No Show (13 page)

A lull followed, and Holman brought the conference to a close. He thanked everyone and that was it. No one dillydallied. As soon as Holman stood, the media people wrapped up shop.

“Thanks, Mr. Sheffield,” Holman said, shaking Terry’s hand. “You did very well. I think we got our point across. We should receive some calls from this.”

“I hope so, Sheriff.”

“I’ll call if I hear anything.”

Deputy Pittman tugged on the county sheriff’s flag and it came away from the tables. Holman snapped up the chairs he and Terry had been sitting on. It was all over.

Feeling surplus to requirements, Terry returned to his car. He wormed his way between the journalists and tiptoed over cable feeds coiled on the ground like spilled intestines. He sidestepped
a sound engineer checking his recording and overheard a snippet of conversation he wasn’t meant to hear.

“This has all the hallmarks of one of Sarah Morton’s classic setups.”

Terry whirled to see who had made the remark. It was the reporter who had asked if there was a connection between Sarah and Alicia Hyams. He was slouched against his news van’s passenger door smoking a cigarette. He was speaking to his cameraman, who sat on the side door’s sill, hunched over his camera as he ejected the tape. The reporter hadn’t known Terry was close, and the cameraman’s frantic gesture to put a lid on it was too late.

“What did you say?”

The reporter spun on his heel. He looked as if he’d been pricked with a needle, but he recovered and the look disappeared as quickly as it had come. He whipped the cigarette behind his back and flashed his toothiest grin. “Excuse me?” he asked, denial plastered poorly across his face.

“I heard what you said. How is this one of Sarah Morton’s classic setups?”

The reporter fluffed a response.

“The sheriff’s over there. Do you want me to get him so you can explain to both of us?”

The reporter dropped the act. The game-show-host grin disappeared and the cigarette came back out. “Okay. Okay, what do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you meant.”

The reporter took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled, blowing thick smoke over his shoulder before stubbing the butt out on the ground with his foot. “Ramon, I’m gonna take fifteen and have a cup of coffee with Mr. Sheffield.”

A shared parking lot separated the sheriff’s office and the Java House. The reporter stopped in front of the coffeehouse and jerked a thumb at it.

“This place good?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”

“It’ll do. They’re people after my own heart,” he said and tapped a sign on the door.

The sign was the Starbucks logo with a red circle over it and a red diagonal slash bisecting the Starbucks name. The reporter opened the door for Terry and they went in.

The Java House had only two customers. Behind the counter a willowy college-age girl with hair dyed so red it was copper-colored responded immediately.

“Welcome to the Java House. Can I take your order?”

“Yeah,” the reporter said. “I’ll take a low-fat latte and a…” He pointed at Terry to answer for himself.

“Make it two.” He didn’t want a low-fat latte, but he couldn’t be bothered to contend with the endless menu board behind the girl’s head.

The copper-headed girl rang up the order on the cash register. “They’ll be just a minute, okay?” she said.

“Can you bring them over?” the reporter asked and paid.

“Sure thing.”

They seated themselves at a table by the window. The morning heat radiated through the glass, penetrating the carefully air-conditioned environment.

“I’m Tom Degrasse, by the way,” the reporter said and held out a hand. “Sorry about earlier.”

Terry shook. “Forget it.”

“Yeah, well. It was uncalled for.”

“Do you know Sarah?”

“Most of us here today do. Our paths have crossed covering the same stories.”

All smiles, Copperhead came over with the lattes. She placed them in front of Terry and Degrasse. “Thanks for not choosing Starbucks.”

Degrasse grinned. “Don’t you love small-town businesses? They really know how to stick it to corporate America.”

“Yeah, that’s great. What makes you think Sarah’s pulled some stunt?”

Degrasse sucked the foam off the top of his latte, making a mess of his face. He wiped the froth ring from around his mouth with a napkin. “Stunt. That’s an interesting word. I think that’s a strong word.”

