re all good.”

  We waited about five minutes after he drove off before we moved a muscle. My feet were tingling with the pins and needles that come from crouching too long. Finally able to exhale, I slumped onto my butt and leaned back against the cabinet behind me. “That nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “I don’t think this place has a portable AED, so it is lucky you didn’t have one.”

  I laughed. Holman. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone so literal.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” I said and started to get up from my position on the floor. In order to get leverage I leaned back against the steel cabinet and planted my heels on the stainless steel floor, the kind with the tiny x’s in it, but I must have slipped because the next thing I knew I felt something give way beneath my feet, and I fell back down on my bottom.

  “Ouch!”

  “Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t see what had caused it but felt the burning of steel slice through the skin just above my achilles. Coltrane started to bark. “Shhhh!” I tried to placate Coltrane, to let him know I was okay.

  Holman shone the flashlight on my ankle and sure enough, dark red blood had bubbled to the surface and was starting to drip down the back of my ankle. Coltrane continued to bark. Loudly. “Shhhh,” we both said, trying to get him to stop, as Holman gently lifted me up by my elbow.

  We looked down to see what had cut me. It looked like my foot had slipped on some sort of false panel on the floor. The pressure from my foot must have caused the top to slide open, revealing a rectangular cache underneath. Coltrane reared up and chased his tail and barked over and over again, his snout pointing directly at the hole in the floor.

  I knew we had only seconds before the guard would be back. Holman knelt down, shined the flashlight inside the compartment, and reached inside. Coltrane barked and snarled. He pulled out a plastic bag that smelled strongly of something I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t unpleasant, but the odor was overpowering in such a small space. He opened the bag and I saw his jaw clench. He held it out to me. The bag contained tens of smaller zip bags filled with jagged, whitish shards of rock and powder. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at, but I knew it wasn’t taco seasoning.

  Coltrane was nearly foaming at the mouth now, his sharp teeth flashing with every piercing bark. We saw a beam of light shine through the window. The guard was back. And if he was close enough to shine the light, he could definitely hear Coltrane’s bark.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll take Coltrane,” Holman dropped one of the bags into his fanny pack and reached down and got out the others. He slid the dummy steel panel on the floor back into place and wound Coltrane’s leash around his hand twice.

  The man’s voice was closer now, and though I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the barking, I heard the urgency in his voice.

  “Coltrane, off!” I said desperately, remembering how Mrs. James had silenced him that day I had been at their house. To my shock, he stopped barking.

  “C’mon,” Holman said. He had one hand on the leash and held the other out to me as he led me toward the back of the truck. He carefully opened the back door and helped me out. He followed quickly behind, not even bothering to close it. We hustled to Holman’s car still hidden in the bushes.

  It wasn’t until we were safely heading down the gravel road that we heard the guard yelling at us to stop. Obviously, we didn’t listen.

  CHAPTER 35

  How did this happen again?” Ryan’s mom, Mrs. Sanford, asked as she swabbed me for a third time with hydrogen peroxide. She was a nurse, and even though Ryan and I were finished, I knew I could count on her any time of the day or night. Which proved true when she opened her door to Holman and me at 10:38 p.m.

  “We were taking Coltrane for a walk in the park, and I, um, tripped. I must have landed on a rock.” I said all of this is one fast stream without making eye contact.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. I could tell she wasn’t buying it.

  “Riley, what were you doing walking around alone at night?” Ryan loomed over us in the kitchen, pacing like a nervous tiger.

  Holman, who stood by silently the whole time, finally spoke up. “She wasn’t alone.”

  Ryan, as if noticing him for the first time, gave him an appraising look, trying to decide if Holman was a threat or not. “Oh yeah, I forgot she had her dog.”

  “Ryan,” I hissed at him, “you’re not helping.”

  “What’s with the fanny pack, dude?”

  “Leave him alone,” I warned.

  The two men stared at each other, Holman in his wide-eyed, scientist way and Ryan in his decidedly more caveman-like manner. Mrs. Sanford broke the tension. “I don’t think you need stitches, but it’ll be sore for a good while.” She laid a fresh gauze pad over the cut and taped it into place. “Also, we should get you a tetanus shot. Come by the office tomorrow, and I’ll fix you up.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her and tried to convey my deep gratitude not only for fixing my cut but for not asking too many questions. The tetanus-shot comment proved she knew that cut wasn’t left by any rock.

  “That’s quite a dog you’ve got there,” she said, nodding to Coltrane. He sat right by my side the entire time Mrs. Sanford worked on me, like my own personal bodyguard.

  I reached out and scratched behind his ear. “He’s a keeper for sure.”

  Ryan stood, arms crossed, looking at me, Coltrane, and Holman.

  I got up, holding onto the table for balance, the pain in my leg shooting through me as I did. I’d taken three Advil when I got to their house, but the pain was still strong. “Thanks again,” I said, leaning forward to give Mrs. Sanford a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like that as soon as you start hanging around with,” Ryan jerked a thumb at Holman, “Beanpole over here, you end up in all kinds of trouble. This isn’t like you.”

  “Sherlock,” Holman said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sherlock is my nickname. Not Beanpole.”

  “Is this guy for real?”

  I scowled at Ryan and then held a hand out to Holman to help me out. “Let’s go, Will.” Coltrane followed us to the door. I thanked Mrs. Sanford one more time, and we walked gingerly out to Holman’s car.

  “You called me Will,” Holman said once we were sitting in the car.

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Out of my peripheral vision I saw a smile creep across his face. In the dark of the car, I felt one nip at the corner of my mouth too.
>
  The rest of the drive back to my house, all one and a half minutes of it, we were quiet. It wasn’t until we were inside and Coltrane was locked in his crate in my bedroom that we addressed the elephant in the fanny pack.

  “What are you going to do with all that…stuff?”

  Holman walked over to my large front picture windows and closed the plantation shutters. He came back to the couch, sat down beside me, and stared at the contraband now on my ottoman. “I guess take it to the police.”

  “What’s that smell?” I asked, again noticing the strong odor coming from the bags.

  “Patchouli oil. I think it’s meant to mask the smell of the drugs.”

  “Obviously it didn’t fool Coltrane. As soon as that trap door slid open, he knew exactly what it was.”

  The silence was broken by my phone vibrating. It was on the table near the door where I’d dropped it when we walked in. Holman got it for me and glanced at the display. “Blocked.” He held it out to me.

  My stomach turned over. I had a bad feeling before I even said hello.

  “Is this Riley Ellison?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Yes.” I sat up. Holman leaned in so he could hear too.

  “I think you have something that belongs to me.” The voice was deep, and I thought I detected a slight Spanish accent.

  “Who is this?”

  “Call me Twain.” Chills broke out all over my body in an instant. He continued in his eerily pleasant, measured tone. “You and your tall friend took something of mine. So I’ve taken something of yours.”

  In the background I heard a stifled scream. It was a voice I’d know anywhere. Ryan’s voice. A cry escaped my throat. I couldn’t speak. Holman took the phone from me and put it on speaker.

  “This is Will Holman. To whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Mark Twain.”

  “I don’t believe that’s your real name, but if we are going to use aliases, could you please refer to me as Sherlock?”

  “What?” For the first time in the conversation, the man sounded thrown off.

  “That is my preferred code name: Sherlock.”