The Scoop

by Fern Michaels

  “LA is like a small town in that respect. News travels fast, gossip even faster,” Chris said as he gazed around the crowded room. He was afraid to look in Toots’s eyes or in her friends’ direction for fear Abby would pick up on his expression.

  Toots spoke quickly, her words running together. “Uh…oh, yes, I’m sure everyone in the newspaper business knows about the impending sale even if it’s a tabloid. That’s how it goes, the papers go up for sale, then create their own news. Absolutely amazing,” she said airily.

  “True, but the funny thing is, you usually know who the buyer is. Word has it the new owner wants to remain anonymous. I heard the poor sucker paid triple what it’s worth. I can’t imagine anyone throwing their money away on a tabloid like The Informer, but I have to admit, I considered making an offer myself. With all my funds tied up in the house, I couldn’t swing it, and you know what, I’m glad I didn’t. Because with my luck, I would end up losing my shirt. It’s going to take years for The Informer to become a force to reckon with, at least in the tabloid market.” Abby stopped to take a sip of wine. “We’ve been third-rate as long as I’ve worked there. I suppose there is the possibility the new owner can pull it out of the sludge pile, but I doubt it.”

  Triple the price! Shit!

  If Toots hadn’t been sitting down, she would’ve fallen flat on her face. She cleared her throat, cast a wary glance at Chris before speaking. She wished she had a cigarette to fiddle with. “Are you planning on leaving the paper, Abby?” She hoped her voice sounded nonchalant.

  Abby took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. I haven’t had any job offers, not that I’m looking, and I really don’t want to go back to regular boring reporting, so I guess that means I’ll stay until I see how the new ownership works out. If they turn out to be anything at all like Rag, I’ll probably move on, because he screwed me over too many times. I don’t see myself allowing that to continue under new ownership, and this time around I’m going to ask for a contract. Chris can make sure it’s bulletproof.”

  “I’m sure that won’t happen,” Toots said matter-of-factly. “You were never fired, so that has to mean you’re good at what you do.”

  Abby grinned. “Flattery will get you everywhere unless you know something I don’t know. Do you?” she asked quietly.

  Chris made a mental note that Abby liked flattery. Well, who the hell didn’t?

  In a voice laced with anxiety, Toots asked, “Why would you ask something like that, dear? I know as much about the newspaper business as you know about the Ladies Guild back in Charleston.”

  “I’m joking, Mom.”

  Before any of them could utter another word, pro or con, their waiter appeared with their dinners. Toots thought she couldn’t have timed it better if she had tried. Open mouth, insert foot. Hoping to turn Abby’s mind in a different direction, she waited until the waiter left before speaking. “You know, Mavis is on a new diet.” Lame, Toots thought. Just lame, but she had to say something.

  “That’s fantastic, Aunt Mavis! I’m very proud of you,” Abby said.

  “Thanks, sweetie. It was your mother who convinced me that it was time, and we all know how persuasive she can be. I’m glad she did. Though it’s only been two days, I think it’s something I can stick with. I’m going to give it my best shot. I haven’t been tempted with a pint of Cherry Garcia yet. Or as your mother so quaintly put it, ‘You don’t want to be a walking heart attack, now, do you?’”

  “One day at a time,” Abby said, smiling.

  “Isn’t that what they tell the drunks at Alcoholics Anonymous?” Sophie asked between bites of food.

  Chris burst out laughing. “I believe it is.”

  “My husband was…is an alcoholic,” Sophie retorted. “I know a thing or two about Al-Anon and the steps program. He used to tell me he was going to those meetings, but he kept coming home drunk. He had the audacity to tell me the coffee was spiked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Chris said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Don’t be. I’m not. My husband in name only is dying. Can you guess what he’s dying of?” Sophie bit down into a crunchy roll and then rolled her eyes. She sounded like she was discussing the weather and didn’t much care if it was going to rain or not.

  “Cirrhosis of the liver?” Chris asked.

