By the time I got to the station the next morning, the Good Sam story was all over the network morning newscasts, on talk radio, and in stories across the Internet. Even NPR did a piece about it.
I was baffled at the attention Good Sam was getting. The level of reporting was akin to the coverage of a major natural disaster or a mass shooting, except no one was in danger, at risk, or at large.
I spent so much time poring over all the stories, Facebook posts and e-mails, that I lost track of time and had missed the first ten minutes of the assignment meeting. As I rushed to the Fish Bowl, Alex stopped me.
“There’s a psychic in the lobby. She wants to talk to you about Good Sam.”
“A psychic?” I said. “Really? That’s what this story has come to?”
“She asked to talk with you, Kate, and only you.”
“If I miss any more of the meeting, David is sure to assign me to cover some snooze-beat. Send her on her way,” I said. “But wait—she won’t be disappointed, because she’s a psychic, so she already saw this coming.”
He frowned. “The problem is…she’s Bonnie’s psychic.”
I lowered my voice to a half whisper. “Bonnie does not have a psychic.”
Bonnie Ungar had joined the station as senior VP of news two months before, with a mandate to bring our ratings from a disappointing fourth place to first. Her take-no-prisoners management style had already cost four news staffers their jobs, and more changes were rumored to be on the way. I wasn’t keen to be on her radarscope.
“Actually,” Alex said, running his fingers through his hair. “Shondra in security says this woman is Bonnie’s psychic—the one she consults every week.”
Let me tell you what I think about psychics. They’re all frauds. Fakes. They guess bits of information about you and use it to tell you What You Already Know. Then they use that information to make up What You Want to Hear so you’ll come back again to learn What You Already Know.
I knew that. But clearly Bonnie Ungar didn’t. So for job security’s sake, I agreed to meet with the psychic. We set up the interview in one of the recording studios, but I told the tech guy not to record the session. The fastest way to wipe out my credibility would be to record an interview with a psychic.
Melanie Richards wasn’t what I’d expected. For one thing she was young. Maybe twenty-five. And pretty. With long, straight, dark hair and deep-set eyes. There were no crystals hanging from her neck or wrists, and she wasn’t wearing anything that could be described as psychic clothes—just simple slacks and a sweater I recognized from Banana Republic. The only obvious sign that she was a psychic was her pair of Birkenstocks. Mere mortals no longer wore them—certainly not in LA.
“You’re from the East Coast, are you?” she said, settling into the mesh chair.
“St. Louis,” I said. One wrong.
“But you’ve spent some time there. In school.”
“I went to Columbia in New York.” Okay, one right.
“Your father,” Melanie said. “He’s an important leader. A congressman or senator.” Another one right. But anyone who Googled me could easily find out that my father was Senator Hale Bradley. Besides, why was she telling me about myself when she was supposedly here to talk about Good Sam?
“And something else.” She fixed her gaze on a spot about two feet above my head. “Someone in your life wants your attention. But you keep pushing him away.”
That was a little close for comfort. Then again that statement could apply to a lot of people.
“You’ve also just met someone new. Someone you hadn’t expected. But you’re not sure if he’s into you or not.”
How could she have known about my meeting Eric Hayes? It was enough to cancel out the one wrong guess.
“Do you understand what I’m talking about?” She continued to look at the spot on the wall.
“Yes.” But is he interested in me?
Melanie fell silent for a long moment. Then she turned to look straight at me, her deep brown eyes bearing down hard on me. “I came here to tell you about Good Sam. He’s in the news everywhere, of course, and last night, I got a reading on him—you might call it a flash of insight—and I know Bonnie would want me to share it with you.” She flipped her hair back. “He’s in his thirties. He’s wealthy, successful. He’s doing this to prove something.”
“What is he trying to prove?”
She was silent for a long moment. With her eyes closed, I thought maybe she had fallen asleep. “He’s not bad. He’s done something. Something wrong. And he’s trying to undo it.”
“And why these people?” I asked.
Melanie scanned the space on the wall, moving her head back and forth slightly, as though she were reading words written right above my head.
Her voice was warm and gentle. “They mean something to someone he loves.”
“Why is the number eight stamped on the bags with the money?”
“It’s an important number for him. It has significance in his life.”
“What’s his name?”
She was silent for nearly a minute. “I can’t see that,” she said finally.
“How do I find him?”
“You must ask the universe to guide you in your quest.”
Okay, now she was talking like a psychic. I half expected her to bring out a Ouija board and summon some spirits.
She stood up. “That’s all.”
I stood up too, trying to produce an expression that looked like I believed her. At least a little.
“There’s something else,” Melanie said, fixing her eyes on a spot two feet above my head again. “There’s something I should’ve told you when we began. You will be the one who discovers who Good Sam is.”
