Love at 11

Chapter Sixteen



FROM: “Laura Smith” <[email protected]>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: re: Story Idea



Hi Maddy,



I see that you had pitched me a story idea on how kids are being sexually abused at summer camp. It’s great that you have the police reports and statistics and a kid willing to talk. But since we’re also doing our already sponsored “Kids Love Camp” campaign this summer, it seems to me that it might be a conflict of interest. I mean, we can’t exactly be promoting camps on one newscast and then showing the icky things counselors do to kids there in the next, now can we? (And since one’s already paid for, guess which one sales wants us to go with?)



If you’re looking for something to work on, may I suggest you contact the author of that new “How to Marry a Millionaire” book? I was thinking we could give our viewers “Nine Tips to Marry Rich.” (Unfortunately in his book he only offers seven tips—but since we’re News 9 it’d be more promotable to do nine. We can make up the last two, I’m sure—how hard can it be?)



Hope all is well with you. It’s great to be back. Laura Smith



Executive Producer, News 9



Monday morning, Jamie and I headed over to interview Mr. Ronald “Rocky” Rodriguez. I had determined to do the interview outside in the lot instead of his office. After all, he’d be less likely to shoot us with a concealed weapon in broad daylight. Not that he’d want to shoot us. As I’d told Jodi, we were going in under the false pretense that his dealership had won an award. But still, you could never be too careful.

Pacific Coast Cars was located in the Mission Valley section of San Diego, off of Route 8. There were a number of other cookie-cutter dealerships along the same road. For easy comparison shopping, I guess. Pacific Coast Cars was the farthest down the road and had the requisite colorful balloons and streamers to celebrate its “low, low prices!”

We parked near the front and headed into the glass-walled showroom. The cold blast of air conditioning hit us as we walked inside and wove through the shiny new cars to the information desk.

“You must be Madeline from News Nine,” a male voice drawled from behind me as we reached the desk.

I whirled around, a bit too nervously. No doubt about it, it was the man in the Internet photo. Of course today, the heavyset, fifty-something car dealer wore a completely different outfit—this one complete with spurs, jodhpurs and the stereotypical ten-gallon hat. He looked so silly that I had to stifle a giggle. Then I reminded myself that while this man may look like a total fool, he was involved in aiding and abetting a huge, illegal drug cartel, which made him somewhat less funny and a hell of a lot more scary.

“Yes. Hi. You must be Rocky. You can call me Maddy.” I held out my hand. “And this is my photographer, Jamie Hayes.” My boyfriend and the love of my life, I almost added. But I guessed Rocky wouldn’t really care about that little piece of trivia. It was funny how some things seemed monumental to you and meant diddly-squat to the rest of the world.

He shook my hand in one of those manly finger-crushing grips and I made every effort not wince. Then he motioned to the door.

“You said you wanted to do the interview outside. Well, let’s get out there then. I’ve only got about ten minutes before I start shooting my TV commercial.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Ah, a TV commercial. At least that explained the outfit. It was strange to think this John Wayne wannabe ran with an international drug cartel crowd. He looked so fat and stupid. Guess you couldn’t judge a drug dealer by his cover….

We walked outside, past a menagerie of animals that were, as Rocky explained, props for the commercial. I never really got why car dealers thought llamas and elephants and fifty thousand helium-filled balloons would help them sell cars, but who was I to judge? I couldn’t have sold life rafts to Titanic passengers.

We reached a good spot to do the interview (far, far away from the zoo animals) and Jamie set up his tripod. I realized my hands were shaking like crazy and shoved them behind my back. No reason to get nervous now. Okay, so there was a very big reason to get nervous, but I refused. Besides, what could happen? He had no idea why we were really here. How could he?

Jamie signaled he was ready and I started with a warm-up question.

“So, tell me a little bit about this dealership, Mr. Rodriguez.”

