J. Wachowski - In Plain View

Curzon remained silent.

Ainsley paused the audio on the interview. The conference call expanded to fill the dead air. Voices droned on about local issues, each market forecasting inevitable success. The bullshit factor was ten-plus.

“Fine.” Curzon blinked first. “I’ll let you slide. For now.”

“That’s all I got for this week,” said the guy in Boston.

I hit the speaker button and answered them both. “Great.” New York still had to give a report, so I hung in there with Curzon. “Jane’s got one more question for you, Sheriff.”

He sniffed a laugh. “Jane doesn’t give up.”

“Admit it, you love that about her.”

Ainsley rolled his eyes in disgust. I shrugged, what?

“I don’t remember you mentioning, did Tom Jost have a phone with him when you found him?”

“A cell phone?” He thought about it and answered me with the question, “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

Another silence followed. The kind of silence that squeezes between moves when old guys play chess.

When Curzon committed to his response there was no hesitation. “We didn’t find a phone.”

“Really? Too bad. I had my next question all lined up. Thanks, Sheriff. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one. You’re running a tab now.”

“Bull. I got you off the hook with Grandma and the rest of the clan yesterday. I think you still owe me.” Best defense: be offensive. “And next time you need a beard, warn me so I can dress the part.”

“What you wore yesterday was fine.” His voice dropped into that dark place where whispers take root. “But I’d love to see how you’d dress the part.”

“Whoops! Boss just walked in. Gotta go.”

I could hear the man laughing as I hung up which was bad enough, then Ainsley gave me a know-it-all look that was totally inappropriate from someone his age.

“Shut up.” I pointed at his face. “You do not have time.” I flapped the shot list at him.

He skimmed my notes, top to bottom. His expression made it clear when he got to the one requiring the Dawn-pick-up. Need long, wide, establishing shot of tree where Tom died.

“Dawn? How am I going to get that?”

“I find if I set the alarm for 3 a.m. I can get camera ready in plenty of time. If I skip breakfast.”

“You’re kidding?”

“This afternoon I want you to concentrate on the firehouse. Your mom left a message that we had permission to go in and shoot interiors-his locker, his bed, whatever.” There was a definite advantage to working with someone hooked into the power loop. Not that Richard Gatt was going to hear it from me. “See if you can set up a couple match dissolves to what we’ve already got from his apartment.”

“Got it.” Ainsley nodded.

The shock of a 3 a.m. call time was passing; he was starting to get excited again which was a good sign. If he didn’t love it enough for 3 a.m., he didn’t love it enough. There are worse things about the business than an early call. Lots of them.

“I want nice clean shots, College. Nothing funky. Think journalism, not art.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Text me if you run into trouble. I’ll be here. Working.” I tipped a nod at the conference call. Sounded like they’d almost finished driveling through the LA rep’s report. My agenda had no name listed for the next spiel. Maybe they would wrap early and I could squeeze in a little studio time. “Warn Mick I might be late, would you?”

Ainsley looked wistful at the thought of the next editing session. “I’ll tell him.”

“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty to do tomorrow.”

He smiled at the thought. “Yeah. That’s true.”

“Get out of here, College. You’re making my teeth ache.”

I went back to buzzing through the shots of Grace and Dr. Graham, looking for sound bites and jotting down times.

The conference call was still going strong. A couple major players from the top ten markets had been invited, so the grunts kept interrupting with clever comments.

Whatever. I had enough to keep me occupied.

There were a few bits I could pull out of the doctor’s interview, but even less of what Grace Ott had given me would make sense in the story I had roughly sculpted. I’d given up the salacious sex angle, but I needed something that would fit with the program. Much as I’d like to paint a picture of human isolation, Mysterious Death of an Amish Outlaw was probably my best television premise.

This is not a public service, I lectured myself. Television is a business. The purpose of business is to make money.

“O’Hara, I’ve got that office cleared for you,” Schmed wheedled from the doorway.

Speak of the devil and in he walks.

“My hero.” I had a sudden premonition I’d be carrying antacid in my wallet from now on.

“I’ll have the list of dealerships to interview on your new desk by tomorrow morning.” He winked. “Thanks, hon.”

“Getting tired of telling you to bite me, Jim. Go away.”

“GM’s in the building, by the way. She’s looking for you.”

I mumbled something creative. Schmed exited with a snicker.

New action item on my list-end Schmed’s good mood.

With the conference call as white noise, I focused on the monitor, committing some pieces to memory, watching for glitches, listening for audio errors I’d need to cut around. My brain knows how to do this stuff on autopilot. Almost like driving-there’s a part of your mind that’s totally focused and another part that’s free. I’m better at the pieces than I am at the big picture. That’s why I prefer stills to video, editing to previewing.

When it came to Tom Jost’s death, I could almost see the bits I didn’t understand coming together, spread like a collage in front of me.

I wished I had the time to follow College to the firehouse. Maybe talk to Tom’s partner Pat again. If Grace was right, Tom’s problem began there.

I still didn’t have an explanation for who’d called the station the day of Tom’s death. What kind of Samaritan would call, but not stop? If they’d only called the cops-maybe. But why call the cops and the local television station?

According to the sheriff, Tom had no phone with him. I know Tom owned a phone; we saw the empty charger in his apartment. What happened to it? I thought of Rachel sitting in the bushes with the phone pressed to her ear. She hadn’t known Tom was dead, hadn’t seen the body. She couldn’t have been the Samaritan.

I picked up my cell phone and hit the new Clarion speed dial for the private extension of Mr. Melton Shotter.

“News.”

“Hey, Melton. What news?”

“Maddy?” He sounded surprised. “How’s that story on Jost going?”

“Not bad. Question for you. How’d you get the tip on Jost? Was it off the police band or what?”

“I got called on my way into work that morning. Can you hold? I’ll check.”

“No problem.” I hit Rewind and toggled the mute button on the conference call to vote fine with me on a local weather graphic preceding local stories.

The guy from Dallas added, “People watch TV to find out what tomorrow’s weather will be. Give them what they want. Get them hooked. This ain’t brain surgery.”

Melton came back on the line with interesting news. “Someone called the paper with a tip. Said there were cop cars and fire trucks along the road. The receptionist who took the call knew I’d pass that exit on my way into work. She phoned me at home.”

“What time?”

“Must have been around ten. That’s when I leave for the office.”

I blew some exasperation his way. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“Hey, I work ’til we go to press on Thursdays. I’m here ’til midnight sometimes.”