I looked at Grady now, still waiting for me to say something more. In his brown eyes, the color of tree bark turned dark from rain, I saw a friend who would always be there for me, no matter what happened between us now. Which meant we could play at being lovers. We could see where it took us. We didn’t have to decide anything.
I opened my mouth, about to tell him about the pearl thong, just waiting in my condo a few blocks away.
But suddenly I pictured it in my mind-me in those racy panties, Grady with me…naked? There was something wrong with that image. Grady, with his bottomless brown eyes, was my friend, first and foremost.
He tilted forward, put his mouth near my ear. “You want to get out of here?” Grady spoke the words low.
We both knew where my condo was. I tried to think of Grady and me in my bed, stripped of clothes, stripped of the remaining walls of friendship.
The thought left me vacant, with a feeling that said, No, that’s not right, or maybe it was more of a No, not now. I wasn’t sure which. I wasn’t sure why. Would I ever be sure of anything again? God, I longingly remembered the days when I used to be decisive about most everything.
“I should get going.” I pulled away from him. “I’ve got my new job tomorrow.”
Grady nodded reluctantly. “Call me tomorrow, all right? Let me know how the job goes.”
“I will. I’m sorry, Grady. I’m just a little confused right now.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
I hugged him, and I left fast, my mind swirling-the product, apparently, of too many men, too many jobs, not enough sleep.
Or maybe… a voice inside me said. Maybe it’s just enough.
I climbed the three flights of stairs to my condo, thinking about starting my new job the next morning, feeling on the precipice of a whole new life. My body tingled with the anticipation of the fall into…what? I didn’t know. And that unknown was thrilling me.
I got undressed. I opened my drawer to find the Jeff Beck concert T-shirt of Sam’s I liked to sleep in. Slipping it over my head, I expected the shiver of calm and coziness it usually brought me. But for some reason, it felt stifling. I tugged at the neck. Too tight. When I slipped into bed, it felt claustrophobic, as if my body was still jumping, not ready to settle down, no matter how many times I reminded myself that I had to start a new job the next morning.
Sleep wouldn’t descend. I kept itching to get out of bed, to do something, but I didn’t know what. The responsible Izzy McNeil, that accountable and dependable self I’d always known, was scratching at the walls, sensing that she was onto something new. And wanting to get on with it sooner rather than later.
After half an hour of twisting under my sheets, I got out of bed and found the silver-gray box I’d brought home from the Fig Leaf. Lifting the cover, I pulled open the delicate tissue. In the light that made its way through a crack in my drapes, I stared at the garment. Delicate silver lace, two strands of creamy ivory pearls that ran side by side.
I took off the T-shirt and slipped on the pearl thong. I stood in the dark of my bedroom, naked but for those pearls, sensing a shift in the air, a shift in me.
My cell phone was on my dresser top, the ringer off. I lifted it and saw that I had a text message. From Theo. Want company?
I texted back, Aren’t you supposed to be in Mexico?
Tomorrow. So, are you up for a visit?
I could see him in my kitchen, squeezing blood oranges, the serpent on his forearm slithering with the movement. I started to write back, Yes, but then I hesitated. Certainly this behavior was reckless, certainly it meant something.
The thing was, I didn’t want to analyze it right now. I just wanted to roll with it.
Door is open, I added to the text. Then I hit Send.
18
I should have been exhausted after Sunday-a day spent panty peddling, a night spent researching the pearl thong. But as I got ready to leave my condo Monday morning, only forty minutes after Theo left, I felt charged up with that same electricity from the night before, an energy I hadn’t known since I’d left the law firm.
I put on the suit I used to wear for closing arguments or tough depositions. With its long, clingy skirt and high fitted waist it was professional and sassy, exactly the image I hoped that Trial TV would want in a legal analyst.
Downstairs, I went around my building to the detached garage. Inside, I got my helmet and paused for a second. I used to never wear the helmet, not liking how it smashed my curls and never really believing that I would get in an accident. But I no longer believed I was immune to bad luck, and so I pulled the helmet over my head and fastened the chin strap tight.