  Sophie watched Chris. She realized her bluntness was making him uncomfortable. “Yep, that’s it. Look, you’re as good as family. You might as well know. I’m just waiting for the old coot to kick the bucket so I can collect his life insurance. Ours was not a marriage made in heaven, as I said. If my words offend you, I’m sorry, but you haven’t walked in my shoes all these years.” She speared a baby carrot and popped it into her mouth, her expression guileless.

  “Sophie, do you think we could move on to something a little more appropriate for dinner conversation. Remember, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves tonight,” Toots admonished.

  “Who says I’m not enjoying myself? Just for the record, I am.”

  “Well, just for the record, I would like to hear more about the tabloid business. You know what I’m thinking?” Toots held her hand in front of Sophie’s face. “Don’t say another word, or I’ll push you right off that chair you’re sitting in. I was thinking we should all go back to my bungalow for dessert and coffee. Or drinks, whatever you prefer.”

  “As much as I’d like to, I’ll have to pass. Chester’s home, and I don’t want to leave him any longer than necessary. He doesn’t like it when I leave him alone for long periods of time. Besides, I want to see if I can find out the name of the new owner. I still have a few decent sources, and with the Internet, nothing is sacred anymore.”

  Toots’s stomach did a belly flop as she jumped right in, anything to take Abby’s mind away from The Informer. “Oh, that doesn’t matter, dear, that’s work. Tonight is for family. You really should’ve brought Chester along. Coco, that’s Mavis’s Chihuahua, came with us. I hired a dog sitter. He works with Cesar Millan, too, so you know the dogs are being well taken care of. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog myself. Or maybe a cat. Bernice will complain or threaten to quit, but I don’t really care. I heard people who own animals have lower blood pressure than those who don’t own a pet. Mavis, Joe said your blood pressure was perfect. I think I’ll check into getting a pet as soon as I return to Charleston.” Toots babbled until she was out of breath. What she really needed just then was a cigarette. And a stiff slug of whiskey.

  “Mom, slow down! Chester’s close to a hundred pounds now. I don’t know how he would act around a tiny little dog. He’d probably think it was a bug or something,” Abby said. “But before you leave to go back home, you should bring Coco to the house so they can get acquainted. We could have a love match in the making.”

  Mavis nodded. “I’d like that, and I know Coco would, too. She’s used to being around animals, both large and small. My neighbor Phyllis has two golden retrievers and a dachshund. They’re all best friends, too.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’re going to Abby’s with the dog before we leave.” Toots forked a bite of her now-cold quiche lorraine, wishing they could get through the rest of dinner without any more talk of The Informer. Suddenly she had doubts about remaining anonymous, and she wasn’t sure that she could still pull it off without Abby’s discovering that she was the sucker who’d paid triple for a third-rate rag. What would she do if Abby used her excellent investigative skills in her quest to find the name of the new owner even though Chris had assured her he’d buried everything deep. Although she trusted Chris implicitly, she needed assurances that deep was really deep.

  Conversation dwindled as the diners concentrated on the meals in front of them. Mavis picked at her free-range rotisserie chicken, Toots forced herself to eat the bland quiche, while Sophie stuffed her petite prime rib down as though she were attending the Last Supper. Abby munched on the famous sirloin burger, and Chris expertly twirled the linguini pomodoro around his fork.

  When
they finished dinner, Abby promised she would spend more time with them soon, apologizing for the short evening. Chris walked Abby out to get her a taxi. He came back to escort the ladies back to their bungalows.

  Sophie reached for Mavis’s hand, suggesting a walk to work off their dinner. And it was definitely time for a cigarette. Toots was grateful the two women were leaving, because she wanted to speak to Chris alone even though she was dying for a cigarette. When they arrived back at her bungalow, Toots poured them each a shot of whiskey before they settled themselves on the sofa.

  “Okay, Mr. Clay, spit it out. I know something is going on with you, and you’d better tell your dear old stepmom what it is. You were as fidgety as a two-year-old during dinner. What gives?”

