The Preditorial Page

by Lee, Amanda M.

  That sounded like a great idea. “So,” I said, pulling away from him slightly. “What exactly do you want for this very interesting information you just gifted me with?”

  Eliot smiled widely as he moved his lips from my neck, trailing a path of kisses up to my ear. When I heard his suggestion, it didn’t seem like much of a hardship. If only getting information from my other sources was this easy.

  Five

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  I dubiously glanced over at the pert, blonde intern -- I think she worked for Channel 7 -- who was standing to my right and looking out on the ballfield with undisguised excitement. “Compared to what?”

  The girl turned to me curiously. “What?”

  “You said it’s beautiful,” I reminded her. “Compared to what?”

  “It’s a beautiful piece of history in the middle of the city.” She pursed her lips. “It’s like nature and this city’s pride collided.”

  “It’s missing a wall,” I pointed to a spot to my left. “And, I don’t know about you, but I find a ballpark pretty boring without hotdogs and beer.”

  The girl frowned. “You don’t have a lot of friends, do you?”

  Once she was gone, I made my way to the public relations representative who was hiding under an awning at the center of the field. I had met her before on some project that was momentarily eluding me but I couldn’t remember her name. “When is this thing getting started?”

  The woman shaded her eyes as she looked up, frowning when she saw me reach for a news packet without being invited. She didn’t admonish me for my brazenness, but I could tell I wouldn’t be making it on her Christmas card list any time soon.

  “It will start as soon as the director gets here,” she answered, her bottom lip poking out as she regarded me irritably.

  “The release said 9 a.m.,” I pointed out.

  “It’s barely 9:15 a.m.,” the woman countered.

  “That’s still fifteen minutes late.”

  “Do you have somewhere else to be?” She asked, not even trying to hide her snide attitude.

  “Any place would be better,” I said. “You think you can hurry them along? This isn’t really my idea of fun.”

  The woman frowned. “You’re about to meet David Shipman.”

  “Who?”

  “The director,” she replied angrily. “Don’t you know anything about Hollywood?”

  “Actually, I know a great deal about Hollywood,” I said. “I’m a fountain of useless information. I’ve still never heard of that guy.”

  “He is the acclaimed director of Paranormal Night.”

  “Isn’t that a horror movie?” I thought about it a second more. “Isn’t that a really bad horror movie that was supposed to be like the Blair Witch Project but instead a lot of people confused it for a comedy?” Eliot and I were both horror movie fans so we saw it in theaters. It was horrific, but not in a good way.

  “That movie made more than $100 million on a $5 million budget,” the woman corrected me harshly.

  “They spent $5 million too much,” I informed her.

  I took my news packet and wandered back through the milling crowd. There was a larger media presence here than I had expected. Of course, when you say “Hollywood” all the dregs come running, no matter how minor the talent associated with the project really is. As I studied the crowd, I realized one individual stood out more than the others -- and I recognized him.

  It started with the off-brand suede shoes (which were outdated in the 1970s – and I was sure that was the decade these had been bought). Then my gaze jumped to the ragged corduroy pants, complete with a hole in the back pocket (where you could see something that suspiciously looked like plaid boxer shorts peeking out). The man was dressed in a flannel coat -- and had a gray fur trapper hat perched on his head -- even though the temperature had risen to 65 degrees already and was promising more. It was early fall, yet Caleb Crumb was dressed for January.

  I stalked over to him angrily. “What are you doing here?”

  Caleb swung around, his eyes fixing on me and his mouth turning into a scowl. “Who are you?”

  Did he really think I would fall for that? “You know very well who I am, Caleb,” I scolded. “Just like I know very well that you were told -- in no uncertain terms -- that this was my story and you weren’t supposed to come down here.”

  Caleb’s dark eyes looked sharp and dangerous for a moment -- just for a moment --before they reverted to their usual state of befuddled distraction. “I was told to come here by my boss,” he said. “His name is Fred Fish. He’s the managing editor of The Monitor.”

  “I know who he is,” I snapped. “I know who you are, too. Just like you know who I am.”

  Caleb looked me up and down for a second as though he were legitimately trying to place me. When recognition dawned on his face I couldn’t decide whether he was faking or if he really was that slow. “Ah, yes, Ariel,” he said knowingly. “What are you doing here?”

  I narrowed my eyes. I knew very well that he knew my real name. “This is my story, Caleb,” I warned him.

  “I’m here to do a story, too,” Caleb interjected, his eyes bright and his tone vacant.

  “No, you’re not,” I countered.

  “Are you the public relations representative for this movie?” Caleb tried another tactic. “If you have a problem with me doing a story on this movie, you’ll have to take it up with my editor. His name is Fred Fish.”

  I wrinkled my nose as I regarded Caleb. “I’ll do that, Caleb,” I hissed, moving my face closer to his so others couldn’t overhear us. “You can bet I’m going to tell Fish that you were down here.”

  “I’m sure my editor knows that I’m down here,” Caleb chuckled to himself. “He is, after all, the one who sent me here.”

