The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (27 page)

“Why does it matter?
 
Because Claire Robinson just brought up your name to me in discussing cutbacks in personnel, and you don't want her looking in your direction, Val. That's why. What were you distracted by, anyway?
”

She huffed disbelief.
 
“A conversation with someone. Okay? I'm sorry.”

“Oh, now you're sorry,” Greg confirmed, nodding factitiously.
 
“Who was the guy?
 
Or is that a secret?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“It's not me. It's the police who want to know. It's why they just called here, asking about you.”

“About
me?”

“That's what I said.”
 

Greg produced a slip of paper, like a magic trick, and held it up to her. She snatched it from between his fingers. On the slip a name and number had been scribbled. Val stared in confusion at the name of the same detective she'd talked to on the phone the previous morning.
Detective Martin Trent,
it read.
 

“Why does he want to talk to me about
this?
” she asked.

“Well,” Greg replied, “it's probably because a teacher at the park recognized you from television, too, and claims she saw you talking to a homeless man on a park bench only an hour before little Melissa Melendez got snatched by a man who just might fit the same description.” Greg paused, letting that sink in. “The actual eyewitness to the abduction is with a sketch artist now.
 
What they want from me in the meantime is your guy's name. Just to, you know, rule him out?”

She nodded slowly, as it dawned. “I see.”

“Great. What's his name, Val? Or would you prefer Claire asking you that question?”

“Name?
 
I. . . I don't know.”

“You. . . don't know,” Greg repeated.
 

“I'll tell you what I
do
know, though.
 
It wasn't him, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Who?”

“David.”

“His name is
David
, now?”

“No, that's my boyfriend.
 
I mean
ex
boyfriend.
 
I called him David because he. . . well, he wouldn't tell me his name.”

Greg visibly twitched, then stared at the floor.

“No, no, no,” she added, smiling nervously. “You don't understand. This guy, he's. . . I'm not sure how to describe him. Kind, gentle. And he's not homeless, either. He just helps homeless people.”

“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 drifted 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.