A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (11 page)

"They’re in my office," she said, leading Ben through the quiet house, down the short hallway.

She opened the door, and Ben grabbed her arm and stopped her from crossing the threshold. The small office was destroyed. Papers were strewn everywhere, drawers opened, books piled on the floor.
 

"Christ, they've been here," he said.
 

"No, I don't think so." Lindsey tilted her head, taking in the room. "Everything seems to be in place."
 

"Oh."
 

He studied the room—the haphazard piles of papers and magazines on the desk, an opened book face down on the keyboard, and a few stray dog toys mixed among the mess. "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay. I work best in chaos."

"You must be very productive here," Ben said. "Think you can find the paperwork on the bonds?"

"Yes," she said, removing a stack of mail from the chair behind the desk. She sat down and reached to her left, about halfway through a disordered stack of papers. She pulled out a magazine and some old Christmas cards. Then she extracted a folder from below that. "Here it is."
 

Ben looked for a place to sit and she lifted a pile of papers and books from a chair near the desk. He flipped through the folder of stapled contracts—a half dozen at least—and searched for clues as to when they were drafted and how they fit with the other documents he had already reviewed. As he finished with each set, he passed the pages to Lindsey, sometimes explaining a clause.
 

"Hand me the arena bonds," he said. "The one we looked at last night. I flagged it."

Lindsey dug through her leather bag and pulled out a packet of papers decorated with multicolored sticky notes. "This one?"

Ben glanced at his watch and calculated how much time he had until Sharon sent out a BOLO on him. Probably twenty minutes. Maybe thirty, if he pushed it. He took the papers from Lindsey and turned to a page that he had marked. He compared the language with the new contract Lindsey had received from her source. A few of the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. Lindsey watched him intently.
 

"What is it?" she asked.
 

"You were assigned to cover the sewer treatment plant renovation?" he asked.
 

"Yes," Lindsey said, her nose wrinkling. "Sam's idea of punishment. I must have really pissed him off."
 

Ben smiled and scooted the chair closer to her. "Maybe it's not as bad a story as you thought. See here? This is the stadium bond contract and it mentions the other municipal bond project being funded by EFB. And this—the sewage treatment plant bond contract—is what it's referring to."

Lindsey tilted her head. "So, EFB is issuing both of the bonds?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah, it makes some sense. The city council is ramming through the stadium project, getting a great rate on the financing, which helps sell it to the public as a low-risk investment. But it's only low-risk and low-cost as a stand-alone project. Once this contract is signed, the city will also be obligated to finance the sewage treatment plant project through EFB, plus there are a ton of mandatory fees and refinancing provisions. The low-cost and low-risk part of the contract basically evaporates after a couple years."

Lindsey grabbed the contract and scanned the page Ben had been reading. "And then the city and the taxpayers are stuck with a bad deal?"

"Yes, but the public may not know that right away because EFB will continue to refinance the debt, which will let the city put off repayment for even longer. So the current city council probably won't be around to suffer the fallout from the bad deal," Ben said. He had to admire the diabolical legal mind that came up with the plan.
 

"Oh my God, this is huge," Lindsey said. "Do you know how much more the city will pay because of this?"

"No, that's not spelled out in the contract," Ben said. "You need someone with financing background to do the math on that."

She gave him a smile. "Didn't you work in finance?"

He nodded. "Yes, and I'll see what I can come up with. It's been a while since I did this work. You need to get someone else involved. Someone who specializes in this type of financing. That professor you mentioned, maybe."

She smiled widely and jumped to her feet, the contracts still gripped in her hands. "Thank you, Ben!"
 

"Can you write this story? And how soon can you do it?"
 

"No, not yet," Lindsey said. "My source won't come forward. I can't confirm that the documents he gave me are authentic. I put in a public records request, but the city has ten business days to respond."
 

The council was set to vote in about a month. "You don't have ten days to write this. You need to write this story. It's huge."
 

He stood and she looked at him, her brow furrowing.

"Why are you giving me arbitrary deadlines?"

Ben took a deep breath. "Because you're about to be fired."

All traces of excitement drained from her face. "What do you mean? I'm a good reporter. I can't lose my job."
 

Ben took her hand. "I'm sorry, but it sounds like they're getting ready to fire you."
 

She took several shallow breaths and he stepped forward in case she began to hyperventilate.
 

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I have a mortgage payment. I have a dog to feed."
 

Panic was setting in. She paced the space between the desk and the door. That stubborn chin raised and her eyes narrowed.
 

"No, no, no," Lindsey said, shaking her head. "No. I won't go."

The mechanic dropped off Lindsey's car with two fresh tires, giving her a friendly wave and a honk as he pulled away from the curb.

She waved back, grateful for the personal service, but also annoyed that she'd had to call Marco so many times in the last six months. Most people probably didn't have their tires slashed on a semi-regular basis. Hell, she hadn't either until recently. Now she was on a first-name basis with the local repair shop's employees.

Lindsey walked back in the house and glared at the phone on the end table. She had ignored the flashing red light on her phone when she and Ben arrived this morning, but there was no putting it off now that he was gone. She hit the playback button and heard the message.
 

"Lindsey, honey, it's mom. It's, uh, oh, gosh, close to midnight. Sorry. Thought you'd be home, but maybe you're working late. Or maybe you're not..." Her mother's voice got entirely too hopeful. "Anyway, give me a call tomorrow. Just wanted to check in and let you know I'm back from Tel Aviv. Love you, sweetie. Oh, and Daddy says hi."
 

Her mother's voice would normally comfort her in this situation, but Lindsey felt worse after hearing the message.
 

