The Accidental Joe, page 3
“I think we’re already there, Chef. Come on, let me handle this.”
“Why not me?”
She gained two inches in height to answer. “Because I’m going to do my producer job here. As your producer I think it’s a bad strategy for my host to engage with the police unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“I don’t have anything to hide.”
“We know that. But you never know how these things can turn. I’ll see that he gets the drive and your shirt and insulate you from getting your hands dirty. If Detective Tirard needs to follow up, he’ll know how to find you.” She held out her hands to take the load off me. “I am your producer. Let me produce.”
This. This was the hit-the-ground-running Cameron Nova who wowed me at her job interview.
What does a producer do on a show like Hangry Globe? Simply put, work miracles. Every logistical detail of mounting a global production is a feat. From travel arrangements to interview bookings to making sure there is electricity to charge camera batteries in the middle of a jungle, that and more falls to the producer to make it all happen. On schedule and without screwups.
Three weeks ago, my longtime producer Sheila imploded and checked herself into rehab. Good move for Sheila. For me? A mad scramble to find a replacement who could parachute in and keep us up and running. Sheila had already set up our coming episode in Laos, but I needed a kick-ass successor like yesterday. The network kept pushing someone I’d never heard of, Cameron Nova. As a man who famously does not give a rat’s ass about the network, I was not about to have one of their lackeys rammed down my gorge like some foie-gras duck. I told them no, that I would red-eye in, and they were to set me up with a day’s worth of candidates to interview. Only then would I make my choice.
Cameron Nova’s résumé did look solid. No wonder the network kept pushing her. A degree in communication, culture, and media studies from Howard, and as if excelling at one of the most respected Historically Black Colleges and Universities weren’t enough, Nova then got a degree from the New England Culinary Institute. From there, a steady rise of media credits from associate producer gigs on PBS cooking shows to three seasons on an Australian Bourdain knockoff, a food-centric travel show. She was the first finalist I saw when I dropped in, bleary-eyed, to the network’s Chelsea Market conference room for my binge day of producer interviews. Cameron Nova opened big.
“I won’t be shy. This is my dream job. I’ve seen every episode of Hangry Globe…twice. I’ve not only studied your show, I’ve studied you. I’m probably as big a fan as a person can be without getting hit with a restraining order.”
I laughed. Ms. Nova had led off with a selling point wrapped in self-effacement and comedy. A sense of humor topped my list of qualifications, and she delivered from the starting blocks. “Funny,” I said. “And with bite.”
She hitched a thumb toward the glass wall at the other candidates sitting in the waiting area. “I’d send them home now.”
“And confident. Not the kind to cave under pressure?”
She locked eyes on me, an unwavering gaze. Yep, she would find a way to plug in a camera in the Congo. Then she regarded the open duffel on the table. My clothes, a tangle of clean, dirty, and passable, spilled out like roadkill innards topped by the electric shaver I hadn’t had a chance to use in three days. “A producer would get you a hotel.”
“I’m only in New York a few hours. Tonight, it’s on to Vientiane, then—”
“Paris.”
This woman definitely had my attention. “That cannot be a lucky guess.”
“One of my old production assistants books travel for your network. I like to be informed.”
“What have you heard about me?”
Nova spread her arms. “I’m here.”
I rocked back in the ergonomic chair and sipped tepid French roast. “I can be prickly. Headstrong? Depends how you define it. Or if I slept. I don’t suffer fools or bullies, and I hate to be lied to. But I never fire inside my own perimeter. If you’re family, I’ll take a bullet for you.” I paused to appraise her reaction.
“I’m still here.”
Time I moved to the next level. “What I need from a producer is an eye for substance. That’s the sweet spot of this show. I cook and I goof, but I always look to balance it with a big dose of gettin’ real.”
“Like in Portugal. You surprised Emeril Lagasse by taking him to his grandfather’s ancestral home and made him cry.”
