Death Watch (2 page)

H
elen Gordon sat at the head of a table that seated twelve. It was situated in a central open area flanked by a row of office doors on one side, and on the other, a wall lined with wire service printers and computer terminals. Telephones and monitors were poised to order up anything from unedited video clips to fully prepared segments to competitor’s newscasts. Dubbed Command Central, it was here KSMJ’s news broadcasts were planned and choreographed.

Helen looked up as Sydney hurried into the room. “Sydney! We were just getting started.”

Out of breath, Sydney approached the table. There were several empty chairs, including the one next to Helen where the producer sat. It was unusual for him not to be in attendance. Maybe he was stuck in traffic.

She remained standing.

“I see you escaped the mess outside,” Helen said.

Her comment surprised Sydney. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“No message.”

“I called the receptionist and specifically told her to make sure you got it.”

Cori Zinn sat up in her chair as though she just remembered something. “Oh! I must have it here.” She fumbled through her papers. “With all that was going on this morning, I picked up your messages for you, Helen.” She slid a pink telephone slip across the desk to Helen.

Sydney fumed. Intercepting Helen’s messages was low, even for Cori.

Helen read the note. “Says here you’re stuck in traffic. Has it cleared already?”

“No. I…um, made arrangements.”

Helen looked intrigued. “Arrangements?” She waved the note. “You say you’re stuck in traffic, yet minutes later here you stand. Could it be that Sydney St. James has solved the problem that has plagued Southern Californian commuters for decades?”

Sydney felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Everyone was staring at her—coanchor Grant Forsythe, who always sat next to the producer; Cori Zinn; Josh Leven, sports; Phil Sanders, weather; as well as a sampling of the station’s other reporters, studio personnel, and interns. They all wanted to hear Sydney’s secret.

“Um…I sportted a Midwestern couple on the sidewalk,” she said. “And I paid them to park my car for me.”

“Ho! You can kiss that baby good-bye.” Grant Forsythe laughed. “What kind of car was it?”

“Sydney drives a beige Volvo station wagon,” Cori said, as if it was something to be ashamed of. Her comment got some laughs.

“Ah! No great loss then,” Grant said. “Not like it was a Jaguar.” Everybody at the station knew Grant Forsythe drove a Jaguar.

“Sydney, you handed your car keys to total strangers?” Helen asked. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“They can be trusted.” It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the reaction in the room made Sydney doubt her decision.

“You’ve never met these people before in your life?” Helen arched her eyebrows.

“No.”

“Yet you trust them with your car.”

Sydney nodded. “They looked like an honest couple.”

“You said they were Midwesterners.”

“Well, I didn’t know that for sure until I talked to them. I mean, they dressed like Midwesterners, and they were looking up at all the tall buildings, pointing in awe.” She shrugged. “They looked like tourists.”

Grant Forsythe sat back with an amused look. “And you really think you’ll see your car again?”

“I paid them twenty dollars.”

Grant howled. “You gave them your car
and
gas money?” He turned to a pretty intern seated behind him. “There’s one born every minute.”

The intern wrinkled her nose at him and sniggered.

“All right, everybody, let’s get down to business,” Helen said.

Sydney took a seat at the foot of the table, trying to ignore the subtle and not-too-subtle glances that said she was some kind of country hick.

Helen took charge. She presented a quick overview of the news items that had come across her desk from the network, various news agencies, phone calls, and emails. Ten minutes into the meeting she came to the item Sydney was waiting for.

“Next on the docket,” Helen said, “the governor will be at city hall today to announce his anti-gang bill.” She paused. “Cori, I want you to take this one. Take Bihn with you. Tell him we want footage of the governor’s announcement and your interview.”

Cori nodded, a little too smugly.

Sydney slumped in her chair. The effort to get here, all the anxiety, for nothing.

Moving on to the next item of business, Helen looked up and saw Sydney’s disappointment. Then the assignment editor did something she rarely ever did. She explained herself. “Cori has a contact in the governor’s office,” she said. “I just learned about it last night. She thinks she can get an exclusive.”