It was bad enough being told that you're about to be fired. It was so much worse when your mother was Liz Allen, award-winning war correspondent and the gold standard for television reporters since the 1970s. She'd been shot at, kidnapped, and airlifted out of every possible war zone since her twenties. Now semi-retired, she traveled only for special assignments and spent most of her time educating the next generation of reporters at University of Southern California.
 

Lindsey sunk into the couch and slowly fell facedown into a throw pillow. The daughter of Liz Allen couldn't lose her reporting job—not like this. She already suspected that her father had heard the scuttlebutt about her recent troubles. The last time they talked, when he'd asked about work it was in a manner that was gentle, encouraging her to confide. She'd ignored the unspoken invitation. Weston Fox was managing editor of the Los Angeles
Press-Herald
and also a legend in the industry. He hadn't been a reporter for two decades—not since he was elevated to editor. But that sure didn't mean he didn't have sources. Especially in the industry.
 

The shrill ring of the phone startled her. Lindsey sat bolt upright and grabbed the receiver.

"There you are," her mother said as a greeting. "I was starting to worry about you."
 

"Yeah, sorry," Lindsey said. "You were right, I was working late."
 

"Oh, of course," Liz said.
 

The disappointment traveled well along the telephone connection. For an independent, career-driven woman, Liz sure seemed to want her daughter to find a man and settle down. For a split-second, Lindsey considered whether to tell her mother that she'd spent the night with Ben. It wasn't information she'd normally share with her mother, but it might shut her up. On the other hand, why get her hopes up? Last night was great, but Lindsey didn't want to get her own hopes up about Ben. Not just yet. They hadn't exactly gotten off to a stellar start.

"How was your trip?" Lindsey asked.
 

In the midst of her string of extra-bad luck this week, she had forgotten about her mother's travel plans—a trip overseas to interview the leader of an unstable Middle East country. Even for Liz Allen, this was a "get."
 

"It went really well. Very interesting. I'm in the office today to finish the package, then setting up interviews for the afternoon. I'll be on Charlie Rose this weekend."
 

"I'll be sure to watch." She tried to summon up the proper amount of excitement for her mother's achievement, but was falling short. Liz Allen was breaking news and watching history unfold in front of her, while her daughter tried to figure out how to report on sewer bonds for a mid-sized daily newspaper.
 

It was hard growing up in Liz's shadow, but at least no one in Twin Rivers knew she was the daughter of Liz Allen and Weston Fox. She didn't think anyone had put it together in the five years she'd been working at the
Beacon
. It wasn't just that she wanted to make it on her own, she also didn't want to constantly be compared to them—and inevitably be a disappointment to those expecting some sort of super-reporter spawned by the first family of journalism. Though she'd been told that she was the spitting image of her mother, it helped that she had her father's last name and he wasn't as well known.
 

Maybe she should have followed her brother's lead and gone into a completely different line of work. She doubted any of the other firefighters at Adam's station cared who his parents were. No expectations there. You see a fire, you put it out. No one asked if your mother could have extinguished the flame better.
 

"So, tell me what you've been up to," Liz said.
 

Lindsey looked at the stack of papers on the floor. "Oh, you know. City hall meetings, civic development, the usual stuff," she said. "Nothing exciting."
 

There was a long pause and Lindsey instantly had a mental image of Liz pursing her lips.

"I told you when you got this beat, there are no small stories, Lindsey. All of it matters."

Easy for her to say. When was the last time her mother sat through a zoning commission hearing?
 

"I'm writing about municipal bonds," Lindsey said.
 

"That's important," Liz said, her voice strong and cheerful. It was easy to imagine her urging her students on with that tone.

"The bonds will pay for renovations for a sewage treatment plant," she said.
 

Another long pause and then a sigh.
 

"Sewage treatment," Liz said. "Did you piss off your editor?"
 

"Probably," Lindsey said. "Look, mom, I need to get to work. Can I call you later?"
 

"Sure, honey. Call anytime," Liz said. "Oh, but not tonight. I'll be doing live remotes until 6:30, then your father's getting that award, so we’ll be at the dinner. But tomorrow. Definitely call me tomorrow."
 

Lindsey rolled her eyes. Her parents were constantly getting awards and attending fancy events. She'd be spending her Friday night trying to hang on to her job and deciphering legalese.
 

"Say hello to Dad and have fun tonight," she said.
 

She disconnected the call and threw the receiver to the far end of the couch, where it bounced off a cushion and onto the floor. It was too early to start drinking. Plus, she wasn't much for booze anyway. Anything more than a glass of wine or a couple of beers made her sleepy. And it was ten a.m. on a workday.
 

Lindsey pulled herself off the couch, feeling as if gravity was working overtime against her. She picked up the bond contracts and tried to organize them into some order, then stuffed the lot of them into her messenger bag. She set the alarm, locked the door, and left for work.
 

What would Liz Allen do? Probably parachute in with a camera crew and chase the bankers down with a microphone, all the while looking like Girl Reporter Barbie.
 

Ugh. She was jealous of a sixty-year-old woman. Who was also her mother. There was probably a psychological syndrome that addressed this situation. Or maybe she was breaking new ground in mental disorders.
 

Lindsey tossed her bag onto the passenger seat and climbed into the car, rolling her window down to vent the too-warm interior. It was only mid-morning, but already shaping up to be a scorcher. She fanned herself with a notepad while the air conditioner struggled against the late-summer heat. She backed out of her driveway and started toward the newspaper office.
 

It was time to save her job. How else was she going to afford the therapy she desperately needed?

Chapter Ten

The first thing Lindsey saw when she arrived at her desk was Sam's frowning face from across the newsroom. She forced a smile in return, which just deepened his scowl. He shook his head and returned to his office, slamming the door.