by Holley Trent
“Cork Tribune. I have the recorder turned on, hope you don’t mind.”
Erica padded down the hall, tying her robe tight at the waist and eyeing him with concern. Already, he had the woman worried about him. That wouldn’t do. Best he get out of her hair. He shook his head as if to say It’s not important.
She shrugged her acceptance and turned her back to fiddle with the coffee maker.
Good woman. He pulled his t-shirt over his head before addressing reporter again. “No, I don’t mind, but I do have to ask we make this brief. I’m heading out to work.”
“Right, right. Just a few questions, really. Probably heard them all before. Now, tell me what made you push to have your mother’s case examined.”
Same first question as all the rest. “Simple. If you’d met my mother–which I’m guessing you haven’t–you’d find she doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. Little white lies make her break out in hives. So, intentional theft just isn’t something in her innate skill set, you know? Her brain doesn’t work that way.”
But mine does. I suppose that’s why Prizm wants me. I could plot such a scheme and not get caught.
He scoffed at the thought, which made Erica turn around.
“It’s nothing,” he mouthed.
The reporter continued. “At last count, seven police officers and three of your mother’s former coworkers have been implicated in the scheme or else for covering up the original framing that took your mother down.”
“Bully for them.”
“How is it that your mother didn’t sense that something was amiss? Wasn’t she the last of the original staff left after the company was bought out? Shouldn’t that have been suspicious?”
“I suppose it would be if you’re a cynical sort, but she’s not. Like I said, Mum only sees what’s there, and not what could be there. She puts her head down and does her job. She’s not the kind of woman who’s going to hang out at the water cooler picking up on the company gossip.”
“What are your mother’s plans now that she’s out?” Another trite question.
So, he gave a trite answer. “Obviously, she’s in an adjustment period. Finding gainful employment is a priority, but as you’re well aware, her name is mud right now on the isle. Not just for the smear campaign from when she got set up four years ago, but now from the community she lives in. Instead of supporting her and being remorseful for the way they abused her, they’re all pissed about the police department getting turned upside down, men losing their jobs, and so on. They blame her for it all.”
“I’ve caught rumblings of that. Do you know if she’ll be seeking restitution of any sort?”
“I can’t answer that on her behalf, however I do know that Mum’s first priority is finding some semblance of normalcy in her life. She can put this mess behind her sooner if the press would back off. She wants to be forgotten.”
“Touche, Mr. Ryan. May I call you at this number for follow-up?”
“Be my guest. I’d rather you call me than her.” He shut off the phone and pulled on his shoes.
Coffee now perking, Erica slipped over and perched on the sofa arm. “Everything okay? That conversation sounded a bit intense.”
He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. “I suppose you could lump it with the chaos I was telling you about last night.”
“I see.” She rotated a chunky silver ring idly around her middle finger as she chewed her bottom lip.
He couldn’t be sure what was running through her mind, but if she was anything like Sharon, there may have been some pity involved. Sharon thought he needed a minder.
“Have time for coffee? Breakfast offer still stands.”
“No. Don’t put yourself out. I have to be on campus by ten. Gotta go home, shower, and change and all that first.” Shoelaces tied, he stood and patted his pockets. Wallet. Phone. Keys. All there. He managed a weak smile. Right then, he was fresh out of charm and didn’t bother feigning otherwise. “Thanks for dinner, darlin’.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He left.
* * * *
Erica twirled her hair while waiting for the receptionist to patch her through. She swallowed down the bile traveling up from her gut, and closed her eyes. With each rejection, the calls became harder to make, and it was harder for her to sound confident when the person in charge picked up.
“Jean Hux.”
Erica bolted upright and fed the woman her rehearsed line. “Hi, Ms. Hux. My name is Ercilia Desoto. I applied for the part-time photojournalist job you advertised several weeks ago. I was curious whether you’d had a chance to review my packet.”
“Uh…hold on.”
Erica waited as the woman apparently shuffled a pile of papers around on her end. She mumbled something about disorganization, but Erica couldn’t tell if she was blaming herself or someone else.
“Desoto, did you say?”
“That’s right. I know I didn’t quite meet all the qualifications, but I think you’ll find I’m rather adaptable.”
“Refresh my memory. Which qualifications? I’m missing a couple of pages of your application packet. My assistant quit last week. Went to work for the N and O.”
“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. Um…well, for one thing I don’t have a high school diploma.”
“GED?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s something. Any college at all? Tech school?”
“No.”
“Found the link to your portfolio. Eh. I’ve seen worse. Where’d you learn to shoot?”
Erica cleared her throat. “I…uh…had an internship. On-the-job training.”
“Can’t beat that, huh? You still employed?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you looking to leave now?”
Shit. That question always came up and she hadn’t yet come up with a convincing lie. She wasn’t good at lying. Never had been, so she decided to go with as close to the truth as she could manage. “Hostile work environment.”
