Zooming in on the other angle, I see it is a Spanish-language channel. Interesting. Maybe he speaks Spanish? I don’t want to assume, but he does look Latino, despite his very American name.
Right when I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t find out more about him, my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Di, so I answer immediately.
“Do you have an update?” I ask in a hushed tone, knowing my production manager or anyone else on crew could walk in at any time. She knows I never put my phone on speaker for others to hear, so I expect a quick report. I forget who I’m talking to.
“Hi, Di! How are you?” She quips, doing my greeting for me before continuing in a mock-cheerful tone. “Oh, I’m just great, Mac. Only I found out you kidnapped the son of the man we suspect is at the top of the trafficking ring we’ve been trying to bring down for years.”
“What?” I practically yell after she finishes, then lower my voice. “What do you mean?”
“Ethan Miller is the only son of Thomas Miller. Owner of the shell company funneling the money we’ve been tracking,” she adds unnecessarily.
After years of taking bad people out of this world, we’ve recently found a trail that leads straight to billionaire Thomas Miller. He uses his wealth and privilege to stay unnoticed and heavily guarded at all times. We can’t even be sure of his addresses outside of the United States.
“Did we know he has a son?”
“They need you on set,” a production assistant interrupts me, popping her head in with a friendly smile. Molly, I think her name is.
“Thanks, I’ll be right there,” I give her a practiced smile back, even though I’m reeling inside. Molly leaves and I realize Di hasn’t answered me. “Well?”
“I knew, though he was hard to track. I only stumbled on confirmation of him because of a few difficult to find discipline records from schools on the east coast.” That added up, based on what he’d said about not graduating college. “The hard part is that his dad changed his name from Emanuel Gonzalez in Cuba over twenty years ago. I’ve been following leads in Cuba based on this information for a few weeks.”
“Do we think it was planned?” I ask as I leave my dressing room and make my way through the halls backstage where I have a chair set up with my name in the wings. “Were we getting too close?”
“Like he’s a spy?” Di asks with a laugh. “Very unlikely, looking at his education and records of going against his dad. His bank account was only opened a month or so ago and is empty, so I doubt they’re close.”
“What about…” I pause while the makeup guy brushes powder over my forehead. When he steps away, I look down at the notes I have prepared for today, whispering, “Bait?”
Di pauses on the line and I see the audience being brought in. I hadn’t liked the idea of a live audience, but I did win the battle that they didn’t get to see rehearsal so their reaction will be real when we record. It also means I have to be ‘on’ less. Faking emotions I don’t feel gets exhausting.
“Di?”
“I can’t decide what you should do with him,” she points out, and I can hear the restrained judgment in her tone. “But I think you should ask him. He might tell you more than I can find online.”
Sighing, I wave to the people filling in the bleachers and their volume gets louder. I’m not used to being a celebrity, but I can’t deny it feels good to have their attention and admiration. Especially since I don’t plan to ever be exposed as the Fat Cat Killer.
Well, except for one man who knows.
“Keep an eye on him while I’m on air?” I ask, knowing Di has almost as much skin in this game as I do. If I go down, so does she.
“Of course,” Di laughs. “What is an assistant for? I’ll keep digging.”
“Thanks, Di.”
After saying goodbye, she hangs up and I tuck my phone into my pocket after double-checking the notifications are off. If I didn’t have her watching over Ethan, I’m not sure I could have gone on with the show.
My stage manager does my introduction and the theme music plays as the audience stands to clap when I enter the set. I put on my mostcharming smile and wave to them all as I stand in front of the leather armchair that the producers say polls well with viewers.
“Welcome to Murder Talk,” I greet with my practiced blend of approachable charm and gravitas. I did it right, because the audience cheers again. When they quiet, I go on, “I’m Owen MacKenzie, and today we open the show with news of another high-profile murder.”
The audience makes a hushed sound, the mix of surprise and gossip I love to hear. Some of them have heard the news, others are hearing it for the first time. It means I’ll have good ratings. I only care about those because it translates to more advertiser money, which means I continue to have the means to keep killing.
“I got confirmation only minutes ago,” I state, pausing for effect as if I’m processing the news, even though I’ve known since it happened. “That the CEO and founder of Biggs Trade Corporation, Joe Biggs, has died of an accidental overdose at age seventy-two.”
Sounds of shock fill the room. They expect me to wish him to rest in peace, to send thoughts and prayers to his family and the company. But I’m not going easy on the son-of-a-bitch. Hopefully, no one finds out it was anything but an accident. Just in case, I’ll make them hate him, first.
“But is this truly a tragedy? Everyone who watches my show knows about his alleged victims coming on and bravely sharing their stories. You’ve heard them telling me about how they were kidnapped, sold, and used as sex slaves before they even finished eighth grade. Biggs was never brought to justice in life, and I can’t help but wish his victims got to see him in court.”
People clap and call out in angry agreement. I’ve got them right where I want them. No one will care about him dying by the time I’m through.