No Tour Guides in Hell:
Chapter 12
Hollywood Bound

The bright morning sunlight pressed through the blinds. Hallie woke up, wondering who she might find lying next to her. Nobody, thank God. It must have been the Magic Fingers bed and remnants of a dream.

She sighed, knowing that the dreaded call to her mother was the first thing on her agenda.

What a way to start the day. Why don’t I just shoot myself and get it over with?

She dialed a brief snippet of Proud Mary on the phone and waited for her mother’s squawk on the other end.

“Yallow?” Rita Ruben was every daughter’s nightmare.

“Yallow to you, too,” Hallie was embarrassed to think this poor neurotic woman was the source of half of her genes. It wasn’t very comforting. Even though she loved her mother, Hallie lived in fear of becoming just like her. The dowager embroidered every ache and pain, pawed every inch of skin for the slightest discoloration, and then hung her problems out for the world to see like wash on a line.

“Oh, Hallie dear! I haven’t had a bowel movement in four days; I’m about to explode any minute! The pain is awful.”

“Yes, Mom. I know, but . . .” Hallie interjected.

“I’ve got a call in to Dr. Goldstein. I can’t stay on the phone. I might be dying,” Mother Ruben continued shouting into the mouthpiece, one hand pressed against the pounding artery in the flesh of her generous neck. “I’ve still got a pulse, but it’s getting weaker. Ahhh—I’m hanging on by a thread!”

“Yes, the pain must be unbearable.” Hallie knew this diatribe by heart. You interrupted at your peril. “Ma, can you watch the girls for a few more days?”

“Honey, are you eating?” Rita’s impending demise was interrupted. “Has your weight gone up? You know, I have this blood clot in my bad leg. I can’t walk more than two feet, and I must sit down. The girls are fine. They miss their mother. Enough already, Hallie June Ruben.”

“Mom, I think father . . .” but she was not allowed to finish that thought either.

“And that’s another thing; your lousy father doesn’t help. Levi says I’m bat-shit crazy. He spends all his time at meetings of the Moose old-timers. Mrs. Kaufmann next door, you know, the one with hemorrhoids? She says I should leave him already. I’ve got this black spot on my lip; it could be cancer.”

“Mom, please listen. The station sent me on a real assignment. I feel good about this one.”

“Hallie, what you need is a husband. Goldie Weisenberg has a son—Harvard, lots of money, a good family,” Rita finished her sales pitch.

“I’ve got to go.” Hallie fought the urge to toss the phone into the trash. “Call me on my cell if there’s an emergency.”

“His name is Franklin. Drives a nice little sports car. Of course, with the girls, you would need a minivan. . .”

“Oh mother, never mind.” Hallie wanted to share her big moment with someone she loved, but Rita Ruben was determined to be a matchmaker. God forbid Hallie should end up single for the rest of her life. Rita kept rambling about the man’s prospects. It was too much for Hallie on an empty stomach.

She slammed the phone into its cradle. Her mother’s voice was still audible. Rita spent most of her life dwelling on death’s brink. It was always some disease just mentioned on the Morning Show. The ailment-of-the-week is what her father called it. She had melanoma one day, an aneurysm the next. Always deadly. Anything with pus was considered a bonus.

Hallie looked in the mirror and saw a younger version of Rita. She changed her gloomy expression to a smile, and like a fuzzy caterpillar turning into a monarch butterfly, she looked almost beautiful. She wore a navy blazer over a calico shirt and indigo jeans. Not precisely the haute couture of news anchor standards, but it would do.

She was surprised by the phone.

“Miss Ruben? This is the front desk. I’ll need to charge another day to your credit card if you don’t check out within five minutes.”

“You go ahead and try, Mack. I can tell you right now that maxed-out plastic will catch fire if you even hint at the price of a morning paper. Anyway, I’m leaving now. Thanks a lot for taking the time to . . . blah, blah, blah!”

The phone clicked off in her ear. Just another irritating, underpaid minion told to stay on the straight and narrow. She gathered her gear. Her car would serve as a mobile condo until she could find a hole-in-the-wall dive.

Hallie’s puke-green auto finally groaned to life after two backfires that sent bursts of black soot into the August morning. She was easing out of the parking space when someone knocked on the passenger-side window. She nearly fainted at the sight of the smart-ass intern, Martin Fishbein, hanging onto the door handle for dear life. She resisted the urge to accelerate. With a sigh, she released the power locks. He slid into the seat beside her, with cameras clanking from each shoulder.

“Marlin! So nice of you to join me,” Hallie gushed. “I suppose you’re pretty used to chasing cars, huh?”

“Jennifer Chambers is looking for you. She says you must send the feed directly to her. She’ll enhance it a little, add some color to your piece. She’s even offered to lend you her camera crew.”

“And you’re telling me this for what reason?” Hallie Ruben was no rube. She saw the pubescent turd was all lathered up about something.

“Give me a chance to do the video, and I won’t tell her where you are.” Martin beamed as if he’d just pulled off a Brink’s heist.

“Dead men tell no tales. Besides, that bitch would probably have the technicians cut my entire body out of the shot and insert hers.”

“Not a chance. It would leave too much empty space.”

“Open your mouth one more time and you can do a half-gainer out the side window.” She spat this out through clenched teeth, and the teen knew she meant it. “Besides, Barney Deters said I’m the only one the media can get info and updates from on this dead child case. I’m Queen of the World.”

She pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Cedar Creek. As she drove, she reflected on the potential career benefits that being the press pool representative for a significant case could offer.