“Really? At the Times?”
“Mm-hmm. Um, and there’s one other issue I guess I should be upfront about.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I have items that may come up in a criminal background check.”
Jean sighed. “Felony? What class?”
“No, a misdemeanor from when I was around eighteen.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Jean blew a raspberry. “Just out of curiosity, what were the charges? Between you and me, the paper mostly relies on self-reporting. We can’t afford to check every single part-time employee’s background.”
God. Damn. It. Isn’t that my luck?
Erica paced in front of her coffee table a couple of times before answering. “I have a charge for possession of a controlled substance…” It’d been Tate’s controlled substance. “And from an earlier date, I had a prostitution charge.”
“Jesus. What kind of controlled substance?”
“You’re not going to believe me, but it wasn’t mine. And it was cocaine.”
“I’m a journalist, so I’m gonna pry. Why’d you have it?”
Erica blew out a ragged breath and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Ten years later, she felt so stupid about it. She’d always thought she was so street-smart, then the streets taught her otherwise.
“Because the man I was with at the time sent me out to get it. I didn’t know what it was. He told me he needed me to fetch a package that got mis-delivered and I believed him. Unfortunately, Vice was watching that house. When I walked out, they got me.”
“I bet he knew the house was being watched.”
“I suspect he did.”
That incident had actually resulted in the first of her and Tate’s spectacular fights. She’d left the police department after getting charged, and went to the apartment they shared.
The moment he walked through the door from work, she’d smacked him. Not just a little pa
t, but an open-handed slap that left a hand-shaped bruise on his cheek. She’d never felt that kind of rage before. He’d been stunned for a moment. Then he’d tackled her. She couldn’t remember who’d won that fight, but whatever the result, later that evening she packed up her few possessions with the serious plan to go back to Miami.
He apologized, even going so far as to get down on his knees and beg her to stay. He made her dozens of promises, large and small, saying he’d do anything as long as she didn’t tell. “It’s our secret, okay? Just between us?”
Unlike her, Tate had a passion for his photography. It was what he’d always known he’d do. His job was a huge part of his identity, so he had a great deal at stake.
His first big promise had been to get her a place of her own. That, she accepted only with the caveat she find a job and pay the rent herself. She didn’t want to be on his dole.
So, the second was that he’d get her some work at the paper. He was just a photographer at the time, but he could get a paid intern. Done.
Last, was that he’d never hit her again. That was the promise he broke.
Erica tuned back in to hear Jean saying, “Now, you know we can’t pay relocation.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, then we need to get you in for a practical interview. That’s how we do it here. One of us will just follow you to a couple of shoots and assess you. See how you interact with the public and how you frame your shots. I’ll have my assistant–well, shit. We’ll have to figure something out. My schedule is a mess right now and we don’t even have enough staff to hire staff!”
“Oh.” Erica slumped onto the sofa. “I understand. I’ll just…wait for your call?”
“That’ll work.”
Erica hung up, feeling no more positive than she had five minutes before, even if she hasn’t received an outright no. That little paper in Carrboro was the last prospect on her list. Now she had to think outside the box. There had to be something else she could do. The passion she had as a seventeen-year-old runaway desperate to steer the course of her own life needed reigniting. What had happened to the girl with so many dreams and a fire in her belly?
Oh, yes. Fear had happened.
Chapter 8
Curt sat in a circle of desks with about twenty freshman calculus students rehashing the first week’s units with more than a little impatience. About half the kids attending hadn’t done the reading.
He draped his head over the chair back, stared at the ceiling, and groaned. “You’ve got to do the reading. You can’t just show up in class and expect what comes out of my mouth to be all you’ll need to learn to pass this course. I’m not the kind of teacher who’s going to read aloud to you. You’re grown-ups. My job is to help you adapt the lessons into practical measures so you can actually do the damned math. I’m not rehashing this lecture.” He straightened up and scanned each slouching student in turn. “Tell your friends. I teach two sections of this course. If I think you’re all coasting and not doing the reading, I’m going to make damn sure Dr. Mertz adds more quizzes to curriculum.”
The kids slumped.
Lazy bums. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a liberal arts school, after all.
After class, Seth intercepted Curt on the way out of the math building.
“What are you doing on campus, big guy?”
Seth–six feet-four, well over two hundred pounds, and with copper-colored hair that could probably be seen from the coast–moved them out of the stream of foot traffic.
“Met someone for a job interview.”
Curt assessed his long-time roommate’s ensemble from neck to feet. Seth wore a wrinkled long-sleeve dress shirt, a brown paisley-print tie that probably hadn’t been fashionable since 1983, tan slacks an inch too short, and his usual canvas sneakers. “Do I even want to ask with whom?”
“Someone from Lockheed. Holding out for NASA.”
“Of course you are.”
“Are you done? We can go to the football game. I still have my student pass.”
