Just This Night (9 page)

I agreed and opened the door to jump out of the truck. After smoothing my skirt, I went to seek out the fire marshal, giving the danger zone a wide birth. The firefighters were doing their best, but this was clearly a losing battle. They might be able to contain the fire and keep it from spreading to other areas, but this house was a total loss.

A weight fell over my shoulders, effectively smothering my previous adrenaline rush. It was strange: This was exactly the type of breaking news I'd been looking forward to reporting since I'd first arrived in San Diego. But now, somehow, being here, feeling the intense heat of the flames and smelling the horrid stench of destruction . . . It was more disturbing than exciting. Not to mention just plain sad.

I found the fire marshal and he agreed to do the interview. As I gathered the preliminary facts that I hadn't already gleaned from the scanner, I watched as, out of the corner of my eye, Mac shot video of the burning house. He was all over the place: hand held, crouching on his knees to get a close-up, then holding the camera high above his head to get
a wider shot of the scene. I worried, for a moment, that his eagerness was going to put him in danger of being burned, but he seemed to have some kind of inborn sense of exactly where was too close, allowing him to skirt the line without crossing it.

After gathering the necessary video, he approached the fire marshal and me, as planned, and I held out the microphone to conduct the quick interview. The story was pretty simple. The fire had been contained. Only two homes destroyed—one which had already been vacant. Nothing suspicious. Just an unfortunate gas leak at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“Thank you,” I said to the official, once we were finished. I turned to Mac. “Let's get the family now.”

He nodded and we approached the husband and wife, who were still standing on the opposite side of the road, watching the scene. Did they have any place to go to tonight? I wondered. Did they have relatives to stay with? Friends? Money for a hotel? They lived out in the middle of nowhere; would someone take them in? They wouldn't have to spend the night in a shelter, would they?

I motioned for Mac to lower his camera as we got closer. Didn't want to scare them off by coming in, guns blazing. Over the years on the job I found there were two types of people in this world. The first, overeager to get their fifteen seconds of fame in any way possible and the second, who would run screaming in the other direction at the first sight of photography equipment.

“Hi,” I said, stepping up to them. “I'm Beth White, a reporter with News 9.” I gave them a sympathetic look. “I'm so sorry about your house.”

“Yeah, well, it's not your fault,” the man grumbled, yanking his wife a little closer to his side. “Or your business for that matter.”

His sudden movement woke the baby, who let out a piercing wail of protest. I cringed, my heart flooding now. I tried to imagine what it'd be like—to just stand there, utterly helpless, watching everything you loved go up in flames.
And not just material stuff either—the stuff insurance would take care of. But the personal things. Family photos, mementos of trips, memories you could never replace.

I motioned for Mac to lift his camera, then held out the microphone to the man. “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked gently.

He stiffened. “I think that's pretty obvious.”

I sighed. Yes. Yes, it was. But that wasn't going to give me anything I could use in my story.

“How does it make you feel?” I tried again, then winced, realizing how stupid the question sounded the second it left my mouth. How did it make them feel?
Seriously, Beth, you get three guesses and the first two don't count.

“Look, miss,” the woman interjected. “I know you're just doing your job and all, but this is our life here.” She gave me a pleading look. “We don't want it splashed all over the TV.”

I swallowed hard, guilt tearing into my insides. The family had been through so much—and, of course, they wouldn't want their personal tragedy to be playing out live in everyone's living room. Who would? But at the same time, like she said, this was my job. The station expected victim interviews. The story was almost worthless without them. If I walked away now, without even trying to eke out at least one useable soundbite, I'd basically be proving I wasn't ready for this gig. Not cut out for dayside reporting.

Sure, right now, Mac and I were the only ones on the scene, so maybe I could get away with saying the family wasn't present. But other stations could be on the way. And it would just take one obnoxious reporter to wear them down and force them to talk. And then, everyone would know I had failed.

But still, these were people, not a means to my professional success. And I wasn't about to forget that. I wasn't that girl.

I turned to Mac. “Why don't you start uploading the video you shot and put together a few sequences? I'll be right there.”

He frowned and I knew exactly what he was thinking. That I was giving up too easily. That I should have shoved
that mic right back in their faces and forced them to talk regardless. That it wasn't even worth putting together a story if we couldn't get victim interviews. That we might as well just pack up and go home now and forget the whole thing if I couldn't make it work.

But to his credit, he didn't argue. Instead he turned on his heel and headed to the truck. I watched him go for a moment, then turned my attention back to the family.

