“And what makes you think Nate will talk to us?” I asked.
“He won’t if he thinks you’re a reporter. But you can find him eating lunch every day at Millie’s Tap Room on Culver Boulevard. He’s always there by one and sits at the bar. Right under the television. He talks a big game after a couple drinks.”
Her meaning was clear—Nate would be more forthcoming if he believed I was just an attractive woman in a bar. Perhaps someone sympathetic to his friend’s plight, who might believe that seventeen was just a few months shy of legal and not a horrific abuse of power.
I glanced around, the newsroom mostly empty during the lunch hour. Those who were there weren’t paying any attention to me. They had no idea I had Meg Williams on the phone—the woman who’d lit the fuse and then disappeared. Why had she done it? Had she really targeted Cory, or was there another reason, one I didn’t yet understand? I had a choice—I could wait and pass the message on to Frank, let him decide what—if anything—he wanted to do with Meg’s information, or I could take advantage of the opportunity in front of me. “We can look into Nate Burgess, but Ms. Williams, I’d love to talk to you. Name the place and I’ll be there.”
At the mention of her name, she hung up.
I lowered the phone slowly, thinking. This could be a big score for me—the interview with Nate Burgess that had been eluding Frank. I could deliver new and shocking revelations about other victims. Provide details about how Cory found them. And maybe, while I was there, I could get Nate to tell me something about Meg, flesh her out enough so that I could pitch that story again and get a different answer.
Ten minutes later, Frank returned from lunch. “Any calls?”
“Nope,” I said.
***
My mother was always telling me to think like a man. Grab opportunities like a man. Which was why, three days later, I entered Millie’s Tap Room and sat where Meg told me to, a copy of the LA Times opened to another story about Cory Dempsey.
The dim lighting, sticky floor, and neon beer signs on the wall contrasted with the high-end beer on tap and top-shelf liquor. A late lunch crowd dotted the place, and my knee jiggled as I checked my watch. In less than two hours, Frank wanted me over at the high school to follow up with the teacher who’d mentored Cory. I’d be out of a job if I couldn’t get Nate to tell me something that would justify my presence here.
But Nate entered right on schedule, sliding onto the stool next to mine. Up close, I was struck by his fading good looks—reddish-brown hair flecked with gray and a rakish smile that appeared to be professionally whitened. His gaze slid over the paper I’d positioned on the bar, snagging for just a fraction of a second on Cory’s name.
“The usual,” he said to the bartender, who nodded and put in his order with the cook before pouring him a tumbler of whiskey.
“What’s good here?” I asked.
He turned, taking in the different parts of me like a buffet. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”
I pointed to his whiskey and said to the bartender, “I’ll take one of those please. And a plate of fries.”
“I would have gone with the onion rings, but you do you.”
I gave him a flirty smile, reveling in the fun of it all. The chase, the contact. The fact that he didn’t know who I was or what I wanted from him.
He gestured toward the paper, a small thumbnail photo of Cory next to the headline “High School Principal Pleads Not Guilty,” Frank’s latest piece. “Some light lunchtime reading?”
I looked embarrassed, as if I’d been caught. “True confession, I’m kind of obsessed with this story. I’ve read every newspaper article and blog about it.”
“Yeah, well. The media loves a circus, and people love to read about it.”