“No, I’m actually going back to the house. I’ve got about a dozen emails from reporters to answer and I didn’t have a chance to do it before I went to Kannapolis last night.”
“You were in Kannapolis? What the hell’s in Kannapolis?”
Curt laughed. “Not what. Who.”
“Internet girlfriend?”
“No, bud. That’s your gig. I like to screen my women in real life.”
Seth followed Curt to his leased car parked in the nearly empty staff lot. “Am I driving you home?”
Seth grunted and got in. “Might as well. I took the bus. Runs slow on Saturdays.”
After Curt got in and buckled his seatbelt, Seth asked, “So, where’d you meet her? Did you leave any there for me?”
“Funny. Actually met in Ireland. Can kind of blame Grant.”
“Shit, I knew I should have gone with you.”
“You were busy doing summer graduation. I think that was more important than watching me bumble around Cork.” Curt eased into the congested side street and carefully navigated through the throngs of student pedestrians heading toward the stadium. “She was on holiday and the kids knocked her over at Grant’s school.”
“Maybe I should borrow them. Or get a puppy. Women like babies and puppies.”
Curt rolled his eyes. He didn’t think either of those things would make the guy any more approachable. He just had that I can hurt you without even trying vibe. At least he’d stopped shaving his head. When he was bald, he’d looked downright sociopathic, especially when he started swearing in Russian.
“When can I meet her? You know, I never formally met Carla before she and Grant got married. Some friend.”
“It’s just a tryst, man.” Probably one he’d never forget, but still.
“Does she have a friend?”
“I can find out. She’s Cuban, by the way. I know you Russians and Cubans go way back. Cold War buddies.”
Seth wriggled his brows and got out as soon as Curt pulled up his parking brake.
While Seth changed out of his “good” clothes, Curt slid in front of his computer and quickly sorted through his glut of emails. The ones from students, he flagged to assess and respond to later. Solicitations were quickly punted into the trash folder. He paused briefly to read, then re-read, a message from Grant which stated he may have had a shot at a position in US due to a certain faculty member’s untimely demise. He would be flying in.
Pick me up from the airport? he’d asked.
That one Curt responded to in the affirmative. The last message, he stared out for a long while and took no action.
“Hey, rubio. What are you doing tonight?”
His finger hovered over the delete key briefly, but he paused a moment to let the implied invitation sink in. Rather than responding, he moved on to the press messages and replied to each with a pre-written copy and paste statement.
It’d been a week. A week should have been long enough for the reporters to hang back, find someone else to shine a spotlight on, but they were getting increasingly curious about the quiet mathematician. With every arrest of a policeman, businessman, or politician involved in the crime, the interest in the woman who’d turned the town on its ear spiked. At least the news coverage hadn’t extended to the US yet.
Before shutting down his computer, he revisited the message he’d ignored.
“Probably going to get drunk off my ass with Seth.”
Curt was about to click the send button, but thought better of it. Grown-ups used tact and that was a lesson he was trying to master. It was part of his de-assholeing treatment. He deleted and tried again.
“Don’t know. Have decisions to make. Will probably relax.”
He figured that was gentle enough. But since when did he care about gentle?
She must have been in front of her computer because she instantly responded.
“You could come relax here. I’ll make it worth the drive.”
/> That made him pick up his phone.
“Yes?” she answered in a sultry purr.
“What does that mean? Are you feeding me or screwing my brains out? Either way sounds like a good deal.”
At that moment, Seth leaned into the doorway wearing his favorite blue-and-yellow plaid shirt and a pair of brown cargo shorts.
Curt cringed.
“I can feed you,” she said, “but it won’t be anything special. I had to run out to cover some breaking news. I’m on scene now, actually. Waiting for a press conference to start.”
“So, sex, then.”
She laughed. “If you’d like.”
“I would like. That goes without saying.”
“See you when you get here, then. Bye, rubio.”
“When are you leaving?” Seth asked.
Curt pushed back and stretched his arms overhead with a yawn. “Soon.”
Seth grunted, rubbing the stubble on his jaw with eyes narrowed. “Same woman twice?”
“Yes.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Funny. It’s purely physical.”
“You could get physical closer to home. You usually stagger them so you don’t see the same one two dates in a row.”
Curt’s response to that was a stare.
“Just sayin’. What is it about this one? Tits?”
“Don’t know. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t come off as needy. I’m tired of needy.”
“Do you want a woman or a cat? Sounds like you want a cat.”
“I don’t want either.”
“Right. You’re stupid. If I could find just one woman to…” Seth walked away, mumbling.
“Whatever.” Curt dropped to his knees and dragged his duffle bag from under the bed. Two dates in a row did not constitute a relationship or even the budding of one. Maybe if the stars aligned the right way, he’d think about settling down sometime around thirty-five. Have a kid or two before he got too long in the tooth and waking up in the mornings got too hard.