“Do you have somewhere to go tonight?” I asked the woman. “Do you need a ride somewhere? Or something to eat in the meantime?”

She shook her head. “No, we're okay. My sister lives up in Ramona. She's on her way down to pick us up.” She paused, giving me a reluctant smile. “Thanks for asking. But we'll be fine.”

Her husband snorted. “My wife, the eternal optimist.” He waved a hand angrily in the direction of the burning house. “How is this going to be fine? We've lost everything. And for what? 'Cause those assholes are too lazy to do their damn jobs?”

“Rick . . .” She shot him a warning look. “This isn't helping anything. And you're upsetting the kids.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “What do you mean? Who was too lazy? They told me the fire was because of a gas leak in the house next door.”

“Exactly,” Rick said, turning back to me. “Place was abandoned six months ago and I've been begging the city to do something about it ever since. It had this weird smell. Every time I walked by—I just knew there was something wrong in there. I tried to check it out myself, though I'm no expert. When I walked in I almost passed out from the smell.”

“So, you reported the leak and they never fixed it?” I asked, incredulous.

“Nope. They'd promise, of course, every time I called. I even went down there once to fill out a report in person. But no one ever actually followed through. Guess we're not high on the priority list out here in the sticks.” He grimaced. “And, hey, no skin off their backs, right? They'll be sleeping
all snug in their beds tonight, counting their tax dollars, while we shack up ten to a trailer at her sister's place.”

I bit my lower lip, my mind racing. “Look,” I said at last, looking up at him and meeting his eyes with my own. “I know you don't want to talk about what happened to your family on TV. And that's totally fine, I get it. But this—you can't just keep this quiet. What if there are other people out there in a similar situation? What if there are other gas leaks the city isn't checking out properly? What if they cause more fires and hurt other families?” I gave them a pleading look. “By going on TV you could expose these people who ignored you. And you could conceivably save other houses—maybe even other lives in the process.”

Rick and his wife exchanged glances, and I could practically see the cogs whirring in their heads as they considered what I was saying. I hoped they didn't take this as me trying to press my advantage. Because honestly, I would have been perfectly fine to walk away without the interview—if it was just them talking about their feelings of losing their home.

But this was clearly bigger than that. And it could have longer legs than just a quick piece on the local news. We could air the basic story tonight and then I could go down and request the call records from the city. Find Rick's original report he'd filed. Prove he had tried to warn them but was ignored. Not to mention I could look at other calls of a similar nature and see if they had been answered. After all, this could be an isolated incident, or it could be something much bigger. Something rotten at the city's core.

I turned back to Rick. “What do you think?” I asked with bated breath.

He paused for a moment. Then, “I think you've got yourself an interview.”

MAC

A
s I rolled up the cables, packing up to head back to the station after our live shot and re-interview of the fire marshal (who was much less friendly, I might add, when it came to Beth's not-so-softball new questions), I glanced over at Beth, who was on her cell, still arguing with some poor city hall employee who had clearly drawn the short straw today when picking up the phone. I smiled a little at the fierceness I saw on her face. She was like a pit bull with a bone and she wasn't going to let go until she got what she wanted.

And why should she? She might have actually uncovered something really good here. Really newsworthy. Turning a simple day-of fire spot news piece into a long-term, law-changing investigation. As I set my camera into its bracket in the back of the truck, I felt a stirring of grudging admiration. She could have just as easily chosen to bully the family into a simple soundbite. Or she could have wimped out and walked away. But she had done neither. Because she had treated them as human beings, not just items on her nightly
news checklist. And because of that, she'd gotten a scoop most reporters would have totally missed out on.

She hung up the phone, swinging her long legs out of the truck to head toward me, a look of determination clear in her eyes. Strands of gold had escaped her ponytail, framing her heart-shaped face. Even with her brutal sunburn, she was drop-dead gorgeous, and I felt something involuntarily stir inside of me as my mind chose this inopportune moment to remember what was hiding under that severe black suit of hers.

But, in truth, her body wasn't what was turning me on now. Not really. After all, there were plenty of beautiful women in the world. Victoria had been beautiful, too, at least on the outside. Beth's attractiveness, on the other hand, was clearly more than skin deep.

She'd stood up for me at the bar. Now she was standing up for these poor people at the fire. It was the kind of thing you didn't see much in the modern world of TV news.

And it was totally hot.

“So?” I asked.

Her eyes danced mischievously. “Let's just say they weren't exactly thrilled by the request. But I reminded them it was a public record. They could let me look at it now, or I could just send a FOIA—a Freedom of Information Act request through the mail and force them to send it to me eventually.”