“You know, Marlin,” Hallie saw no harm in bouncing ideas off the delinquent camera jockey. “It’s damned odd, Chief Deters picking me, a nobody, to represent the press on such a big case.”

“I didn’t think so.” Martin fiddled with his camera, avoiding her watchful eye. “He picked you because you aren’t a player.”

“A player? You, who probably thinks tiramisu is made with Hostess Twinkies and Hershey syrup, imply that I’m not a player?”

“Yeah. It’s obvious,” he said. “Either that or he has the hots for you.”

When Hallie stopped laughing, she punched him in the arm, and his shiny new camera fell to the car floor.

“Hey! Watch it! I mean it. He picked you because you stood out. You’re different, not your usual well-polished jerk.”

“Marlin, my boy, don’t you think you’re a little different?”

“Course I am. That’s the way I like it. Chief Deters picked you because you weren’t part of the knot of reporters sniffing for blood. He figures you’re new to the game, and he can control you. Or he wants to have a grab at you. Old men do that, you know.”

“Oh, really? Well, I suppose that makes some convoluted sense. You might have a point there. I get an up-close and personal look at a murder investigation, and he finds a reporter he might trust. Or a date. Let’s hope it’s not the latter, Marlin. I’m not into that Viagra crowd. Don’t you think that other detective is rakishly handsome in a down-home sort of way?”

“Bradford?” Martin said, recognizing who she meant. “Or maybe that young stud.”

“Hank Bradford,” Hallie said, loving the sound of his name. “He’s simply what a real man looks like.”

“Women,” Martin grumbled.

They arrived in Cedar Creek and drove past the charming houses with neatly kept lawns lining Main Street. She parked at Dell’s Shop-N-Save, next to the police station, and went inside. Martin followed her like a loyal pup.

As they stepped through the front door, Sheila looked up. Hallie offered a cheerful smile. Martin was already lost in thought, examining his camera and contemplating fame and fortune.

Barney Deters arrived, followed by Hank Bradford and the young officer from the scene of the crime.

“Say, glad you’re here, young lady. I’d like you to meet Steve Brooks. He’s a little pale right now because he just watched his first autopsy. Who’s the teenager drooling over his fancy camera?”

“Nice to meet you, Steve. That’s Martin, an intern at my station. He’s my camera crew, so to speak. He’s harmless.”

Hallie followed the men into the Chief’s office. Barney plopped down in a chair, and everyone followed suit.

“We’re going back out to the scene.” Hank got right down to business. “We’ll scour at least a fifty-foot radius and see what we can turn up. We may have to increase that to a couple of acres. We also need to sift all the dirt at the burn barrel site.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Barney wheezed. “Steve, I want you to check every missing kid within a 500-mile radius. Let’s see if we can identify this poor child,” Barney yelled, as if he thought they were all deaf. Reaching into his top drawer, the Chief pulled out a bag of cheese curls. He didn’t bother to share. He dove in and started munching.

“Are you going to share, Deters?” Hank reached for the bag, but Barney ignored him.

“We need to get a few things straight,” he said, aiming this at Hallie. His chin was growing a cheese crumb thatch. “Are you able to keep anything you hear under your hat until we tell you exactly what we want released?”

“Sure, whatever you say,” she eagerly nodded.

“You’re going to be under a lot of pressure to produce some breaking news for your station. It could make or break our case if something important is released inadvertently.” Barney eyed her with skepticism. “Quid pro quo, we can help each other. We’re going to need some information disseminated. And you want to make it to the big time. Are you in or out?”

“In, of course.” She met his gaze. “I want this monster behind bars. You can count on me.”

“You’ll hear from famous people. They’ll flatter you and do almost anything to get a scoop,” Barney warned her. “It won’t win you any friends, and it might make you a few new enemies.”

“I can handle it.” Hallie thought this was going to be a cakewalk. “What about my cameraman? Martin is unseasoned. I’ve found him useful, and he responds to threats of bodily harm.”

“Lose him.” Barney grabbed the bag of cheese curls and headed for the door.

Feeling a bit bored, Martin Fishbein was filming the office.

“Sheila,” Barney hollered. “Don’t you have work to do?”

The woman slunk away, and Martin dropped his camera to his side.

“Marlin, go back to the station,” Hallie ordered authoritatively. “And stay away from the interlopers. That’s an important assignment, son.”

“What’s that?” he asked, with the camera hanging uselessly from its strap.

“Seriously, go back to the station and don’t say a word to anyone. One peep, and I won’t call you back here.”

Barney choked on a cheese curl.

“How will I get back?” Martin looked discouraged.

“Call Chambers. Tell her you have a choice package,” Hallie advised. The officers were leaving; she turned to follow them.

“You said choice package? What’s that?”

“If you’re going to work in the broadcasting industry, you need to know the lingo. It’s a finished story. Ready for airing.”

“I don’t have a package, Miss Ruben. I just took some close-up shots of this office,” Martin admitted.

“Don’t worry, Marlin. They won’t fire you. Crap, they don’t even pay you. If they hadn’t pawned you off on me, you’d be fetching coffee.”

Martin wasn’t reassured.

“Hank—you take Miss Ruben with you,” Barney ordered. “Go the back way. And use the hard road.”

“No one calls pavement a hard road anymore, Barn.”

But Barney, already out of earshot, grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him toward the cruiser.

“Will those reporters follow us?” Hallie whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Hank asked in a normal tone.

“Hank, they have microphones that can pick up conversations from a great distance. I was trying to be discreet.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll follow Barney. He leaves a trail of cheese curls wherever he goes.”

They laughed, momentarily forgetting the small child lying dead on a cold metal tray.

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