Pulling that one out, definite points. So far. “Exactly. Food is my gateway. Last season at Wembley—”
“Backstage with Adele. You cooked her a vegan meal…red quinoa pilaf…and got her going about privacy hounds. Then you coached her to say ‘Fuck off’ to the tabloids. That got bleeped, but hello. Like we don’t know the word?”
Intrigued, I decided to test her, rapid-fire. “Afghanistan. Season One.”
“Nangarhar Province. You surprised a unit from Texas with home cooking.”
“Specifically?”
“Burnt ends and beans.”
“Rio, Season Two.”
“Ipanema gigolos.”
“South of France.”
“Season One finale. You made brunch for Bono and the Edge at a villa at Èze-sur-Mer. When you told Bono ‘Pride (In the Name of Love)’ was the most powerful musical tribute ever to Dr. King, he sang it, and you teared up. I think it was more than just a song that moved you.”
“You know more about me than I do.”
“Count on it.”
She tempered her certainty with a smile. Natural and welcoming. Was she too good to be true? I’d find out after the other interviews. But Nova was the one to beat. “Very impressive, Cameron. I’ll be making a decision soon.”
“Excellent. And Cammie’s good.”
We both rose to shake. But when I sat down again, so did Cammie Nova. Kind of threw me. “What do you call this, déjà interview?”
The face she gave me this time came without a smile. “You’re slipping.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s subtle but I see it. Even if nobody else does. Or will tell you.”
“Am I hallucinating from jet lag, or are you critiquing me in a job pitch?”
Her unwavering look again. Nova stayed on point. “You’re having a rough time. I will watch your back.” I didn’t say anything. What do you say to that? So, I listened with a small knot cinching under my ribs. “Do you know what you always were? The guy who came on TV, and my breath caught. You had that ‘look-at-me-something-exciting-is-about-to-happen’ mojo. Until something happened.”
This shit was landing. An obligatory meet and greet had taken the most personal turn possible. It reached inside me and squeezed. She continued, taking pains to proceed gently, compassionately. “We all know what that was.” Hell, the world knew. The sensational death of my fiancée. The shock I still bear. “But what I’m talking about is how it affected you. And how it feels now. On your show. Like you’re ‘doing Pike’ instead of being Pike.” I’m rarely speechless, but this candidate, this stranger, left me holding my breath and leaning into what she would say next. “I can produce your show. But I can also help you find that charismatic contrarian again.” Cameron Nova folded her hands on the conference table. “That’s all I got.”
Strange. Invoking what happened to Astrid didn’t trigger the usual emotional crash. No mourning. No toxic taste of loss. Instead, I felt something new. That for the first time in a year, someone understood. Oddly I didn’t feel discomfort at being seen. Or that this outsider had boundary issues. I swiveled to look at the other candidates through the glass, then back to her. “Is your passport current?”
On the first season of Hangry Globe, I began a tradition of wrapping each day’s work by treating my peeps to Crew Cocktails. It’s a holdover from my days slogging restaurant kitchens when you’d blitz the dinner rush with maniacal intensity, then kick back after closing with your scullery mates, some good wine, and serial trips to the alley for some herbal restoration. Crew Cocktails is a chance to reward my show-saving artists for all their hustle. More than that, I truly like these folks. The chance to get human, if not goofy, together after the skull-whacking toil of cranking out a road show three hundred days a year is something I cherish. My group text said the hotel lobby lounge was still on, but I wouldn’t fault any no-shows after the bat-shit day on Canal Saint-Martin. Everybody showed. Everybody except Cammie Nova.
As far as I knew, she was still dealing with the La PP, local nickname for the prefecture du police. When they asked, that was my answer. Nobody pressed. All were understandably subdued. They ordered serious cocktails unblunted by mixers. This crowd sought sedation.
