The set on the right side of the room is a desk arrangement that looks like most TV broadcast newsrooms. There are modernistic touches here, too, in the angles and overall design, but its effect is less extreme than the conversational set. The real attention getter for the desk set is the giant blue screen on the wall behind it.
Clearly any design sense stops with the sets because the rest of the room is all business: towering ceilings, overhead catwalks, cords snaking every which way across the floor, klieg lights hanging and standing everywhere, and of course, the cameras.
About a dozen or so people are milling about the room, some wearing headphones, some carrying clipboards, some just standing around watching. At the news desk set there is a perfectly coiffed brunette who looks to be about a size zero getting some final makeup touches while she practices reading from a teleprompter. So far every woman I’ve met here is tiny, petite, and attractive. I’m starting to feel like an ostrich in the songbird cage at the zoo.
“Doesn’t anyone in this business ever eat?” I mutter under my breath, though Sheila hears me.
She looks up at me with a patient, patronizing smile and eyes me from head to toe. “We can’t all afford the luxury of daily indulgence,” she says.
“Trust me, I don’t indulge daily,” I tell her. And it’s true. I manage to miss a few days here and there. “If I did, I’d be huge.”
The exaggeratedly embarrassed look she gives me suggests that I’ve already reached that plateau and just don’t know it yet. “Our viewing public demands the very best when it comes to beauty and fitness,” she says. “We try to maintain the highest of standards. Plus, those cameras do add a few pounds, you know.”
Based on the pictures I’ve seen of myself recently, I’m hoping it’s more than a few.
Sheila nods toward the skinny anchorwoman and says, “That’s Tasha Lansing, Callie’s replacement. She probably knew Callie as well as anyone since she worked both as her assistant and her relief anchor.”
“Was there any competition between them?” I ask, scribbling notes in my pad.
Sheila doesn’t answer right away. Instead she narrows her eyes at Tasha while brandishing a tight, thin smile. “I suppose there was a little,” she says finally. “Tasha has always been a very ambitious person. But it wasn’t cutthroat or anything like that. Everyone here knew that Callie was Ackerman’s pet project.”
“Ackerman,” I repeat. “He’s the executive producer, right?”
Sheila nods.
“Is he here?”
“I think he’s in his office,” she says. She is still watching Tasha but I notice a subtle shift in both her expression and her tone with the mention of Ackerman.
“Do you know what story Callie was working on when she was killed?”
Sheila finally tears her gaze away from Tasha and stares at me instead, looking as if she is surprised by the question. “I have no idea,” she says. “No one here does. I’ve asked. In fact, I’m not even sure she was working on a story. For all I know she was traveling up north for personal reasons.”
“Did she ever pursue stories on her own?”
Sheila shrugs. “Sometimes she would research things and then bring them to us, but Mike and I always have the final say on what does or doesn’t get aired. The only stories we’ve had her working on recently was an investigation into a local daycare center that had some abuse complaints filed against it, and a follow-up with some of the survivors from that train accident last year.”
“Did either of those stories have any connections in Wisconsin?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Great, a dead end. Sensing that I’m not going to get anything more out of Sheila, I shift my focus. “I’d like to talk to Tasha for a couple of minutes if that’s okay. Is she getting ready to go on the air?”
Sheila glances at her watch. “We have a segment we’re about to tape but I can give you five minutes.”
“That should be fine.”
Sheila walks up to the desk and speaks to Tasha, who glances at me over Sheila’s shoulder. Though I can’t hear what’s being said, Tasha nods, says something to Sheila, and then approaches me.
“Hi, I’m Tasha Lansing,” she says, extending a hand and wearing her on-the-air, two-hundred-watt smile. “Sheila said you are looking into Callie’s murder.”
“I am, yes. Do you have any idea why Callie was up in Wisconsin?”
“No,” she says, her eyes huge with innocence. “Frankly, it’s pretty rare for her to go anywhere without Jake.”
“Her son, you mean?”
She nods. “That boy is the love of her life.”
I note that Tasha is referring to Callie in the present tense and wonder if it’s significant. “So who did she leave him with when she headed up north?” I ask her, thinking perhaps this person might know more about Callie’s plans.
She shrugs. “Family I suppose.”
“By family do you mean a boyfriend, or husband? Was she living with anyone?”
“No, it’s always been just her and Jake. She does have a sister in the area, and her mom, though I gather their relationship is strained at times.”
“Is Jake’s father in the picture at all?”
Tasha shakes her head but her gaze slips away and I get a strong sense that what she’s about to say next will be something short of the truth. “Nobody knows who Jake’s father is,” she says. “Callie never talked about it.”
I recall the dynamic duo at the front desk telling me Jake is less than a year old, so I do a quick calculation in my head. Hurley said he and Callie split up a year and a half ago, which would have been right around the time she found out she was pregnant. Was that why she broke it off? Did Hurley know she had a kid? And could he be the father? Misty did say the kid had huge blue eyes.
Hoping to appeal to Tasha’s ego, I lean in close and whisper, “I’ve been told you worked very closely with Callie, that you were her protégée and main confidante.”
She shrugs dismissively and says, “I guess.” I can tell she is wary of my praise but also flattered by it so I pile it on a little more.
“I can see why they picked you to take over the main anchor role. You’ve got the beauty and the brains, and you seem to be a very keen observer. I’m guessing nothing much gets by you, does it?”
“I think I’m pretty perceptive,” she says.
“So help me out. Who do you think Jake’s father is?”
She starts to say something but then her gaze shifts over my shoulder and the high-wattage smile turns on. “Mr. Ackerman,” she says, practically cooing. “Have you met, um . . .” She hesitates and looks at me. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
“M—” I catch myself just as I’m about to blurt out my real name. I cough to give myself a moment to recover and then, as I’m turning around to greet the wise and powerful Mr. Ackerman, I say, “Ms. Taylor.”
It’s all I can manage to get out because I am dumbstruck by the sight before me. Mike Ackerman is as stunning an example of the male species as I’ve seen in a long time: tall, broad shouldered, square jawed, and gorgeous. His eyes are the color of an October sky and rimmed with thick, dark lashes; his hair is a rich chestnut brown with gold highlights. There is an adorable cleft in his chin, a deep dimple in each cheek, and a pair of sexy, biteme lips turned up into an inscrutable smile. It’s a combination I imagine could easily melt the pants off most women.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Taylor,” he says. His voice is mellifluous and sexy, but there is a hint of humor in his tone when he repeats my name, suggesting that he is amused by my formality. His attire is casuaclass="underline" khaki slacks and a plain, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. As he extends his hand toward me for a shake, I can’t help but notice the tanned and muscular forearm it’s attached to.