I didn’t know what to make of Melanie Richards. I think she genuinely believed she had psychic powers, but her descriptions of Good Sam’s motives were too vague to be helpful. Even so, I had to admit the hairs on the back of my neck rose every time I thought about her prediction.
As much as I wanted to believe I’d be the one to discover Good Sam’s identity, I knew Melanie’s whole shtick was quackery. I could’ve made up the same gobbledygook, and I don’t have a psychic bone in my body.
By the time I returned to the newsroom, the assignment meeting was long over. There was a box of Godiva chocolates on my desk. I searched for a note or card, but there wasn’t one. I figured Jack had sent them, so I dumped them in the trash—which is a shame because I love Godiva chocolates. Just the smell of the crème-brûlée dessert chocolate with layers of butterscotch caramel and vanilla cream makes me feel like I’m eight years old again.
Josh came up to my desk. “I heard you had to interview a psychic. What’d she say?” His eye fell on the candy in my trash can, and the smile faded from his face. “Hey, why’d you throw those chocolates away?”
“I’m on a diet,” I lied.
He pulled the box from the trash. “Wish I'd known. They’re from me.”
“Why?”
“Um, Cathy in Human Resources said it was your birthday tomorrow?”
How could I have forgotten my own birthday? Especially this one. After tomorrow, I’d only have 364 days left in my twenties bank account. Three hundred and sixty-four days until I was no longer a “promising young reporter” and quietly, desperately slipped into “seasoned reporter” status. Another year until thirty.
“Okay, I’m not really on a diet,” I said, taking the box from him. “I thought they were from someone else.”
“I get it. You thought they were from him. The guy you won’t talk about.”
I nodded. Growing up in a political family had taught me one important lesson. Don’t talk about past or current loves, and keep the personal out of the spotlight, because someone might try to use it to gain something from you.
Josh grabbed a chocolate from the box and popped it into his mouth. “Alex says you were meeting with a psychic. What’d she say?”
“She said I’d be the one to discover Good Sam’s identity.”
“Nut case?”
“Surprisingly normal...for a psychic,” I admitted.
I looked over and saw Alex coming toward my desk, carrying a small box. “I finally reached Paul Henning, the man who bought Residential Realty from Eric Hayes,” he said.
“Any luck?”
He shook his head. “Dead end. He’s been out of the country, but he says there’s ‘no way’ Good Sam has anything to do with him or Residential Realty.”
I frowned. “Which means we have zero leads.”
“If it’s any consolation, apparently no one else does either.” He placed the box on my desk. “Oh, and this is for you. The front desk says it was ringing.”
“Ringing?”
“You know, like a phone?” Alex said.
“Maybe it’s another birthday present,” Josh said.
The plain brown box appeared to have been delivered by a local messenger service, but there was no return address. It was also silent. I started to open it, and just as I touched the bubble wrap inside, it chimed. I dug through the packing to find a brand-new iPhone.
I answered the call. “Hello?”
“Happy birthday.” Jack’s warm voice came on the line.
“I thought we agreed that you’d stop sending me things,” I snapped.
Hearing my sharp tone, Josh and Alex slunk away from my desk.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow, and this is the only way I figured I’d get you to talk to me,” Jack drawled.
“We’ve already said everything that needs to be said.”
“What will it take to make you change your mind?”
“I appreciate the thought,” I said quietly. “Promise me, Jack. Promise me you won’t call me again.”
“I really hope you’ll change your mind about me. And when you do, I’ve programmed all my numbers in that phone.”
I hung up and dropped the phone into my desk drawer. I ran my fingers through my hair, still shaky from the call. Had I been too tough on him? His gift wasn’t inappropriately lavish, unlike his earlier ones. Days after the breakup, he’d sent me a Cartier watch, and for Christmas he’d given me a David Yurman necklace, which I’m pretty sure retailed for five thousand dollars. Maybe I should’ve viewed the phone as a kind of symbolic olive branch.
The phone on my desk rang, startling me. I grabbed the receiver. “I thought we agreed you’d stop calling.”
“We did?” I heard a man’s voice say. But it wasn’t Jack.
“I’m sorry. Who’s this?” I asked.
“Eric Hayes. Sounds like you get some pretty annoying calls.”
“More so lately.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. But I did know I should say something witty or charming so he wouldn’t know how happy I was to hear his voice, calm and steady, on the other end of the phone. “I just met with a psychic who says I’m going to figure out who Good Sam is. Are you calling to make this easy and confess to being him?” I hope I sounded casual, not like I was trying too hard.
A distorted voice came over a loudspeaker on his end, followed by a series of tones.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to run. Could we meet at Sam’s Bagels, the one around the corner from Channel Eleven? How about seven tomorrow morning?”
I felt the air back up in my lungs. Was this a kind of date? Or was he asking to meet me because I was a reporter at Channel Eleven? Was this about Good Sam?
“Sam’s Bagels at seven,” I repeated.