They didn’t seem traumatized, though. I wouldn’t say they’d seen worse, but they’d seen plenty. Over the years we’d taken warning shots from rhino poachers, ducked incoming mortar fire in Afghanistan, and gotten stuck in a UN food distribution that turned into a riot. Little by little they did what I had hoped, relaxed and talked it through. The best sign was when they were able to giggle recounting the look on my face when Victor Fabron reeled into my interview. Declan and Hoss even reenacted the scene to purifying laughter. Of the bunch, only Rayna, usually rowdy, sat in solemn contemplation of her melting ice cubes.
Latrell got up off the sofa and took out his iPhone. The library-lounge captivated his cinematographer’s eye. The room was a literal study in red. Bookshelves lined with matching leather-bound volumes in garnet and rust hues sat beside enameled vases in cherry and merlot. Dramatic accent lighting illuminated crimson walls. Leave it to my DP to call it. “I feel like we crashed a Stanley Kubrick set.” He snapped off a few pics of the decor. Then he arranged us all in a group pose and gave his phone to our server for a class photo. I wished Nova had been there. To join the family. To let her hair down. To achieve normalcy.
After I signed the bill, I asked Latrell to upload the video from the Fabron sequence to me. It wasn’t ghoulish fixation. I didn’t tell him, but I wanted to see how that flash drive found its way into my pocket. The lines in his forehead smoothed the way they do when he feels on the spot. “I can maybe do it later,” he said. “I don’t have the video now. Nova has it.”
“…Nova?”
“Yes, Chef. She came over and asked both me and Marisol for our media.” That was too weird. A definite first. I struggled not to lose my cool in front of him. But like I said, Latrell reads me. “I asked her why, not to be insubordinate, but because that’s our master vid.”
“Did she say why?”
“In case the police needed it.” My turn to read him. His look was dubious. “This was before they got there. La PP, is that what you called them?”
My suite was on the second floor. I took the stairs so I could call her on the way up without risking lost reception in the elevator. “Hey, Pike, I’m in traffic but heading back to the hotel. Everything good?”
“Well…that depends.” Our hotel kept its room keys on oversized fobs that you leave and pick up at the front desk. I paused to work mine out of my jeans as I approached my door.
“Uh-oh. I’m picking up tension. How can I help?”
“Hang on a sec.” I finally freed the key and used my phone hand to push the heavy door. I heard rustling noises when I stepped in. When I cleared the corner of the little foyer, I saw a man crouched under the stairs to the loft. The room was dark, but the mini-Maglite in his mouth shined inside my shoulder bag while he rummaged through it.
six
Quietly as I could, I started to back out. But Nova asked if I was still there. Her amplified voice carried. The man whirled. The mini-Mag blinded me, but when he let it drop, I got a flash of him charging. I’ve been in enough fights to know how to take a hit, but nothing prepared me for his. It felt like getting rugby-tackled by an Orc.
The force threw me backwards into the wall. I landed on the padded bench arranged against it, which kept me from going down. Instead of waiting for another slam, I got a fix on him in the shadows and sprung, going low, shoulder down. I caught him in the gut. He oofed out a hard groan and landed on his back on the coffee table, sending stemware crashing and an ice bucket clanging. He rolled sideways away from me toward the sofa, upended the coffee table, and used it to snowplow me across the living room onto the desk. The back of my head bounced off the flatscreen on the wall. Dazed, I brought up my forearms to defend against a blow. But it never came.
He fled. As the door closed, the hall light swept across busted glass on the floor. It twinkled like discarded stars. I rushed to the corridor, but his footfalls were already fading down the stairwell. Back inside I parted the window sheers. All I saw was his back as he sprinted through the courtyard and out into the night.
“Pike?” Nova, coming from the phone. “Pike, what’s happening?” I flipped on the chandelier and hunted for my cell. “Talk to me.” I found it underneath the steps leading to the loft.
“I’m here.” My voice didn’t sound like me. I struggled for air. “I surprised some guy when I came in my door. He’s gone now.”
“Oh my God, are you OK?”
“Going to be damn sore tomorrow.” I regained my breath. “Place looks like Mötley Crüe’s hotel room.”
