"Gotta go," I said smartly, hitting a couple of keys and locking my screen, lest Ben decide to do a little snooping of his own while my back was turned.
I skirted around Ben, avoiding his angry eyes, but feeling them boring through my back every step on the way to Bob's office. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but I was pretty angry at his feeble attempts to scare me away from Richard.
"Yes, Bob?" I asked, stepping inside.
Bob flapped a sheet of paper in front of me. "Your column."
I gulped. What is it really that bad? I hadn't covered much entertainment news before, but I'd read plenty. I was pretty sure I nailed the snappy, gossipy style. So that left the content? Bob didn't like it?
"I can rewrite it," I told him quickly. "Just give me a couple of hours."
"Rewrite it? What are you talking about? It's hilarious, Shayne! I never laughed so hard! Wait until I show this to my wife. She said exactly the same thing about this actress only last week! You've got the knack for entertainment. Keep this up and maybe you can do the occasional entertainment feature. How does that sound?"
"It sounds great!" Not just great, but a giant step in the direction I was aiming for. Knowing Bob would consider me for an entertainment feature made it more likely he would listen when I pitched him the Chucky Barnard murder story. Take that, Ben Kosina!
"What do you have for next week's columns?"
"Well, I, uh..."
Bob flapped his hand dismissively. "I know, I know. You need to work your sources. Glad I hired you. So far, anyway. Ask Martha to get you set up with a headshot we can run with the column. Make it pretty. And Shayne?"
"Yes?" I waited optimistically.
"Do something with your hair."
Chapter Thirteen
"It never occurred to me you'd do this with the place," said Mike. He handed me another beer as he reclined on the sofa, staring up at the murder board. I had the strangest feeling he'd been waiting for me to get home. That sensation arose after he knocked on my door less than five minutes after I shut it behind me.
"Beats renter's magnolia," I quipped.
"Renter's magnolia looks amazing compared to this," Mike shot back. "I think you should rethink your interior decoration. Want to take another look in the storage bins? There might be something floral."
"I thought you promised not to criticize."
"I'm only kidding. I'm fascinated. I can't stop thinking about your murder board. What are you anyway? Some kind of PI?"
"Journalist."
"Not an actress? Thank the Lord."
"Why? What's wrong with actresses?"
"Ever dated any?"
"No."
"Wait until you do."
"I don't swing that way."
"I know. You currently prefer to date jerks. Anymore dates on the horizon?"
"Yes, actually. And he's nice. Not a jerk at all. You?"
"Got a date tonight." Mike flashed a pleased smile.
"An actress?" I asked, half-joking.
"Hot."
"A hot actress?"
"No idea. Didn't ask."
I shook my head, opting to cease my questions. Not that I wasn't mildly curious... No, wait! I wasn't even mildly curious about Mike's dating life. But it was nice to have someone to talk to in the big city, where everyone had somebody, and so far, I had nobody. So when Mike dropped by with another six-pack of beers and parked himself in front of the murder board, I did the best thing I could: I put the beers in the fridge and let him read the board. What harm could it do? Perhaps the apartment manager's homeless grandson could even chip in a few ideas?
"Is your date the reason for the haircut?" I asked, nodding the beer towards Mike's slightly shorter, but still messy, hair.
"No, that was because I couldn't see anymore."
"You could have gotten a man bun."
"You're attracted to strange things. What's that?" Mike asked, pointing to the photos I printed on my way home and stuck on the board. That was before I could point out I was categorically not attracted to man buns.
"A cufflink Chucky's sister found under his bed."
"That's not odd."
"It is when Chucky didn't wear formal shirts. Jenna says she never saw it before."
"Maybe the maid dropped it?"
"How many maids do you know who wear cufflinks to work?"
"I know a guy who works as a naked butler. He wears cufflinks on these teeny, little cuffs."
"That's a real job?"
"He does bachelorette parties and any other kind that features screaming women. He gets free treats to take home."
I was sure that was a trick, but I couldn't refrain from asking, "What kind of treats?"
"Anything legal under five-foot-seven. He's not a big guy."
"Mike!"
