The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott

by Jonathan Lowe

  “You mean like that girl that got killed under the bridge?"

  When Val winced, Greg shrugged his comment away, in lieu of apology.

  "That's not--"

  "Helps them how, Valerie?”

  “By getting them dogs as companions.”

  “Dogs? From where?”

  “He didn't tell me that. We talked philosophy, mostly.” Val paused, swallowing a lump in her throat at hearing the implausibility of her own words. “Do you know something about this I don’t, Greg?”

  In reply, Greg absently drummed his fingers on the desk. Once, then twice again. Then he answered her question with another. “This guy, he lives where, exactly, did you say?”

  In frustration, Val suppressed the urge to make an impassioned defense, and instead gesticulated downward to emphasize her restrained shout. “I don't know, Greg! I wasn’t interviewing him. Okay? I just know he wouldn't do something like this.”

  “What, woman's intuition?”

  His response was unexpected, and oddly frightening. She turned away from him, only to notice several others through the glass door. Secretaries Rachel and Amber, and traffic reporter Jim Duncan. Watching them like strangers might watch an accident scene. “I just. . . know,” she repeated, although not quite as firmly this time.

  “Look,” Greg whispered, leaning toward her parentally, and then gazing up in a manner that was distressing in another way, “the police are going to ask what the story is on this guy. That’s understandable, isn’t it? So you have to tell me everything this time.”

  “I just did!" she whispered back, intensely. "I was looking to interview Vasquez, but then this guy, he sat beside me and we started talking, instead.”

  “Well, that's the truth, at least. Still, what could he possibly say to you, that you’d give up a shot at interviewing a handsome baseball star?”

  She gestured dismissively. “I don’t know, something about a dog named Picasso.”

  “Yeah? Well, that just doesn’t sound like you, Valerie. Befriending a. . . a stranger? Some bum who tells you some dog's name, but won’t give his own?"

  "He's not a bum, what did I just tell you? Just because he's in the park. . . just because he's not wearing designer jeans, does that mean--"

  "And then you‘re so captivated by this guy you don’t notice what time it is? Is this your contention?”

  “I don’t have any contention,” Val declared. “I’m just telling you the truth, as I see it. As I know it.”

  “As a producer and reporter, you also know that perception is reality. And so far your man doesn’t add up, so he can’t be subtracted. Maybe he's not the same guy who killed that girl the other night, but how do you know? What else did he say that was so irresistible, anyway?”

  "Why do you care about him," she said, "when you didn't care about Sarah?"

  "Who?"

  "I rest my case."

  "I’m trying to prevent you having a case, Val. For the station's sake."

  "You mean for Mrs. Robinson's sake."

  "That, too. So, you gonna tell me? What was so captivating about this guy? Because there is a captive in the picture, now."

  She almost laughed at his play on words. Before remembering what had been so captivating, at the beginning. Then the laugh stuck in her throat, and she paused, shuddering in realization. “He just. . .” she began.

  “Yeah? He what?”

  “He just. . .well. . . asked me to join him. To watch the children.”

  She observed the way Greg lifted one hand slowly to his mouth, held the hand there, and then just stared at her for what seemed forever. Finally he looked back down at her desk, before laying both of his palms down carefully on either side. “Oh God,” he said, but not the way Rikki or Trish had said it.

  “It's really not like that, though,” she insisted, forcibly shaking off her hesitancy. “This guy, he's a Buddhist.” She spread her hands in front of him, opening them like a book, as though her argument was clinched, if he would just read between the lines. After all, she reasoned, how many Buddhists had actually kidnapped someone, or had ever wired themselves with explosives?

  Greg, indeed, seemed to absorb this, as his face belied a wary hope. “He told you he was a Buddhist?”

  “Well, yeah. And he carried a cane, too.”

  “He was crippled?”

  “No, he was blind. Or so I thought.”

  “What do you mean, or so you thought?”

  “Just that he could see, but he had problems with bright light. That's why he wore dark sunglasses.”