“How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Although this is my second trashed shirt of the day.” I inspected a rip in the shoulder seam. “At least no blood this time. He was pawing through my bag. Been through the desk, too.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Too soon to know. I don’t have anything valuable out. Passport’s in the safe. Also, some emergency euros. Hang on, we’re going upstairs.” I trudged up and found the in-room safe wide open. “Wow, safe’s been cracked. Weird. Passport’s here. So’s the money.” I sat on the bed. “My suitcase is open, but it was already empty. But I see the dresser drawers have been clawed. And yes, I do unpack if it’s more than one night.”
“Very strange. Has this ever happened before?”
“Once in Somalia I grabbed a dude swinging one leg out my window trying to make off with my laptop. But this is a first-world first. On a day of firsts. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“Meaning?”
“The flash drive.”
“But you don’t have it.”
“I’m assuming my visitor didn’t know that.”
“Pike, nobody knows about that except us.”
“We don’t know that for sure.” Even though she was pushing back, talking with Cammie settled me down. “Look, I’m only spitballing here, but what if he saw Fabron slip it to me? Or knew he intended to. Your bio said Fabron was an investigative documentary filmmaker. Maybe he unearthed something sensitive, something worth killing to keep quiet?”
“Well, he told me he was uncovering nepotism in governmental appointments….”
“Not sounding so unhinged now, am I?”
Cammie laughed. “I never called you that. You’re just grappling to make sense of this.”
“You never said it. But you thought it, didn’t you? If not unhinged, quaintly delusional?”
She cleared her throat. “You? Quaint?”
“You said you knew me. Be advised, I’m more than ruffian charm.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Nice dodge. And don’t bother, I’ll call them. Or have the front desk do it.”
“I already pulled up Detective Tirard’s number for redial. You lock your door and wait for the police, if I don’t get there first. In the meantime, you might want to do a more thorough inventory to see if you are missing anything. And Pike.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you are all right.”
A half hour later, I roared by Place de la Bastille in the back seat of an unmarked SUV, destination: Police Prefecture. A pair of plainclothes detectives sat up front. A third, who arrived with them, stayed back in my suite to do forensics and deal with the hotel manager. My sergeants had the same look as the detective who interrogated me at the crime scene, urban toughwear and demeanors to match. The driver spoke exactly once, and that was a merde when traffic slammed shut. He lit up his flashers. When nobody moved, he hit the siren, that loop of two plaintive notes that always reminds me of French black-and-white films and lovers on the run. He got the clearing he wanted and jerked a hard left onto a cobblestone ramp that led down to the Seine. That didn’t feel right.
“Pardon,” I said. “Isn’t la prefecture là bas?” I extended my arm toward Ile de la Cité across the river, but these gents were deaf to me. At the bottom of the ramp, a police patrol boat waited. A uniformed officer stood on the quay. She was holding the bowline. A small console light illuminated another cop standing at the helm of the black Zodiac. He fired up the twin Yamahas on the stern when I slid out of the SUV. My detectives gestured me to get in the boat. I hesitated. Not out of fear, but the jab of a piercing memory: Astrid, taking her death ride in a rigid inflatable pretty much like this one. I can’t tell you how many dawns seeped into my bed while I lay awake seeking sense and absolution. Absolution has never come. The only sense I made was to recognize how much of life is about the peril of motion. I decided, nothing to do but live it, and stepped aboard.
The skipper illuminated his light bar and gunned it, throwing up a rooster tail aft and jamming me against the aluminum backrest. “Where are we going?” I hollered to the woman in black fatigues. She didn’t acknowledge. I tried again, louder and in French. The officer never turned; she kept her eyes on the water ahead.
Wherever our destination was, we were heading away from central Paris. The blinking lights on Notre Dame’s scaffolding disappeared over my shoulder, and instead of the Louvre and Eiffel Tower, the night scenes to port and starboard were industrial. Container cargo vessels were docked on one side, grain and cement barges on the other. I knew my geography well enough to know we were nearing the spot where the Seine intersects the Marne.
