J. Wachowski - In Plain View

Unfortunately, I hadn’t worn anything particularly outrageous today, just my usual jeans and a nice, black T-shirt. I’d thrown a blazer on over the shirt because it was cold and I knew I’d be interviewing Farmer Lowe outdoors. With a touch of evil glee, I slipped off the jacket and tossed it over the back of the receptionist’s empty chair.

Did I mention I don’t usually wear a bra?

As my daddy used to say, when dealing with a hard-ass, the best defense is hard offense. I think my nipples qualified.

“Sheriff, what a surprise.” I stepped out around the counter. “I’d have been happy to come get that press release, you know.”

He snapped his phone shut. His eyes flicked down, no more than a quarter second, but I counted a double blink and two-Mississippis of silence.

“I want the rest of the pictures,” Curzon announced.

“What pictures?” See how diplomatic I can be?

“You were not authorized to take photos at my crime scene.”

“From a public road?” I grabbed the plastic badge that hung around my neck and flipped it so the sheriff could read the large black type: PRESS. I smiled some more.

He took two steps toward me and bent at the waist so his face was level with mine. In a quiet voice he asked, “Where’s that badge going to get you if the police department shuts you out, Ms. O’Hara? Zero cooperation from now on.”

“And your cooperation’s been such a big help to me so far, Sheriff Curzon.”

“It can get a lot worse.”

I spread my hands wide, palms up, innocence incarnate. “I do maybe two, three, stories a month for the next year, Sheriff, then-poof-I’m gone. I think I can stay out of trouble that long.”

“Nothing but business to you, isn’t it?” he asked, the words crisp with bitterness. “You don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”

All of a sudden, it clicked. “But you do.” I lowered my voice. “Who? Who are you protecting?”

He jerked back before he could stop himself, and then popped out in those little jaw-knuckles men get when they clench their teeth.

“We got off on the wrong foot here.” I was suddenly sorry I’d baited him. Sincere-yet-pert is a tough look to pull off. He was worried about somebody and I’d never figure out whom while I had him at DEFCON 1. “Look, I’m not out to get anyone here. I only want to know what happened.” I’ve heard the public ranks journalists right up there with plumbers and lawyers these days, but some of us do try. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, dropped my voice to something soft and private. “Can you help me?”

For a long moment, Curzon hesitated. Cynicism eventually bubbled to the surface of his expression, spoiling my view of his pretty eyes. “Anymore of those pictures turn up in the paper, I know where to come looking, Ms. O’Hara.”

“Happy thought, Sheriff. Any idea when you’ll have that press release ready?”

He tried the death-ray look on me again.

That’s when I noticed Ainsley creeping up behind me; I could feel him twitching.

I walked to the door and held it open. “Have yourself a great day, Sheriff,” I said as Curzon stomped past me. “Come back anytime.”

Good manners are the bedrock of diplomacy.

10:51:30 a.m.

“Yeah, I heard you. Auto sex-something-sounds good. Sounds great,” Gatt mumbled between calls. “Call the county hospital. They must have some of those head shrinkers. See if you can get someone to expert witness on this. Somebody credible. And make ’em say it a couple times, so we get a decent promo. What is it, again?”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation,” Ainsley offered helpfully.

Gatt looked pained. “Don’t tell your mother I taught you that.”

Ainsley rolled his eyes, one shoulder slouched against the wall. I couldn’t figure out whether he was doing the brooding, James Dean thing for his uncle’s benefit or just avoiding sitting down ’cause it might wrinkle his pants.

“We’re going to try and interview Mr. Jost, the adoptive father, later today,” I told Gatt. “Maybe swing by the victim’s place after we get an address. I still don’t know what we’re gonna use as visual on this. Ainsley says these people don’t go to public school. No yearbook photos, none of the usual sources for a head-shot.”

“Keep looking,” Gatt muttered. “Something’ll turn up. And stay away from Curzon for a while.”

“Yes, Mother,” I droned.

“I’m serious. Let him cool down.”

If I was right and Curzon was running interference, I’d have to go after him again. “Let me do my job, Gatt. That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, right?”

“Fine. Speaking of which, I’ve got the GM coming in for the weekly management meeting in an hour. I want you both attending the show from now on.” He flipped his finger back and forth, pointing to Ainsley and me. “But your final contract meeting will have to wait until Monday, O’Hara. GM’s got a conflict.”

“Fine.”

“That’s it. I’m done. Get the hell outta here,” Gatt said. “I got work to do.”

I have no patience for most TV office politics. Once you’ve watched World Wide Wrestling, or read The Art of War, there are no surprises. Making me wait to review my employment terms was a standard opening ego-blow. Managers like to count coup on new employees. Happens all the time, especially with a reputation like mine. ’Til now, freelancing had kept me out of the worst of the fray. As a permanent hire, there was lot less room to maneuver. Pucker up, O’Hara. Life’s a series of trade-offs.

Of course, I hated being seen as a complete push over.

“One more thing, Richard. When do I see my office?”

“What the hell do you need an office for? You’re supposed to be out on location shooting and in here editing. I’ll have Barbara find you a desk someplace.”

“A desk? You want me discussing station business with Curzon-and any other concerned citizens I happen to meet-at some bullpen desk?”

A growl roughed up the back of his throat. “See what I can do,” Gatt answered. “Now get lost.”

Ainsley seemed impressed. I smiled, modestly.

Not bad. Second day on the job, and Richard Gatt and I had already established a rapport.

With no office to call my own, I went out to my car to make a few confirmation calls while Ainsley went to find us a room to view what we’d shot this morning. The social worker at Jenny’s school helped me set up an after-school care scenario back when school started in August, so I’d have a place for the kid as soon as I got the work situation pinned down. All I had to do was confirm my new employment details over the phone.

Bad enough I had to ask Ainsley to chauffeur the kid around this morning; no way was I about to use the public office phone for these calls. The television business is a wild ride, fickle with her favors and always sniffing after the next, younger thing. I’m not saying it’s right, but once somebody gets a reputation for putting business second-behind the kid, the lover, the mother, whatever-the business finds a way to claim her pound of flesh. Or she drops you cold. The only way I figured to keep this whole situation in hand was if my personal life remained as vague as possible within the station’s walls.

It took some serious begging but I managed to get them to take Jenny into after-school care immedia-mento, paperwork to be finalized at pick-up. The relief of not having to rush out and meet the kid by three o’clock eased the sting of the grovel. After another three calls, I’d nailed down addresses for all the Tom Josts listed in the phone book. Business was in hand. Life was good.

Ainsley had our raw material on standby when I tracked him through the building to the available editing bay.