The Fireman Who Loved Me (5 page)

Chapter Five

A
s Melissa walked through the fluorescent-lit corridors of the Channel Six newsroom the next morning, her step had a definite, unaccustomed bounce. It did not go unnoticed.

“Finally get laid?” said Nolan Chang, the young, hip, Asian-American reporter who sat in the cubicle next to hers. His phone was clamped to his ear; she could only hope he was on hold.

“Must you? Really?” It had taken Melissa a few years to get used to the raunchy humor of the typical newsroom. By now she’d learned to hold her own, but at times the X-rated joking still made her blush. She was a shy girl at heart. Then again, maybe she wasn’t, if last night was any indication. At the memory, she felt her face flame.

The crazy electricity that had raced through her body when Brody kissed her! She’d melted against him with absolutely no hesitation. One minute she’d been about to explain Payless shoes to him, the next she’d plastered her body against his hard chest. When she’d felt the warm, rigid thrust of him against her hips, she’d gone wild. If Nelly hadn’t opened the door when she had . . .

“You did! Look at you. That is the face of someone who did the nasty . . . the beast with two backs, the— Yes, hello, I’m calling to set up an interview with the governor . . .”

Saved by a press agent. Melissa walked into her tiny cubicle and tossed her bag into a corner. She hung her jacket on the back of her chair. Back in Los Angeles, she’d had her own office, but when she’d moved home to San Gabriel, she’d jumped down about a hundred market sizes. At Channel Six there was no one taking phone messages, no assistant to help her log footage, no promotion department to promote her investigations. And no sexy heartbreaker of a news director to ruin her life.

So what if she had to do everything herself here? So what if Channel Six’s slogan was “The Sunny Side of the News”? She was in a rebuilding phase of her career.

She logged on to her computer; while it was booting up, she went through the messages on her voice mail. One viewer had called to complain about her special report on black market dog breeders. Another had called to compliment it. Fifty-fifty, not a bad response. The complainer was much louder and more profane, but she could understand why. As he repeatedly pointed out, she had put him out of business; now he was going to have to start breeding cats. Or maybe ferrets. Would she prefer that, Miss F-ing Know-It-All?

Melissa sighed and deleted the call. If the man had left a number, she would have called him back and let him vent in person. Most producers and reporters hated talking to angry viewers, but Melissa loved it. Usually people just needed to have their say, and by the end of the call they would vow to watch only Channel Six from now on. She’d even gotten some story tips from initially furious viewers. But there was a fine line between furious and abusive, and this last caller fell into the latter category.

As did the four messages from Ella Joy. “This friggin’ computer system . . . I can’t get on . . . someone’s supposed to e-mail me something . . . I don’t want to call IT, they take frickin’ forever . . . why don’t you get this god-awful, ridiculous computer fixed . . . I’ve only asked you a million times . . .”

Delete.

“Okay, I called IT, they’re saying it’s my fault, I don’t have to take this, Melissa, I really don’t, I’m supposed to be on the air in one hour, and I’m getting splotches from this stress. What’s the point of a hot stone massage during my break if I have to come back and deal with this crap?”

Delete.

“Melissa, where is your freakin’ cell phone number, I can never find it when I need it, I swear you do it on purpose . . .”

Delete.
On the bright side, if Ella Joy was checking her e-mail, that must mean she was attempting to do some work. Then again . . .

“Okay, I’m on my computer now, and I finally opened that e-mail from the Absolut Vodka people, and you need to get me off the news this Friday night. They want me to host a party for their new Jalapeño Absolut, and of course I told them, absolutely! Get it?”

Melissa deleted the last voice mail, and gave a long sigh. How was she going to break it to Ella that she could
absolutely not
host a party for a new flavor of vodka? And why should she be the one who had to break it to her? But there was no point in whining about that. The news director was terrified of Ella, and the general manager was in love with her. Nope—all bad news had to come from Melissa.