  Chris leaned in as close as he could without invading Toots’s personal space. “Just before I left to pick up Abby, I received a phone call from Emmanuel Rodriguez. He’s the vice president of the Bank of Los Angeles, where I have my escrow account.”

  “And?” Toots said tightly.

  “The wire transfer from your bank in Charleston went through just fine, all the paperwork is just as it should be.” Chris paused, not for dramatic effect but because he wanted to break the news as gently as possible.

  “Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand. I’ve been dealing with Henry Whitmore at my bank in Charleston for twenty years; we haven’t had a problem yet, and I do wire transfers all the time.” Toots reached for her cigarettes and lit up, even though Chris was only two feet away from her. She inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke out in one long whoosh.

  Chris looked at his stepmother, trying to figure the best way to say what he had to say.

  “Will you please get to the damn point already.” Toots took another puff, blowing the smoke over her shoulder.

  “It appears that your ten million dollars has disappeared,” Chris said.

  Toots took a whole ten seconds before she finally found her tongue. Shaking her head from left to right so hard her topknot came loose, she crushed out her cigarette in a crystal bowl sitting on the coffee table. She immediately lit another before downing the rest of her whiskey. “Say that again, because I know I misunderstood you. My money is gone? All of it? That’s impossible! You said it arrived in your account. If it arrived, it can’t be gone! I don’t fucking believe this, ten million dollars gone! I hope you know where the president of that bank lives, because I want to go there right now! Now, as in now!”

  Chris took a deep breath. “No, you didn’t misunderstand me, Toots. It’s just like I said. Rodriguez explained that as soon as the money was deposited in my escrow account, before he could inform me so that I could transfer the money to The Informer’s bank account, it was gone. After some investigation, he managed to ascertain that it had been transferred to another bank, the Bank of Bermuda. In the Cayman Islands. Since I did not authorize the transfer, someone obviously hacked into the account and arranged to remove the money.”

  Chris hated giving his stepmom such ugly news her first night in town, but it couldn’t be helped. He paused to give Toots time to come to terms with what he’d just told her.

  Toots thought she was going to faint. “The bank is insured. They had my money in the account; if someone took it, that means they have to replace it. If someone hacked into their bank, that is not my problem. I want my money! Do not tell me the bank is going to fight me.” Her hands started to shake so badly she felt like she was Katharine Hepburn during her final stages of dealing with Parkinson’s. “Chris, these things only happen in the movies. There has to be some kind of mistake.”

  “That’s what I said, but it’s not the case. I trust Emmanuel, I’ve dealt with him on many occasions, and if he says the money isn’t there, it isn’t there.”

  Toots refused to accept Chris’s explanation. It was simply too stupid even to consider—ten million dollars of her money gone, just like that. “The bank has to be liable for it, doesn’t it?” Chris’s dour expression was all she needed to see to know that the bank was not liable. Toots took a deep breath. “Then we need to find out who took it. Isn’t there a paper trail we can follow? And what about the ownership of The Informer? Who’s going to oversee the day-to-day operations? There has to be someone at the helm. We both know a tabloid doesn’t run itself.”

  Toots lost it then as she screamed at her stepson. “What the hell am I supposed to do, roll over and play dead? I want my goddamn money, and somebody better come up with it. The police! Did you call the police, the FBI? Hell, call in the CIA while you’re at it.” Toots wound down like a pricked balloon as the tears started to roll down her cheeks, and she started wringing her hands in despair and frustration.

  Chris wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He hated it when women cried, because it made him feel inadequate. Especially now, because he was the person responsible for making his beloved stepmother cry. He put his arms around her, a clumsy gesture, and did his best to console her. “I’m going to do my best to make this right. Right now, this minute, we’re going to consider this a blip on our radar screen. Just so you know, there is no paper trail. There is a trail, but it’s an electronic one. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to hack into a bank’s computer system. Any savvy computer geek can do it. Stealing ten million dollars takes a bit more skill than your average hacker has, so someone really good was involved. I have a friend of a friend who knows everything there is to know about hacking into any system. He could hack into the CIA’s computer if he wanted to, but he has no desire to go to the federal pen. The only way to contact him is by e-mail. Just to be on the safe side, I sent him a quick message from my cell phone on the drive over. If anyone can help us, he’s the one.”

