UCSD. But still, they all seemed around the same age….
“Is this Felix Lopez?” I asked, switching topics by pulling out Miguel’s brother’s photos from my manila folder. I knew it was, but I had to get videotaped confirmation from the expert for my story.
“Yes. That is Felix Lopez,” Mr. Mann agreed, after studying the photo. “Where was this taken? And when?” He looked agitated and suspicious all of a sudden, and I wondered why.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, grabbing the photo and sticking it back into the envelope. “I just wanted to make sure it was him.”
“Ms. Madison, what is this all about? Do you have something you’d like to share with me?” the official demanded.
“Not yet. Maybe soon, though,” I replied, doing my best to keep my cool. Couldn’t let The Mann get me down, after all. “And when I do, I swear you’ll be the first to know.” Which reminded me, I had to tell Richard about this story soon so we could schedule an airdate. He was going to be so psyched when he learned about it. Surely it’d be the best story all year.
“I hope so,” Mr. Mann said. “Because keeping this kind of information from your government in hopes of getting a lead story on the evening news isn’t very patriotic. Or”—he added, narrowing his eyes at me—“very legal.”
The intercom on his desk buzzed. Saved by the bell. “Senator Gorman is here to see you,” a female voice announced. “He says he’s ready for your golf game.”
I felt a chill spin up my spine. Not so saved after all. They were buddies? Thank goodness I hadn’t spilled my suspicions to this guy. How deep did this corruption go?
Mr. Mann broke out into the first smile I’d seen since I entered the place. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll be right out.” He shot me a pointed look. “We’re all done here.”
*
“You sure this is the place?” I asked as Jamie pulled the News 9 SUV down a dusty, unpaved driveway in the desert town of Ramona. At the end of the road squatted a dilapidated trailer, its vinyl siding a dingy white. The yard around it had the stereotypical junkyard motif going on, and there was even a faded pink flamingo standing watch over a weedy garden of cacti.
“Fourteen Meditation Road,” he said, glancing down at the directions. “It’s got to be.”
“When Switchboard dot com said Meditation, I was kind of thinking Koi ponds and Japanese pagodas. What is this guy meditating on—the ancient American art of white trash?”
Jamie laughed appreciatively and put the SUV in park. “You are too much, Maddy.”
Seriously though, even he had to admit, this was the weirdest twist to the drug tunnel story yet.
Yesterday, on a hunch after the DEA interview, I’d gone to the UCSD student library and hit the yearbook section. I already knew what year Gorman went to business school there—his bio was on a billion Web sites. So I’d grabbed what would be his senior yearbook and dragged the dusty thing over to a table.
I flipped through it, trying not to pause and check out the funny outdated hairstyles and bell-bottoms, looking for some connection. Some tiny clue that would link Gorman, Rodriguez, and Lopez together.
Well, I found a clue all right. And it wasn’t little, either. In fact, it was downright Mr. Snuffleupagus sized.
Not only did I find a picture of all three men together, but they were wearing crowns. Celebrating the launch of their student company. And not just any student company. A student company named Coastal Kings. The same umbrella company now owned by Rodriguez and encompassing his car dealerships and Reardon Oil.
Even more intriguing was the fact that there was a fourth “king” in the photo. A king named Bob Reardon.
I couldn’t be more excited than if someone handed me a platinum card and pointed me to a Prada sample sale. Not only did I now have proof all these guys knew each other, I had a completely new “who” to add to my list. A man whose last name just happened to match the faux oil company I wanted to find out about.
I had to talk to this Reardon guy. Pronto. I had this feeling he’d know the answers to every one of my questions.
So, now we were here. Not exactly the kind of place I’d expected an MBA to hang his hat. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find a phone number, so he had no idea we were coming. What if