style="font-size:15px;"> Thursday, October 14, 6:20 p.m.
Rebecca Wallace had an itch between her shoulder blades, warning her it was well past time to get out of the office. She’d turned off the three monitors on the wall, all of them muted, that were tuned to the television network she worked for and their top two competitors. She scrolled her mouse over to power down her computer when a new email icon popped up on her monitor.
She should ignore it. Needed to ignore it. She had a date tonight—the first in months—and she already knew she was going to be late. Late wasn’t a behavior she tolerated in others, so she did her best to be prompt as often as possible. Her career as a producer for an acclaimed investigative journalism show frequently put her at odds with her aim to be on time. While the weekly show was scheduled down to the second, when important stories broke, she felt an obligation to be available to support the stable of reporters the network had in the field.
Knowing the news cycle had wound down for the day, she exercised self-discipline and shut down the computer. She would read the email on her phone during the commute home and then delegate any response if necessary. With a longing glance at her laptop, she left it behind as well. Carving out a personal life had been one of her primary intentions for this year. Considering this was only her tenth date for the year and it was October, she scolded herself for letting an important goal slide.
Deciding the email would wait until the morning, she set her phone to vibrate and dropped it into her purse. Her team had the next big story in the works already. Last week, she and her lead journalist, Bill Gatlin, had started digging into an anonymous tip that alleged an elite team of US Army soldiers serving in Iraq had stolen a fortune in gold.
She would have blown off the mysterious lead if not for the list of six names and the date of the purported theft. Having been in that same area of Iraq at the time on a humanitarian story, she and Bill were each making discreet inquiries about the men implicated and she had tech support looking for a lead on the sender. Although she didn’t care for anonymous tips, no matter how often they panned out, she knew people enjoyed the drama and adventure of being a faceless, nameless source blowing the whistle on some unpleasant situation.
What she’d die for about now was a tip for a juicy exposé on local spas. Surely she could find a way to pitch that idea. She’d happily volunteer as the guinea pig for any “undercover” research too. She could already hear the laughter from her team if she made such a suggestion. Her entire MO was leaving the fluff pieces and the half-baked ratings bait to the other guys. The guys who weren’t winning awards the way her team did year after year.
She reminded herself that she had left Hollywood for many reasons, not the least of which was to find a place where substance mattered more than the smoke and innuendo of the next dramatic scandal.
By the time she slid into the backseat of the commuter car waiting for her at the curb, her phone had vibrated with another three alerts. Her determination to remain accessible to her team often conflicted with her goal of developing a worthwhile personal life. With a sigh, she retrieved her phone from her purse and checked the various alerts of email and two voice mail messages forwarded from the office.
In the first voice mail, she was pleasantly surprised to hear her father’s voice. She’d called him days ago hoping he had a name or some insight on getting around the army bureaucracy she’d slammed up against as she tried to find confirmation on the names listed. Her dad, a legend in Hollywood, had produced and directed movies ranging from highbrow documentaries to summer blockbusters and seemed to have friends and contacts around the world in all branches of business. According to his brief message, he wasn’t ready to call in a favor for her. His best advice was to work the story from the ground up.
As if she hadn’t been doing that. Well, calling him had been a long shot.
The next voice message was from Parker Lawton, making yet another terse request to meet. She deleted it and shoved the phone back in her purse. Lawton was the last name on the list, and she wanted some solid facts and a better overall picture of the situation and the men involved before they had a conversation. She didn’t want a possible thief skewing the perspective on the story.
It infuriated her when the subjects of budding stories learned her team was poking around. Most likely the anonymous tipster had let something slip, unable to keep from making a not-so-veiled threat or suggestion. As a producer, she had to assess the value and impact of a story before they had the facts. After several years on the job, her instincts were spot-on, and the repeated messages from Lawton confirmed her hunch that he had either something to confess or something to hide.
She and Bill had divided the list of names and created a cover story about soldiers returning to civilian life to explain their interest in the six men named by the source. Cautiously checking into Lawton’s current situation had been Bill’s job. So why was Lawton fixating on her? Her mind stirred it around and around, refusing to let go of work, even as she paid the car service and entered her apartment building in the heart of Russian Hill.
Inside, she locked the door behind her. She kicked off her work heels and dropped her purse on the nearest chair, fishing out her phone and taking it with her to the bedroom. Using the voice commands, she called Bill while she changed clothes for the evening. Her date was taking her to some elite awards gala. He’d been dropping the names of San Francisco’s wealthiest and brightest innovators all week, to make sure she didn’t back out. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d already met the business rock stars on his list at one event or another.
“What are you doing calling me? You’re supposed to be off the clock,” Bill said in lieu of anything as mundane as hello. “You told me you were going on the date.”
Reporters, she’d learned from day one, were a habitually nosy lot. “I’m dressing while we speak.”
A low wolf whistle carried through the room. “Now, that’s an image.”
She laughed. He’d seen her at her best, her average and even her worst more than once when they traveled to remote locations in search of the story. Through it all, Bill had become a hybrid of friend and mentor with a side of big brother tossed in for good measure.
“You don’t scare me.” She laughed, knowing Bill was far more likely to be picturing her date. “What kind of dirt are you finding on Parker Lawton?”
“Why?” Bill asked, in a whisper. “What did he say?”
Interesting. Bill was a legend in the industry for maintaining his cool in every circumstance. Why was he nervous? “Nothing. The man has left messages for me all day that don’t say anything other than he wants to meet in person. His emails are the same. Shouldn’t he be calling you instead of me?”
Bill’s sigh filtered through the speaker.
“His assistant was a brick wall when I reached out as myself,” he said. “So I tried Lawton’s personal number. I left him a message as your assistant, saying we wanted to interview him for his perspective on the sudden rise of homegrown terrorism.”
Her hand stilled on the hanger supporting the little black dress she’d been pulling out of her closet. “That wasn’t the story we agreed to.”
“I know.” He sounded miserable. “Since he’s in the security business, it seemed more likely to get a response.”
Though she might not care for the changeup, she couldn’t fault his logic. “What else is going wrong with this story, Bill?” Warning bells were ringing in her mind, and that twitch between her shoulder blades was back. “I’m
