“I didn’t know you were a traffic reporter.”
He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking space. “I’ve done just about everything there is to do in radio. I started as an intern when I was still in high school, and over the years I’ve worked my way around the newsfloor.”
“Came up the hard way, huh?”
“Not exactly. My dad owned a radio station.”
“Oh.”
He paused for a minute on the off-ramp while he blinked in the sudden glare of the sun. “You sound disappointed.”
“No. Just surprised. I’ve never met anyone whose father owned a radio station.”
Steve shrugged. “The ancestral land turned out to have lots of oil. Several years ago my dad was told to diversify his holdings, and communication was an area that appealed to him.”
“Does he own WZZZ?”
“No. He owns a network in the Southwest. When I got out of college I decided I wanted to make my own success, so I stayed on the East Coast.”
Steve called in to the studio on the two-way radio to let the editor know he was on the road and would be broadcasting.
“Every fifteen minutes you get a sixty-second spot,” he told Daisy. “You watch the clock on the dash and when you’re coming up to newstime you use the headset to listen for your cue from the anchor.”
He clicked the scanners on and showed her how to use them to get the priority channels.
“We’ll take Route 66 to the beltway, then head north. We want to avoid the oil spill on the outer loop. You always want to avoid traffic.”
He looked at the clock. It was eight minutes after eleven. He turned the volume down on the scanners and put the earplug in his ear.
“This is Steve Crow giving you the WZZZ traffic report,” he said into the two-way radio. “Hazmat teams are still on the scene of that oil spill on the Braddock Road off-ramp, but traffic is finally moving around it. Keep to the two left lanes—”
Daisy felt a jolt of fear hit her stomach. Steve was doing fifty, weaving in and out of traffic, broadcasting live, talking off the top of his head, cramming as much information as was possible into a sixty-second slot. Daisy stared at him openmouthed, wondering how he’d managed to make a newscast out of the squawking coming off the scanners. And she was wondering how she was going to do it. She needed notes to relay a dog-food recipe! And if that wasn’t problem enough, she was uncoordinated. She couldn’t chew gum and drive at the same time. What was she thinking of? Money, she reminded herself—that’s what she was thinking of. Pure unbridled greed had led her to the WZZZ traffic car.
Steve gave his name and call letters, removed the earphone, and put the two-way radio back into its cradle. “It’s really not so bad,” he said. “A good memory helps, and you need to be able to talk fairly fast, giving continuous information.”
“No problem,” Daisy said. “This doesn’t look too tough. I can do this.” Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, she silently screamed, stick with waitressing! Keep the newspaper route!
For the next hour they drove north on the beltway, passing from Northern Virginia into Maryland, then south toward the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. Daisy concentrated on the scanners and tried composing traffic reports in her mind. She was used to talking on the radio—at least she had that going for her, she thought. She didn’t usually feel stage fright.
At six minutes to twelve Steve handed Daisy an auxiliary earplug and the handset for the two-way. “I’ll keep driving. You do the talking this time.”
She felt her throat constrict and her eyes glaze over. Her mind went blank. The sound of the anchor cuing in the traffic report came loud and clear through the earplug. The anchor repeated the cue and Steve tapped Daisy on the top of the head with a rolled-up newspaper that had been lying on the front seat.
“This is Daisy Adams,” she said. “WZZZ traffic at eleven-fifty-five.”
There was a long pause while she bit her lip. Steve hit her on the head again and she snatched the newspaper from him while she frantically groped for something to say. “Traffic is…um, the same as before,” she finally said. “If you listened fifteen minutes ago, then you pretty much know what’s going on. Stay tuned for an update. We’ll let you know if the traffic changes. This is Daisy Adams signing off.”
There was a pause about four heartbeats long before the anchor resumed broadcasting. The man’s voice sounded strangled, and Steve had a horrifying image of the entire newsroom doubled over with laughter.
“Oh my Lord,” Daisy said. “I couldn’t think of anything to say!”
Steve noticed his knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel. Relax, he told himself. It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t nuclear war. It wasn’t famine in Ethiopia. It was just a one-minute traffic report. And this was an emergency situation. Besides, she’d probably be fine. She just needed more time. When they were done driving the loop he’d park her somewhere and let her listen to the scanners. The next time she could take notes and read from them when her airtime came up.
Chapter 2
At twelve-thirty Steve pulled into the Belle Haven Marina parking lot. He faced the newscar toward the Potomac River, giving Daisy a view of grassy parkland, the river, and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge that joined Virginia and Maryland.
“It isn’t necessary for us to do any more driving,” he said to Daisy. “We’ve checked out all the trouble spots. You get good scanner reception here, and you’re free from interference on the two-way. You have a good view of bridge traffic. It’s the perfect place to wait out the afternoon.”
It was the perfect place to roll around in the grass like cats in heat, he thought. That’s how he felt—like a battle-scarred tom that had finally found the love of his life. He wanted to crawl into the backseat and yowl. But he didn’t think Daisy was ready for his yowling and besides, he had meetings all afternoon, so he squashed his animal instincts and used his cell phone to call for a cab.
