Read Online The Gray Zone by Daphna Edwards Ziman - Free Book Online
Authors: Daphna Edwards Ziman
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Suzanne, he knew that his frustration with the investigation needed to be played carefully. “You meant a lot to him,” Jake said. “Your support meant a hell of a lot.” He accelerated out of the intersection when the light turned green. “He’d have wanted you at the funeral.”
“I’ll be there,” drawled Carlen. “I’ve been talking with Suzie. But you let me know if you need anything else. You hear about anything you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I appreciate it,” said Jake. “See you in LA.”
“Oh, one other thing,” pressed Carlen. “I have an associate who’s starting out in TV. She’s doing a feature about Garrett and says you folks aren’t getting back to her. I know it’s a busy time, but I’d be much obliged if you could call her, give her a few minutes of your time.”
Out of habit, Jake said, “Of course. Have her call me,” forgetting that his need for men like Carlen was now virtually nil. It was the sort of favor Porter used to do routinely without complaining. But now that Porter didn’t need them, Jake didn’t need them.
The phone rang again almost as soon as Jake hung up. Carlen’s “associate” introduced herself and begged Jake to come down to the station. Jake cursed to himself for having promised Carlen he’d help out, but agreed to do it.
* * *
The “station” turned out to be the student TV station in the basement of the Theater Arts Department of Las Vegas Community College.
The collection of rooms at the student TV station smelled like a wet dog. The furniture looked as though it had been donated by a homeless shelter: tattered couches in 1970s orange and brown lined a long hallway, their cushions long ago worn shapeless, the varnish rubbed off their wooden arms. Undergraduates were draped across them in assorted stages of sleep and wakefulness, tattoos blossoming across various exposed body parts. The walls were lined with cheaply framed posters of news shows and radio plays.
Jake saw a student heading down the hallway toward him. Purple corduroy jeans hung from her slender hips; a vintage black Kiss T-shirt rode just high enough to offer a juicy slice of her flat belly. Her eyes flickered with recognition.
“Jake Brooks? Well, welcome to our lair. All hell has just broken loose in what the diehards here call the newsroom. Logan asked me to apologize and tell you she’ll be here ‘shortly.’” The girl drew air quotes around the word. “You can wait in here.”
Jake followed her to a dingy room with fluorescent lights and a peeling Formica table. The smell of scorched coffee rose from the belching drip machine in the corner. On the counter sat a plastic dish next to a note card with the words COFFEE—50 CENTS/CUP. ON YOUR HONOR written on it in blue Sharpie.
The girl smiled. “Cup of coffee?”
Jake shrugged and tossed a five-dollar bill into the plastic dish. “Make it a double.”
“Big spender. Look out.” She poured the thick black fluid into a Styrofoam cup and gave it to Jake. She held out her other hand to shake his. “I’m Morgan. The engineer.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. Jake noticed narrow muscles roping up her forearms. She saw him notice. “Yoga. You ever try it?”
“I was doing downward dogs before you were in diapers. I gave it up—inner peace, all that crap. Just give me a few heavy things to lift every once in a while. The occasional horse to ride.”
Morgan smiled. “Studio’s through here,” she said, leading Jake into a room with two old armchairs facing each other in front of a tattered blue curtain. “I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to the window through which Jake could see a giant mixing board. “If you need anything.”
At that moment a tall, blonde woman rushed into the room. “Jake, this is Logan.” Morgan grinned.
The reporter also flashed her white teeth at Jake. The woman, clearly Carlen’s latest “girlfriend,” sat with Jake in front of the cameras and nervously
“I’ll be there,” drawled Carlen. “I’ve been talking with Suzie. But you let me know if you need anything else. You hear about anything you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I appreciate it,” said Jake. “See you in LA.”
“Oh, one other thing,” pressed Carlen. “I have an associate who’s starting out in TV. She’s doing a feature about Garrett and says you folks aren’t getting back to her. I know it’s a busy time, but I’d be much obliged if you could call her, give her a few minutes of your time.”
Out of habit, Jake said, “Of course. Have her call me,” forgetting that his need for men like Carlen was now virtually nil. It was the sort of favor Porter used to do routinely without complaining. But now that Porter didn’t need them, Jake didn’t need them.
The phone rang again almost as soon as Jake hung up. Carlen’s “associate” introduced herself and begged Jake to come down to the station. Jake cursed to himself for having promised Carlen he’d help out, but agreed to do it.
* * *
The “station” turned out to be the student TV station in the basement of the Theater Arts Department of Las Vegas Community College.
The collection of rooms at the student TV station smelled like a wet dog. The furniture looked as though it had been donated by a homeless shelter: tattered couches in 1970s orange and brown lined a long hallway, their cushions long ago worn shapeless, the varnish rubbed off their wooden arms. Undergraduates were draped across them in assorted stages of sleep and wakefulness, tattoos blossoming across various exposed body parts. The walls were lined with cheaply framed posters of news shows and radio plays.
Jake saw a student heading down the hallway toward him. Purple corduroy jeans hung from her slender hips; a vintage black Kiss T-shirt rode just high enough to offer a juicy slice of her flat belly. Her eyes flickered with recognition.
“Jake Brooks? Well, welcome to our lair. All hell has just broken loose in what the diehards here call the newsroom. Logan asked me to apologize and tell you she’ll be here ‘shortly.’” The girl drew air quotes around the word. “You can wait in here.”
Jake followed her to a dingy room with fluorescent lights and a peeling Formica table. The smell of scorched coffee rose from the belching drip machine in the corner. On the counter sat a plastic dish next to a note card with the words COFFEE—50 CENTS/CUP. ON YOUR HONOR written on it in blue Sharpie.
The girl smiled. “Cup of coffee?”
Jake shrugged and tossed a five-dollar bill into the plastic dish. “Make it a double.”
“Big spender. Look out.” She poured the thick black fluid into a Styrofoam cup and gave it to Jake. She held out her other hand to shake his. “I’m Morgan. The engineer.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. Jake noticed narrow muscles roping up her forearms. She saw him notice. “Yoga. You ever try it?”
“I was doing downward dogs before you were in diapers. I gave it up—inner peace, all that crap. Just give me a few heavy things to lift every once in a while. The occasional horse to ride.”
Morgan smiled. “Studio’s through here,” she said, leading Jake into a room with two old armchairs facing each other in front of a tattered blue curtain. “I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to the window through which Jake could see a giant mixing board. “If you need anything.”
At that moment a tall, blonde woman rushed into the room. “Jake, this is Logan.” Morgan grinned.
The reporter also flashed her white teeth at Jake. The woman, clearly Carlen’s latest “girlfriend,” sat with Jake in front of the cameras and nervously
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