As I revved the scooter down Sedgwick, then North Avenue, the traffic was going in the other direction. Most people were headed to the Loop or the Mag Mile, while I was heading to West Webster.
As I buzzed down Clybourn, I raised my face and let the sun beam itself onto my cheeks. When I came to a stop at Racine, I closed my eyes, and I let myself remember the night before. My brain was still assimilating all the images-remembering the way I stood in the shadowy dark of my living room, keen with anticipation as his footsteps pounded, heavier and heavier, up my steps; remembering the old Izzy saying What are you doing? while the new Izzy told her to shut up and locked her in a back room of my mind; remembering his face when he walked in and saw me naked except for the thong; remembering the utter lack of words, remembering only the sounds, groans, growls, sighs.
Suddenly the blaring of horns jolted me back to reality. I forced Theo from my mind, locking him in the back room with the old Izzy. I turned left when I got to Webster and drove past Ashland. The neighborhood was populated with a large bank, a Kohl’s department store, a huge new building housing a yoga center and a lighting store.
I found the address-a stubby but sprawling brick building with a concrete parking lot. I parked the scooter, and followed the sidewalk to the front door. Inside, the floors were linoleum and the walls unpainted drywall. The hallway was lined with file cabinets topped with large cardboard moving boxes. Jane told me the build out was still happening and that it was typical for a start-up network like this to truly start up without all the pieces in place. Clearly, she wasn’t kidding.
I gave my name to a security guard, who issued me a badge and pointed down the hallway. I walked, passing offices. A couple were empty, others used as storage space. Those that were occupied looked like offices you might see at any workplace; each had a computer, phone, notes, photos, knickknacks. The only difference between these offices and those in another industry was that each of these had a minimum of two TVs in them, usually four.
I looked at my watch-6:55 a.m., only a few minutes before Jane’s first morning broadcast would begin.
At the end of the hall, I pushed open a heavy door and stopped dead.
If the rest of the building had been slightly shoddy and the construction not complete, the studio was where attention had been lavished. The ceiling was high and covered with lights. Wires wrapped in bright yellow tape crisscrossed the floor and a bevy of cameras stood at the ready, all focused on two sets. In one, an interview area, four royal-blue leather chairs sat in front of a wall of monitors, all showing reporters preparing for stories near courthouses or capitol buildings. Jane had told me this was where expert panelists would come to be questioned and where the morning “Coffee Break” segment would take place. The main set held a large mahogany anchor desk, vaguely resembling a judge’s bench. The words Trial TV were emblazoned across the front in blue lights edged with white.
Behind the desk, on three large panels, the Trial TV logo was superimposed over moving images displaying shots of famous legal scenes from the last few decades.
Jane sat behind the anchor desk, while a floor director in jeans and a T-shirt read to her from a clipboard. As big as the desk was, Jane had a commanding presence. She wore a suit and a crisp white blouse with a high collar. Her black hair hung on either side of her face, gleaming and smoot
h. Her makeup was heavy but flawless, drawing out the mauve-blue in her eyes. The only thing that marred her appearance-at least for me-was the scarf. Her red scarf was wound around her neck, its silk ends tucked into the collar of her shirt.
Jane looked up and saw me. “Hi!” she mouthed. She waved me over.
When I got there, she stood and introduced me to another woman who’d walked up at the same time. “Izzy, this is Faith Lowe, litigator turned producer.”
“Hi.” Faith had black shiny hair in an asymmetrical cut. She looked more avant-garde than most of the litigators I knew.
Jane stepped down from the raised anchor desk then and gave me a quick hug. “How are you?”
“Great,” I said. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks. My clothes are sponsored on this gig, so I’m all designer now.” She made a show of holding up her hands and showing off her suit, which fit her impeccably. Neither of us said anything about the scarf. “How are you feeling about your first day in the news?”
“Good. A little nervous.”
