Page 28 of The Business Trip

I was conscious that Rocky jumped off the couch and came to my side instinctively, but I was not conscious of much else. I couldn’t compute anything. “Ed, what did you just say?”

He laid it out for me as best he could, the little he knew,adding that he was closing the bar early and all coworkers were invited over together to talk and grieve.

We hung up, and I sank to the floor next to Rocky, burying my face in his soft fur. He began to lick my hand. I started to cry.

Oh, Jasmine, how could this happen?My thoughts went back to her first text to me about how she felt safe and beautiful, and then to her last text to me when she said this guy, Trent, was super sexy, but had a bit of a temper. Yet she insisted she was OK and didn’t need anything. That was just a few days ago. And he had killed her since then? My stomach roiled and I cried harder.

No, Jasmine, no. This just wasn’t fair. You weren’t dealt a fair hand in life. Your mom, Glenn, this.It was so unjust.

I should share what I knew with the police, I reasoned; maybe it would help them. But I’d deleted the texts. I wasn’t sure if police could pull up things that were deleted. I guess I assumed so. They were probably on a hard drive in my phone somewhere.

I reached for the phone to look up the number of the Madison police, hand shaking. Something stopped me, though. No, I shouldn’t go to the police. What new info would I be telling them anyway? And if they dug too deep, would I be implicated for Glenn being beaten up? I had to protect myself and Rocky. I would do what I could to honor Jasmine in other ways, a funeral, a memorial, keeping her memory alive. If the media asked me to talk about the Jasmine I knew from the bar, I would do that. But I couldn’t jeopardize my own safety.

Hugging Rocky tighter, I squinted my eyes shut, willing this whole nasty mess to go away. What kind of a monster was this guy Trent? He meets Jasmine, takes her to Atlanta, and kills her and some other woman within a week of knowing them? Washe a serial killer? Did my friend fall victim to a serial killer? Or did Trent maybe finance her trip and they knew each other already? Was that possible? Jasmine didn’t have a lot of money. How could she have gotten to Atlanta otherwise? Maybe he did bankroll her. Maybe that’s how she was able to pay me back.

Regardless, I couldn’t stop imagining Jasmine’s last moments with Trent. What did she experience at the end? How horrible was it? What was her last thought on this earth?

I hoped this monster Trent would rot in hell.

PART THREE

CHAPTER 26Trent

The First Day of the Conference

A line of treadmills overlooked a bank of windows, but the view wasn’t very inspiring. Just a hospital parking lot and a highway. At least there were a few palm trees.

It was 6:30 a.m., and I had forced myself out of bed to get the ol’ ticker thumping before the News Coverage Summit kicked off. My doctor had warned me that my blood pressure was creeping up, and I was committed to taking off a few pounds this year. It was my New Year’s resolution. Granted, it was only the third week of January, but I had been pretty good. Couldn’t let a conference get in the way.

Pearl Jam provided the soundtrack as I pumped my legs on the tread, feeling beads of sweat starting to form. The long flight from Atlanta had done a number on my body yesterday, but I had gotten to the hotel by late afternoon and even had time for a massive NY strip dinner with two double-baked potatoes and dessert, followed by a few cocktails in the bar. Met some fellow news directors from around the country who were in for the same thing. We all had a couple of laughs. I felt energized and was looking forward to meeting more people. Those of usin charge of newsrooms tended to be in our own little orbits; we didn’t socialize much in our cities, mostly for fear of sharing information that shouldn’t be shared. It was a competitive and secretive society. This conference felt like a chance to mix and mingle. Given that I was newly single, I was itching for a one-night stand too, and I couldn’t wait to scout the chicks just in case something could develop. It had been way too long since I had a good one-night stand.

As I cranked up the incline and the music pulsed in my ears, my thoughts jerked back to one of the last things Katrina had said before she left me: that I should give her wedding ring to the TV station because I was married to it and not her. That still pissed me off.

True, I put in marathon-long days, but it was to help us as a family as much as anything. Would she be able to afford the private school for the kids and her “me days” of pedicures and shopping if I weren’t working so much? I didn’t think so. Now she would receive child support for Brittany and Brett and get her own house.

