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She told him what he could do with that, too, and he laughed again before turning serious, saying, “A little bird told me there was another attempt on Senator Jones’s life last night.” That made her sit up with a jerk.
“Who told you?”
“Not you.” He let that statement hang there like a silent accusation, then said, “And my little bird told me you were right there in the thick of things.”
“I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything,” Carly was quick to explain. “Yes, I was there, but not as a reporter. I was on a date, J.C. You should try it sometime,” she added caustically.
He ignored her statement. “My sources tell me someone tried to blow the senator to hell and gone after the reception at the Zakharian embassy. And the bomb could have killed you, too.”
“Are you asking for confirmation as my producer? Or as my friend?”
There was a slight hesitation at the other end. “Both.”
Carly rubbed her eyes and fought back a sudden yawn. Not that this conversation wasn’t important, but she was still sleepy. And she needed to think before she spoke. Needed to choose her words carefully. She trusted J.C., but... “Professionally, I’m standing mute—I refuse to go on the record. As your friend, the answer is yes. I was in the car. I don’t know how he knew, but Shane—”
“Shane? He’s Shane to you now?”
“He was my date, J.C.” Her tone was wry. “Don’t you call your dates by their first names? Or don’t you have any?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Shane saved my life. I don’t know anything about the bomb or how it was wired to explode or anything—the FBI and the ATF wouldn’t tell me a damned thing.” And I was too sleepy to question Shane afterward, she thought but didn’t volunteer. “But somehow he knew, and he got me out of the car so fast I had no idea I was even in danger until I wasn’t. Then the bomb squad showed up and the FBI and the ATF. And I spent most of the next four hours being interrogated by experts. But I couldn’t tell them any more than I can tell you—I don’t know anything.”
“If you say so.”
There was just enough of a question in the way he said those four words for Carly to vehemently repeat, “I. Don’t. Know. Anything.”
There was silence at the other end for a moment. “Okay, but I’m pulling you off anything related to Senator Jones.”
“What?”
“You’re part of the story now, Carly,” J.C. explained patiently. “You can’t be objective. Not if you’re right in the middle of it.”
Carly seethed, although she knew in her gut her producer was right. But she didn’t have to like it. “Who are you putting on it?”
“Pearly White.” It wasn’t his real name, of course, just the disdainful nickname Carly had given Tate Westerly. He was pretty-boy handsome, and his capped teeth gleamed pearly white when he smiled, hence the nickname. He wasn’t much of a reporter, but he played well to the cameras, and his likeability index with the viewers was high.
“That bozo?”
“You got the big exclusives,” J.C. consoled her. “The first assassination attempt. The epilepsy story. At this point it’s just a matter of reporting what someone else uncovers. And no matter what we think of him professionally, Tate is good in front of the camera.”
“Just keep him away from me,” Carly insisted. “He tries to ask me any questions about my story, and he’ll find out what I really think of him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of your hair.” She could tell J.C. was relieved he’d managed to skate right over what he liked to call a “sticky wicket,” and what Carly referred to as a disaster waiting to happen.
“If there’s nothing else, J.C., I’d like to get a couple more hours of sleep before coming in to work. If I can’t work on the attempted assassination story, do you have a new assignment for me?”
“Nothing urgent. We can discuss it when you get in.”
“Sounds good. See you then.” Carly hung up, then fell back against the pillow and pulled the bedclothes over her head. Sleep, she ordered herself. She was pretty good at that. Just like a lot of soldiers, she could sleep anytime, anywhere, given the opportunity.
