Fireproof

CHAPTER 18

“You didn’t tell me anything about a profile piece.”

Sam Ramirez paced the narrow space in the sound studio. Their feature on this morning’s fire had made the national circuit.

“Big Mac loves the idea,” Jeffery told her from his perch beside Abe Nadira, whose long fingers were playing the computer keyboards as smoothly as if they belonged to a musical instrument.

He was referring to Donald Malcolm, the bureau chief who had taken over programming when ratings dropped last year.

To Nadira, Jeffery said, “You can search and use footage from our affiliates, right?”

“Yes, I can. As well as any syndicated sources.”

“Jeffery, the feds are already going to be pissed I didn’t give them this morning’s film. Do you really want an FBI agent gunning for you?”

“She already has it bad for me, Sam. You saw her. She has a major hard-on for me.”

“No, somehow I missed that.”

Sam rubbed her hand over her face. She was tired. She wanted to go home. Her clothes and hair—hell, probably her skin, too—all reeked of smoke. Jeffery had showered and changed. He kept spare shirts and trousers in his locker, all of them immaculately pressed.

The man was a neat freak when it came to his appearance. Probably an occupational hazard from being in front of a camera. Even in third-world countries he managed to have creases in his trousers and gel in his short-cropped hair. In fact, she had been surprised this morning when he showed up with a brown stain on his shirt cuff. He’d shrugged when she pointed it out, but she saw him tuck it up into his jacket later.

Sam brushed at the grass and cinder stains on her jeans when she really wanted to peel them off and throw them in the washing machine. She shouldn’t have taken off her ball cap. Her unruly curls flew around her face, wild snakes of hair that smelled like burned toast. She wouldn’t blame Nadira if he threw her out of his editing studio, but Jeffery’s excitement could be contagious and Nadira had it bad. Though you’d never be able to tell. The man looked perpetually bored. His mouth remained a thin line. His knobby shaved head stayed put while his half-lidded eyes darted along from one computer monitor to the next in line, three rows of them, five screens in each row.

In fact, neither man noticed her presence despite her pacing behind their captain chairs. Their attention was focused on the computer images.

“By the way,” Jeffery said without looking at her, “good job on keeping the film. Even I didn’t see that coming.”

“I learn from the best.” Actually her mother would say that the Diablo was rubbing his evil off on her. “Ever since Afghanistan I keep a spare.”

Two years ago, when Jeffery managed to get them embedded with some U.S. troops, Sam shot some amazing footage of a tribal court carrying out justice on two of the village’s women, a mother and daughter. Their Afghan sponsors were not pleased. A huge argument started, and in the middle of the drama Sam sensed what was coming. Without anyone noticing, she inconspicuously switched out the footage in her camera with film she already had in her pocket. When one of the Afghan soldiers demanded the film, Sam opened the camera and grudgingly handed it over. She watched as he destroyed it, smashing it to bits with his rifle butt, right in front of them.

That footage ended up winning a feature for her and Jeffery, sweeping award after award but also winning the assurance that they could never return to Afghanistan.

“So what footage did Dudley Do-Right end up with?” Jeffery asked.

“I had extras made of that zoo feature we did last year.”

He swiveled back to grin up at her. “Lions and tigers and bears? Oh my. And what will you tell him when he comes knocking?”

“It was an honest mistake.” She shrugged, palms out, mimicking a gesture Jeffery recognized as one of his, and he nodded with a bigger grin. “You’re always telling me it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. I told you, I learn from the best.”

“Now you’re giving me a hard-on.” It was Jeffery’s highest compliment.

But he was already spinning back to the computer monitors.

“Why don’t you go on home for a few hours, Sam?”

“You sure?”

“Yes, you deserve it. You did good. We don’t have anything until the documentary interview later.”

When she still didn’t make a move he waved his hand over his shoulder. “Go. Get a shower. You don’t want to smell worse than the prison inmates. Take a nap for all I care.”

“Okay, I will.”

She could use the break. Jeffery had woken her shortly after midnight. She had gotten only an hour of sleep. She was starting to feel it, but Jeffery hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had and the man looked energized.

Sam could see his latest obsession unfolding on the monitors. Like a dog with a bone, it was too late to tell him to let go of this one. But something told her this one wasn’t the same as his other obsessions. It could make or break his career. It was a waste of her time to say anything. She knew Jeffery Cole well enough to know he’d do whatever he wanted.

Sam started for the door before Jeffery could change his mind. She shook her head, glancing one last time as monitor after monitor began filling with different images of Agent Margaret O’Dell.