Sort of like Brooks had done with me. Huh.
This was hardly my first “stake-out” for a story. But I’ll be the first to admit, I wasn’t great at them, mostly because everything I knew about stakeouts I got from TV. Basically you sit in your car and eat (check), you watch a car or house or business for hours (check), and at some really inopportune moment, the perp shows up and you have to scramble so hard to catch them, you spill gyro meat all over your front seat. My car was newish and I liked the way it smelled—which was to say, it didn’t smell. Hence, tidy Twizzlers.
I was so lost in my own thoughts—about Buffalo Grove, about toasters, about blue eyes—I almost missed a blur of movement in the mirror. The Twizzler I’d been chewing on dropped into my lap. Paulie Henderson was high fiving his bros goodbye and getting into his Jeep. I had only moments to catch him before he left.
I flung open the door, prepared to run across the street calling Paulie’s name.
Except my seatbelt was still on.
I fumbled with the release, and tumbled out just in time to see Paulie’s driver’s side door close. I was going to miss him.
I dove back into my car and threw my seatbelt back around me, prepared to follow Paulie to his next destination. But before I could back out of my parking space, I saw movement in my rearview mirror again. Someone was standing at my back window, waving at me.
Brooks.
“You have got to be kidding me! Not a good time, Brooks!” I made shooing motions with my hands, but he only gave me quizzical looks, turning his palms up and mouthing that he didn’t understand what I was getting at. Meanwhile, Paulie’s Jeep sped away and turned the corner. I released the seatbelt and got out.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, coming around to the side of the car. “Were you trying to leave? I hope you weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.”
“Yes! Yes, I was going somewhere in a hurry.” I finally registered the knowing smirk that had spread across his face. “You were doing it on purpose. Of course you were.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He grasped his chest. “I’m hurt that you think I’m lying.”
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
“Okay, then I’m hurt that you’re not wowed by my acting skills. I’ll have you know I’m working on a very important play. It’s inspired by Shakespeare.” He raised one palm and looked to the sky dramatically. “To harass the chief’s son…or not to harass the chief’s son…that is the question. And the answer is to not.” He turned back to me, one eyebrow raised. “You like it?”
“No. And I’m not harassing anyone.”
“What do you call staking out someone with the intention of interrogating them?”
It dawned on me that, while he was describing exactly what I was doing, wasn’t he also staking me out? It sure felt like he was. I crossed my arms. “I call it reporting. Besides, you’re harassing me, have you ever thought about that?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“I can protect myself, thank you very much. I’m not scared of Paulie Henderson. Do you think I survived life in Chicago by accident?” Actually, I’d sometimes survived by walking a very mean-looking creampuff bulldog named Tink, whose greatest threat to this world was a very wet doggy kiss to the face. “I dare someone to take me on. I’m trained in self-defense, you know.” I wasn’t. But I probably should have been. I made a mental note to look into that. Who knew where my new podcast would take me?
“I’m protecting you from you.” He took a step closer to me and lowered his voice. “The chief is onto you. He knows you’re targeting Paulie, and he doesn’t like it.”
“So? Journalism never sleeps. We have an obligation to tell the truth. And if Paulie is the truth, so be it.”
I could smell his aftershave. It was lemony and spicy and masculine and nice. And it seriously irritated me that I noticed.
He was whispering, so I had to lean in. My head was almost touching his cheek at this point. “I’m trying to keep you out of something you shouldn’t be in. The chief wants to solve this case himself.”
“You mean he wants to keep his son out of jail.”
“No, that’s not what I sai—”
“Wait a minute, I thought he was convinced this wasn’t murder. He has us reporting that the coach died of natural causes.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to let the killer know what evidence we have.”
This got my attention. I forgot all about being frustrated for a second. “You have evidence? What kind of evidence?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I’ll tell you my evidence if you tell me yours.” This seemed like a safe trade, given that I had almost nothing.
He clamped his mouth shut and looked around the parking lot, uncomfortable. I could tell he felt torn. I telepathically willed him to just play along.
“Grab a burger with me,” he said.
Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
“Excuse me?”
“Go to the FastNHotz with me for a burger.”
I was enraged. Indignant. Kind of butterfly-ish in my stomach. But in an enraged and indignant way. It was a supremely enraged and indignant butterfly. “I don’t think so.”
He rolled his eyes and spoke slowly and patiently, as if he was explaining something to a two-year-old. “Grab a burger with me, and we can talk.”
“Uh-huh. Grab a burger with you, and you find out everything I know and then proceed to continue keeping me off Paulie’s back. Besides, it’s four o’clock.”
He shrugged. “Call it an early dinner, then.”
“I had