He grinned a toothy grin. “Well, little lady, my grandpa started this dealership back in 1954 …” He launched into a long speech about the history of Pacific Coast Cars and how he had single-handedly made it into the successful dealership it was today. He was so long-winded I felt like asking him for a hit of his drugs just to stay awake.

“Okay, thanks,” I interrupted when he paused for breath. “I think we’ve got what we needed.”

He looked surprised. “Really? But I didn’t tell you about all the great deals we offer our customers. Like how if you come in right now, we’ll give you a free toaster.”

Wow. How generous. “I’ll be sure to squeeze that into the piece,” I assured him.

“And when is this going to be on the TV?” he asked. Oh shoot, I forgot he might be wondering about an airdate. “I’m not sure,” I bluffed. “A couple weeks, maybe. I’ll be sure and let you know.”

“Great. ‘Cause I want to get my whole family to watch it. Just don’t wait too long. My grandpa—the dealership’s founder—is ninety-five years old and has a bad heart. Could go any day now. But when he heard I was going to win an award, he said to me, ‘Boy, you give me a reason to hang on to living. To see my life’s work honored by a major TV station like News Nine.’”

I stole a guilty look at Jamie, who raised his eyebrows back. While I had no qualms about exposing a guy involved in dealing drugs, I didn’t like thinking I’d be making an elderly gentleman keel over in shock, his whole life’s pride and joy crumbling during his last few breaths. Still, what else could I do?

“We’ll make sure to get it on the air soon,” I forced myself to assure Rocky. “For Grandpa.”

“Well, that’s great.” He shot me another toothy grin. “If we’re finished then, I’ve got to get over to the llama. These commercials don’t shoot themselves, you know.”

“No problem. Thanks for doing the interview. Do you mind if we go around and shoot some video of the dealership?”

“Go right ahead. Just make us look good, you hear?” Score! I resisted the urge to high-five Jamie as Rocky walked away and left us unescorted. Time for our real assignment to begin.

“Okay, let’s pretend we’re looking for stuff to shoot,” I said in a low voice. “And we’ll start hunting for that Mercedes.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jamie hoisted the camera off the tripod and onto his shoulder. “There’s got to be an employee lot where the cars that aren’t for sale are parked.”

“Cool. Let’s go walk around the back.”

Casually, as if we really were there to shoot San Diego’s best car dealership, we sauntered around the parking lot. Jamie made it look as if he were shooting various cars and signs on the way. A couple customers gave us curious glances, but were surrounded by eager salesmen, arms full of toasters before they could think to ask us what we were up to.

We reached the back of the lot, closed in by a wire gate. The padlock had been left hanging unclipped and we could easily open the door. I looked around, nervously wondering if anyone was watching.

“What do you think?” I whispered. “Go for it.”

Before my normally cautious nature could dissuade me, I detached the padlock and pushed open the wire gate. We slipped inside, pulling the gate closed behind us.

As we had guessed, it appeared we’d entered an employee parking lot. Several fancy cars—Jags, Beamers, and Mercedes—sat parked side by side. But it was one car in particular that caused my breath to catch in my throat.

The Mercedes SUV from the desert.

I knew it even before I checked the license plate. It sat by itself at the far end of the lot, the desert dust still clinging to its tires.

I grabbed Jamie’s arm and pointed with a shaky finger. His eyes widened and he nodded silently, lifting the camera to shoot video of the vehicle. After getting a few shots, he motioned for us to go closer.

“Do you think it’s unlocked?” I whispered. “Maybe we could shoot the secret compartment where we saw them storing the drugs.”

Jamie shot me a worried look. “Aren’t we going a little bit too far? What if they have security cameras and see us?”

“We’ll make up some excuse,” I said, reaching for the back door hatch. The handle turned easily. Not locked. “Yes!” I cried in delight. I motioned for Jamie to start shooting as I lifted the top hatch and lowered the bottom gate. Then I crawled into the back, feeling along the floor for an opening. The James Bond feeling was back in full force and this time I would definitely still have enough energy to shag a Bond Boy when I got home.

