Page 13 of Blood Moon

“Oh, sorry, Max. I didn’t think.”

“It’s okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.” There was more grunting, what sounded like the rustle of bed linens, and the unmistakable snick of a cigarette lighter.

“You’resmoking? You promised, Max.”

“With my fingers crossed.”

Arguing wouldn’t make a dent with him, so she moved past his unhealthy habit to address his mood, which was more irascible than usual. “Bad day?”

“They’re throwing me a retirement party.”

“They? The network?”

He muttered several curses. “Black tie affair. Waldorf Astoria. They’re inviting every living president, a British royal or two, and A-list movie stars.”

Knowing how he would feel about that, she winced, but said, “Wow. How nice.”

“Nice?No. Gratuitous. I’d rather die than be there.” After a puff of breath, no doubt creating a cloud of smoke, he said, “It’s late there, too. Why are you still up?”

“I’ve been putting off calling you.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to hear ‘I told you so.’”

“Ah. You’ve met with Bowie and struck out.”

Max Longren, who was four decades her senior, was her boss. Also, in truth, her best friend. Until recently he’d been executive producer ofCrisis Point.

But since last year when the network had been bought by an international media conglomerate, the corporate shift had been seismic, and the infrastructure ofCrisis Pointhadn’t been immune to changes in management. Max had been replaced by a much younger corporate animal named Winston Brady.

Max wasn’t taking his forced exit well. His career had been his lifeblood. He was a living legend, known throughout the industry for his talent, grit, caginess, and often tyrannical tactics.

Beth had been with the show for only two years when, to her dismay and delight, Max had handpicked her to be his personal assistant producer. Under his tutelage, she’d received the best education she could have wished for. She’dbeen taught by the headmaster himself, the developer of techniques that told true stories in a manner that made them as exciting and compelling as fiction. His innovations had been replicated by just about every other successful documentary series.

Through all the years they’d worked together, naturally they’d had disagreements, but nothing compared to the explosive quarrel they’d had when she’d approached him with her reservations about the accuracy of the soon-to-air Crissy Mellin episode. He’d frowned and reminded her that it was a done deal, that Brady had signed off on it.

“I know that, Max. But recently something’s come to my attention. We might have missed a vital element of that story. The impact could be major, and we’d be derelict to leave it out.”

“Are you saying we’d go back in and change it?”

“Let me explain and then you decide.”

So he’d listened, but by the time she’d finished, he was bristling.

“A blood moon?” he asked with incredulity. “That’s your vital element? What the hell is that, anyway? Have you gone loopy? Are you eating those funny gummy bears?”

“Max, please don’t dismiss—”

“Around here, you and I are considered a unit, Beth. Everyone regards me as your Merlin. If you start spouting this moon cycle crap, they’ll think it originated with me, that I thought up something outlandish just to get under Brady’s skin.”

“Don’t you think it warrants deeper digging?”

“It no longer matters what I think. Professionally, I’vebeen castrated. I’m surprised they haven’t confiscated my executive men’s room key. Now, forget about it, and let that episode air as is.”

She’d dropped the matter that day, but, on the next, she’d informed him of her intention to take a few vacation days. He’d eyed her with the daunting shrewdness that aNew York Timescolumnist had accurately described as “withering.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “Destination Louisiana.”