“Okay, to use your vernacular, a classic setup.”

Degrasse smiled wryly and licked his lips. “Okay, maybe I was a little harsh with my earlier outburst. I was irritated to see so many people gathered together in her name.”

“Why?”

“Sarah is a determined woman. When she locks onto a juicy story, she doesn’t back down. She’ll do anything to get that front page and everything goes on the back burner. From what the sheriff said, I doubt she’s missing.”

“So you think she’s just out following a story and damn the rest of us,” Terry accused.

Degrasse held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you like it is.”

“And what makes you such an expert?”

“Personal experience.”

“What experience?”

“A few years back, when Sarah worked for
The Sacramento Bee
, everybody wanted an exclusive with the lieutenant governor’s wife. She’d just blown the whistle on her husband’s involvement in a crooked construction deal on a new state prison. Sarah announced the time and location for a fake press conference. We guppies took the bait and turned up to an empty room while Sarah had a one-on-one with the lieutenant governor’s wife.”

It was a shitty thing to do to her competition, but Terry wasn’t sure if what Sarah had done was unethical or not. It didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary for the media. It wasn’t as if they were as pure as the driven snow. How many times had
the tabloids made an outrageous claim only to end up paying out in the civil courts? But that wasn’t what bugged him. He didn’t want to hear that Sarah was ruthless.

“So you think Sarah’s manipulating the situation?”

“She could be, but I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s say she is. What are all the theatrics for?”

“I honestly don’t know, Terry. There isn’t anything big on the books right now.”

“Except Alicia Hyams,” Terry suggested and sipped his latte.

“Already been there. I can’t see her angle. If there is one, it’s all Sarah’s. None of us are chasing the same bone.”

Ramon rapped on the window, startling both of them. “Tom, we’ve gotta roll, man,” the cameraman shouted, muffled by the thick glazing.

“I’ll be two minutes.”

Ramon examined Terry quizzically. “Okay, Tom. Two minutes. Don’t make it twenty,” he said and then left.

“I’ve got to go.” Degrasse stood. “All differences aside, I hope she comes back.”

“So do I.”

“Give her my regards.”

“Will she want them?”

The TV reporter laughed. “I doubt it, but give them anyway.”

Degrasse fished out his business card and offered it to Terry. Terry stood, took the card, and shook Degrasse’s hand.

“Terry, I can see you love Sarah, so don’t take this the wrong way.”

Terry guessed he would.

“I don’t know how you two hooked up, but how much do you really know about your wife?”

“People keep asking me that.”

“Haven’t you wondered why?”

Terry said nothing.

“Don’t let her break your heart.”

Terry entered an anonymous office building in the shadow of the Transamerica Pyramid. The lobby felt like a wasteland, dark and quiet. He half expected tumbleweeds to cross his path as he approached the reception desk. It was a few minutes after seven and the working day was over for most people. The night security guard looked up.

“Marcus Beasley, please,” Terry said. “I’m Terry Sheffield.”

“Is he expecting you?” the guard asked punching a number into the phone.

“Yes.”

The guard nodded and spoke into the phone. “Mr. Beasley, I have Terry Sheffield here to see you.” He listened to the reply. “Okay, I’ll send him up.”

The guard hung up and pointed to the elevators to the right of Terry. “Take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mr. Beasley will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

Terry crossed the lobby to the elevators and pressed the up button.

The guard called out, “Don’t keep him too long. We have a hard enough job getting him out of here most nights.”

Terry smiled and nodded. “Workaholic, is he?”

“You better believe it. He’s the first to arrive and last to leave. Whatever you do, don’t take the job. You’ll never see your family.”

The elevator pinged and the door slid open. “I’ll bear that in mind,” Terry said, stepping into the car.

