Love at 11

Chapter Fifteen



Unfortunately what often happens when one leaves work for wanton sex first thing in the morning, one must return to work before one’s coworkers and, more importantly, one’s boss realizes one has left the building. So while Jamie and I would have much rather cuddled in bed all day, at noon we were instead sitting in my cubicle, discussing the drug cartel story and trying to keep our hands off each other.

“So,” I said, explaining my findings. “According to the records you found in Calla Verda, the property’s owned by Reardon Oil, right? Well, on the Internet I found a photo of some Reardon Oil guy shaking Senator Gorman’s hand. Evidently the company was a campaign contributor the first time Gorman ran for office. I gave David the photo to show Brock, Gorman’s son. He and David are having a hot affair, by the way.”

“Oh, my. What does Gorman say about that?”

“Evidently he’s through the roof.” I snorted. “Anyway, Brock says the guy’s an old crony of his dad’s—named Rocky Rodriguez. He owns that Pacific Coast Cars dealership down in Mission Valley and is also the president of the Association for California Car Dealers.”

“The guy with the llama commercials?”

“Yup. One and the same.”

“So he owns Reardon Oil?”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever heard of Reardon Oil. And I have no idea how it’s connected to Rocky Rodriguez and Pacific Coast Cars. But they’re connected somehow. That’s for sure.”

“Maybe Reardon Oil is part of a larger company that owns both?”

“Maybe.” I thought about that for a moment. It would make total sense. I turned to my computer and pulled up Internet Explorer, then went to the Secretary of State’s business-lookup Web site and entered “Reardon Oil” in the blank field.



Corporation

Reardon Oil



Date Filed: 1/1/2000

Status: Active



Jurisdiction: California



Mailing Address

PO Box 9003, San Diego, CA 92110



Agent for Service of Process

COASTAL KINGS



“Coastal Kings, huh?” I mused. I could feel Jamie’s breath on my neck as he peered over my shoulder, and had to fight the urge to turn around and ravage him.

Totally not appropriate workplace behavior, Maddy!

I clicked over to the Dunn & Bradstreet company reports Web site and typed in Coastal Kings. I entered my credit card number to pay for the report and then pressed “enter.”

“Bing-f*cking-o!” I cried as the report came up.

It appeared from the report that Coastal Kings was a holding entity that possessed several companies under its umbrella. All of these were Southern California and Mexican car dealerships. Except one.

Reardon Oil.

“Why would this car dealership chain own an oil refinery place out in the desert?” I asked rhetorically.

“The better to smuggle drugs with, my dear,” Jamie teased, while massaging my shoulders, which made it even tougher to focus.

“Cute. But not good enough for an investigative story. We’re journalists. We’ve got to answer all the ‘w’ questions. The who, the what, the where, the why and the how.” I ticked off the questions on my fingers.

“Um, ‘how’ doesn’t begin with a ‘w.’”

“Yeah, but it ends in one. Close enough.” I pulled up a blank Microsoft Word document. “Let’s start with the ‘who.’” I typed in the word who at the top of the screen, then centered it and changed it to a fancy font for effect.

“Okay, well ‘who’ in this case would be Felix Lopez of the Lopez Cartel whom we know is behind the smuggling operation,” Jamie said. “We have photos of him on-site and the interview with the guard naming his involvement.”

“Right.” I typed Felix Lopez beneath the ‘who’ column.” And we know that the Lopez family can’t own the tunnel property because it will be a major red flag to the Feds.”

“They need a middleman,” Jamie finished. “Our second ‘who.’ And so they pick an upstanding car dealer from San Diego. Not only a car dealer but president of the Car Dealer Association in Southern California.”

“Who just happens to be buds with the government official who gives out the oil permits,” I said, typing Rocky Rodriguez and Senator Gorman under Felix Lopez. “Yeah. And used car salesman jokes aside, you can’t get much more upstanding.” Jamie laughed.

“So, Rocky Rodriguez takes money from Felix and gives it to Gorman while he was still working at the EPA. Gorman signs off on the fake oil digging operation. Then they start work on the tunnel, under the guise of drilling for oil.”

Jamie nods. “Because the whole operation has all the proper permits and the company is privately owned, no one’s going to bat an eyelash that the oil digging operation never actually sells a drop of oil.”