  I took a step back, watching Caleb as he bumbled away. If it was an act it was a good one. Still, there was something about the way he had looked me up and down that set my nerves on edge. He was smarter -- and more aware -- than he was letting on.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Fish he’d been down here. What? It’s not tattling. Oh, fine, it’s tattling. He deserves it, though. Plus, this just goes to prove that I was right and I didn’t have to come down here after all.

  TWO HOURS later, I dramatically flounced into the newsroom at The Monitor and made my presence known.

  “Guess who I saw at the stupid movie news conference?”

  Fish, sitting at his desk typing away, glanced up at me with one eye as he kept the other trained on his computer monitor. “Kim Kardashian?”

  “Bite your tongue.”

  “Billy Crystal?”

  “No.”

  I knew he wasn’t really playing the game, but I refused to give in until he focused his complete attention on me.

  “Dolly Parton?”

  “You wish.”

  I could do this all day. I think Fish knew that. When he sighed in defeat, I knew I’d won. “Who did you see at the news conference?”

  “Caleb Crumb,” I said, folding my arms and watching Fish for signs of the fury I was sure to come.

  Fish took a second, digesting what I said. When he realized I hadn’t been setting him up for some big Hollywood story, he finally turned both of his eyes to me. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, I’m serious,” I said. “He was down at the park and when I approached him he pretended that he didn’t know who I was.”

  Fish bit down on the inside of his lip as he regarded me. “Did you tell him who you were?”

  “He knows who I am,” I said.

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “Yeah, as his co-worker, Ariel -- like he always does.”

  Fish smiled to himself. One of the small joys of his job involved me freaking out when people forgot my name. I’m memorable, for crying out loud.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said his boss, Fred Fish, sent him down there. Then he called me the public relations representati
ve and told me to call you if I had a problem.”

  Fish cocked an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Why should I?” I countered. “He’s your responsibility.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Fish looked confused.

  “Well, are you going to punish him? Or are you going to let him get away with it, like you always do?”

  Fish thinly smiled at me. “People say I let a lot of my workers get away with murder, without sufficient punishment.”

  Uh-oh.

  “People say Marvin runs wild in the streets bullying people.”

  He does. “I think that’s an exaggeration.”

  “People say that Caleb doesn’t do enough work to justify his salary.”

  He doesn’t. “That’s an easy one.”

  “People say Duncan has a diagnosable mental condition,” Fish continued.

  I had started that rumor. “It’s called narcissism.”

  Fish leveled his gaze on me. “And people say that I let you do whatever you want whenever you want without consequences.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Fish silenced me with a wave of his hand.

  “People say that you’re out stalking Tad Ludington at the county building at least once a week because you’re convinced that if you make him cry or fly off the handle you’ll be able to make the video go viral and get rich.”

  That’s a vicious lie.

  “People say that you’re finding your way onto crime scenes you have no business being on.”

  Crap.

  “People say that you’re lying to sources about your identity to dig up dirt on some of our area politicians, including going to the same gym as the courthouse secretaries just so you can eavesdrop,” Fish added.

  Well, I certainly wasn’t going to the gym to work out.

  “So,” Fish started up again. “If Caleb deserves to be punished, wouldn’t the others on my list also deserve to be punished?”

  He had me -- and he knew it. “So Caleb’s going to get away with his crap? Again?”

  Fish shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I don’t want to be punished,” I said hurriedly.

  Fish rolled his eyes. “No one said you were going to be punished.”

  “But you just said … .”

  “Avery?”

  I swallowed hard, not wanting to hear whatever horrendous task Fish was about to lay at my feet. “What?”

  “Go write your story.”

  I looked at him hopefully. “You’re not mad?”

  “Go write your story and then go to the sheriff’s department,” Fish ignored my question. “They’re having a 1 p.m. news briefing on the body found in the river yesterday.”

  I furrowed my brow as I regarded Fish. “Are you not punishing me because you need me to cover this story?”

  Fish ignored me.

  “Because I don’t appreciate being lumped in the same category with Caleb.”

  Fish continued to ignore me.

  I started to turn from Fish’s desk but then stopped myself. “You know, one day you’re going to admit I’m your favorite.”

  “Go do your work.”

  Six

  After speeding through my movie story at a pace that sent Fish’s eyebrows into the stratosphere, I hit downtown Mount Clemens for a quick lunch. I had planned on stopping in at Eliot’s pawnshop to give him a quick update, but when I saw that his employee, Shannon, was behind the counter instead I decided to head straight for the local Coney Island to eat by alone.

  I set off for the sheriff’s department with twenty-five minutes to spare and only five miles to traverse. The two uniformed officers behind the bubble -- the clerical area encased by bullet-proof glass -- were deputies that I happened to recognize. And, guess what? They weren’t exactly fans of mine.

  “Hey guys,” I sidled up to the bubble with a wide smile. “How’s it going?”

  “Ms. Shaw,” one of the deputies answered stonily. “How can we help you today?”

