CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Embedded
The Hollywood Beat office was in Beverly Hills, on a quiet street off Santa Monica Boulevard. The traffic surrounding it was horrifying at all times of day, so I usually worked from home and went in only when I had to. Today was one of those days. Jackie had asked me to come into the office so we could “go over some things.” I suspected that meant I was going to get a lecture. Smoothing things over with her wouldn’t be as easy as it had been with Nick.
The white, three-story building that housed our office wasn’t tightly secured. Its cold, marble lobby had a single security guard station. The guard on duty was one I recognized, though I didn’t know his name. He gave me a nod as I passed by on my way to the bank of elevators beyond. Jackie had a corner office on the third floor. I could probably have walked up but people tended to linger and smoke (illegally) in the stairwell and I didn’t feel like dealing with anyone today.
As executive editor of the site, Jackie was technically the boss of my boss. But she was very hands-on, and the editor I reported to was based in New York so I hardly ever saw him. Most of the site’s writers worked from home like I did, but the senior editorial staff had desks in the row of offices next to Jackie’s. The remainder of the floor was a hive of cubicles filled with worker bees from ad sales, marketing, and web development. I had a cubicle of my own in there somewhere too, though it had become a dumping ground for spare office supplies and peripherals. I didn’t mind.
Jackie was in her office, behind a desk strewn with clutter and stacks of paper. The mess somehow clashed with the faint scent of high-end perfume in the air. She was caught up in something on her computer monitor, scrutinizing the screen as if it had offended her. A second later she pounded out a response on the keyboard, the shiny baubles on her fingers bouncing up and down like tiny beach balls. She had a habit of mouthing the words as she typed, and from what I could tell the exchange had nothing to do with me. I knew from experience it was better to let her complete her train of thought before announcing myself, so I hovered there in the doorway and waited for her to acknowledge me.
As soon as there was a break in her concentration I cleared my throat. She looked up and noticed me at the door. “Kate, come in. Shut the door.”
A closed-door meeting. Not a good sign. I did as she asked and took a seat in one of the guest chairs facing her desk. No nonsense as always, she got right to the point. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to come in today.” I nodded, though I didn’t know specifically. It could have been any number of things. She continued, “I need to know I can count on you, Kate. If I give you a deadline, I expect you to meet it.”
“Technically, I didn’t actually miss the deadline. You said by the end of the day . . .” I trailed off, gauging her reaction. She looked at me like a teacher who’d heard the old “dog ate my homework” line one too many times. I took on a more conciliatory tone. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was waiting on a source. That’s not an excuse, just an explanation. I should have called.”
“Yes, you should have,” she said, folding her elbows on the desk. “Lucky for you, we’re getting lots of traffic on your post.”
“Well, that’s good right?” The tightness in my shoulders eased a bit.
“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” she said. I tensed right back up again. “If you’re having a problem with a story, you need to let me know. We can always work something out. I can extend the deadline, get you help, whatever you need. But I can’t do anything if you avoid me.”
“I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Her computer screen blinked, a new message arriving. Her eyes went to the screen and I could sense her focus shifting as I became background noise. Her fingers crafted a swift response — I caught a few ad sales terms like “inventory,” “sell-through,” and “make good” on her lips — then she faced me again.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” she said, extending a ringed index finger. “Someone’s been shopping around some big Nick Archer story. Someone with a vendetta. I don’t know the details, but it’s personal and juicy. They’re only going to long leads, so we have some time to get ahead of it. If we work quickly we can beat them to the punch and get the scoop online before they hit the newsstands.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, an uneasy feeling growing in my gut.
“You know his reputation. He’s notoriously hard to pin down. But you are my secret weapon. I’ll give you the weekend. Pitch me an article — I’m thinking a thousand to twelve-hundred words — with some actual Nick Archer quotes by Tuesday and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“Um. About that . . .” I swallowed hard and breathed out, preparing myself for what might possibly be career suicide. “I don’t think I should cover anything involving Nick for the site. At least, not right now. If there’s anything else you have for me I swear I’ll knock it out of the park. I’ll work day and night. I even have some of my own ideas I could pitch to you.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with whatever’s going on between you two, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s bigger than some temporary fling. It’s something from his past.” I bristled at her characterization of my relationship with Nick, but at least we were beyond pretense now. All cards on the table.
“It’s not just that,” I said. “Reporting on him makes me uncomfortable. It puts a strain on our relationship. It’s a conflict of interest. Do you need more reasons?”
“You left one out.” She rested her hands under her chin and tilted her head, as if her meaning should have been clear. “You’re afraid this piece is the beginning of a slippery slope, and eventually your only asset as a writer will be the connection to your one celebrity source.”
“That too,” I admitted, pointing in the air for emphasis.
“I won’t deny it. Your relationship does make you more valuable to me. I mean, you’re a good writer but you’re not that good. You see that stack of papers back there?”—she thumbed over her shoulder at the stacked credenza behind her desk—“Resumes and writing samples. I print out every halfway decent one that comes to my inbox. Do you know why?”
“No,” I answered, though I suspected the question was rhetorical.
“To remind me everyone is replaceable. Trust me, for every writer on this staff there are ten freelancers out there who can turn around decent copy just as fast. Only they’re hungrier and willing do anything to make me happy. And you don’t want to use your connections to get ahead? Don’t be naive, Kate. This business is all about who you know. I can’t be the first person to tell you that.”
“So it’s this story or nothing? I don’t get a choice?”
“You want to write about something besides your famous boyfriend? Make other connections. Cultivate some inside sources. Build up a rolodex. Are you even old enough to know what that is? Whatever. Your talent as a writer isn’t what makes you valuable in this town, it’s your contact list. Words are cheaper than ever. Access is the real commodity.”
It was hard to argue with Jackie. That’s how she’d gotten as far as she had. Few people knew the business better. But there was another, far better, reason for taking on the assignment — I might be able to help Nick. If someone was digging into his past, it was better he knew in advance.
“All right,” I told her. “I’ll do it.”
“Hurrah,” she said with zero enthusiasm.
“Where do I start? Where did you get your information?”
“I’m not going to do your job for you. You want to be an investigative reporter? Go investigate.” She shooed me out of her office with a brush of her hands and went back to work without waiting for me to leave.
Jackie’s source didn’t matter. I already knew where I was going to start. It was time I had a talk with Adam.