“Don’t be.” She spun me around and pointed to a man at the back of the room. He wore slacks, a gray dress shirt that looked as if it could use some laundering and a yellow tie that was already loosened despite the early hour. He was probably in his late fifties with a ruddy face. His thinning hair, which seemed to be a mix of blond and gray, was messed and stood up in places. He was talking fast and gesturing wildly in front of two guys, who wore chagrined expressions.
“That’s Tommy Daley,” Jane said. “And no, he’s not related to Mayor Daley, so don’t ask. He hates that. Tommy is going to be the master of your universe around here. He’s the deputy news director. Although he also seems to think he’s the managing editor. And the assignment editor. And the executive producer. Anyway, he basically runs this show, so when he gets done chewing out those interns, get over there and introduce yourself.”
Tommy’s face had gotten very red, nearly purple, and he was leaning in toward one intern, shaking his finger in his face and spewing some kind of speech.
I turned around to Jane. “I’m not sure I want Tommy to be the master of my universe.”
She laughed. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
“One minute!” someone yelled. “This is it, folks! One minute to airtime.”
Jane’s smile got larger, her eyes excited.
“Good luck!” I said, squeezing her hand.
“Thanks. Good luck to you, too. Have fun.”
She stepped back up on the anchor desk and sat down. She threaded a tiny microphone under her suit jacket and attached it to the collar, right below her red scarf.
“Ten seconds!” the voice called.
Jane took a big breath and blew it out, glancing around the set with a look that seemed filled with pride. But then her head froze and the expression on her face changed to one of surprise, and then, if I was reading her right, to one of fear.
I followed her sight line to Tommy, who stood toward the back of the room now, speaking to another man. The man had a notepad and seemed to be interviewing Tommy, jotting things on the pad as they spoke. I peered closer and realized the guy making notes was the writer from Friday night. The writer who wrote books. The one Jane had gone home with.
“Five!” the voice called, counting down. Tommy held up a finger to the writer, as if to signal, Just a minute. He looked toward the anchor desk and Jane.
I did the same. Jane seemed frozen, staring at the writer. The room went quiet.
“Four!”
“Augustine, you ready?” called the floor director who stood to the right of Jane’s anchor desk.
“Three!”
Jane wasn’t moving, her eyes unblinking. I glanced back at the writer. He was still jotting notes. But just then, he looked up, right at Jane, and he smiled.
“Two!”
The look from the writer seemed to break Jane’s shock. She peered down at the monitor in front of her.
No one yelled “one” but the red lights showed the cameras were rolling.
And then Jane’s face rose again, a face that was calm, satisfied, authoritative. “Good morning, I’m Jane Augustine.” She gave a smile of pleasure. “Welcome to Trial TV.”
Jane turned and faced a different camera. “At Trial TV, we bring you gavel-to-gavel coverage of the courtrooms that are topping the news. We’re revolutionizing the coverage of litigation. Not only will we provide up-to-the-minute reporting, but we’ll also give you the real stories of what’s happening behind the courtroom doors. We’ve assembled the best news team in the business along with seasoned lawyers who know what’s really going on, and we’ve got our ears to the ground. If there’s breaking legal news, you’ll hear it first on Trial TV.”
TV monitors flanked both sides of the anchor desk, Jane’s beautiful face on each of them.
She turned back to the first camera. She smiled a grin that had a hint of playfulness to it. “So let’s get started. Joe Kelley is in Boston, Massachusetts, where the governor has been in hot water and appears in court today.”
The monitors changed, now showing a guy in a trench coat in front of a capitol building.
“Joe,” Jane said, “what’s the story there this morning?”
Joe Kelley began talking. The room started buzzing with activity and conversation. Trial TV was up and running.
Jane’s face relaxed for a moment, but I saw her glance toward the back of the room.
I followed her gaze.
The writer was gone.
Because I lost my father when I was eight, you might think I have a daddy-complex, some need to find a father figure in men of his age. Well, Tommy Daley was about the age my dad would have been-fifty-eight-but I wasn’t experiencing any kind of daughterlike devotion toward him.