  So much for small talk. “I’m here for the news conference.”

  “It doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes,” the officer answered. “If you have a seat, we’ll have someone come to the door and escort you back to the conference room.”

  That didn’t sound like any fun at all. “Why don’t you just buzz me back?” I suggested hopefully. “I know the way. I don’t need a tour guide.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” the deputy replied, his tone firm and his eyes hard.

  “I need to see my cousin, Derrick, anyway,” I offered. “He’s expecting me.”

  The deputy’s cool blue eyes narrowed. “If I call back to him, do you think he’ll confirm your story?”

  Probably not. “He might have forgotten,” I admitted ruefully. “He’s been having memory problems,” I pushed on, knowing they didn’t believe me in the slightest. “He smoked a lot of pot back in the day. If you just let me go and talk to him real quick, we can save him some embarrassment over his early-onset dementia.”

  The deputy’s jaw squared as he regarded me. “Ms. Shaw, your reputation precedes you. We’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, that you’re not to be allowed beyond these doors unescorted for the foreseeable future.”

  Well, that sucked. I glared at the deputy as I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and texted Derrick irritably.

  “Two of your little friends won’t buzz me in the back. Come up here and get me.”

  “Why should I do that?” Derrick texted back.

  “Because I’ll tell everyone that you thought you were going to marry Jared Leto when we were kids.”

  “I’m on my way.” If texting could be angry, this would pretty much be an example of that feat. “And I thought he was a girl, just FYI.”

  “Likely story,” I mumbled, but I couldn’t hide the smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

  In less than two minutes, the locked door that had separated me from the inner sanctum of the sheriff’s department swung open. I followed Derrick inside, with him stopping long enough to assure the deputies behind the bubble that he would be responsible for me.

  “They have absolutely no sense of humor,” I said, following him down the hallway to his office.

  “You’re going to find there aren’t a lot of people here that find your antics from yesterday all that much fun,” Derrick said.

  “What antics?” I threw myself in the empty chair across from his desk and fixed an innocent look on my face.

  “You suckered the medical examiner into giving you information that the sheriff wasn’t ready to release,” Derrick pointed out. “It was gutsy, but it was stupid, too.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Whose fault is it then?”

  “The medical examiner’s,” I replied, shrugging. “He should have known better.”

  “He will now,” Derrick muttered.

  What was that supposed to mean? “Let me guess,” I said. “Jake has warned him that all media inquiries are now to be handled out of the sheriff’s department?”

  “Pretty much,” Derrick agreed.

  “And I bet that Riley is balking at that,” I continued.

  Derrick glanced up at me suspiciously. “How did you know that?”

  “Because the same thing happened in Oakland County,” I informed him. “That’s why he ended up over here. He doesn’t like having people boss him around, no matter who it is.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Derrick mused. “How did you know that?”

  “I make it a point to know everything about our elected officials and the individuals that are appointed to high-paying positions,” I replied. “I’m just that diligent of a reporter.”

  Derrick rolled his eyes. “Why do you really know?”

  “He makes $90,000 a year in a down economy,” I replied. “I pulled his whole work history in Oakland County when he started.”<
br />
  “And?”

  “And what? He’s good at his job. He’s overpaid, but it’s not like it’s an easy job to do.”

  “Do you think he’ll do what Jake wants?” Derrick asked worriedly.

  “No,” I shook my head. “He likes the limelight.”

  “You don’t know that, though,” Derrick stressed. “You’re just guessing.”

  “I’ll bet you,” I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “I’ve got a vintage Millennium Falcon that says Riley does what he wants and to hell with Jake’s ultimatum.”

  “I don’t make ultimatums.”

  I froze when I heard the voice, forcing myself to turn my upper body to the open doorway on the left side of Derrick’s office. Jake was standing there, his right shoulder leaning against the door frame. His black hair was messy, as usual, and his face was full of anger.

  “Hey, Jake.”

  “Hey, Jake?” He raised an eyebrow casually, but I could tell he was coiled and ready to strike. His hands looked restless, but they finally came to a stop at his narrow hips. “Is that all you have to say?”

  This was definitely a trick question. “How about that weather?” I asked hopefully.

  “Derrick,” Jake’s tone was mild, but I could tell that was an act. “Could you give me a few moments alone with your cousin?”

  Derrick shifted his gaze between his boss and me uncertainly. He had to do what Jake ordered, but if Jake happened to snap and kill me he would never hear the end of it from my mom. It was a hard choice. “I’ll meet you in the conference room.”

  “Traitor,” I hissed when he breezed past me. His gaze met mine for a second -- and there was worry reflected there -- but he didn’t stop to offer any solace. Once he was gone, Jake closed the door, cutting me off from any direct help and trapping me with his fiery anger.

  I was desperate for him to say something at this point. His continued silence -- while he eyed me like a porterhouse steak -- was unnerving. “So, you think the Tigers will have a better season next year?”

  Jake ignored the question. “I don’t want to talk about the Tigers.”