Deadlines

by Camilla Chafer

"Thanks for the tip."

  "No problem." Ben pushed the door open, holding it for me. As I stepped past him, he asked, "Anything else I can assist you with?"

  Detective Smith was currently ahead of me in the investigation. With every hour that elapsed, the danger of losing my headline scoop grew greater. It wouldn't be long before someone checked the police blotter, or tapped an informant for a new story. I needed to get ahead of everyone. In order to do that, I had to swallow my pride.

  "What do you know about cufflinks?" I asked hoping it didn't sound too weird.

  "I always wear two."

  "Always?"

  "One for each sleeve," Ben deadpanned. "Do you need to buy a gift?"

  "No, I'm trying to trace the owner of a cufflink for a story. For the, uh, entertainment column," I added, hoping he bought it.

  Ben nodded solemnly. "Someone left one somewhere they shouldn't have?" he asked.

  "Something like that."

  "Got a picture?"

  "Yeah." I pulled out my cell phone, sliding the photo gallery over to the close-up of the cufflink. "Where would someone buy one like this?"

  "Hmm, that's a nice piece. Looks like solid silver. Did it feel light? Or heavy?"

  "I don't know, I didn't pick it up."

  "Just a guess, but I'd say it would have a pretty hefty weight to it. The pattern looks familiar too. Anything stamped on the back?"

  "Yes, next photo."

  Ben swiped his finger across the screen, drawing the new photo with it. "Ahh," he said, zooming in. "See this stamp? That's a silver mark. And this one here, that's the jeweler and that one looks like an edition number, maybe."

  I leaned in as he pointed. "Do you recognize the jeweler's stamp?"

  "Yes. It's Armande in Beverly Hills."

  "Fancy!" It wasn't the name that got me, but the location. As a recent LA transplant, I'd yet to scour the high-end locations I'd become so familiar with on TV. I was eagerly anticipating a long drive around the area, starting at the huge gates concealing the stars’ mansions, and playing Spot the Rolls Royce.

  "Yes, it is. They sell all kinds of jewelry, but mostly it’s their own brand."

  "What's the retail price on a cufflink like this?"

  "I couldn't say for sure, but they probably start around a thousand dollars."

  "A thousand dollars?" I yelled, closing my mouth when several heads turned. More quietly, I asked, "Who would spend a thousand bucks for a pair of cufflinks?"

  "In case you hadn't noticed, the GDP of LA is greater than a lot of countries. There's literally money to burn here, Shayne. Whoever lost this cufflink is either a big wage-earner, or a very lucky recipient of an expensive gift."

  "Or just someone with expensive habits?"

  "I'm sorry that doesn't narrow it down much."

  "I'll check with the store," I decided. "Maybe they keep records of all the customers they sell to."

  "Good idea," agreed Ben. "If you're lucky, this could be part of their limited edition sets."

  "Fingers crossed," I said, crossing my fingers and holding them up. "Thanks for the help."

  "Anytime. I hope you get something good for the entertainment column out of it."

  "Fingers still crossed," I said, warming to Ben again. Helping me was a large part of it, but also being friendly and not prying into my stories. He barely even inquired about Marguerite Casta… With that thought, I smelled a rat.

  "It's great that Chucky is scheduled for the obits," said Ben. "I heard some more gossip today that his death isn't all that it first appeared. Do you think there's a story anywhere in it?"

  I fought to keep my poker face as I shrugged. "Seems like an open-and-shut case to me. Just another Hollywood tragedy."

  I almost missed the look that flashed across Ben's face. He seemed a little disappointed, but not, I thought, because of the story. Strangely enough, he was disappointed in my answer. "Just what I thought," he replied as he walked away. I had the uncomfortable feeling that not only did he not believe me one bit, but he was also disappointed because I didn't confide in him.

  The most important thing right now was to prevent him from digging around for a story himself. Instead of feeling reassured, it only added more pressure to the tightening deadline that loomed before me. The only thing worse than getting scooped by another journalist was being scooped by Ben.