“Why are you here?” he demanded after I’d introduced myself, his voice a series of sharp snaps.
“Jane sent me over.” I waved behind me at the anchor desk. “She said you were the master of my universe.”
That gave him a pause. He smirked in Jane’s direction. “I friggin’ love that girl,” he said. “She’s the only reason I’m here.” He turned his steely gaze back to me. “C’mere.”
I followed him through a different door from the one I came in. It led to a large room filled with cubicle desks, each with two computer screens and small TVs. Along the wall was a grid of nine televisions. Two showed Joe Kelley, the current on-air shot, and another showed Jane sitting at the anchor desk, waiting to go back on. The other TVs were tuned to CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and other such stations. Above the TVs hung three clocks. Signs underneath them read Chicago, New York, Los Angeles. On another wall was a huge monthly calendar on a dry erase board.
Tommy crossed his arms. “I meant what are you doing here on a national television network? Huh? I know we lost what’s-her-name last week.” He shook his head, muttered something that sounded like Ivy League, my eye. “Anyway, I gave the green light to hire you because Jane vouched for you, said you could handle it, but now I want to know, what are you really bringing to the table?”
I flushed a little. On one hand, I’d been asking myself the same question over the weekend. On the other hand, I knew enough guys from the law like Tommy-guys who needed to haze you, to put you through your paces until you could earn their respect. And I understood that. You just couldn’t show ’em you were scared.
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I’ve got jury trial experience as well as contract negotiations. I worked at Baltimore & Brown-”
Tommy growled and tugged at his yellow tie. “How long did you practice?”
“About five years.”
His brown, red-rimmed eyes peered at me, then he actually rolled them toward the ceiling. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re a baby.”
I wanted to say, No, “the baby” was the guy I shoved out of my apartment at five this morning. Instead, I quickly continued, “For most of the time I practiced, I was head legal counsel for Pickett Enterprise
s.”
That brought his eyes back to me. “You knew Forester?”
“I knew him very well. I miss him every day.”
He grunted. “Good guy. So what’s your broadcast experience?”
“I used to give statements to the news on behalf of Pickett Enterprises. And Jane said that the trend in news was broadcasters with real life experience.”
He winced. “You don’t even have a demo, do you?”
“A demo tape? No. Just me.” I held out my hands and smiled extra big.
Tommy rubbed the sides of his head, which made his gray-blond hair frizz more. He pointed at the calendar on the far wall. “You know what that is?”
I studied it, read some of the things written there. Pitello trial. Congressional hearings on athlete enhancement drugs, Mackey appellate argument. “Looks like different legal stories you’re covering.”
“Not bad.” He gave me a brief nod. “Now listen, you mentioned a trend in the news business, but I don’t believe in trends. You know what I believe in?”
I looked at his bloodshot eyes and thought, Whiskey in your coffee? I shook my head.
“I believe in smoking at the Billy Goat Tavern. And I believe in newscasters covering the news.” He leaned toward me. “Trained newscasters. I do not believe in personalities in the news.” His eyes flicked over my face, and he frowned. “And I don’t believe in newscasters and guests sitting on a couch and shouting over each other.”
I stayed silent. Once again, I had a feeling that I knew his type-a true professional who went into the business because he had a passion for it, who came up during a certain era, and who needed to bluster about how things have changed before any work could get done. My old law firm was full of such types, and I had been on the receiving end of more bluster than most, since Forester had taken his work away from one of the older, more respected partners and given it all to me. I didn’t mind the bluster at all. In fact, I felt I deserved it. I had lucked into that legal work, just as I had lucked into this news job. I liked luck. I wasn’t one of those people who would turn my back on it just because I hadn’t been striving toward some goal for ten years. But I understood that it made some people crazy, those who had strived for a decade. And so I felt it my duty to let myself get called to the mat and to take a little drubbing.
Red Blooded Murder Page 11