“There you are! I called you a million times last night.” Ella Joy propped one tiny hip on Melissa’s desk, then crossed her legs so she perched like a hummingbird. Everything about her was tiny, except for her head with its lacquered helmet of hair. Her features were perfect for television—large brilliant blue eyes, slightly tilted; chiseled cheekbones; skin just a shade darker than her honey-colored hair. Rumor had it her father was Filipino, but she had never said so publicly. From the waist up, she was camera-ready in an electric blue blazer and chunky gold earrings. From the waist down, she was a slob in ratty sweatpants and flip-flops.

“I was out. I turned my phone off right after I talked to you.”

Ella’s attention sharpened. “Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Well, what’d you do?”

“Ate. Danced. Went home.” There must have been a self-conscious look on her face, because Ella refused to let it drop.

“Who’s the lucky fella? You haven’t gone on a date since that sculptor or whatever he was.”

“Ceramic impressionist.”

“Like I said, whatever.”

“This one wasn’t a ceramicist, that’s for sure.”

Ella’s attention drifted to one of her nails, and Melissa found herself, for once, wanting to surprise her. “He’s actually a fireman.”

Ella’s glance shot back to Melissa’s. “No shit.”

“Honest to God. By the way, he said you’re the anchor of choice at their fire station.”

Ella gave a smug smile and went back to her nail. “If your date wants a signed photo, just ask. Or maybe I’ll send them a calendar.”

Melissa gritted her teeth. “Great idea. So about this vodka party—”

“I already told them I’d do it, so don’t even try.”

“Ella, remember that integrity workshop they made us take? They specifically said we can’t let anchors endorse alcohol use.”

“Who’s endorsing? I’m just hosting the party. No one said anything about endorsing.”

Melissa sighed. Ella was truly a creative genius when it came to rationalization. “I see your point. I just worry about the little children.” Ella claimed to be deeply concerned with the next generation, although Melissa had never seen any concrete proof of this.

“But honey, there won’t
be
any little children at this party. It’s strictly twenty-one and over.”

Melissa gave up the fight—for now. “When is it?”

“This Friday, like I said on my message,” replied Ella impatiently. She expected every word she spoke to be remembered like gospel. “That’s why you have to get me off the news.”

Friday. So she had a few days to figure out a solution. She could always threaten to put an intern on the air in her place. Ella had a mortal fear of interns—all young, all gorgeous, all single-mindedly after her job. “We’ll figure something out. I have to check my e-mail now.”

Chang popped his head into Melissa’s cubicle. “What’s crack-a-lackin’, babe?” He spotted Ella. “Great numbers last night.”

“Why thanks. The numbers always pop when I wear my fuchsia silk.”

“Nothing to do with the black market dog-breeding story, I suppose,” interjected Melissa, looking up from her computer.

Ella and Chang ignored that absurdity, and Melissa went back to her e-mail. The usual corporate memos, lectures from the news director, viewer comments, and forwarded dirty jokes. She deleted most of it and nearly deleted the misspelled e-mail with the subject line, “Pleas help cawl soon.” But since Ella and Chang were now arguing over whether Starbucks would deliver, she decided even a wacko e-mail would be preferable. She opened it, and right away saw the misspellings were those of a child.

Pleas help. Our foster mother beets us and gives mony to the soshul worker not to tell. Call 557–9268 onley between 9 and 10. My name is Rodrigo. I got yore card from Juan.

Melissa felt the little hairs rise on her arms. A child abuser bribing a social worker to look the other way. If it was true, it was disgusting. It needed to be exposed. This was exactly why she’d gotten into the news business. This was why she frequently went into the worst neighborhoods and left her card with key people. The pastor at the church. The drug counselor. The barber. People who could let her know if something wrong was happening.

Brody’s words came back to her, the ones about sticking cameras in people’s faces and making sure her lipstick looked good. How she’d love to prove him wrong. She’d love to see Mr. Big Shot Fire Captain eat his words.

She checked her watch. Nine-forty. She’d better call the boy, Rodrigo, right away. But first she had to get rid of her bickering coworkers. “Chang, if you struck out with the governor, try Dana in the press office, and tell her I told you to call. And Ella, you really should do something about that nail, I can tell it’s driving you crazy. You don’t want it to distract you when you’re on the air.”

