Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (14 page)

SCOTT

Love reigns strong here behind me where I’m reporting live amidst a large-scale community wedding.

Hearing him experiment all day with the inflection was annoying. First he stressed the word “love.” Then he switched the emphasis to the word “strong.” He kept asking anyone who would listen which way they preferred. I stewed quietly because I was avoiding speaking to him after our confrontation about tongues versus teeth.

Scott took every opportunity to remind viewers about the latest development regarding the upcoming movie, even teasing the meteorologist while tossing to Channel 3’s weather report during the five o’clock news.

((SCOTT TWOSHOT))
THE STUDIO IS LOOKING FOR A DIVERSE MIX OF AGE AND RACE FOR THE COUPLES . . . EVEN THOUGH THE MARRIAGE SCENE IS BEING FILMED IN MINNESOTA, THEY DON’T JUST WANT BLOND SCANDINAVIANS.

Our meteorologist, Ingrid, who happened to be a blonde with the last name of Anderson, looked momentarily miffed, then cut him off. “Thanks, Scott, but I’m already happily married.”

He pressed her for what the extended forecast looked like for the wedding day. “Rain or shine?”

“It’s indoors, so it really doesn’t matter,” Ingrid replied.

The ceremony would take place in the Mall of America rotunda, the site of celebrity appearances ranging from A-list movie stars and controversial politicians to
American Idol
winners.

Casting priority for
We Do
was being given to couples who wanted to actually tie the knot. In addition to an audition photo, they had to provide a copy of a valid Minnesota marriage license, and furnish the names of two witnesses who would attend on their behalf.

Brides and grooms would gather on the ground floor while witnesses could observe the festivities by looking down over the circular rails of the upper three levels. After the vows, the witnesses would drop rose petals while the newlyweds kissed. The mall would be open for business, but shoppers and sightseers would remain behind security lines.

I was so glad to not be covering the event.

My cell phone rang, with Mom on the other end. She’d been watching news coverage of the Mall of America wedding. “That sure sounds exciting. Maybe Dad and I will come up for it. We could stay with you.”

I tried discouraging her. “It’s going to be crowded and unpredictable. Sort of like the State Fair, but without livestock.”

“We love the State Fair,” she said. “And we don’t get invited to many weddings anymore. We weren’t even invited to yours.”

That was a continuing sore point in our relationship. “Mom, Hugh and I eloped. It was a spontaneous moment. The kind that only happens once in a lifetime.” It was true. We were engaged less than ten minutes before we were husband and wife.

“Well, you better never get married without me again,” she said.

I didn’t see much likelihood of that happening, so I promised.

“How come you never mentioned Phil McCarthy asking you to dance at the reunion?”

“Nothing came of it and nothing will. Who told you about that?”

“You have your sources. So do I.”

If she was going to act like that, I didn’t see any reason to tell her about my dinner plans.

S
tella’s Fish Cafe was in the heart of Minneapolis’s funky Uptown neighborhood with an art deco neon sign of a large trout over the door. I’d parked in a ramp a block away because I didn’t want to risk being towed like the gray sedan around the corner being hoisted by its bumper. I took a photo with my phone for a “relatable” on Facebook and Twitter. I posted: Sorry to see this vehicle on its way to join the 316 already in the Minneapolis impound lot.

Inside the restaurant, I approached the hostess. “I’m with the Johnson party.” She took me to a table near a window.

Mr. Johnson stood and welcomed me. His head was bald, his beard trimmed and graying. He wore a leather jacket, dark turtleneck sweater and jeans.

“I’m David Johnson. Thanks for joining me. Please sit down.”

He’d already ordered a white wine and offered me one as well, but I declined. “I need to stay sharp through dessert, or I might be out a fish painting.”

He laughed. “Dinner before business.”

“Actually, I never drink if I’m driving,” I explained. “The cops would love to hit me with a DUI and land my name in the newspaper. Plus, it would give my boss an excuse to fire me.” Channel 3’s talent contracts contained an unsuitability clause allowing termination for criminal or immoral behavior.