“Did you find anything?” asked the Bond Boy in question, still shooting from outside.

“Not yet—wait …” My fingers curled around an indent in the floor and pulled. The secret compartment sprung up. “Open sesame,” I muttered. It’d almost been too easy. “Are you getting this on tape?” I asked.

“Getting what on tape?” asked a male voice—definitely not belonging to Jamie.

Oh, shit. We were caught. Fear shot through me like a lightning bolt as I released the trapdoor, which closed with a damning thud.

In the meantime, Jamie had turned around to address the man who’d approached. “Hi,” he said, and I could distinctly hear the tremble in his voice. “I’m Jamie Hayes, photographer at News Nine. We’re shooting ‘San Diego’s Best Car Dealership.’”

I stared at the man who’d approached us, the fear now crawling from my fingertips down to my toes. No doubt about it. The black curly hair was unmistakable. It was the guy from the desert who had shown up for the drugs! And now he’d caught us shooting video of the SUV he’d stored them in.

“Yeah, well, these cars aren’t for sale. I don’t know how you got back here, but this is the employee lot,” he said with a growl.

I scrambled out of the back of the SUV, ready to turn on every ounce of charm my body had in it. “Oh, really? I’m sorry. It was just that there are some really, really cool cars back here. I mean sure out there you’ve got your Toyotas and Fords, but these Jags and BMWs are truly stunning. Take this Mercedes SUV,” I said, gesturing to the car. “I was just saying to Jamie what a roomy interior it has.”

“I’m going to get Rocky,” the man said.

I felt my face flush with horror. “Oh, no,” I said with a nervous laugh. “No need to trouble Mr. Rodriguez. He’s busy shooting that commercial and all and ... well, we’ve got what we needed anyway.”

The guy narrowed his eyes. “And you needed the inside of Rocky’s personal Mercedes, why?”

I gulped. He wasn’t going to let us go. He was on to us—saw through our weak cover story. Any minute now he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me in the head. “Well, it’s just such a cool car,” I stumbled. “And …”

“I’m getting Rocky.”

“No need. We’re done. We’re off.” I grabbed Jamie’s arm and tried to lead him away as fast as possible. “Thanks again!”

“Hey!” the guy called after us.

“Yes?” I turned around, trembling with fear.

“Who else won?”

“Huh?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “San Diego’s best car dealership. Who were the other finalists?”

I swallowed hard. Think Maddy, think!

“Um ... there was …” Blank mind. Completely blank mind. Probably a hundred car dealerships in San Diego county and I couldn’t even think of one of them. “Actually, I can’t tell you,” I said with what I hoped looked like a sorry shrug. “It’s a secret ‘til the segment airs.”

The man gave us a grimace. I just knew that he wasn’t buying my excuse. That he knew we knew about the drug tunnel. My heart pounded as I waited for him to call me on it.

But all he said was, “Yeah. I figured. You have yourself a nice day.”



*



It took about three hours of Jamie’s reassurance before I finally felt able to breathe normally again. Every time I heard a noise, I jumped a mile, thinking it was the drug dealers come to get me. I was that scared.

“He had no clue what we were doing,” Jamie insisted for the thousandth time. “How the heck could he know?”

He was right, of course. There was no way they could know. I’d made up this whole drama in my head. But knowing that didn’t help my state of mind. I couldn’t wait to get this story on the air and get the bad guys behind bars.

I somehow managed to get through the rest of the workday, even scheduling an interview with the Drug Enforcement Agency the next day. They were going to be a key interview for my piece.

At six, Jamie came to my cubicle and told me he was kidnapping me and taking me to Moondoggies for K9-Kosmos. Just the idea of sipping frozen drinks and breathing in fresh open air made me relax a bit.

Even better, when we got there and ordered our drinks, Jamie whipped out his surprise—pages of his brand-new novel in progress. Ecstatic, I practically ripped them from his hands.