While he waited, he leaned his back against the driver’s-side door, stretched his long legs as best he could in the compact, and draped an arm over the steering wheel. He didn’t want to leave yet. He wanted time to get to know her better. And he wanted to stay and help with the traffic report. It wasn’t fair to throw her into this job and abandon her after less than two hours of instruction.
“Are you going to be able to handle this?”
Their gazes locked, and she knew he needed an honest answer. “I’m not going to give up on it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That was part of it.”
“And the other part? I suppose that has to do with ability. I’ll be able to do a decent traffic report after a few days. Just don’t expect me to sound like Menken.” Daisy thought the key word there was decent. She was going to give it her best shot, but she didn’t think traffic was ever going to be her forte.
The cab arrived, and Steve turned to face Daisy.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
He got out of the car and walked the short distance to the cab.
She watched him, then looked at the bridge in the distance. The cars crawling across it seemed like tiny toys. A small boat made its way upriver, a man and a woman sat eating lunch at a nearby picnic table, two cyclists skimmed along the blacktopped bike trail in front of the car. The air coming through the open windows was warm, carrying with it the smell of grass baking in the sun.
An hour and a half earlier she’d been afraid to be alone in a car with Steve. Now she was scared to death to have him leave. He still looked very much the predator, with his dark, sensual eyes and sleek, muscled body, but he’d been a perfect gentleman all morning. He’d been patient and polite and extremely helpful. Just proved how deceiving looks could be, she told herself. Never judge a book by its cover. Steve Crow obviously didn’t have a lecherous bone in his body—at least not where she was concerned.
Daisy had her head in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator when her fourteen-year-old brother tapped her on the shoulder.
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“There’s a lecher at the door,” Kevin Adams announced. “He says he’s come to see you.”
Daisy stopped foraging for supper. She withdrew from the freezer with a bag of french-fried potato balls and a plastic tray of chicken nuggets. “A lecher?”
“You probably think I’m given to exaggeration, but I know a lecher when I see one. And this guy has a big-bucks car. A sexy twoseater foreign job. Long and low and black. Man, would I ever like to have a car like that. I tell you, his car is evil. It could probably get airborne.”
Daisy walked into the foyer and found Steve Crow standing on her front porch. He was holding several bags, and he smiled at her through the screen door.
“Decided I needed to tell you some more things about the job,” he said. He held the bags up for her inspection. “I know I’m coming unannounced at an awkward time, so I brought supper.”
“Supper?” Kevin said to Daisy. “Maybe he’s not so bad, after all. Besides, you could probably use a lecher in your life. I know I sure as heck could use some food in mine.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. Her little brother drank a gallon of orange juice and a gallon of milk a day. It took him two days to go through a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, fifteen minutes to eat a half gallon of ice cream, twenty minutes to eat a chicken, and if she bought a pie, it was gone before she had a chance to take the rest of the groceries out of the bag. “Don’t you ever think about anything except food?”
“Sure. I think about girls. That’s why I eat so much—substitute gratification. I have all this nervous energy. Us fourteen-year-olds are just a hotbed of hormonal activity. That’s how come I’m so good at recognizing a lecher. I figure if I work hard enough at it, I could grow up to be a lecher someday.”
Daisy grimaced at her brother and opened the door to Steve. “This is very nice of you. I was just about to defrost something.” She motioned to Kevin. “This is my brother Kevin. He’s staying with me while my parents are away. My dad is being transferred to San Antonio and my parents are in Texas house hunting.” Truth was her dad had been a victim of downsizing. Daisy’s parents had never been rich, but they’d always managed to pay the bills…until two years ago when after twenty-two years at Gruber Printing her dad had been let go. Finally, the job search had paid off, but it involved relocation.
“Boss car,” Kevin said.
Steve could see the family resemblance. Same blond hair and blue eyes. Same nose, same wide smile. That was where the similarity stopped. Kevin was all gangly arms and legs, and he had feet that looked like they belonged on Bozo the Clown. Fourteen years old…the hungry age. Steve decided to change his strategy for the evening. He handed Kevin a bag. “You like ribs?”
“We’re gonna be friends,” Kevin said. “What are your intentions toward my sister? Are you going to marry her?”
“Not on an empty stomach,” Steve said. “One thing at a time.” He gave Kevin the other two bags. “Biscuits and coleslaw and ice cream,” he told Kevin. “And they’re all yours. I’m going to take your sister on a field trip. We’ll eat out.” He looked at Daisy. “Is that okay? Did you have plans for this evening?”
“I was going to the library….”
“She always goes to the library,” Kevin said. “She’s a real brain. She rented this place because it’s near a library. Can you believe it?”
“I don’t have much time,” Daisy said. “I try to be efficient.”
Steve took the bags of frozen food from her and stuffed them into the crook of Kevin’s arm. “Put these back into the freezer.”
“So what kind of field trip is this?” Kevin asked.
“I work at WZZZ. Daisy’s taken over the job of traffic reporter, and I wanted to show her how to use the portable equipment.”
“Awesome.”