Grant turned to Cori. “Who?”

“Milt Abrams, the press secretary.”

“You sleep with him?” Grant said with a smirk.

Cori spat an off-color reply.

“That’s enough, you two,” Helen said. “Moving on .

They worked their way through the agenda, doling out assignment after assignment to fill the thirty-minute newscast. Sydney
barely heard any of it. She bit her lip. Cori Zinn had stolen her story. Sydney wondered if she really knew the governor’s press secretary. She wouldn’t put it past Cori to make up something like that.

“Sydney,” Helen said, breaking into her funk. “Why don’t you go with Cori. Mill about city hall. See if you can dig up anything interesting.”

Sydney nodded. She wondered if the morning could get any worse.

“You know,” Cori said, “you could send Sydney out front. There might be a story in that car accident.”

“Better yet,” Grant Forsythe said, “have her do a story on tracking stolen automobiles. She can color her report with personal anecdotes.”

Grant was just being insufferable, as always. Sydney could live with that. Cori Zinn was a different matter altogether. Sydney tried not to hate her, but some days Cori made that next to impossible to do.

To Sydney’s horror, Helen said, “Cori may have something there. Sydney, see if there’s anything about that accident we can use.” Helen stood, indicating the meeting was over. “And people,” she said, “remember, we have Hunz Vonner from EuroNet arriving at eleven. Let’s behave ourselves.”

As the others dispersed to their various work areas, Sydney lagged behind, absorbing the amused smiles and sympathetic pats on her shoulder.

“A car crash, Helen?” she said when they were alone. “That’s about as newsworthy as the sunrise.”

Helen disagreed. “There’s something going on down there,” she said. “Call it a hunch.”

Scattered laughter and applause interrupted them from a short distance away. Helen and Sydney turned to see what was causing it.

A security guard approached them. With him was a young couple, wide-eyed at everything around them. The woman wore tan slacks with an understated blouse; he wore jeans and a button-up
short-sleeve shirt. What was remarkable about them was the lack of piercings, tattoos, beer logos, or cartoon character images on their clothing.

“Miss St. James?” the guard said. “These people say they have a delivery for you.”

The young man held out a set of Volvo car keys.

T
he scene at Sunset Boulevard and Vine Street had changed only slightly when Sydney approached with her cameraman. A single lane of traffic had been opened. Police were funneling cars through it. The signal lights overhead flashed red in all four directions. Paramedics had arrived.

The Ford Taurus had not been moved. Its driver-side door stood open. It was unattended while paramedics and police loaded a gurney into the back of an ambulance. They were in no hurry. There was no life left in the body they had come to save.

Sydney motioned to her cameraman. “Zappa, get some shots of the car with the ambulance in the background.”

Cameraman Fred “The Assassin” Zappa was an oafish pile of unwashed laundry with legs. He had a full beard and a head of hair that looked like a greasy brown fireworks display. But he was a competent cameraman and a pleasant enough guy, as long as you didn’t have to ride with him anywhere with the windows rolled up and didn’t mind nonstop narration of “Doom,” a violent video game Zappa claimed was a classic. While some thought his screen nickname came from his gaming, it actually referred to his camerawork. “I get it done on the first shot,” he told anyone who asked.

While Zappa maneuvered himself into position, Sydney took advantage of the unattended car, first checking to make sure the police were occupied. She approached the car from the driver’s side.

For the most part, the interior was clean. It was dusty, but there wasn’t any clutter. No cup holders. No stick-on crucifixes or compasses. No CD or audiocassette cases. No trash on the floor. Nothing
like her Volvo, which had empty Starbucks cups and breakfast bar wrappers scattered about. In this way the Taurus was not a typical Southern California car. From all appearances, the driver used the car for transportation. He didn’t live in it.

The windshield was intact, no cracks or shatters from heads slamming against it. There was no blood, which was somewhat unusual for an accident. Even in minor incidents there was often a cut head or smashed nose, something that would leave blood. Not in this case.