My fists balled up as I increased the speed on the treadmill, thinking of her dating some new guy but still living offmymoney. We had our differences. I might have cheated on her a few times, but who could possibly be loyal to one person their whole life when the world was filled with so many tempting possibilities? And, frankly, who was to say she hadn’t cheated on me?

We had a few fights too, but was it my fault she could be so hotheaded? Sure, I’d pushed her a few times. That wasn’t a big deal. She threatened a restraining order but thankfully hadn’t gone through with it. That sort of thing could kill my career. I think she knew it would stop her flow of income too, which was why she didn’t do it. She just left me instead.

I had the kids on weekends just once per month by my choice. Kids were a pain in the ass.Daddy, I want juice. Daddy, I’m tired. Daddy, I’m hungry. Daddy, I hurt my knee.Katrina was the woman; she could deal with that sort of crap. I even cut the hours I was with the kids so that I didn’t pick them up until late afternoon on a Saturday and returned them Sunday right after breakfast. Even twenty-four hours as a single parent would have been too much.

To be honest, I was thrilled to have my freedom almost entirely back. Freedom to date, to sleep in when I wanted, to drink as much as I felt like without her checking the recycling bin to see how many beer cans were in it. Screw her. I had bigger things to think about than stupid Katrina or the kids.

Turning the incline down, I looked at the clock on the wall. Time to get ready for the conference. Slowing to a fast walk, I changed the music to Coldplay for the cooldown, and my thoughts drifted to what the hotel restaurant might offer for breakfast. My secretary had said I should do avocado toast given that I was in California, but that sounded awful. No thanks. Eggs, hash browns, toast, and bacon for me. I needed to feel full after every meal.

Grabbing a stiff, bleachy-smelling towel from the stack by the door, I wiped sweat off my forehead and looked at myself in the wall of mirrors opposite the windows. I tried to suck in my stomach. That gut had been inching out for the past five years. I was fifty-two years old, still had a boyish face, people told me, but I felt every ache and pain too. Would probably be sore from this running. I should stretch, but who had time for that? I gave it a cursory fingers-to-toes followed by a twist in each direction and decided that was enough. Stretching was for ballerinas. Dropping the towel in the laundry hamper and leaving the gym, I strode back to the elevator to get to my room.

The shower had a rainforest head and side jets, and the hotel provided bodywash and two options for shampoo and conditioner in pump containers in the shower stall. I emerged smelling like eucalyptus. Standing naked in front of the massive bathroom mirror, I thought about how good I looked, minus that extra belly fat I was working on. But my arms were toned and my face was damn handsome. My hair, barely gray or thinning yet, was my calling card, and if I ever started to lose it, I had plans to pay whatever it took for hair plugs.

Reaching for the shaving cream, I did my full shaving process, then plucked a few nose hairs from my nostrils and clipped my sideburns with tiny scissors I always brought along. Briefly, I contemplated texting my assistant news director to see how everything was going back in the A-T-L, as I liked to call Atlanta, but then thought, fuck it. I could view this as a vacation as much as anything, right? Why be bogged down with the minutiae of the newsroom? Married to my work? I’d show Katrina. I even avoided the San Diego morning news shows and instead turned on ESPN.

My clothes were zipped into travel bags, pressed and ready to go, thanks to my secretary. This first day I would wear a suit coat that was monogrammed with my initials, as were all of my work clothes. I paired that with a Ralph Lauren V-neck T-shirt, pressed slacks, and Hugo Boss shoes. Fastening my chunky silver watch, adding gel to my hair and smoothing it down, I grabbed the leather over-the-shoulder messenger bag I had gotten from one of the best tanneries in Rome and headed down for breakfast.

The eggs were a bit overdone, but the hash browns, toast, and bacon were good. I downed it all with two cups of black coffee—no milk, no sugar (sugar was for little girls, my dad had always said)—and I was feeling jacked up and powerful asI strode into the ballroom ready for the conference. A table was set up to the left with name tags strewn across it.

“Good morning, can I help you find your name?” asked a young woman with short hair who I guessed to be an intern. She had a mega-busty chest but wasn’t that attractive. Anyone wearing a nose ring always turned me off, but I put on my best news director voice and bellowed:

“You sure can. Trent McCarthy, reporting for duty.”

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