  I allowed myself one peek above the cubicle partition to watch him as he got back to his desk, sat down, and reached for the bottle of water next to his keyboard. He didn't glance in my direction at all. Even better, he didn't hightail it to Bob but it had to only be a matter of time.

  Rocking back on the new chair — I took a moment for thanks when it didn't collapse like its predecessor — I pondered my next move. The only thing I could decide was the last place I needed to be was at the office. I didn't have a story to write up yet, and still had another entertainment column to research. However, thanks to a brief search on IMDB, I did confirm Janelle's mention of her new show. That meant I was one whole line into my next column. With the quest for further research as my cover story, I picked up my purse, preparing to sweep out of the office.

  "Shayne, you're heading out again? You've only been here ten minutes," said Martha, stepping through the doors and startling me so much, I had to take a leap backwards.

  "I'm researching my next column," I prattled, my excuse neatly prepared.

  "We're just so pleased to see how you're settling in here," she said, beaming. "You should join us on our next get-together. We're all going bowling."

  "Sounds wonderful. Thank you for asking me."

  "I'll email you the details. Ben needs a new member for his team too. Anything I need to pass on to Bob about the column?"

  "Not yet," I said, edging past her, unsure of how I should feel about being volunteered so cavalierly for Ben's team. "I'm still researching."

  "Oh, sure. Go get 'em," said Martha as she fist pumped the air. I mirrored her fist pump and spun on my heel, heading straight for the elevator lest I bump into anyone else.

  It was too late to head to the spin studio and look for Marguerite, and I still hadn't worked out how to wring more information from Chucky's autopsy, but I had plenty of time between now and my date to pay a visit to Armande, the Beverly Hills jeweler.

  Getting there, however, was another story. After several wrong turns from the SatNav, it took me twice as long as I anticipated. "I will never learn how to drive in this city," I said, mentally calculating exactly how much I would save by not parking. "I will never get used to all this traffic." I was still muttering my pet peeves when I pushed against the glass door of Armande. The thing didn't budge. I pushed harder, searching for a handle in case I needed to pull the door instead.

  On my third push, a buzzer sounded and the door swung open. I stumbled through, almost landing on Detective Smith.

  "I should have known," she sighed. "Are you following me now?"

  "No! I have a genuine lead."

  "The cufflink?"

  "Yes. How did you know to come here? The jeweler stamp was no more than a squiggle."

  "I recognized it right away," said Smith, looking smug.

  "Me too," I lied. Smith's raised a single eyebrow. "Did you find anything?"

  "I was just about to ask the clerk. I don't imagine you're going away, are you?"

  "No. It took me too long to get here and I had to pay for parking."

  "I thought you could come up with a better excuse than that."

  I sighed. "Me too, but I have to go with what I have."

  I waited for Detective Smith to say something snippy, but instead, she laughed as she turned away. She was reaching for a badge that she flashed at the woman behind the counter. Apparently, that meant I was good to stay; and I was never one to argue with the law. "I'm interested in some more information regarding this cufflink," she said, producing a photo on her phone screen. "What can you tell me about it?"

  "It's broken," said the assistant.


  "Yes, I know, but I'm more interested in who the owner might be. Is it a popular style? Or one of the limited edition sets?"

  "Let me see." The assistant reached for Smith's phone, meticulously studying the photo. After a moment, she called over the man at the other counter. "I think this is one of our popular sets," she said. "Is that correct, Leonard?"

  Leonard nodded. "It is. This style first went on sale two years ago, just before Christmas. It was a rather popular option for the discerning gentleman."

  "How many have you sold?" I asked.

  "And you are?" he countered.

  "Winter," I told him, hoping he wouldn't ask for my rank. Smith's badge was my only credibility to also ask questions. It seemed to work because he said, "Ballpark? Maybe… a thousand sets."

  Smith's face fell. I figured it probably matched my own as she said, "A thousand? Just in LA?"

  "A number of them would have been mail order. We ship throughout the States as well as abroad."

  "Do you have a list of all the purchasers?" Smith asked.

