“Hey, pull over here,” I direct the driver.

When he does, I hop out and slam the door. I’m pissed as hell that they think I might have held on to information and even more pissed that they can’t figure out what they have. Are they f**king imbeciles? I’d have offered to do it myself but there’s no way I’m opening that Pandora’s box again.

“You okay, man?” Beck asks when I storm through the door.

“Could be better.”

“Want to talk about it?”

For some reason I do and for the first time in a long time, I open up and tell him everything I’ve tried to forget—and as the weight starts to lift, it feels so f**king good to finally breathe.

Chapter 5

Demons

Friday morning comes way too fast. I feel hungover as shit and for the first time in a while I don’t get out of bed right away. Everything I worked so hard to move past is right back in front of me and I want to just forget it. When I finally wake up it’s after three. I roll out of bed and run down to the small coffee shop I’ve gone to every day this week. The girl behind the counter has worked every day since I got to LA. And just like the previous days, when I approach she smiles, almost like she feels sorry for me. And just before, I shrug off her attention with a smile in return.

When I get back to the motel, I read for an hour or so and then grab my journal to write down everything that happened yesterday. A phone book directory? It makes no sense. All the other data I sorted through was pretty straight forward, but I don’t have time to ponder what Bass said. I have thirty minutes until I’m supposed to meet Christine and it’s at least ten blocks away. I take a quick shower and since Novels is nothing fancy I throw on a pair of chinos and a plaid button-down. I opt for my sneakers since I don’t have any dress shoes with me.

Walking briskly through the cool night air, I arrive at the restaurant just a few minutes after seven. I look around but I don’t see Christine anywhere. I inquire with the hostess and she leads me to a room on the other side of the restaurant. I spot her immediately. She’s seated in a secluded quiet booth in the corner. When I approach, she smiles and stands to greet me.

“Ben.” She sighs.

“Hey there gorgeous. Sorry I’m late,” I say, laying on the charm in the way I know she likes.

“It’s so good to see you.” She hugs me. She pulls back to look at me again and then draws me in a little too close, for a little too long.

I finally break free and give her the once over like she’s giving me. The only difference is my examination doesn’t last long and is much less obvious. She’s around my sister’s age, attractive with long hair and dark eyes, but looks older. She’s wearing a short dress with a low neckline, not the same kind of casual I went for. I notice two glasses of wine and sushi already on the table.

“I thought we would celebrate your return and I ordered us some food. I haven’t eaten all day and I needed something to hold me over.”

It’s just like old times and I can’t help but give her a big grin. We spend the next thirty minutes talking about what happened to me. I keep to the basics—where I lived and what I did while I was in New York City, avoiding any other details since a gag order prevents me from discussing the case. We consume two bottles of wine in no time and when she prompts me to finish off the last of the sushi, I do. The waiter had approached us a few times to see if we were ready to order dinner, but Christine dismissed him each time with a simple wave of her hand. Finally, she beckons him to our table and I think she’s ready. Not only am I starving, but ordering also puts me one step closer to ending this night. However, when he approaches she only orders another bottle of wine. I don’t say anything. She’s running the show and she knows it. I’m used to this. Every after hours meeting I ever had with her was always on her timetable and always involved at least one bottle of wine.

“Sir, are you ready to order?” the waiter asks, after pouring the new bottle of wine. I glance across the table directing the question to her.

“Give us thirty minutes of uninterrupted time, please. We have business to discuss.”

After one more glass, I am seriously buzzed and I haven’t even gotten to the reason I called her. Wanting to get it out there, I interrupt her chatter as she tells me about management structure changes and circulation issues at the paper. I clear my throat, hoping to sound a little more professional than I feel at this moment. “Christine, I asked to meet with you because I really need a job and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

Suddenly the restaurant seems very quiet. She takes another sip of her wine. “Oh.”

“Yes, I’d love my old job back.”

She stretches out her arms and swirls the liquid in the glass she’s holding while making a face as if in deep thought. She really does enjoy putting on a show. When she sets her glass down and leans forward slightly, I avert my eyes to avoid seeing the tops of her br**sts. But when her cool hand covers mine, I can’t stop myself from flinching. Her fingers stroke my skin, soft, slow. This whole charade literally makes my skin crawl. Some might call it sexual harassment. Me, I see it like it is—an older woman looking for attention. I was always good at giving her just enough. But tonight, walking the line seems more difficult.

“We might be able to work something out,” she says.

I look anywhere but at her. “Work something out how?”

She clears her throat. “Listen Ben I’m not going to beat around the bush. I want the article you wrote before everything happened.”