The elevator doors opened onto the twelfth floor. The drone of vacuum cleaners working in the distance greeted Terry, but Marcus Beasley didn’t. He spotted an office directory on a wall opposite the elevator and was scanning for
California Now
when his name was called. A short, dumpy man wearing thick glasses trotted toward him and shot out a stubby arm.

“Marcus Beasley, editor in chief of
California Now
.”

“Hi,” Terry said, his body vibrating from the little man’s jackhammer handshake.

“You found the place okay?”

“Oh, yes,” Terry lied. He’d found San Francisco easily enough, but couldn’t negotiate the streets. Despite the GPS on his phone, he was forever trying to make turns onto one-way streets from the wrong direction. In the end, he found a parking meter, parked, and hailed a cab.

“Good. This way.”

Beasley escorted Terry along a corridor and into an office suite. It was smaller than Terry expected for a glossy magazine. He was expecting reams of reporters running around with press tickets poking out of their hatbands, but was sorely disappointed. Beasley must have spotted Terry’s look.

“Not what you were expecting?” Beasley asked. He negotiated a path around the cubicles.

“No, not really.”

“For a periodical to survive these days, you don’t need much. The magazine can be typeset on a computer. Writers are all subcontracted, as is the printing. There’s no need to saddle a magazine with so much overhead.”

“Very slick,” Terry said.

“Coffee?”

Terry shook his head.

“Sorry, you’re English. You’d prefer tea. Would you like a cup?”

“No thanks. Never liked the stuff.”

“You’re English and you don’t drink tea?” Beasley exclaimed. “Did you leave England or were you run out?”

Terry laughed.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t want any. I don’t have any anyway. I don’t know why I do that. I’m always offering things I can’t supply,” Beasley babbled. “Must be the reporter in me, always committing to a deadline I can never meet. Anyhoo, here’s me.”

Terry followed Beasley into a corner office with great views of other skyscrapers’ twelfth floors. The editor squeezed into a threadbare executive chair, which was out of place with the rest of the modern office suite. Sinking into his seat, Beasley smiled as if he was luxuriating in a hot bath. It was obvious why that chair was part of the office.

“You’re here, so I can guess Sarah hasn’t called.”

“Correct.”

Beasley inhaled thoughtfully. “Very strange.”

“You’re her boss. Do you think her disappearance has anything to do with her job?”

“Have you ever read
California Now
?”

“No.”

“We’re a checkout-stand glossy, somewhere between
TV Guide
and
Woman’s World
. We do family-oriented pieces for the family-oriented reader. We don’t get to uncover the Watergate tapes. Hell, we wouldn’t even bother.”

Terry frowned.

“Hoping to find a connection?”

Terry sighed. “Well, yes. I thought she’d gotten into trouble with a story. Are you sure she’s not working on something dangerous?”

“I’m sure. As far as I know, she was working on a couple of human-interest pieces. An all-female America’s Cup team had just returned, and the San Diego Zoo was celebrating the birth of a pair of polar bears.”

“Not life-and-death stuff, then.”

“No. Sorry. Do you want to see her desk?”

“She has one here?” Terry asked, surprised.

“Most freelancers like to work from home, but we keep desks open for anyone who likes to use our facilities, and Sarah did.”

“Yes, I’d like to see it.”

Beasley stood and his expression sagged. He wasn’t happy to have left the comfort of his chair. He led Terry to a messy cubicle
strewn with paper, unopened mail, and notes and photos pinned to the walls. The pictures corresponded with the stories Beasley had mentioned.

“Can I look through her things?”

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Terry sifted through the mess. He didn’t find anything of any value, just a mishmash of internal memos, shorthand notes, contact names and numbers. Beasley returned after ten minutes.

“Find anything?”

“Not really.” Terry held up a wad of Post-it notes. “Can I take these?”

“If you think they’ll help.”

“Thanks.”

Beasley leaned against a partition wall. It sagged under his weight. “Sarah wasn’t exclusive to me. She was freelance. She might have been working on something for someone else.”