  Now Greg steepled his fingers over her desk. His jaw worked for a moment, angling from side to side. Then he summed up. “Let me see if I got this correctly. You meet some guy in the park who carries a prop, won't tell you his name, and then invites you to watch young children with him. He next shares with you some psychobabble he hopes will lure you to wherever he spends the night, and when that doesn't work, he kidnaps a kid instead. How does that sound, Valerie?”

  “Like you've been smoking something you shouldn't,” Val declared, although she saw his point, if the press caught wind of it, and saw a ratings bonus. “When will the sketch artist be able to clear all this up, anyway?” she asked.

  “Soon, hopefully.”

  “Not to worry, then,” she said. “It’s just coincidence.”

  “Like the night before? Hope you’re right.”

  “I am, believe me.”

  “Okay, then, I believe you.” Greg sighed with what she suspected was feigned exaggeration. “Although your instincts have been wrong in the past.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, forget it.” He rose, and started past her. She put one hand on his arm, in much the same way that it had been done to her. "What is it?"

  “I really do need some time off,” she insisted. “It's not some impulsive request. It’s been a long time, and I never really---”

  “A vacation?” Greg interrupted in amazement. “Now?”

  “Like I said, it’s more than that. I’m telling you I need some down time. To be honest, a leave of absence. I’m not a machine, Greg. Unless you want me to burn out completely.”

  Greg lost his astonished look, and then shook his head. “This is a bad time, Valerie. Haven't I explained to you that the station is in a budget crunch? With our current ratings numbers, I'll be lucky to save my own job, let alone yours."

  She blinked at him. "Let alone mine?"

  "Bottom line is we need a bigger audience, here. That means stories people care about. Stories they can relate to, after all the depressing news coverage. I'm not talking about stand-up comics, but not some girl with an obsession for vampires either, Val. Unless you can get her parents and friends in front of the camera, show a trend, and make it more interesting than it appears."

  "A girl lost her life under that bridge, Greg," she reminded him.

  "Yeah? Well, there's hundreds of sad stories in the big city every day, but unfortunately not all of them make the six o'clock news."

  "You talked to Mrs. Robinson about this, didn't you?"

  "About the dead girl? You bet I did. I had to. A police detective called her, and trust me, she doesn't want another call like that about one of her employees ever again."

  Val nodded, visualizing it. "I see."

  "Claire is pulling all the strings she can right now to get some interesting people for us. Celebrities, musicians, entertainers. I'll do what I can for you in the meantime, Val, but I think if you leave town on vacation right now? You might as well not come back. Or expect a raise, or whatever else it is you're hoping for." He lifted one finger and touched the side of his forehead. "Use your brain, not just your intuition, about the timing here, okay?"

  “This isn't about a raise,” she reassured him. “It's not about money, or visibility, either. I need a break, Greg. I need to retool. To think. Or maybe not to think, for once.”

  Greg proffered a short, disbelieving laugh. Then his raised finger dr
ifted to his chin, where it tapped like a broken metronome. “You mind if I ask,” he said, “if this is really you talking, or is it David what’s-his-name?”

  “I’m no longer with David,” Val declared, “so it’s not him. Definitely not him. This is about me, and what I need for a change. Personally, I mean, not professionally. And I'm not saying that I need to leave town or fly to Hawaii, either.”

  “What, then? You gonna go home and watch soap operas? Come on, Val, you’re better than that! The way to work through some philandering jerk is to do just that--to work through it.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. And who told you he was philandering, anyway?”

  Greg brushed his impropriety aside with a cursory gesture, as if erasing a wrong equation from an imaginary blackboard. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? In the meantime I need to assign some stories to people who actually listen to my advice. As for you, take the day off, but don't disappear on me. And keep your cell phone on too, just in case.”

  “In case of what?” she asked.

  “In case you’re actually wrong for once.”

  Having delivered his sardonic jibe, Greg turned to leave. Val followed him out into the hallway, intending to defend herself, only to witness her boss walking briskly away from her, not looking back or saying another word. Just as she'd done, she realized, with both of her ex-men.

