True believer - Nicholas Sparks [5]
“Do you see the small USA pin on his lapel? That’s not just for decoration. It’s actually a miniature transmitter that broadcasts to a recording device backstage.”
Diane frowned. “How do you know this?”
“Because,” Jeremy said, raising an eyebrow, “I happen to have one just like it.”
On cue, Jeremy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be the same USA pin, attached to a long, threadlike wire and transmitter.
“This particular model is manufactured in Israel”—Jeremy’s voice could be heard over the camera close-up of the gadget—“and it’s very high-end. I’ve heard it’s used by the CIA, but, of course, I can’t confirm that. What I can tell you is that the technology is very advanced—this little microphone can pick up conversations from across a noisy, crowded room and, with the right filtering systems, can even isolate them.”
Diane inspected the pin with apparent fascination. “And you’re certain that this was indeed a microphone and not just a pin?”
“Well, as you know, I’ve been looking into Clausen’s past for a long time now, and a week after the show, I managed to obtain some more photographs.”
A new photograph flashed on the screen. Though a bit grainy, it was a picture of the same man who’d been wearing the USA pin.
“This photo was taken in Florida, outside Clausen’s office. As you can see, the man is heading inside. His name is Rex Moore, and he’s actually an employee of Clausen’s. He’s worked with Clausen for two years.”
“Ooohhhhh!” Alvin shouted, and the rest of the broadcast, which was winding down, anyway, was drowned out as others, jealous or not, joined in with hoots and hollers. The free booze had worked its magic, and Jeremy was deluged with congratulations after the show had ended.
“You were fantastic,” Nate said. At forty-three, Nate was short and balding and had a tendency to wear suits that were just a bit too tight in the waist. No matter, the man was energy incarnate and, like most agents, positively buzzed with fervent optimism.
“Thanks,” Jeremy said, downing the remainder of his beer.
“This is going to be big for your career,” Nate went on. “It’s your ticket to a regular television gig. No more scrambling for lousy freelance magazine work, no more chasing UFO stories. I’ve always said that with your looks, you were made for TV.”
“You have always said that,” Jeremy conceded with the eye-rolling manner of someone reciting an oft-given lecture.
“I mean it. The producers from Primetime Live and GMA keep calling, talking about using you as a regular contributor on their shows. You know, ‘what this late-breaking science news means for you’ and all that. A big leap for a science reporter.”
“I’m a journalist,” Jeremy sniffed, “not a reporter.”
“Whatever,” Nate said, making a motion as if brushing away a fly. “Like I’ve always said, your looks are made for television.”
“I’d have to say Nate’s right,” Alvin added with a wink. “I mean, how else could you be more popular than me with the ladies, despite having zero personality?” For years, Alvin and Jeremy had frequented bars together, trolling for dates.
Jeremy laughed. Alvin Bernstein, whose name conjured up a clean-cut, bespectacled accountant—one of the countless professionals who wore Florsheim shoes and carried a briefcase to work—didn’t look like an Alvin Bernstein. As a teenager, he’d seen Eddie Murphy in Delirious and had decided to make the full-leather style his own, a wardrobe that horrified his Florsheim-wearing, briefcase-carrying father, Melvin. Fortunately, leather seemed to go well with his tattoos. Alvin considered tattoos to be a reflection of his unique aesthetic, and he was uniquely aesthetic on both his arms, right up to his shoulder blades. All of which complemented Alvin’s multiply pierced ears.
“So are you still planning a trip down south to investigate that ghost story?” Nate pressed. Jeremy could fairly see the wheels clicking and clacking away in his brain. “After your interview with People, I mean.”
Jeremy brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and signaled the bartender