“I won’t be late,” Daisy said to Kevin. “Don’t blast the neighbors out of their houses with the stereo. Mrs. Schnable just had a hysterectomy and needs her rest.”
She stopped midway to the car and stared. Kevin had been right—it did look a little evil. And it looked very expensive.
“Nice car,” she said.
Steve nodded. “It’s transportation.” Did she buy that? It was a toy, and he knew it. He’d bought it on a whim and regretted it ever since. It attracted weird women. Women left their phone numbers attached to his windshield wipers. Sometimes he found panties draped over his antenna. And one time he’d returned from grocery shopping to find a woman had handcuffed herself to his grille. His next car was going to be a big, stupid SUV, he’d decided. Women probably didn’t handcuff themselves to an SUV.
They got in the car and drove to a Mexican restaurant close to Daisy’s subdivision. Steve took a small leather rucksack from the backseat and carried it inside with him.
When they were seated in a booth and had given their order, he said, “I forgot to tell you about the portable scanner this afternoon.” He took it from the rucksack and handed it to her. “If you have to leave the newscar for any reason, you should carry this with you. It’s very similar to the scanners mounted on your dash. Just pull the antenna up and you’re all set to go.”
Daisy noticed there was something else in the leather bag. She slid her hand in and withdrew a small tape recorder. “What’s this for?”
“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“It must be here for a reason…”
Steve mentally cussed himself out. In his haste to see Daisy he’d forgotten to remove the recorder. In some ways WZZZ was the last bastion of old-fashioned reporting. Most of the programming was done live, and because they had a newscar circling the city, they were often first on the scene of a fast-breaking story. Menken could reach the site of a plane crash or a Metro accident quickly, use the recorder for an on-scene interview, and broadcast the recorded interview from his car. But Menken was a seasoned reporter, as was the rush-hour team. Daisy Adams was not.
He searched for another purpose for the recorder. “You could use it to prerecord your one-minute slot, but I don’t think that will be necessary. Your reports later today sounded fine.” Actually, they were terrible, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He didn’t destroy a fledgling reporter’s confidence with harsh criticism, and he didn’t insult a woman with corn-flower eyes.
Daisy felt like giving a sigh of relief. She’d been afraid he’d taken her to dinner to fire her! And here he was telling her she was fine. She could hardly believe it. “Was I really fine? I was scared to death.”
“It was actually unique. It was the first time we’ve ever had a traffic reporter sign off the air with a recipe for meat loaf.”
“I thought people might be getting bored listening to the same old traffic stuff. And it was so depressing. There were accidents and jam-ups everywhere.”
He took a few deep breaths and told himself to remain calm. She obviously didn’t understand the concept of continuous traffic reporting. It was a natural mistake. He’d have to discuss it with her—sometime when there weren’t more pressing subjects of conversation. Sometime when he’d already learned about her favorite color and what kind of music she liked and whether she slept in the nude.
“To tell you the truth, the recipe came from my Bones for Bowser cookbook,” Daisy said. “Last week my brother accidentally ate some meat loaf I’d made for my neighbor’s dog, and he really liked it, so I figured it would be all right to pass along the recipe as people food. Ordinarily I don’t have time for cooking, but I cook and dog-test all my Bowser recipes.”
The waitress brought a soda for Daisy and a beer for Steve. It was the second time she’d made reference to her lack of time, Steve thought, sipping his beer. He hoped it wasn’t a boyfriend that was keeping her so busy. That would complicate his plans.
“I suppose graduate school is pretty demanding,” he said. “Doesn’t leave much time for cooking and socializing?” He congratulated himself on being so slick.
“I think I must not be very good at managing m
y time. I never seem to have enough of it.”
“Maybe I can help. I’m good at time management. You can tell me what you do every day, and I’ll tell you what you’re doing wrong.”
“I don’t know—”
“For instance, what time do you get up in the morning?”
“I get up at five.”
Steve took that under consideration. The last time he saw five o’clock was four years ago when there was a fire in the basement of his apartment building. “Why do you get up so early?”
“I deliver papers. It takes me two hours to go through my route. It’s a terrific job for people still in school because you get it over with first thing in the morning.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then after the papers are delivered I go home and change into my crossing-guard uniform—”
Steve blinked. “You’re a crossing guard, too?”
“Only in the morning. Last year a little girl was hurt in my neighborhood because they didn’t have enough crossing guards to cover all the busy intersections.”
“So you volunteered,” Steve said.
“It’s really fun. The kids are great. During the regular school year I work at the high school and then at eight o’clock I go over to Elm and Center streets to cross the grade-school kids. Summer school is only in session at the high school right now, so I’m done at eight o’clock.”
“Gee, what do you do with all that spare time?”
“I used to jog for an hour and then get to work on school stuff, but now that I’m the traffic reporter I’ll have to leave for the station at somewhere around eight-fifteen to eight-thirty.”
She held her hand up. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the traffic job will be too much for me to handle with all my other commitments, but you’re wrong. You see, it actually will make things much easier for me. I used to wait tables during dinner and moonlight as a cab driver. I think I can give up those jobs now.”