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have
it?”
    Sometimes I wonder if aliens haven’t invaded
our planet after all. This Fenton sure qualified. What else could
explain the sort of mindset that allows a person to meet, insult
and then ask a favor of another—someone they’ve known for all of
twenty-four hours?
    “ Tell you what, Fent,” I
said, getting extreme and perverse satisfaction from the cringe on
his face as I truncated his name, “I’ll make a copy for you in a
little bit. Let me just finish up here.”
    “ I’ll wait.”
    I shook my head.
    His face started a shift from pale to red as
he spoke, “Listen, there’s no reason for you to be difficult about
this. I know it was your story, but you have to give me whatever
you’ve got. Otherwise Mr. Bassett is going to hear about it.”
    I felt like we were two little kids fighting
over a toy, and Fenton was the whiny one ready to break into tears
and run to tell his mommy.
    Giving a sigh, I shook my head again. “I’m
not being difficult.” Not much, at least. “Look around. I’ve got
lots of notes here. In lots of different places. It’s going to take
me a little bit to get it together. But I promise you’ll have it.
By this afternoon. Okay?”
    Mollified, he nodded. “When you do, can we
sit down and go over it then? So you can bring me up to speed? Give
me an idea of how to go about putting the story together for the
scripter?”
    “ Gabriela’s got three women
coming in to visit with me today for this other story. Don’t know
that I’ll have any free time.”
    “ But I’m supposed to have
it done by the end of business tomorrow.”
    Of course it had to be finished tomorrow.
But I didn’t see the reason for the whiny voice. This story was one
that would just about write itself. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I
said.
    “ Maybe not for you, but I
never …”
    I waited, but he didn’t finish his
sentence.
    “ You’ve never researched a
story before?”
    Making an ‘Ugh, that smells’ face, he
shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll be all that tough.”
    There was no more perfect response he could
have given to provide me reason to blow him off. In the interest of
fairness, and more importantly, to cover my ass so no one could
accuse me of sabotage, he’d get his folder. Yup. He would get every
single solitary fact about the case. All my suppositions,
conjecture, notes, and leads, however—the ones I’d tracked down
myself and had hoped to follow—those would stay with me.
    “ Well, it’s good to see you
have the right attitude,” I said, with a beaming smile. “I’ll get
that information to you lickety-split.”
    Jordan knocked at the doorframe. My ten
o’clock appointment, one of the hair fiasco women, stood next to
her, looking wealthy, polished and terrified at the same time.
    I was thrilled to see her.
    “ Duty calls,” I said,
gesturing toward them.
    Looking painfully confused, Fenton stood up
and walked out without saying another word.

    * * * * *

    After cursory introductions, Wilda Lassiter
took a seat across from me.
    “ That’s an interesting
first name,” I said, just to put her at ease, “Is it short for
anything?”
    I’m no detective, though I’ve secretly
harbored the desire to be one for as long as I can remember.
Probably how I came to work in this particular field of research.
My job entails more than just fact-gathering and verification. I
have to decide which of the many people I meet are good candidates
for on-screen interviews, and who’s going to take a seat beneath
the glaring lights, get one look at the camera rolling, and freeze.
Conversely, I need to determine which of my interviewees are going
to see this as a shot at their fifteen minutes of fame and try to
upstage Gabriela. She hates when that happens.
    As do I, actually. Ham interviews are
generally not audience-pleasers. But good-looking people who
genuinely break down during the telling of their tale of woe, are.
Wilda Lassiter, a dark blonde, dressed in at least five shades