St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

again.
    “We’ll feed you questions about Bertone, you answer, you get fed more, you answer more. Don’t worry if you show that you’re upset by what’s happened to you,” Martin added. “The more emotion, the better. Okay?”
    “Not for her eyes,” Freddie muttered as she worked gel into Kayla’s hair.
    “Get their hearts and their minds will follow,” Martin shot back.
    “Cry for the cameras?” Kayla asked.
    “Okay, that’d be good.”
    “I’m not an actress.”
    “Yeah, I figured that out real fast,” Martin said. Then to Freddie, “Two minutes or we’ll start with you in the picture.”
    “I’ll paint a happy face on my butt and moon you.” Freddie winked at Kayla.
    Martin walked over to where Faroe and Rand stood talking.
    “Okay,” Martin said. “What do you have new?”
    “It’s only been an hour since we briefed you,” Faroe said. “You’ll be the second to know if more comes in.”
    “I’d rather be the first.”
    Faroe wanted to roll his eyes like a girl.
    Rand coughed instead of laughing. Then he looked at Kayla—and looked again. Something Freddie had done had transformed Kayla’s hair from a sleek professional ’do to a wind-blown innocence that made her look about seventeen.
    “You’re good,” he said to Freddie. “Too bad it will be wasted in silhouette.”
    “The hair won’t be,” Freddie said. “You watch.”
    Rand watched.
    And learned.
    He’d always known that news shows were as much staging—emotion—as news, but he hadn’t really known until he saw the result when Kayla was put into the chair and backlit just enough to show her slender silhouette.
    The innocent hair came through like a halo.
    “Really good,” Rand said, saluting Freddie.
    “Quiet,” Martin snapped.
    Rand listened while Thomas joked Kayla out of her nerves, made her forget the camera, and led her through the small steps that had taken her right off the cliff of complicity.
    “Oh, yes,” Kayla said, “I was very pleased when my boss gave me the Bertones as my special clients.”
    “Special?” Martin asked. “How so?”
    “I was their interface with the private banking arm of American Southwest. I kept their various accounts—personal and professional—moved money between accounts, that sort of thing. If they wanted anything that had to do with their money, they called me.”
    “And you found nothing unusual in those accounts?”
    “No. They spent more than an average household, of course, but they earned far more than average.”
    “Didn’t you wish you had that kind of money?” Thomas asked, his voice deep, sincere. “I would.”
    Kayla’s teeth gleamed in a brief smile that shone through the shadows veiling her. “Nope. It’s hard for people outside the banking business to understand, but when I handle a client’s money, it’s not real money, like the kind I pay my bills with. A client’s money is just numbers I move from one account to another. Numbers, not dollars.”
    “So you didn’t wish you had some of the Bertones’ wealth?”
    Slowly Kayla shook her head. “I have some money saved for a vacation, some money for retirement, I pay down my credit cards, that sort of thing. Real money. Real life.”
    Rand almost clapped.
    Faroe leaned over and breathed into his ear, “She’s good.”
    Shaking his head, Rand said very softly, “She’s real. Thomas is good.”
    Martin glared at them.
    Something in Faroe’s jeans vibrated. He patted the pocket and headed back to his bungalow.
    Rand wondered what had come unstuck, and where, but he stayed with Kayla even though she didn’t need the moral support.He needed to give it. So he listened while Kayla’s story and her life unraveled for the education and titillation of news groupies across America.
    He barely looked up when Faroe let himself back into the bungalow that had become a stage set for The World in One Hour. Faroe went straight to Martin. Papers rustled as Faroe handed them over.
    Martin started to complain.
    And then he started to read. A minute later his head snapped up. “Okaaaay! Is this solid?”
    “Like a rock,” Faroe said.
    “Christ.” Grinning, Martin called over his shoulder. “Cut!”
    Lights came on or went off. Everyone in the room looked over at Martin or began talking.
    “What’s up?” Thomas called over the noise.
    “A wet dream come true.” Martin walked over and shoved papers into the reporter’s hands. “Read this.”
    Thomas read, then read again. “Is