“‘What’ and ‘where’ are easy.” I said, managing to talk and type at the same time (prompting more than a few typos). “‘What’ is an underground tunnel to smuggle drugs. And ‘where’ is our video of the tunnel itself, its entrance and exit, and the drugs being passed off.”

“Which leads us to another ‘who,’” Jamie pointed out. “The guy in the Mercedes.”

“Well, the Mercedes’s dealer plates suggest he’s associated with Rocky and his car dealerships.”

“But we can’t jump to conclusions on that.”

“True.” I scrolled up and typed Mercedes Man under the ‘who’ column. Then I added a question mark. “We should probably hit Pacific Coast Cars at some point and see if we can find the Mercedes there.”

“Good idea.”

“So, what do we have left?”

“‘Why’ and ‘how.’”

“‘Why’ is easy,” I said. “Money. Greed. Opportunity. Family business. But ‘how’ is a little more complicated. As in, how did Lopez and Rodriguez hook up?”

“And that’s the big remaining question. We answer that one and we have our story.”

I flashed him my biggest smile. “Exactly,” I said triumphantly. “You know, Jamie, you’re so much more than a great photographer. I mean, you’re practically my co-producer. My partner.”

He stroked my arm with his fingertips, sending tingly feelings down to my toes. “I like helping you on your stories. It’s fun unwrapping the mystery. Challenging. On the documentaries I used to do, I was simply the guy with the camera. You make me feel part of the team.”

“And what a good team we make,” I declared. “I’m never going to let you go.”

“Don’t worry.” Jamie grinned. “I won’t let you.”

“You what?” Jodi demanded. “You slept with Jamie? Are you insane or just really, really stupid?”

It was Sunday and we had headed out to the nearby island of Coronado to let her pooches romp on its popular Dog Beach. After parking, Jodi opened up the SUV’s back door and all four came bounding out, the three Great Danes nearly trampling her husband’s scrawny Italian greyhound with their exuberant exit.

“You were wrong about him, Jodi.” I argued, shutting my door. I had debated on whether to tell her—I knew she’d have a cow. But things had been so wonderful between Jamie and me that I would have had to come clean at one point or another. I mean, what if we ended up getting married? She’d need time to get fitted for that fuchsia bridesmaid dress I was going to make her wear.

“Maddy, this guy cheated on his fiancée and then left her high and dry. Is that the kind of man you want to have a relationship with?” Jodi asked as we ran after the dogs down the trail leading to the beach.

“It wasn’t like he left her at the altar. They weren’t getting married for three months,” I argued. “And in my opinion, it’s far better to come to your senses before the wedding than live an unhappily-ever-after in married hell.”

“And you don’t feel one bit a home wrecker?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m soooo irresistible,” I joked, twirling around in the sand. I tripped and fell on my butt.

Jodi snorted. “Yes, I can see how he couldn’t help but fall for your graceful charm.”

“But seriously, Jo’.” I scrambled to my feet. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Jamie was already unhappy in his relationship before he even met me. I was merely the catalyst that caused him to see the truth.”

“Or so he claims.”

“Not all men are a*sholes, you know.”

“You’re right. Not all. Just most.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But Jamie’s not one of them.”

“If you say so … Oh, shit, hold on.” Jodi broke into a run across the beach. I looked over to see what had gotten her worked up. Oh yeah. Great Dane number one had his head buried in a nearby picnic basket. Typical.

“No! Harley! Stop it! Bad dog! Bad!”

No sooner had she dragged Harley away from the picnic basket than Great Dane number two took advantage of the situation and hit the off-limits smorgasbord himself. I stifled a laugh. It was worse than having kids!

“Dee! No!” Jodi cried, releasing Harley into my care to grab the other dog.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized to the annoyed-looking couple, who most likely hadn’t planned on having their lunch devoured by dogs as big as horses. I, however, couldn’t help bursting into laughter as Great Dane number three walked over and lifted his leg to mark the basket in question as his own.

“Ralph! Oh no, Ralphie, no!”

Jodi dragged Dee over to me and I held both him and Harley while she went back to retrieve Ralph. Meanwhile, the Italian greyhound, probably embarrassed by her adopted brothers, hightailed it back to the SUV and sat, waiting patiently to go home. (She wasn’t big on exercise….)

“Good job, guys,” I whispered to Dee and Harley. “Way to take the pressure off me.”

Harley burped in response, leaving me to wonder whether his motives had been as altruistic as first appeared.