  She went to the restroom, bent over the sink there, hands on either side, feeling nauseous now. She thought about the kidnapped girl, the murdered girl who'd been forgotten, and finally Mrs. Robinson's cornball plans for their show.

  Then she threw up.

  9

  Upon getting Val’s call, Faye White professed to expecting it. Of course Faye usually pretended such things. As another former classmate, this privileged blond supermom was once known for her unbidden prognostications and spontaneous predictions. Born rich and beautiful, she’d often seemed to be burdened with the responsibility or hubris to dispense advice among the less fortunate, too. Yet she attempted to detract from her physical beauty and wealth by projecting eccentricity instead of foppish apology. Her one saving grace.

  “Are you okay?” Faye now asked, leaning over a Caesar salad in order to scrutinize her. “You look kinda lost.”

  Hit the nail on the head, why don't you.

  Val smiled in grim determination, suspecting Faye did not ask just to be polite. Nor was she waiting for the invitation to chronicle her own exploits---an exercise that might obviously validate the esteem to which she felt genetically entitled. Looking into those azure eyes beneath blond bangs that highlighted a short, stylish cut, Val knew that Faye’s superiority was a given, even if Faye herself felt embarrassed by it. It was why men did not approach her in bars, with or without a ring in view. It was also why calling her for lunch prompted acceptance without hesitation. Perfection was intimidating to both sexes.

  “I do feel stuck,” Val confessed, seizing on any chance at resolution. “What do you do when you’re on this treadmill, and you can’t find the off button?”

  “Jump off,” Faye suggested.

  Val snapped her fingers. "Just like that, you mean?"

  "Sure. What are you afraid of?”

  Val ruminated while gulping at her margarita. “Everything,” she said, at last.

  “Well, that’s pretty inclusive. Do you at least get the continental breakfast?”

  “If I do, it’s so tasteless I don’t notice.”

  Faye took a sip from the wine glass that held club soda and a floating lime wedge. “You’re kidding me, right? You’ve got a great job, a great guy, and--”

  Val shook her head emphatically from side to side. “Not a great job, and no great guy, either, as it turns out.”

  Her companion’s askance stare now held bewilderment. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s cheated, is what. He’s a cheat. He’s also cheap. As for the job, it’s more about hype than anything else. Cheating in other ways. Not unlike lying or acting. All for the sake of ratings numbers.”

  Faye grimaced at the news, then touched Val’s forearm for a moment, the soft brush of her fingers like a consoling caress across the paw of a Basset hound winning honorable mention. “Val,” Faye said, careful not to let her tone stray into condescension, “I’m sorry to hear you’re unhappy.”

  “Is that what I am? Maybe so. But I think it goes deeper than that.”

  “It does? How so?”

  “I’m not sure I can tell you,” Val replied, finishing her drink.

  “Sure you can. You can tell me anything.”

  “No, I mean I’m not sure I can tell you, because I’m not sure myself.” She paused, trying to frame the unframeable. “Okay then, have you ever stopped to wonder if what you’ve done so far with your life has been scripted by someone else? That you never wrote your own script before because you didn’t know you could?"

  "Huh?"

  "I mean, it's like other people expected me to take this path, and so all I really know is the rhythm of walking where they’ve all pointed. I'm on this route, see, always looking ahead, trying to see around corners, hoping to find whatever it is. And then, when I suddenly realize I'm on the wrong path, I see that the path I should be on is going in the opposite direction! I stop and look behind me, and there’s this beautiful sunset I never saw before, illuminating the clouds overhead, and I'd never seen any of it until that moment. Until the instant I realized that life isn’t about the future. That the future doesn’t even exist, except maybe in my mind. And it never will.”

  “Wow,” said Faye, smiling nervously. “There’s a concept.”

  “Think about it. Or not. Just tell me how irrational I sound to you. Before I drown in booze, that is.”