  On the edge of the sofa, Toots could hardly get the words past her trembling lips. “What did he say? Promise him anything, Chris. Well, within reason you can promise him anything.”

  Chris pulled out his cell phone, punched in a few numbers and letters before answering Toots. “He hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

  “What about Abby? Does she know or suspect anything?” Toots hiccuped. This could really blow her plans to hell and back. She’d just lost ten million dollars and she was worrying about her daughter finding out how stupid she had been. Toots sighed as she wiped at her eyes.

  “No, but it’s only a matter of time before she figures it out. She is your daughter, Toots. How long do you think it will take?”

  Toots shrugged. “We can’t let that happen even if it means I have to pay out another ten million dollars to buy the paper. She’ll never forgive me for deceiving her if she finds out, so we can’t let that happen. No mother worth her salt, regardless of her intentions, wants her daughter to know said mother is devious, an old fool who got snookered in a business deal.”

  Chris shook his head. “I won’t let that happen, Toots, but there is no way I will let you fork out another ten million dollars. That’s damn near blackmail.”

  “Then what do you suggest I do?” Toots stood and began to pace in front of the fireplace. She fired up another cigarette. She’d always thought she was smart, one step ahead of everyone else, and here she was behind the proverbial eight ball, and she didn’t like the feeling, not one damn little bit. And she was fighting mad.

  “As much as you don’t want to hear this, for now we wait. I don’t want to do anything until I hear from my friend. The paper is covered for the next week at least. You know those stories go to press days, sometimes weeks, ahead of schedule.”

  “And if Abby finds out,” Toots asked. “Then what?”

  “That’s a good question, Toots, but one I’m afraid I can’t answer.”

  Chapter 18

  Michael “Micky” Constantine opened the locker for the umpteenth time. He peered inside—empty. He hadn’t made a mistake. The envelope containing the new identity papers for Rag was definitely gone, along with the envelope of cash that should have been left in its place. He stuck his hand inside the metal square again, feeling
both sides, the back, and even running his hand along the top. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch!

  Fifty grand. Gone. He’d kill the slimy bastard when he found whoever it was that took his money. No one put one over on Micky Constantine and got away with it. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one watched him, he adjusted the Glock stuffed in his waistband. If he saw the son of a bitch, he’d blow his ass away right here in the middle of Los Angeles International Airport. He corrected his thought; at least he’d make the son of a bitch think he’d blow him away. He wasn’t that stupid. His boss, the big man, would have him tarred and feathered for sure if he pulled a stunt like that. But Micky was gonna make damn sure his boss didn’t find out. Besides the corrupter, the dude who made all their phony documents, they were the only two people who knew of Rag’s new identity, and he knew that neither of them had taken his money. That left only old Rag.

  Slamming the locker door shut, Micky jerked the key out of the lock and placed it in his hip pocket. He glanced at his watch, a knockoff of a Rolex that was so good he’d almost pawned it for ten grand. He hustled outside to his Corvette, which he’d left in short-term parking. Once inside the car, he zoomed through the parking lot, zigzagging his way out of the airport. He needed to think about his next move, needed to plan everything out to the last detail. Rodwell Godfrey thought he’d pulled one over on him. He laughed, raised the volume on the CD player, jamming to Marilyn Manson’s latest. When he reached the interstate, he stomped down on the gas, the odometer jumping to one hundred miles per hour in less than a minute. He glanced in his rearview mirror, making sure no cops were on his ass, then jerked from the left lane to the right lane several times before slowing down. Man, he loved the power beneath the hood. In his spare time, he tinkered with cars, loved the smell of fuel and oil. His dream was to sponsor a NASCAR driver. He could see it all now, his name displayed in bright red letters, MICKY CONSTANTINE. Someday, but not today. Now he had to concentrate on finding Rag. When he did, he’d make him regret he’d ever laid eyes on Micky.