After leashing all four dogs (they’d lost their freedom privileges, Jodi scolded, as if they could possibly understand what that meant—or cared for that matter. After all, they’d just gotten a delicious meal!) we each took two leashes and walked down by the water. I kicked off my flip-flops and splashed in the shallows, dreamily reminiscing about the last week. I’d been doing a lot of that lately. But who could blame me? No matter what Jodi wanted to believe, life was good. Great, in fact.

All week Jamie and I had been inseparable, spending basically all nonworking hours in bed. But it wasn’t all about sex, though there was plenty of that and it certainly was wonderful. We also spent hours talking, sharing, laughing. Never had I felt so comfortable with someone of the opposite sex. If there were such things as soul mates, I’d found mine. And in the nick of time, too. How awful it would have been if I’d lost him to an actress/model/waitress marriage-from-hell.

“How’s your sister?” Jodi asked, bringing me back to the present.

“Good, I assume. They don’t allow her to have much contact with the outside world the first couple of weeks, so we haven’t heard from her,” I explained. “Next weekend is family weekend, though. So Dad and I are going to that.”

“What about your—? No! Harley! Don’t eat that!” With effort, she dragged the dog away from his delicious decomposing-seagull snack. Poor Harley looked greatly affronted at being denied his meal. “Naughty dog! I should send you to the pound.” She shook her head. “Sorry. What about your mother?”

“Safari in Tanzania, we think. I sent her an e-mail, but I don’t know when she’ll get it. Not too much Internet access in the Serengeti,” I explained. “But Dad’s been great. Really great.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Everything seems to be working itself out. Even News Nine’s going good if you can believe that. I’ve managed to work on all the inane consumer stories they’ve assigned and still had time to produce the drug tunnel one.”

“Ooh, yeah, how’s that going?”

“Amazing. Seriously, I think this could be the one to win me my Emmy.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It’s got all the elements. International drug scandal aided by government greed. And the video is superb.”

“Excellent. When are you going to tell Richard and Laura about this secret segment?” Jodi asked.

“I want to get it all done first. I’m supposed to interview Rocky Rodriguez—drug dealer aka car salesman extraordinaire, on Monday. Then I’ll edit it and show the powers that be the final product.”

Jodi’s eyes widened. “This Rocky guy actually agreed to be interviewed?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, he thinks it’s ‘cause he won San Diego’s Best Car Dealership….”

“Maddy!”

“Well,” I protested defensively. “I know it wasn’t completely, completely honest….”

Jodi’s hands went to her hips. “Not completely honest? Why, it’s an outright lie.”

“Yeah, but he’d never agree to talk otherwise.”

“But that’s getting an interview on false pretenses.”

“Who cares? He’s a drug dealer. It’s not like he regularly plays by the rules.” I kicked a seashell.

“Man, he’s going to be pissed when you start asking those kinds of questions.”

“Oh, I’m not stupid,” I corrected her. “I’m not going to ask him about the drug tunnel. He’d probably whip out a gun or something. I’m only going to get video of him for the story. And then we’re going to see if we can find that Mercedes we saw out in the desert—the one with the dealer plates. See if it’s on the lot. To dot all our i’s and cross all our t’s.”

Jodi frowned. “They’re not going to simply let you snoop around the car dealership. Especially if they have stuff to hide. There’s probably major surveillance. And what if they suspect you have an ulterior motive?” Jodi’s face echoed her concern. “These are drug dealers, Maddy. And you know they already killed Fake Purse Man’s brother.”

“I know, but—”

Jodi shook her head. “I know you’ll never listen to me, anyway. You’re too stubborn. But do me a favor and be careful, okay? You can’t apply for a Newsline job if you’re dead.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Well, someone’s got to take on the role.”

“I know.” I gave her a warm hug. I did appreciate her concern, even though I didn’t warrant it necessary. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

We embraced for a moment—until Jodi suddenly pulled away and started running down the beach.

“Oh, no, Ralphie!” I heard her cry. “Please don’t eat Dee’s puke!”

I watched her run down the beach, chasing her beloved but mischievous pets. Even though her mothering could be a pain in the ass sometimes, she was a great friend and I knew she only did it for my own good.

But this time I couldn’t follow any of her advice. Not about the interview with Pacific Coast Cars and not about Jamie. I had to follow my own path. Make my own mistakes. See where life led me.

Man, I sounded like a Jerry Springer Final Thought.