Mike laughed, adding, "Plus, three hundred bucks an hour."
"I'm in the wrong profession."
He gave me a long look. "I could get you an audition. They have a naked maid division."
"No, but thanks. Anyway, we're talking cufflinks."
"Let me know if you change your mind. Buddies?"
"I can't decide. I barely know you."
"I meant, did any buddies drop the cufflink?"
Color crept into my cheeks. "Jenna says no. I think it snapped off the killer’s sleeve when he forced Chucky to take the sleeping tablets that killed him, perhaps in a struggle. At least, we can narrow the killer down to a man."
"That should make it easier," agreed Mike before adding, "Remind me... What's the population of LA?"
"Ha-ha."
"Maybe you could track down the manufacturer of the cufflink? It looks pretty distinctive."
"I thought so too. It doesn't look like cheap."
"If you find the murderer via this cufflink, is there any kind of reward?"
"Yes, the lifelong satisfaction at putting a murderer behind bars."
Mike's face dropped. "I was hoping for financial compensation."
"Enough for a deposit to put on a place?"
"Why would I do that when I have such a beautiful apartment right here?" Mike asked as he jabbed a finger towards the window overlooking the pool.
"You're a squatter."
"I prefer you call me a house-sitter. Besides, the place hasn't rented yet so Grandpa said I can stay in exchange for helping him out some more."
"Jacob says the pool's getting cleaned soon," I mentioned, hope filling me.
"Grandpa always says that."
"Don't you have a day job?"
"No, I have a flexible job."
I narrowed my eyes, growing curious now. I couldn't see Mike in an office — too stuffy and formal, although maybe one of those hip, t-shirt wearing, beanbag-seating, no-shoes offices could work. Equally, I couldn't see him doing anything menial. He was too smart. And too annoying, I concluded, even if I were warming to him. He was definitely entertaining and his quick wit was fun. I could be friends with him, I decided, thinking back to the moment when I snatched his orange and threw it into the undergrowth. I would have to replace that, I resolved, in a brief moment of regret. "What do you do?"
"Don't laugh."
"I promise not to laugh if you are anything besides an out-of-work actor."
"Who wouldn't employ this beautiful face? Actually, I'm a musician."
"What do you play?"
"Guitars and drums."
"Funny, I had you down for the xylophone."
"I can do things with a xylophone that would make you blush."
"Weirdest flirt ever."
"Full of yourself, aren't you? That wasn't a flirt. If I was flirting with you, you'd know it."
"So would you. You'd be able to tell by how fast I ran."
"I'm hurt. But not hurt enough to cancel my date, stay at home and cry. Compare war stories soon? Bet my date is better than yours," he added as he grabbed his jacket and stood up to leave.
"Don't place bets you'll only lose."
"Wear something hot and I mi
ght get worried."
"I always wear something hot on dates."
"Sure you do," said Mike, looking unconvinced. "Those last two outfits worked out well for you."
Somehow that made me doubt the slinky black dress, along with vertiginous heels that made my calves look amazingly toned. Take that, Allen, and his personal trainer comments, I had thought upon deciding on it. Now Mike has me second guessing my decision. "What counts as hot anyway?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound lacking in my self-confidence.
"Just grab something out of your closet, throw it on the floor, and if it looks good down there, it's the perfect outfit." Mike winked. If he didn't already have his hand on the doorknob, I would probably have ordered him out.
"I don't throw my clothes on the bedroom floor on the first date!"
Mike yanked the door open. "That’s probably why you never get a second date." The door was closed by the time the pillow I hurled hit it. The pillow bounced off and flopped on the floor. Retrieving it, I tossed it back on the couch and scowled at the door. So much for warming up to the infuriating jerk!
A blast from my cell phone stopped my thoughts from turning too worried. The last thing I needed right now was anxiety about my impending date, especially when I was so looking forward to it since Richard asked. No, I would wear my hot, slinky, black dress and have a damn good time, no matter what Mike said. My mood had already lifted by the time I answered with a perky, "Hi!"
"Shayne?"
"Yes. But if this is about an auto accident or..."
"It's Ben."
"Ben?"