  Faye cocked her head, leaning back. She was obviously analyzing something, although it failed to furrow her forever youthful brow. Val had begun to wonder if the folds of Faye's brain had absorbed all of her body’s wrinkles when she finally said, “Who have you been talking to, anyway? Because this doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Maybe I didn’t sound like me before, and I just didn’t know it.”

  “Valerie Lott, the philosopher?” Faye sounded dubious.

  “All I know is I need something I never knew existed. Like there’s this space inside of me that needs filling, and I didn’t know the space was even there.”

  Now Faye wagged a finger at her. “You fell for some geek, didn’t you? Some poet who drives a VW bug and wears sandals and has a pony tail and a tight butt!”

  “Let’s just say I met someone who opened my eyes to another way of looking at things, and leave it at that, shall we?”

  Faye’s blue eyes widened. “Oh my god. Where did you meet this guy?”

  “A place I never expected.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?”

  “You might say that. It’s always now with this guy.”

  “And you make love like there’s no tomorrow, I hope?”

  “No, we never even kissed. And now he’s. . . gone.”

  “Ouch.” Faye frowned on cue. “You’re not in love, are you?”

  “I don't know what I am, anymore. Considering you have to love yourself before you can love someone else. And you have to know yourself before you can love yourself.”

  “Huh?” Faye puzzled it over. “Gees, honey, you sure got somethin’. Don’t know what it is, but I hope it’s not contagious.”

  Val considered telling her more, but then decided against it. Especially if it included reconsidering the preposterous notion that such a wise and gentle soul might be suspect in a major crime. She pondered telling her about Sarah Collins, next, but that too would be as foreign to Faye's world as the gas giant Neptune. She picked up a celery stick, dipped it in some ranch dressing, and chewed on that for a while, instead. Then she asked, “How’s Mark and the kids, by the way?”

  “Good,” Faye said, noncommittally.

  “No,” Val insisted,
“you can tell me. I want to hear it. Really. Has anything changed with you since we met last? And how long has it been, again, since we last talked?”

  “Three and a half months,” Faye said. “Over four, actually, since we last met with Joyce and Diane for Happy Hour.”

  Val cleared her throat. “Okay, how’s your family been doing lately, then?”

  “Good,” Faye repeated. She paused, then added, “Mark got a award from the American Society of Architectural Engineering, and we’re going on a cruise to Greece and Italy to celebrate.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Jessica made the dean’s list at Summerville, so we’re taking her, too.”

  Val nodded, offering a closed half smile of approval. “Nice. That’s a nice minivan I saw you pull up in, too. Is it new?”

  “No, I’ve had it for a few months.”

  “Lexus?”

  “Actually, it’s a Porsche. They’re still making minivans.”

  “Sold your house in Quail Creek yet?”

  “Yes. Mark’s building the A-frame for us up on Mount Lemmon. It’ll be great, you can come to the housewarming, if you like.”

  “You’re going to live in a cabin in the woods?”

  Faye chuckled. “Not a cabin, silly. It’ll have five bedrooms and three baths. Ponderosa pine finished with teak. Four thousand square feet, if you count the great room.”

  “Great.”

  “There’s a Jacuzzi that seats twelve, and a huge flagstone fireplace, and this---”

  “Okay, okay,” Val said, holding up one hand like a traffic sign, “you can stop now.”

  “Thanks.” Faye fished in her Prada bag for a Kleenex, and used it to pick a shred of soggy lettuce from her blouse. “Getting back to your mystery man, what does he do for a living?”

  Val glanced around the restaurant at some of the other diners, then smiled to herself when the appropriate answer came, perfect in its simplicity. “He lives.”

  “He. . . lives?”

  “Yeah, he does, actually. Unlike us.”

  “Come again?”

  She looked back, only to meet Faye’s puzzled expression. “Tell me, have you ever seen men watch a football game, or stand around each other as they tee off on the golf course? Men with pot bellies, losing their hair? They still act like kids, competitive as ever, right? And what do they talk about? Have you actually listened?”