  I nudged her as the assistants conferred. "Isn't that a long shot? Even if you got a list, that doesn't mean the man who lost this cufflink is on it. Maybe he got them as a gift? Or someone could have dropped it anytime?"

  "And maybe I will find a connection to someone on that list that will end in me getting a warrant."

  "A warrant for what? You already have the murder weapon," I whispered. "You found them in Chucky's stomach."

  "I know it's a long shot, but I can't brush off this clue just in case it doesn't work out. That's not what a detective does, Shayne."

  "Could I see the list?" I asked, hoping my luck didn't just run out.

  "Do you have a list?" she asked the sales assistants.

  "We can provide you with a list if you can produce a warrant," said Leonard finally. "We have a lot of high profile clients who value their privacy."

  "Yada yada," said Detective Smith. "Why don't I just arrest you for obstruction of justice?"

  "You don't understand. We have very high profile clients who purchase gifts and who wouldn't want that information becoming publicly available."

  "Got it. You get a lot of affair clients. I'm not interested in anyone's personal lives. I just want the names of anyone who bought these cufflinks."

  "If you come back with a warrant, we can provide you with a list," agreed Leonard.

  "That was a dead end," I said as we exited the shop.

  "Only for now. I'll get that list."

  "You can get a warrant?"

  "No problem."

  "Will you show me?"

  "Unlikely. I only let you listen in because I knew you wouldn’t leave."

  "Thank you, I appreciate it."

  "It wasn't a compliment! Also, don't ever let me hear you posing as a police officer again. That's a criminal offense."

  "Who me?" I asked, feigning innocence. "I merely gave my name to Leonard. What other people assume is their own business. See you later!" I called out as Smith began to walk away.

  "Hopefully, not at my next stop," she shot back.

  I hurried to catch up with her. "Where is your next stop?" I asked, wondering if she would say.

  "I'm not falling for that," snapped Smith as she strode away to the waiting car. Meanwhile I loitered, alone, on the sidewalk. She got into the car before it peeled away from the curb, leaving me to sulk all the way home, stopping only briefly to buy an overpriced salad for a late lunch.

  By the time I returned to my apartment, I was tired, sticky, and in desperate need of a shower. First, however, I added my new notes to the murder board and poured myself a drink to ponder them. Ultimately, I had to postpone my investigation until morning. I needed to get ready for my drinks date.

  I showered, dressed, and had just finished applying my makeup when my cell phone rang.

  "Good evening, gorgeous," said Richard when I answered. "I'm right outside your building. Are you ready?"

  "On my way."

  I hung onto the handrail, thanks to my super high heels as I descended the stairs. On my rush to get into my apartment, I failed to notice that the communal area was cleaned up. Now, I looked around and realized all the broken chaise lounges were gone. All the plant pots were dug out, and the dead wood pruned and removed. The scum was scraped off the pool water and all the debris must’ve been fished out. It wasn't a lot, I suppose, but so much better than my first impression. Somehow, I couldn't see Jacob going to all that effort, until it struck me that I hadn't seen him since my arrival. That only left one other person...

  "You're going on another date?" asked a deep voice behind me.

  "Mike? Hi."

  "You're going out wearing a skirt as short as that?" growled the old man next to him.

  "Shush, Grandpa! How else is she supposed to find a date? Using her brains?"

  "Mike!" I squealed.

  "So going out? Or coming home?" Mike persisted, unperturbed. He peered at me. "Weren’t you wearing that yesterday?"

  "No! I was wearing a black dress yesterday, and my date is waiting outside."

  "Same guy? Is he desperate or what?"

  "Does a guy have to be desperate to date me?" I asked, immediately wishing I hadn't.

  "No." Mike shrugged and added, "but I guess it helps."

  "Bite me," I said as I stepped around them both before strutting all the way to the door. Behind me, someone wolf whistled. I wasn't sure whether I preferred to think it was Mike — the arrogant asshole — or his grandfather; but I did remember my manners and calmly resisted the urge to flip them both the finger although a tear pricked my eyelids.