“You can wait ‘til later to read them,” he protested. “No way! I’m reading them right this very second. After all, I loved your first book.”

He sat patiently as I slurped my drink and devoured the chapter. When I finished, I looked up with a smile.

“Oh, Jamie …”

“So what do you think?” he asked, looking a little nervous. It was so adorable how sensitive he was about his writing.

“It’s so good!” I exclaimed.

“I want your honest opinion,” he insisted.

“Okay, then.” I grinned. “It’s so very, very good. It’s uber good. Fantastic.”

He groaned. “You don’t have to say that.”

Honestly, for a guy who normally had so much confidence, he certainly became a real basket case when it came to his own writing.

“What makes you think I’m just saying that?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe so I’ll continue to do this to you?” He pulled his chair closer and nipped at my earlobe, sending a chill of delight down to my toes. “Or this?” His mouth traveled down to my neck.

“Mmm. You must be right. The book sucks, but I can’t bear to tell you for fear you’ll stop molesting me.” He groaned and pulled away.

“I’m kidding!” I cried, tugging him back to face me. “I’m so kidding! It’s great. Wonderful. Pulitzer prize–winning.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t give Pulitzers to sci-fi writers.” But he grinned nonetheless.

“Well, maybe yours will be the first,” I said stubbornly. “This is great, Jamie. You have a real talent.”

The thing was I wasn’t exaggerating one bit. It was good. Really good. And I was sure I wasn’t the only one who’d recognize it.

“Thanks,” he said, blushing a bit. He took the pages and shoved them back in his messenger bag. “I hope you know I never would have written this if it weren’t for you.”

Now it was my turn to blush. “Yes, you would have.”

“No. I’m serious. Until we had that talk in Starbucks, I’d all but given up writing. When you made me promise to take it up again, I had to force myself to sit my butt in that computer chair and stay put. I didn’t feel like it at all when I started. But a few minutes later, my hands were flying over the keyboard. And the story started gushing out of me. It was like a dam had burst or something.” He shook his head, remembering. “It was such a great feeling. I remembered why I used to get such pleasure out of writing.”

“Why did you give it up in the first place?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “You’re going to think this is completely stupid, but Jen used to make fun of it.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. You know how she’s all into the Hollywood snobbery and stuff? Well, she thought I shouldn’t be wasting my time on ‘pulp-fiction trash’ as she called it. Thought I should be writing scripts instead.”

“But you didn’t want to?”

“Well, I gave it the old college try and all that. But found it wasn’t for me. Completely different style of writing—I just couldn’t get a good handle on it. In fact, I got so burnt out on it that I decided to just quit altogether. Which was fine with Jen. She’d rather have me on her arm at her insufferable Hollywood parties than locked in my study typing away.”

“Well, I like the idea of you locked away writing.” I grinned. “I think it’s kind of sexy, actually.”

He smiled, leaning forward to plant a kiss on my lips. “Well, you’re welcome to come over and play my little muse anytime you like. We’ll lock ourselves away together.”

“Sounds perfect. What are we waiting for?”



*



Normally News 9 producers didn’t really dress up for the job. Only reporters and anchors, armed with a station-funded clothing allowance, donned smart business suits every day before work. Producers, having the luxury of being behind the scenes (and lack of money to hit Armani), usually settled for sloppy chic.

But on the morning I scheduled to go interview the Drug Enforcement Agency—the DEA as everyone knows them—I decided that jeans and a cute top might not cut it and instead wore my best interview suit. I wanted to look as professional as possible so they’d take me seriously.

It had taken some major hoop jumping to even secure the interview in the first place. The DEA’s public affairs officer had been very suspicious when I told her I wanted to interview them about drug tunnels. She demanded details, which I wasn’t about to give up. After all, there were still missing pieces to this puzzle and I wanted to have a solid case before I aired the piece and alerted the Feds. My plan was to give them the completed story and the documents the day the story was scheduled to air. That way they would have all the evidence they needed to arrest the bad guys and I’d have my exclusive story to impress Newsline with.