After a long pause, he said, "Ben Kosina from The Chronicle."
"Yes, I guessed that..." I trailed off, struggling to think why Ben would call me. Or how he even got my number.
"I wasn't sure you would answer. Am I interrupting anything?"
I looked at the murder board and the stark lack of answers. "No."
His sigh was one of relief. Had he really worried I wouldn't answer his call? Would it help him to know I didn't know he was calling? And even if I did, I was stuck with him as a co-worker, so I couldn't ignore him completely. "I wanted to say sorry," he said.
That stumped me. Sorry was just about the last thing I expected to hear from Ben’s lips. I expected a little digging into my story, perhaps a summons to the office for some kind of newspaper business that I'd either forgotten about, or someone neglected to tell me. No, wait, there was one thing even more unlikely than a sorry: an invitation to write the front page. That realization woke me up.
"Sorry?" I repeated.
"Yes, I'm sorry," Ben said, a little more slowly this time. Clearly, he thought I had a problem keeping up. Unfortunately, that was true at that very moment. I had no idea what he was apologizing for. As the long pause stretched on, I pulled faces and wondered how to fill the silence. Finally, just when I thought I might crack, Ben saved the day with a very stiff, "I wanted to apologize for offending you."
"You didn't offend me."
"Oh."
"You annoyed me."
"I'm sorry for annoying you."
"You don't even know why you annoyed me!"
"My excellent investigative reporter skills make me think you're annoyed for the same reason I thought I offended you. Richard Adamson."
"You do have excellent reporter skills. I see now why The Chronicle wanted you back."
"That, and my dazzling smile."
That was undeniably true. He did have a dazzling smile. I bet he used it on all of his interviewees whenever he wanted to look wholesome and trustworthy. Fortunately, we weren't quite at the futuristic year where video phones were the norm yet, so he couldn't dazzle me on this call.
"Did your mom tell you that?" I asked, wondering the cause of his sudden gasp.
"Sure. She also tells me I'm a very good boy and to say please and thank you, always. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'd like to be friends."
"I'm sorry, what now?"
"Friends."
"Friends?"
"People who share a work lunch. Fire ideas off each other. I've read your resume and your cuttings file. I'm very impressed. The Chronicle is lucky to have you. We could get a drink some time? Maybe a movie..."
"I know what friends means," I said, wondering if he actually wrote down a list of all the things friends could do.
"Uh-oh, don't tell me, you've made friends before."
"I have lots of friends." However, none of them were here. I dropped onto the couch, loath to admit that fact to Ben. Ben probably had lots of friends.
"I knew it! All the best ones get snapped up first."
I couldn't help the smile brightening my face at Ben's easy teasing. If he hadn't stolen my job, I could imagine us as friends. He was the sort that easily appealed: charming, open, friendly, and very handsome. Scratch that. I refused to think about the handsome part. I bet that, and his winning smile, were exactly how he extricated himself from uncomfortable issues; and I was sure he knew I had a very big , very uncomfortable issue with him. The question was, why should he give a damn? Why did he suddenly want to make friends with me? He had the job I wanted. He had the whole staff of The Chronicle bowled over by his charisma. What did my opinion matter to him? Unless...
"And I didn't mean to offend you about the Richard Adamson thing. I just got worried when I heard you were going out on a date. He doesn't have the best reputation."
"With dates?"
"With people in general. I couldn't print the stories I had on him because of legal issues, the details of which I won't bore you with, but he's pretty handy with his fists when he can't win a fight using his tongue."
"I see. So you're telling me, he punched someone out?"
"Yeah."
"With cause?"
"I guess he would say so, but... You're a big girl..."
"That's right. I am a big girl."
"All five-foot-four inches of you," Ben agreed with a smile.
"And I can look after myself."
"I'm sure you can. And just in case you need rescuing, you have..."
"Your number, yeah, sure. You can serve as my silver knight on a white steed if I get into any trouble," I replied smartly, putting him in his place.
"Actually, I was going to say an emergency contact button on your phone that speed-dials 911. My white steed is currently in the shop getting fixed."