The restaurant setting was casual, the menu interesting. We started with skillet corn bread and salads, and David settled on walleye while I went for mahimahi. The food and company were both pleasant. I told him about the desperate life of a journalist and he told me about the “dull in comparison”—his words, not mine—world of academia.

“Does that mean I should call you Professor Johnson? Or even Doctor Johnson?”

“Please, call me David.”

He was a visiting college professor on sabbatical and enjoyed buying art from every place he lived or worked. One ear had a gold earring that lent a hip appearance despite his age.

“When you showed the painting off on the news last night, it was like destiny.”

“Why don’t you commission your own?” I offered to give him the name of the artist.

He dismissed that idea. “That would be contrived. It destroys the thrill of discovery.”

I got what he was saying, but still liked the backstory behind how I acquired the piece enough to want to keep the fish painting. Until he started talking money.

“You demonstrated a good eye for art at that auction,” he said. “You should profit from it. I’m prepared to offer you two thousand dollars.”

I switched back and forth between wavering and fantasizing. Two grand was more than twenty times what I paid. An excellent investment return. But perhaps my picture was one of those extraordinary finds, bought at a garage sale but worth a small fortune, as seen on
Antiques Roadshow
or that pawn shop cable TV series.

I decided to play coy. “I’ll think about your offer.”

“What’s to think about? Surely there’s something you need? A fur coat? A vacation? Car repairs?”

I held firm. “I’ll think about your offer.”

“I’ll call you,” he replied.

I smiled. “That’s a line men give women when they don’t want to see them again. But I think you will call, if only for the painting.”

As far as blind dates went, he wasn’t as bad as I expected. And his next line hinted at a shared reaction.

“Is this the part where you invite me to come upstairs to see your etchings?” he asked.

Now I laughed. “There’s an old-fashioned euphemism,” I said. “Maybe I would invite you over if I thought you really wanted to see my etchings, but you just want my fish painting.” I showed him a picture of it on my cell phone. “Like I said, I’ve grown fond of it.”

The waiter brought our bill and even though I reached for my purse, David insisted on picking up the tab. He paid cash, with a generous tip, and offered to give me a ride home.

“Thanks, but I drove myself.”

We said good-bye at the door and left for home in different directions.

•  •  •

That night, while reading in bed, alone, I thought about David Johnson and whether some chemistry might develop between us. Mostly I thought about what two thousand dollars could buy. I had plenty of vacation time saved up, and a trip to a warm ocean resort held appeal during a Minnesota winter.

By habit I turned on the late news to channel-surf between our station and our competitors. Ashamed to see Channel 3 promoting an exclusive breaking development about the wedding movie, I burrowed under the blankets to avoid what was sure to be a journalistic train wreck. Yet curiosity kicked in, and I persuaded myself I needed to watch, if only to criticize.

((SCOTT BOX))
THE WINNING COUPLES HAVE JUST BEEN NAMED TO PLAY
EXTRAS FOR THE MOVIE . . .
WE DO
 . . . TO BE FILMED AT THE MALL OF AMERICA. WE’VE POSTED THE LINK ON OUR WEBSITE SO YOU CAN SEE THE PHOTOS OF ALL ONE HUNDRED. HERE’S A SAMPLE.

Quick cuts of smiling couples covered about ten seconds of wedding march music until Channel 3 broke for commercial. All I could think, pillow over my face, was that at least the station didn’t lead with it.

T
he next morning, Bryce announced that the wedding extras link had generated a record number of visits to Channel 3’s website. And the clicks were still coming, even temporarily crashing the system a couple hours earlier.

“That proves there’s genuine interest in this story,” he said. “Each of the featured couples have families and friends who want the latest news about the ceremony. This is our chance to gain new viewers virtually overnight. Ideas?”

“We can begin profiling some of the couples,” Ozzie said.

“Excellent.” Bryce nodded his approval. “I’d like to see a mention of it on every newscast. Anything else we should address?”

Xiong brought up the issue of the license plate tracking data kept by Minneapolis police. He didn’t normally say much during the news huddles, so we listened.