The San Diego branch of the DEA’s offices was located in San Ysidro, right on the border of Mexico and the United States. Guess they wanted to be close to all the drug-smuggling action. Jamie and I parked the News 9 SUV and headed inside the building.

The public affairs officer, a smug-looking woman with a pinched nose, black-rimmed glasses, and a severe-looking navy suit greeted us at the door and demanded our IDs. Evidently they ran a tight ship at the DEA. After proving we really did work for News 9 and didn’t just pick up a professional video camera and tripod at our local Wal-Mart, she allowed us inside and into a small conference room. As Jamie set up the lights, a thirty-something man with sandy blond hair entered the room. His tailored suit screamed “narc” and I hoped he didn’t specialize in undercover work as any druggie in a fifty-yard radius could probably point him out.

“Hi, I’m Maddy Madison, News Nine,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Hello, Ms. Madison. I am Mr. Mann.”

I had to do everything in my power not to laugh when I heard his name. How ironic. “The Man” was literally named Mann.

Jamie motioned that he was ready for me to begin the interview, so we took our seats and I started asking my questions. “First off, tell me a little about drug tunnels,” I said. “Are they common?”

“The Mann” (ha!) nodded. “We’ve found several tunnels over the years. And most likely there are more that exist. Border patrol keeps a constant eye out and we keep our ear to the ground as well. The thing about tunnels is you can’t move them. So, sooner or later some druggie, hoping to get a lighter sentence, drops the dime on the tunnel’s location and a bust becomes imminent.”

“And has the infamous Lopez cartel ever been involved in a tunnel?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “No. I think Ronaldo preferred to send lackeys over the border the old fashioned way. That’s how he got busted a few years back.”

“What about his son, Felix? Do you think he might have taken over his dad’s business?”

“No,” Mr. Mann said, “There’s no evidence at all of that. Felix is an upstanding citizen and businessman. He graduated magna cum laude from UCSD back in the day and hasn’t looked back to his family for years.”

UCSD? Excitement pumped through my veins. It was probably a coincidence, but wasn’t that where David said Senator Gorman and Rocky Rodriguez had known each other from? Maybe they had been pals with Felix, too! Of course, lots of people had gone to UCSD. But still, they all seemed around the same age….

“Is this Felix Lopez?” I asked, switching topics by pulling out Miguel’s brother’s photos from my manila folder. I knew it was, but I had to get videotaped confirmation from the expert for my story.

“Yes. That is Felix Lopez,” Mr. Mann agreed, after studying the photo. “Where was this taken? And when?” He looked agitated and suspicious all of a sudden, and I wondered why.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, grabbing the photo and sticking it back into the envelope. “I just wanted to make sure it was him.”

“Ms. Madison, what is this all about? Do you have something you’d like to share with me?” the official demanded.

“Not yet. Maybe soon, though,” I replied, doing my best to keep my cool. Couldn’t let The Mann get me down, after all. “And when I do, I swear you’ll be the first to know.” Which reminded me, I had to tell Richard about this story soon so we could schedule an airdate. He was going to be so psyched when he learned about it. Surely it’d be the best story all year.

“I hope so,” Mr. Mann said. “Because keeping this kind of information from your government in hopes of getting a lead story on the evening news isn’t very patriotic. Or”—he added, narrowing his eyes at me—“very legal.”

The intercom on his desk buzzed. Saved by the bell. “Senator Gorman is here to see you,” a female voice announced. “He says he’s ready for your golf game.”

I felt a chill spin up my spine. Not so saved after all. They were buddies? Thank goodness I hadn’t spilled my suspicions to this guy. How deep did this corruption go?

Mr. Mann broke out into the first smile I’d seen since I entered the place. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll be right out.” He shot me a pointed look. “We’re all done here.”