  I didn't know why Mike's stupid remarks bothered me. However, by the time I reached Richard's car, I pushed them far away from my mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Is she? And is he?" I broke off, momentarily star struck as I observed the cast of the latest, and arguably hottest, cop show on TV. They were clustered around two couches and all appeared to be drinking from the same enormous fish bowl, from which hung several long straws. I watched in awe as the lead actress leaned in to take a sip before laughing at something the guy sitting to her right said. Despite their animosity on screen, here, in real life, his hand was resting on her upper leg and they were snuggled close together.

  I was briefly distracted by a blockbusting action hero who strolled past. In his jeans and tight, white t-shirt, he looked impeccable. Another man broke off from a group nearby and crossed in front of him. For a moment, I thought a litany of annoyed words would be exchanged, but instead, the action hero dipped his head and locked lips with the unknown man. "And is that..." I gasped.

  "Yes, yes, and yes!" answered Richard. We grabbed a tall table by the bar and perched on bar stools opposite each other. The amusement from Richard at seeing my star struck nature was palpable, yet he didn't discourage me, or play it cool. I was beyond playing it cool! These were people I'd only ever seen on screen, right here in front of me, in the flesh! Never mind how thrilled the entertainment columnist in me was when I imagined all the column inches I could gain from those few seconds of observation.

  "My editor will be very happy with this," I said, dragging my attention away from the smooching men and back onto my own very kissable date. "Not that I'm going to 'out' that guy," I assured him. "I may have to write the entertainment column, but I do have standards; and pushing someone out of the closet is not on the list."

  "Are you always so diligent in reporting?" Richard asked.

  I took a moment to think about that. There weren't many things I wouldn't do for a story, but I knew when it was okay to cross a line and when it wasn’t. "I try; and I'm not in the business of ruining lives even if the reader demands to know that kinda stuff."

  "Your predecessor at The Chronicle never seemed too worried about that."

  "You read her column?"

  "Only at the dentist's."

  "I have to say Yours Truly witnessed him in a sensational lip-lock, but I'll leave it up
to the reader to guess who it was. As for those two," I said, discreetly pointing to the loved-up, fake cops, "I know they're both single, so it won't do any harm to say they were spotted getting ‘cozy.’"

  "I think this calls for another drink. Same again?" chirped Richard as he hit the buzzer on the table. Within seconds, a cocktail waitress appeared, ready to take our order. "Champagne cocktails?" he said, pointing to our glasses and she nodded before slipping away into the crowd. "Does the new host of the show everyone's talking about merit a mention?"

  "That depends… Is he doing anything gossip-worthy?" I countered.

  "Let's see... How about kissing a mystery blonde?"

  "I can only report what I see and I don't think that's happened this evening...yet. Plus, how will I see anything unless I keep at least one eye open?" I asked, inserting what I hoped was just the right amount of sass into my answer.

  "How about this?" Richard asking, leaning forward and brushing my lips with his. He pulled back just as I reached for more. If he were from the always leave them wanting more school, I was disappointed. Instead of my heart thumping with excitement, I felt deflated. Perhaps I should kiss him again, you know, just to be sure? Maybe the fireworks had a hard day too, or they needed some more build-up before they began really firing? Of course, another kiss would be strictly in the name of research; and as a journalist, I had to be eternally diligent. "Tell me more about back home. You must find it very different here," he said before I could initiate more research.

  "I've been here for one week and almost feel like I'm on a different planet."

  "LA has its very own culture."

  "So I see. In Montgomery, I don't think I ever saw anyone famous. Our entertainment column covered which store was running a discount sale rather than any celebs."

  "Your reporting was all serious before this?"

  "I worked my way up from doing the stories no one else wanted before becoming chief reporter. Occasionally, one of my stories got syndicated into the nationals, which was very exciting. But yes, to answer your question, it was all serious stuff; although I don't think you'll find it that interesting."

  "Try me. Tell me about one of the weirdest stories you've ever reported."