When Ella and Chang were gone, Melissa picked up the phone and dialed.

Before anyone could answer, the number of the news director’s office flashed on the screen. She sighed. How did she ever get any work done in this place? The window to call Rodrigo was disappearing. But news directors, as a species, didn’t like being ignored. She punched the button.

“My office, two seconds.”

Even though Melissa dawdled out of sheer rebellion, it didn’t take long to make her way to Bill Loudon’s dimly lit office. The news director was a watery-eyed, hunched little man whose salary was rumored to be seventy-five percent devoted to alimony payments. The news business was hard on marriages. Loudon had gone from market to market, Cedar Springs to Fargo to Las Vegas and on and on, strewing a trail of ex-wives behind him. The years of staring at TV screens had taken a toll on his eyesight. He kept his office so dim it felt almost subterranean. And he spent so much time in it that some wondered if he could no longer afford a house.

Melissa decided to take the initiative.

“Loudon, I’d like some extra time to work on a new investigation.”

“Extra time? Take all you want.”

“Not my personal time. You know what I mean. I want time off Ella duty.” Part of her job as “special news projects producer” was to create showcase reports for Ella. She would research them, do the interviews, write the pieces, produce them, then drag Ella out for an hour to shoot standups that could then be inserted into the finished story.

“What’s the story? Can we use it for November sweeps?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s a tip from a kid in foster care, and it’s going to take some time to confirm. It may end up being nothing. Or it could blow up the whole foster care system.”

“Blow up foster care,” said Loudon with deep gloom. He reached for the jumbo-size bottle of pastel antacids he kept at his elbow.

“Exactly.”

“Ella doesn’t like stories with bad guys.”

“I know.”

“Channel Six is supposed to be the Sunny Side of the News.”

“I know. But this could be a really important story that could save children from abuse.”

He blinked wearily at her. “You’re a pain in my fat arse.”

“I’m really sorry. And you look like you’ve lost a few pounds.”

“Fine. No Ella this week.”

“You’re a champ, boss.” She gave him a glorious smile. What a difference to have an open, easy, work-only relationship with her boss. In Los Angeles, every time she’d stepped into Everett’s office her pulse had raced and her heart had pounded.

“On one condition.”

Of course there would be a catch. “What?”

“Heard you went on a date last night.”

Melissa’s jaw dropped. That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “What . . . how  . . .”

“I have my sources.”

For one wild moment, Melissa imagined their sixty-year-old waitress slipping off to report a hot tip to Loudon, like some kind of secret agent.

“Does this new development in your love life mean you’ll have an in with the Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel?”

“The
what
?” Maybe all the light waves from the ten TV sets in his office had disrupted his brain function. But Loudon gazed at her expectantly, as if his words made some kind of sense. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s right, you were in LA being a big shot. Our local fire station is famous. Even made the
Today
show. The whole crew was in
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issue. It’s the only all-bachelor fire station in the country. Or almost all. And apparently they’re good-looking too. Hell if I know.”

Melissa put a hand to her head. Captain Brody was famous? The whole station was? And she’d spent the evening alternately yelling at him and French-kissing him?

“They had that big media blitz a couple years ago, then nothing. Apparently the captain shut it down. Won’t give interviews anymore. Except about fires, of course.”

Melissa remembered Brody’s scathing comments about the news—in fact, how could she forget them? Except now they made a little more sense. “So why are you telling me all this?”

“You know.” Loudon gave her a half wink that, with his droopy eyes, looked more like a leer.

“I really don’t.”

“Sure would be good for ratings to get those Bachelor Firemen back on the air. Why, with ratings like that, we could afford all kinds of investigations into foster care. Throw in the health department too. FDA, FDIC, whatever you like.”

You’re a twisted, loathsome man
. Melissa had to double check to make sure she hadn’t said that out loud. Obviously his sources weren’t all that good, if they thought there was any chance she and Brody would go out again. But she saw no need to explain all that to Loudon, who blinked at her in the flickering blue light.