*



“You sure this is the place?” I asked as Jamie pulled the News 9 SUV down a dusty, unpaved driveway in the desert town of Ramona. At the end of the road squatted a dilapidated trailer, its vinyl siding a dingy white. The yard around it had the stereotypical junkyard motif going on, and there was even a faded pink flamingo standing watch over a weedy garden of cacti.

“Fourteen Meditation Road,” he said, glancing down at the directions. “It’s got to be.”

“When Switchboard dot com said Meditation, I was kind of thinking Koi ponds and Japanese pagodas. What is this guy meditating on—the ancient American art of white trash?”

Jamie laughed appreciatively and put the SUV in park. “You are too much, Maddy.”

Seriously though, even he had to admit, this was the weirdest twist to the drug tunnel story yet.

Yesterday, on a hunch after the DEA interview, I’d gone to the UCSD student library and hit the yearbook section. I already knew what year Gorman went to business school there—his bio was on a billion Web sites. So I’d grabbed what would be his senior yearbook and dragged the dusty thing over to a table.

I flipped through it, trying not to pause and check out the funny outdated hairstyles and bell-bottoms, looking for some connection. Some tiny clue that would link Gorman, Rodriguez, and Lopez together.

Well, I found a clue all right. And it wasn’t little, either. In fact, it was downright Mr. Snuffleupagus sized.

Not only did I find a picture of all three men together, but they were wearing crowns. Celebrating the launch of their student company. And not just any student company. A student company named Coastal Kings. The same umbrella company now owned by Rodriguez and encompassing his car dealerships and Reardon Oil.

Even more intriguing was the fact that there was a fourth “king” in the photo. A king named Bob Reardon.

I couldn’t be more excited than if someone handed me a platinum card and pointed me to a Prada sample sale. Not only did I now have proof all these guys knew each other, I had a completely new “who” to add to my list. A man whose last name just happened to match the faux oil company I wanted to find out about.

I had to talk to this Reardon guy. Pronto. I had this feeling he’d know the answers to every one of my questions.

So, now we were here. Not exactly the kind of place I’d expected an MBA to hang his hat. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find a phone number, so he had no idea we were coming. What if he was some crazed psycho?

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door swung inward. A man with a shock of white hair that made him seem older than he probably was stared at us from behind the screen.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, hi. I’m Maddy Madison of News Nine and this is my photographer Jamie.”

The door slammed closed.

Oh-kay then. Not exactly the greeting I’d been hoping for. I banged on the door, not willing to give up.

“Mr. Reardon? I’m sorry to intrude and all, but really we just had a few questions.”

Silence.

“A, uh, few questions about Reardon Oil and Rocky Rodriguez, that is.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. What the heck was I doing? What if he opened that door with a rifle and shot me to kingdom come?

The door opened and Reardon (sans gun, thank the Lord) peeked through again.

“What the hell do you want to know about Reardon Oil?” he asked.

“Please, sir.” I took a deep breath. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“You best ask Rocky. He owns Reardon Oil now. I don’t have anything to do with that shit. I got kids, you know.” He paused, peering at me with watery blue eyes. Then he raked a hand through his already ruffled hair and sighed. “You know about it, don’t you? That’s why you’ve come asking.”

I nodded, wondering if that was the right move. I could barely breathe.

“Right. I knew one day someone would find out. That’s why I wasn’t about to get involved with it all. I always said someday the shit would hit the fan and when it did, my nose would be clean.”

“Can you tell us the story?” I asked.

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure ’nough I guess. Long as you make sure it’s clear I had nothing to do with anything illegal. I don’t want the cops knocking on my door. But if this is all going to be made public in any case, might as well have the truth on record.”

My heart pounded with excitement as he ushered us inside. This was it! He was going to tell us everything. I stole a glance at Jamie, who still looked a little wary.

At least the interior had undergone a decent house-cleaning. It was small and the furniture worn, but it was clean and smelled like lemon-scented pledge. It could have been much worse. Like the time I did the story on Backyard Breeders and we went undercover to a woman’s house who kept fifty dogs (literally!) in a trailer. Bleh!

