So now, she told us, she was giving up on movie stars and musicians and had an idea-and how novel!-about approaching on-air reporters who specialized in traffic. Although& and she gave a woeful sigh& she wasn’t certain there was any salvaging things.
“No offense,” she said.
None taken. Bitch.
We wrapped up the meeting and were gathering to go when Martucci said, “Maybe June could talk to Troy Jones.”
Uh er what? Why was he mentioning Troy Jones?
Lizbeth wondered the same thing. “What about Troy Jones?”
“You didn’t hear? June ran over his sister back in July.”
“I didn’t run her over!” I protested.
Martucci snapped a folder shut. “Fine, then. She didn’t run her over. But that girl in her car was Troy Jones’s sister. Right, Parker?”
Lizbeth looked at me with interest. “Is that true? That’s who was in the accident with you? Why didn’t you say anything?”
A cold finger of dread wormed its way up my spine.
Everyone obviously knew who Troy Jones was-besides his being Marissa’s brother. I sure wished I did, but I wasn’t about to ask.
Luckily, Greg came to my rescue. “Who’s Troy Jones?”
“Traffic reporter,” Lizbeth said. “Recently started on K-JAM morning radio. Very up-and-coming, gets a lot of airtime.”
So Troy was a traffic reporter. I supposed I should have known, but I’d let my interest in the industry slip right around the time I lost out on the promotion. There was no point in being in the loop if they weren’t going to pay me for it.
Lizbeth leaned forward. “So will you be talking to Troy soon?”
“For what?”
“Oh, the usual. Memorials. Ashes scattering. That sort of thing. I’d love to get him to work with us. Now that we have you as a personal contact”
I gaped at her, my jaw dropping on its hinge. Was she serious? “I met him at a funeral.”
Martucci, ever the kiss-ass, said, “Now this sounds to me like an opportunity. What’s that old saying?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes when a door closes, a window opens.”
My brows shot down in a scowl. How dare he attempt to quote The Sound of Music against me!
“That’s right, you never know,” Lizbeth said. “Sad as his sister’s passing is” -she held her hands out across the table& and fortunately I was sitting too far away, or I suspected she might have tried to clasp mine-“from these sorts of tragedies, bonds can form.”
“Yeah, it’s not as if you ran over his sister on purpose,” Martucci said, almost kindly.
“Ooh, you know who you shoulda run over?” Brie interjected. “Rick Hernandez on Channel Five. That man is fine. I wouldn’t mind sharing a ride with him, if you know what I’m talking about.”
“I didn’t run anyone over,” I hissed.
Martucci leaned back, his arms crossed. “No need to get yourself all in a twist, Parker. We’re just brainstorming.”
“Maybe we should drop this” Greg said, which was lucky because Martucci deserved a snappy comeback, and since I was struggling unsuccessfully to come up with one, someone needed to defend me. “This guy isn’t the only traffic reporter in the world. I have a feeling that June would prefer to put the accident behind her.”
I gave Greg a watery smile in gratitude. He’d managed to shut Martucci up, but alas, Lizbeth wasn’t giving up so easily. She turned to me. “I want you to consider it.” Her voice was crisp& back to business. “Getting Troy Jones on board would mean more funding for this department. It would be a feather in your cap.”
A better woman than I would have leapt to her feet and shouted, “How dare you ask that I exploit a situation as horrible as this!” For the fun of it, I also pictured myself slapping Lizbeth across the face. Stomping on her foot. Giving her arm an Indian burn. Making her eat a really hot pepper.
Truth was, however, I rather enjoyed the notoriety. Suddenly I was the school geek who had an extra ticket to the hottest concert of the year.
In a strange way, it felt good.
Not that I planned to do anything about it. Hell would be a skating rink before I’d cash in on any connection I might have to Marissa’s brother to further my own career. Or, more realistically, Lizbeth’s. The very thought was appalling.
Yet I couldn’t make myself say no. Instead, I did what I do so well.
I procrastinated.
And when it comes to that sort of thing, they had no idea who they were dealing with.
“If you think it will help,” I said, gathering up my notes. “Let me see what I can do.”
Chapter 3
A few days later, I bustled home in a cheery mood. I’d stopped by Susan’s after work to watch the twins. Her husband, Chase, was out of town, the baby-sitter needed to leave, and Susan had to work late on a proposal. Glad to do it, I told her. There’s nothing that lifts the spirits like spending a few hours with two guys who think you’re the bomb-even if they are five.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time I got home, and I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed. The kids were cute, but I was beat.
Santa Monica, where I live, is a bustling city that nestles the beach-liberal when it comes to aiding the homeless, yet welcoming yuppies with equally open arms. It is perhaps most famous for being both the home of the O. J. Simpson civil trial and the place where Jack, Janet, and Chrissy caused all that wacky mischief in Three’s Company. My apartment building is a couple of miles from the beach, hugging the border of West L.A. It has twelve units, stacked two floors and arranged in a U-shape surrounding a pool that hardly anyone uses. I have an upper two-bedroom apartment. I’ve lived there for twelve years-Susan and I were roommates before she moved out to marry Chase. I may die here, because thanks to rent control, I pay only $550 for an apartment that’s worth several thousand. Desperately hoping I’ll leave so he can hike the rent, my landlord refuses to do any repairs that he can even remotely call cosmetic. There was quite the debate a few years back over whether fixing my falling-in ceiling was necessary. So the carpet’s pretty ratty, and the counters have seen better days, but it’s roomy and bright.
I dropped my keys on the counter and hit ‘ play’ on my answering machine before heading to the refrigerator to see if I had any leftovers.
I had two messages, both from my mom.
“Junie, this is Mom give me a call when you get a chance.”
I’ d call her first thing in the morning-it’ d been a while since I’ d checked in. My parents live in the San Fernando Valley in the same house where I grew up. I typically talk to my mom every week or so-and my dad for the five seconds it takes for him to say, ‘ Here’ s your mother!’ should he pick up when I call.
On the second message-I don’ t know what time she left it because I never bothered setting the clock on my phone, so the digital voice always announces these arbitrary times-she sounded odd. Sort of breathless and confused.
“Hi, sweetie. I was hoping you’ d be home oh, well, this isn’ t the kind of thing I want to leave in a message. I wanted to Oh, dear. Well, call me back.” Her voice trailed off. “Right away?”
My heart clattered in my chest. God, now what?
It had to be horrible. What could be so bad that she wouldn’ t say it in a message? Somebody died. My dad or my brother.
I dialed with shaking hands, and it seemed as if the phone rang forever. Pick up pick up pick up