"Oh." My face flooded with more color, now becoming the awful shade of horribly embarrassed. Of course, he wasn't offering anything; and I just smacked down an offer that he didn't even make. "Sorry," I mumbled.
"I'm glad you see me as your silver knight though," he said without any hint of teasing. If I weren't still smarting with horror at my erroneous words, perhaps I would have analyzed that in a lot more detail. Probably with a glass of wine. I looked at the beer bottle in my hand, courtesy of Mike. In my new life, I couldn't even get my preferred choice of beverage right. "I heard Bob loved your column," he added, deftly changing the subject before I could panic.
"He says it's running in the next issue."
"I know. We'll have to celebrate then, instead of waiting for the obituary column. Entertainment is a lot more cheerful anyway. Speaking of… How's the obituary coming along?"
There it was! The true reason for Ben's phone call. I should have guessed all along. First, an apology to soften me up, then some gentle teasing to develop friendly feelings, a celebration to bolster my insecurity after being knocked back for the job he stole from me, then, whammy! Where and what was my story?
"Almost finished," I said, slapping on a cheery attitude I didn't feel. I hated to pretend, and I wanted to tell Ben to back off, but if I did, he would’ve surely known that something definitely was up; and no doubt, step up his own sniffing around. I recognized a persistence in Ben that existed in myself, and I’d previously known one too many reporters who would stop at nothing to snag the big story. I'd even fallen victim to it more than once, I’m ashamed to admit, in slipping a few stories ou
t from under a rival reporter's nose; but I'd never stolen a story from a reporter at my own newspaper. That was just not okay. Plus, I reminded myself, I didn't know Ben. I didn't know where his morals lay, or if he even had any.
"I always liked that guy on his show. Such a shame about the overdose."
"Totally," I snipped. "Bad luck."
"I heard from a contact at LAPD that they've reopened his case."
"I heard they were just tying up loose ends."
"I heard they're suspicious about the overdose."
"I heard it's a slow week at LAPD," I shot back.
"It's never a slow week at LAPD," Ben countered, sounding more amused than irked, which irked me even more. "Who's your source?"
"That's confidential. Who's yours?"
"Mine’s confidential, too. My source heard Chucky was at a restaurant and bar called Aria with a woman on the day he died and he appeared really morose. I think it ended badly. Maybe he killed himself over a woman?"
"Hardly. He had the whole world ahead of him, thanks to his big comeback. He had no reason to kill himself." As soon as the words slipped out, I clamped my mouth shut. What did I do? All I could hope was that Ben ignored my loose lips.
Hope, however, was short-lived.
"Aha!" He said, jumping on my words. "I knew it! There's more to Chucky's death than just a bucket of pills and a bad date. You've got a real story."
"I. Do. Not."
"I think one of those words might be extraneous in that sentence."
Damn it! "I'm not going to say 'I do' to you!"
Ben chuckled. "One day, you will." Then he hung up, leaving me holding the phone, my jaw resting on the floor, and a nasty feeling I just created the kind of competition I was hoping to avoid. That, and those two little words suddenly became loaded with innuendo and intrigue. What did he mean by one day I would say I do to him? Did he think he could steal my job along with my singlehood? Of all the nerve!
At least, I gleaned one thing from the conversation; Ben tipped me off to Chucky's whereabouts right before he died. Now, all I had to do was locate the mystery woman whose company he shared, and quiz her on Chucky's final hours.
Chapter Fourteen
"I do. I do, I do, I... Grrr." I bashed the steering wheel with my hand, annoyed at the sound of Ben's voice echoing in my head. It wasn't exactly what I wanted to think about as I showered, much less when I dressed in the slinky, black dress, and when I was strapping on my heels. It wasn't the refrain I wanted to hear when I drove to the restaurant either. Even the voice of Bruno Mars on high volume couldn’t drown out his words. "I definitely do not," I told the rearview mirror as I fluttered my mascara'd lashes. "Ben Kosina, you are never, ever, walking me down the aisle! Oh, the restaurant!" I pulled over, waited for a Toyota to exit from the space and pulled in, mentally thanking the parking angels for this piece of magic: a parking space within heel-tottering distance of the restaurant.
Deadlines Page 11