“I know it ain’t much, but it’s all paid for with honest, hardworking money. Not drug money,” said Reardon.

We sat down across from each other, him on a ratty armchair and me on the flowered couch and chatted about the weather while Jamie set up a few lights. A few minutes later Jamie touched me on the shoulder to let me know he was rolling tape.

“So, Mr. Reardon …” I began.

“Bob. Call me Bob.”

“Okay, Bob.” I smiled. I was calm. I was poised. I wasn’t going to get up and run screaming from the room at the first sign of trouble. “I wanted to talk to you a little about Coastal Kings. I understand you and three others started the company back in college?”

“Yes. Me, Rocky, Felix, and Senator Gorman,” he said. “Of course, Gorman wasn’t a senator then, though I think the slime bag had political ambitions even then.” He gave a toothy grin. “The man was always a smooth talker.”

Interesting. Evidently Bob wasn’t too keen on his former classmate. Then again, neither was I and I’d never even met the guy.

“So when you graduated from business school, what happened then?”

“Well, we all went our separate ways, I guess. Gorman got a staff assistant position with the EPA, Rocky took over his dad’s car business, Felix went back to Mexico to squander his family’s wealth, and I started my own company, Reardon Oil.”

I felt the excitement tingling all the way to my toes. I could barely stand to sit there and act cool, calm, and collected.

“The same Reardon Oil located by Calla Verda? Now owned by Rocky?” I asked, wanting to be extremely clear. “Under the Coastal Kings umbrella?”

“There’s only one Reardon Oil,” Bob replied. “Though back then it had nothing to do with Coastal Kings. You see, my grandfather willed me the land and he died right before my graduation. He always told me he had high hopes that oil would be found there.” He glanced over at a tarnished frame containing a black-and-white photo of an elderly gentleman. “But he never had the money to do the digging.”

“But you did.”

“Not really, but I took out a loan. A big business loan. And I purchased all the equipment to dig oil, to fulfill the dream of my grandfather. The dumbass.” He shook his head. “There’s not a drop of oil on that damn property. Never has been, never will be.”

I made a note in my notebook. “So then what happened?”

“Well, it took me a few years, of course, to realize my life investment wasn’t worth diddly-squat. ‘Bout ten, I reckon. And by that time I had a million creditors after my ass.” He picked at a worn spot on his easy chair. “Not a pleasant situation to be in, let me tell you.”

“I can imagine,” I said sympathetically.

“So then I hear on the TV that Felix’s dad was busted for drug smuggling. We’d all heard rumors Felix was related to the Lopez cartel when we were in school, but of course no one ever had any proof. But still, the guy was my friend. So I contacted him to offer my condolences. And while talking to him, I happened to mention about my failed oil property. He seemed very interested, though at first I had no idea why.

“A few weeks later, Felix showed up on my front stoop, dressed to the nines and asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner, his treat. I was broke as a joke and he was my friend, so I said yes. That’s when he introduced his plan.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Which was?”

Reardon shook his head for a moment. “Can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he muttered. “But I’ve lived so long with the guilt, it feels kind of good to come clean. Besides, you know most of it anyway or you wouldn’t have come calling in the first place.”

He scratched at his bug-bitten forearm. “Felix had taken control of the cartel now that his dad was behind bars. But he didn’t want to smuggle drugs the old-fashioned way. Too small-potatoes for him, sending one mule over at a time. He told me he wanted to build a gigantic underground tunnel to cross the border—one that could fit truckloads of drugs. Told me we could get rich and there was very little risk. All I had to do was keep Reardon Oil in business—in name only. He’d do the rest.”

“And under the pretense of digging for oil, they could really dig an underground passage,” I mused.

“Exactly. But let me tell you, I wanted no part of that,” Reardon said, his eyes flashing. “I may have been broke and my life savings down the tubes, but I still had ethics. Morals. I wasn’t going to aid and abet a guy who wanted to smuggle in foreign substances that were killing Americans. I’m a church-going guy.”