The glove compartment hung open. Someone—probably the police—had retrieved the owner’s registration, which was face up on the driver’s seat. Sydney wrote down the information. The owner was a man named Jeffrey Conley of West Groverdale Avenue, Covina.

There was another slip of paper on the passenger seat, larger than the registration. Yellow. Sydney leaned into the car to get a better look. Western Union was printed across the top. A telegram, dated two days ago and addressed to Jeffrey Conley.

Sydney’s breath caught in her throat when she read it.

You have been selected for death stop precisely forty-eight hours from the time of this transmission you will die stop

This is an official death watch notice stop

She turned to signal Zappa.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Get outta there!”

Through the passenger-side window Sydney saw an officer striding toward her. She backed out of the Taurus.

“Stand right where you are,” the policeman shouted.

Several others turned to see what was going on, even the officer directing traffic, though he kept his right arm twirling like a windmill.

The approaching officer was of average size with a round face and close-cropped hair. His chest appeared huge for his size, probably from a bulletproof vest beneath his uniform.

He grabbed Sydney by the arm. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Sydney identified herself and Zappa. His camera carried the. station number and logo on it and they were right in front of the station. There was no reason for the officer to doubt her.

Right about then, the policeman took a good look at her. Then a second good look. He signaled to the other officers that he had everything under control. Then he half pulled, half led Sydney away from the car to the sidewalk. He demanded to see identification.

Sydney produced a press card and driver’s license.

“Want to see mine too, Officer?” Zappa asked.

The officer winced, either from the sight of Zappa or the smell of Zappa.

“Yeah,” the officer said, but he didn’t sound all that eager.

Zappa dug into his back pocket, nearly losing his already sagging pants in the process. He pulled a limp driver’s license and a stained press card from a wallet that had once been brown, but was now covered with some kind of black goo.

The policeman held Zappa’s ID by the edges. The picture on the driver’s license showed a clean-shaved, short-haired happy-looking guy. The officer squinted at the cameraman as though he was trying to locate something recognizable beneath all the facial hair. Apparently he did, because he handed Zappa’s ID back to him.

“What did you take pictures of?”

“Panorama of the intersection. Then you busted us.”

The policeman looked at Zappa, then the distance Zappa was from the car when he’d first seen him.

“All right. You can go,” he said.

Zappa looked to Sydney.

“I’ll be all right,” she said.

Zappa shrugged and walked away, pulling an unwrapped piece of beef jerky from his pants pocket.

The officer turned his attention to Sydney’s ID. “Glendale, huh?” he said. He looked at her, at the ID, then back at her. “Best driver’s license photo I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Why are the police taking so long to clear this accident?”

The officer handed her ID back. “I should arrest you.”

“For what? Stealing loose change from the floorboard? It’s an accident, not a crime scene.”

“You shouldn’t have been nosing around.”

“That’s my job, Officer Pollard.” She’d read his name from the badge above his shield.

“Did you touch anything?”

Sydney smiled. “What an interesting question, Officer.”

Why would he be concerned if she touched anything? He could easily see she didn’t take anything. There were two pieces of paper still on the seat, and the keys still in the ignition. There was nothing else to take. But there was something to leave. Fingerprints. Police didn’t dust traffic accidents for prints; they dusted crime scenes for prints.

“Why haven’t you taped off the scene?”

A worried look clouded Pollard’s face. He’d tipped his hand and he knew it. “This is just what it looks like,” he said. “A car crash. Nothing more.”

“With a telegram on the front seat that threatens a man’s life?”

Officer Pollard cursed. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Why the ruse?”

Pollard looked past her to the other officers. There was worry in his eyes, the kind of worry that’s a close cousin to fear. He didn’t want to tell his superiors that he’d messed up.

“Look, Officer Pollard,” Sydney said, “you know all this is going to come out eventually.”

“I’m going to let you go this time,” Pollard said, trying to make it sound like he was doing her a favor. “Get outta here.”

“You know I have to report what I saw,” Sydney said.

He stared at her, the long-standing animosity between law enforcement and journalism flaring up one more time.