. . . A member of the Sarasota SWAT team walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.
Serge answered and raised eyebrows in joy. “Pizza’s here! . . . Which one’s laced with drugs? Don’t want to dose myself.”
“I marked it for you,” said the black-helmeted officer.
“Thanks.” Serge closed the door. “Soup’s on!” He opened two cardboard boxes at the counter. One of the pizzas had a toothpick with a little flag: Phenobarbital. Serge and Coleman dug in. “Get over here, Rog! You must be famished!”
Florida Cable News
A black SUV sat on the shoulder of Highway A1A in Dania Beach. Surf crashed in the night as a stiff onshore breeze ruffled palm fronds and blew an Almond Joy wrapper through the grass. Reevis compulsively chased down the litter and stuck it in his pocket.
Günter Klieglyte strapped on his battery belt as Nigel leaned against the fender. “There it is.”
“Where?” asked Reevis.
Nigel nodded toward a place across the dark street.
Reevis looked at one of the mom-and-pop motels along the beach still proudly run by the original owner. It showed. Landscaping well tended, and all the azaleas, crotons and hibiscus remained trimmed to uniform height. Even the paint job was fresh; not a flake or peeling chip anywhere in the latest coat of Creamsicle orange. All the neon letters still worked in a sign that spelled Octopus Arms.
Günter hoisted the camera to his shoulder. “All set.”
Nigel faced Reevis and tightly interlaced his fingers like he was pulling for a sports team to come through on the final play. “Here’s the big shot of the show! This is the quaint little motel that the victim and her husband managed at the time she went missing. The husband still operates the place, so here’s what we need: Günter will walk beside you filming a tracking shot as you approach the office, saying, ‘The entire cold case revolves around this unassuming tropical inn. She might have even been murdered on these very grounds. And the heartbroken husband is still keeping his wife’s memory alive by keeping the place open. Or is he actually hiding something? I’m going inside to see if he’ll talk and shed some light on this macabre riddle.’ . . . Got it?”
“All but the part about ‘hiding something,’” replied Reevis. “I’m not going to say that.”
“Why not?”
Reevis counted off on his fingers. “Because it’s not true. Because the poor guy lost a wife. Because the short-order cook probably did it.”
“No time to discuss this right now.” Nigel looked nervously at his Rolex. “We’re on a super-tight schedule!”
“Tight?” said Reevis. “It’s a four-year-old cold case.”
Nigel shook his head. “There’s a rival reality show on the west coast about to break a case almost identical to this one on Anna Maria Island.”
“Rival?” asked Reevis.
“Total frauds. Their whole gimmick is accuracy. We’ve crossed paths too many times to count. And not far behind them are the Australians.”
“Australians?”
“That’s why speed is of the essence,” said Nigel.
“I still won’t do it,” said Reevis.
“Okay, fine, you don’t have to mention him hiding anything.” Nigel turned to Günter with a pragmatic expression. “We’ll B-roll it with over-dub.”
“B-roll?” asked the reporter.
“That’s when we shoot atmospheric footage without the talent present and voice in things they haven’t said.”
Günter focused the camera. “B-rolls cure a multitude of sins.”
“Reevis, you ready?”
“Give me a moment.” Reevis unfolded a sheet of paper with a series of questions.
“You can put that away,” said Nigel.
“Why?”
“Because as soon as you enter the office, we’ll come flying in behind you with the camera, demanding to know why he won’t answer your questions until he throws us out.”
“Maybe we could try a softer entrance?” said Reevis. “We can’t be sure he won’t answer my questions.”
“Actually we can,” said Nigel. “I called earlier to tell him we were coming over to find out what incriminating evidence he was trying to hide. He acted like a jerk.”
Reevis’s head fell. “Please refrain from contacting my interview subjects. I do this for a living, and first impressions are critical, especially with the reluctant ones. It takes a certain touch . . .”
“And that’s why you’re perfect for this show!” said Nigel. “We saw your touch the other day in the Sawgrass Lounge. We called ahead there as well, but then you went inside and worked your magic. It was quite an amazing thing to watch.”
“So why not let me try again with the husband?” asked Reevis.
Nigel shook his head. “Your approach worked so well at the Sawgrass that our drastic measures to get thrown out got our camera destroyed, so we need to get thrown out here. Deadline, you understand.”
“You’re joking with me now, right?”
Nigel formed a slightly pained countenance. “We didn’t exactly capture a sense of danger at that lounge.”
“I got a tremendous sense of danger,” said Reevis. “That’s why I handled it the way I did.”
“Maybe if we started going to bars like that at night.”
Reevis stood dazed and looked across the street at the modest motel. “One question—as I walk toward the office, you want me to say that I’d like to get some answers from the husband?”
“That’s right.”
“But we really don’t want answers. We want to be thrown out?”
“Right again.”
In the writing of novels, they call it metafiction, where someone breaks character and addresses the audience. Reevis thoughtfully paused and stared off the page of a book at the reader: “If you didn’t know this conversation actually happened in Florida, you never would have believed it.” . . . Then, back into his role . . .
“I can’t go through with this,” Reevis mumbled to himself as he reluctantly crossed the street toward the motel. “I have to think of something.”
“Your lines?” said Nigel.
“Wait, look,” said Reevis. “There’s a sign in the office window.” It said the manager was temporarily away and to call an emergency number if needed. Relief. Saved by the bell.
“Shoot,” said Nigel. “Okay, here’s what we do. Reevis, stand over here and say, ‘The grounds of this motel are quite intimate, and we couldn’t help but feel that we were being watched the entire time we were here, and the husband was deliberately staying away from the office to avoid our questions.”
Reevis glanced off the book’s page again at the reader—“Yep”—then faced Nigel. “Are you going to indemnify me for slander?”
“What do you mean?”
“He could be at the store getting milk.”
“We don’t know he’s not avoiding us.”
“That’s your ethical standard?”
They continued hashing it out on the side of A1A as an ominous black SUV came up the road and parked across the street without their noticing. Meanwhile, a sign was taken down in the motel office window. “Look!” Günter pointed at the motel. “The owner’s back!”
“Reevis! Hurry!” said Nigel. “Before he leaves again!”
The reporter remained still. “Are you going to behave?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Nigel shoved him in the back. “Do your thing!”
“All right, but I’m calling it off the second you pull any stunts.”
“Sure! Go!”
Reevis approached the office and went inside. The man behind the counter smiled warmly. “How can I help you?”