“So you told Felix no.”

“Right. And I guess after that he went to Rocky.

‘Cause the next week Rocky showed up, just like Felix, dressed to the nines and wanting to take me out to dinner. I knew what he was going to ask me before he even opened his mouth.”

“Which was?”

“He offered to buy off Reardon Oil for twice what it was worth. Told me he wanted to try his hand at digging for oil. Like I was stupid or something.”

“So what did you do?”

“I sold.” He shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? I’d married by then and my baby girl needed diapers. And baby food ain’t cheap. So I pretended to believe Rocky when he said he wanted to dig for oil. And I turned over the property to him.”

“And then they built the tunnel.”

“Guess so. I stayed out of the whole thing so I couldn’t tell you for sure. They got our buddy Gorman to do an EPA sign-off of the property. My oil business hadn’t produced any oil in ten years and some nature lovers were trying to put me out of business. Once I sold, Gorman made sure that all got buried and Reardon Oil continued to exist for ten more years—far as I know they never sold a drop of oil.”

“And now?”

“Now they’re living large. And I’m stuck in a damn trailer. My wife left me. Took the kids.” He sighed. “Sometimes I tell you, Maddy, there are days I wished I hadn’t had any morals and pride. But you know what? I’m honest.” He cleared his throat. “And now that you’re investigating all this, something tells me I’m going to be real happy I’m not involved.”

“Yes, sir, you are.” I motioned for Jamie to turn off the camera. “Listen, Bob,” I said. “Are you sure you want to be telling me this stuff? I mean, not that I don’t appreciate you doing it, but isn’t it dangerous?”

Bob shrugged his thin shoulders. “Don’t matter much if it is,” he replied. “Truth is, I’m dying. Got the cancer. Doctors say I only have about a month to live. And I’m itching to get into Heaven, though I ain’t done much to deserve it. Maybe this will end up helping me out some with Saint Peter at them pearly gates.”

My heart went out to him. What a rough life he’d lived. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right, I’ve come to terms with it all. And I’m glad the other two are finally going to get their just desserts. You let the DEA know that I’ll be happy to talk to them once they open the investigation.”

I thought of Mr. Mann and wondered, once again, what side he was on. “I will,” I replied.

We thanked him again and walked back to the SUV in silence. I didn’t know for sure about Jamie, but I for one was blown away by the revelation we’d heard inside. It was like every puzzle piece fit into place. Every “i” was dotted, every “t” crossed.

Now all I had left was to write my story and get it on the air.



SAMPLE EMMY-AWARD WINNING SPEECH

(Just in case!)



Oh, wow. I’m so surprised. I didn’t even prepare a speech because I honestly didn’t think I’d win. After all, there were so many great entries in my category. (Name competition here––you will seem like a good sport.)



First of all, I’d like to thank the Academy. And God. And Jamie Hayes, amazing photographer and love of my life. Check out the big rock he just put on my finger, ladies and gentlemen. (Hold out big engagement ring (hopefully!) and pause for applause.)



I’d also like to thank our main anchor Terrance Toller, star of “Terrance Tells All,” who actually did absolutely nothing but read the piece and make sure his hair looked good for the stand-ups. (Pause for laughter.) But Terrance, we love you anyway––even if you are a pompous ass most of the time.



Oh and I would not like to thank my family. After all, my dad’s infidelity and my sister Lulu’s drug abuse nearly caused me to lose my sanity before the piece even had a chance to air! And mom––wherever in the world you’re currently shopping––you’d better bring me back something cool. And not one of those T-shirts that says, “My mom went to such-and-such a place and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” either.



And lastly, I’d like to thank you. My adoring fans. Especially Diane in the front. Diane Dickson, that is. Who flew all the way out from New York to offer me a position at Newsline. And yes, I’ve accepted the position!



(PAUSE FOR TREMENDOUS STANDING OVATION!)