“And . . .”

“And . . .” She glanced down at her phone, then up at me. ‘We've got a date with city hall tomorrow, first thing.”

“Nice!” I cried, lifting my hand in a high five. She smacked it with her own, a huge grin spreading across her face. “Way to stick it to the man.”

She laughed. “I can't wait to see the look on Richard's face when we tell him what we have. He's going to be so psyched! Maybe he'll even take me off probation, since I clearly rock this new job.” She snorted, then turned to me, her eyes sobering. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean, for going along with it all. I know you probably just wanted to get home tonight. I appreciate you staying late to work the new angle.
Especially since . . .” She trailed off, looking embarrassed, staring down at her feet, her former enthusiasm deflating like an old balloon.

“Hey, hey!” I cried. On impulse, I reached out, cupping her chin with my hand and guiding it upward, forcing her brown eyes to meet my own. Then I gave her a crooked smile. “Come on now, I thought we were supposed to be in an awkward-free zone,” I teased. “Does the spell need recharging already? 'Cause I can do that, if necessary. You might not know this, but I've got mad skills with pixie dust.”

“Oh, yeah?” She raised an eyebrow.

I patted my chest with my free hand. “Please. Hogwarts graduate. With honors. I even have the wand.”

“Wow. I had no idea!” She giggled.

I swiped my thumb across her cheek, rejoicing in the feel of her impossibly soft skin against mine, then reluctantly released her.

“Look, Beth, no matter what happened in the past between us, from now on we're a team,” I reminded her. “I've got your back. And I hope you have mine, too. That's the only way this will work.” I paused, then added, “Deal?”

A shy smile spread across her face. “Deal.”

“Then let's get the hell out of here,” I said. “I think we both deserve a shot of tequila after today.”

“Only if it's Anejo Banjo Tolito.”

“But of course! I wouldn't dream of drinking anything else.”

BETH

W
e finished packing up our gear and soon were headed back into town. I told Mac I'd have to take a rain check on the all-too-tempting tequila offer, since, with the exception of my brief beach nap, I'd been up since three
A.M.
and all I wanted to do was fall into my bed and pass out until morning. We had a big day tomorrow, after all, following up on the fire story. He told me he understood, and offered to drive me home.

On the ride back, we chatted about News 9, the weather, and other inconsequential things while listening to music on the radio. Nothing too deep, nothing too personal. Just two new coworkers, making small talk, no big thing. By the time Mac pulled off the freeway to drop me home I'd almost convinced myself that this could actually work. That the awkward-free spell could hold and we could actually find a way to work together as a team after all.

I sighed, glancing over at him now. If only we hadn't met at the bar like we had. If only I hadn't let Stephanie talk me into taking him home. We could have met under completely
different circumstances, had our relationship develop naturally, instead of fast-forwarding to stranger sex. Who knows what could have happened then?

I turned away, glancing out the window again as Mac pulled onto my street. What was done was done; we couldn't change anything. All we could do now was move forward and make the best out of what fate had dealt us. Still, at least now I wasn't quite so upset about having a new partner.

In fact, I was kind of excited about it.

“Is this the place?”

Mac's hesitant question shot me back to reality. I looked out the window, my eyes scrunching in confusion. It looked like my street. It looked like my house. Except . . .

The front lawn was strewn with brightly colored clothing and scraps of wood that might have once been furniture. Toiletries and other cosmetics had been dumped out onto the grass amidst corpses of no-longer-stuffed animals. It was as if a tornado had swept in and gutted the place. My heart leapt to my throat. What the . . . ?

“Can you hang on a second?” I asked, opening the door to the truck with shaky hands. “I think I might have been robbed.” I hopped out of the vehicle, my pulse skittering erratically as I took in the scene. Even in the dim twilight I started recognizing some of the items as mine. My clothing. My furniture. My childhood teddy bear. Ripped to shreds or chopped up almost beyond recognition. What the hell was going on here?

“Do you want me to call the police?” Mac called from the truck, sounding, to his credit, quite concerned. But I shook my head, biting my lower lip to stop the sobs from escaping. I stormed up the front steps, whipping open the front door, ready to face whoever was terrorizing my house.

As I did, I smacked right into someone heading outside. Someone carrying my bedroom TV. I stumbled, almost losing my balance, as the girl shoved past me, taking the television and slamming it down onto the pavement with
force. I let out a cry of horror as it exploded in a crash of breaking glass.

The person throwing the deranged yard sale was not a thief at all.

It was my roommate.