“The information is currently deemed public and is retained for one year. Political pressure is underway to reclassify the data as private and only save it for a brief period of time. I think Channel 3 should purchase the entire computer database before that happens.”

“What’s it good for?” Bryce asked.

Xiong was starting to fidget under the pressure of everyone watching him. His computer skills were better than his people skills. “The police use it to identify criminals. When the plate
number is scanned, they pull over the driver. We have the benefit of the history they have assembled. With a particular license plate number we can learn where a vehicle has been seen.”

“So what does that get us?” Bryce said. “If this data is all from the past, won’t it be outdated?”

Xiong was no match for Bryce’s condescension, so I jumped in. “I can envision how it might be useful if we were going to conduct surveillance to determine a target’s travel patterns.”

Bryce mulled over my point. “How much does it cost?” The bottom line was our news director’s primary focus for decision making.

“A few hundred dollars.”

“What? For a bunch of computer files?”

Xiong said. “But if we wait, the law might be changed and it will be too late.”

“And you’re sure this will actually work?” Bryce asked. “It will help us locate cars and people?”

“Not in actual time,” Xiong said. “But it will show where a person’s vehicle has been documented in the past, and help us predict what area it is mostly likely to be found again.”

“Here in Minnesota,” I said, “we are likely to have more complete data than in other states because our law requires plates on both the front and the back of vehicles.”

That was because 3M, another Fortune 500 company based in Minnesota, made the reflective tape used on the license plates and lobbied hard for the statute, campaigning that it would help law enforcement. But everyone knew it was so they could make more money.

“Vehicles here have a greater chance of winding up in the computer list,” I said. “I think a story might come along where it could pay off.”

“Well, you caught me in a good mood,” Bryce said. “Fine. Go for it. So does anyone want to know why I’m in such a good mood?”

“The heavy hits to our website?” Ozzie asked.

“Yes, but this is something more.”

“Is it your birthday?” Nicole asked.

I hoped not, or we would have to run out and buy him a present.

“No, it’s not about me. Today’s a big day for the entire newsroom. You’ll see.”

•  •  •

A semitrailer from California slowed outside Channel 3, backing up against the rear of the building. Word spread through the station that, after a cross-country journey, the new studio set had arrived and some assembly would be required.

Most of us had thought it was being built from scratch, like our previous ones. But apparently all that sawing and pounding was just prep work for the coronation to come.

Bryce scoffed at our lack of sophistication about the digital age of television engineering. “The technology requires special skills. Our set was designed by the same experts who created that game show stage with the spinning wheel.

“And besides, the corporation that owns us, owns them.”

T
wo grand?” Malik said.

I’d just told him about the offer I had for the fish painting while we were headed to an interview. He was the kind of driver who usually kept his eyes straight on the road, like looking through a camera viewfinder, but this time he glanced over at me to see if I was kidding.

I assured him I wasn’t. “Two grand.”

“I deserve a cut,” he insisted. “I’m the one who encouraged you to buy it.”

“I haven’t decided whether to sell or not.”

“What’s to decide? Take the money.”

Malik made sense.

What I didn’t tell him was that part of the reason I hadn’t closed the deal was a possible personal interest in the man behind the money. An articulate guy with nothing to do with law enforcement or the media might help me find a new path away from my all-too-frequent thoughts of Nick Garnett. So I was delaying the sale in case that was the last I saw of him.

A few minutes earlier, out of curiosity, I’d searched “David Johnson” and “professor” and found about four hundred thousand hits—far too many to scroll through. That’s when I realized I should have spent more time at dinner learning about him rather than discussing art.

•  •  •

Lisa Melby had been skittish when I had first broached the idea of telling her story on TV. Her life had been stolen by thieves. She worried that her privacy was next. But she had contemplated the idea and decided that if I actually followed through, so would she.

“I wasn’t sure you would really contact me again,” she said.

“I told you, as a victim, you’re an essential part of this story. I can’t tell it without you.”

Malik and I were a few miles from Lisa’s place when Ozzie diverted us. He was shouting on the phone, something about a wild protest at the Mall of America.