A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  Whit asked for descriptive details about the body at the scene to verify her information from the fisherman, Mr. Wolcott. “Not much to go on.”

  “No, but we’re following up on some leads that I’m not privileged to share just yet. I’m not sure of their relevance anyway.”

  “Leads from the autopsy? Needle marks? Do you think drugs were involved?”

  “Nothing like that. Though I can’t say for sure that drugs were not a factor. But I will tell you the approximate time of death was Monday, early evening. The MADIU team is investigating the case. Tonight the state police and the FBI have joined the team.”

  Already the lead for Whit’s story was beginning to formulate. The small-town murder of a highly publicized celebrity was definitely hot news. National and even international media would descend like cats on cream, lapping up every tiny scrap of information. And she, PTSD washup, would get the first lick. Maybe God was smiling down on her.

  “Okay. Your turn,” Riggs prompted.

  Fired up now, she eagerly shared details of the witnesses and their story. “According to those kids, the killer drove a black or dark-navy king-cab truck.”

  “Make and model?”

  “Don’t know. But after an hour of questions, the kids remembered seeing a University of Oregon O sticker on the back window of the truck. Must be a Ducks fan. That’s as descriptive as they could be. It was very foggy the morning they saw him burying the body. But I don’t think there’s that many dark king-cab trucks around.”

  “You forget.” Riggs pulled a pad and pen from her back pocket. “This is Oregon, not LA. They ride trucks here like cowboys rode horses in the Wild West, and nearly all of them are Ducks fans. They won the Rose Bowl. It’s serious football here. So a Ducks sticker doesn’t really narrow our search, but it helps some. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s a lead and a good one; thanks. I’ll call it in right now. If we question the kids right away, maybe they’ll remember more.”

  “They also believe the guy was white because he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, and there was enough light to see his arms. They couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a baseball cap.”

  “Any description of height, weight?”

  “No.”

  “I better call this in now.” She stared at the information thoughtfully. “I wonder how the MADIU team missed these witnesses. I know they canvassed the area thoroughly.”

  “In all honesty, their hideout was nearly impossible to find. And they were determined to stay and watch all the drama. Even their parents didn’t know where they were.”

  “That might explain it, but I don’t think the chief is going to be too happy that we missed this. Somebody’s head is going to roll.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.” Whit frowned. “I hope not yours.”

  “Most likely Blackwell, since he’s the lead on this one. All that aside, I’m grateful we have something solid to go on.” Riggs slid her phone from her belt and dialed. “Blackwell will want this information immediately. The team will be up all night anyway.”

  “Good luck.” Whit pulled her laptop out of her bag and set it in front of her on the table. Logging on to Wi-Fi, she researched details about Niki’s career. She retrieved the Applegate story from her email, where she had sent it before leaving the office. Years of writing on deadline in elevators, taxis, planes, and just about every mode of transportation, including a military Humvee, had prepared her well to write under pressure.

  She could taste victory. A story of this magnitude would propel her back to the top of her game. Give her credibility among her peers again. Not that she didn’t still have supporters, longtime friends at the Los Angeles Times, but in that arena of writing it was a small world, and journalists were born gossips. Her fall from grace had been well reported. Wouldn’t it be great karma if she bagged a story that landed her back on top of the heap? A nagging doubt surfaced, but she refused to consider whether she was emotionally ready to reclaim her place in the big leagues.

  The restaurant server brought their food. Riggs ate her shrimp salad quickly and left. The new lead generated multiple trails to follow and would require every available cop. Whit returned her second glass of wine to the bar, then ordered a Diet Pepsi. Brain cells had to be firing at optimum levels to fine-tune the first six inches of her story. She munched warm, salty fries, thinking through her lead.

  Blocking out every sound until she was alone with her thoughts, Whit faced her computer. She teased the lead, writing and deleting repeatedly until she was satisfied.

  From beneath piles of river rock and gritty dirt, homicide investigators uncovered the body of Niki Francis buried in a shallow grave near Applegate Lake. The mega star’s corpse was discovered by a local fisherman, Jerry Wolcott, and his dog, when a hungry black bear dug up a portion of the actress’s remains.

  She would quote Mr. Wolcott for a description of the body. After weaving in a bio on Niki Francis, she forwarded the entire story to Stu via email, and sent him a text requesting the lead above the fold, with the bombshell headline NIKI FRANCIS MURDERED, BODY FOUND BURIED IN THE APPLEGATE.

  True to form, Stu called ranting at her to verify, verify, verify her facts, and demanding to know her source, which she refused to give him.

  “Look, McKenna. I’m not running a story like that without a source.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Stu. You’ll just have to trust me. I am absolutely certain my information is correct. My source is solid. A member of the police department. Trust me.”

  “Why? I don’t have to trust anyone. In fact, I don’t ever trust anyone.”

  “Fine. Don’t print it. You’ll miss out on the most sensational scoop this newspaper has ever had.”

  Silence greeted her for several seconds. For three months now she’d swallowed her pride and worked relentlessly to write well-crafted stories, no matter the subject. She’d fought hard to earn her self-respect back, and the respect of her peers, who couldn’t quite mask the looks of pity cast her way. As degrading as it had all been, she hadn’t quit, fully aware that her daughters were watching.

  Opportunities like this headliner came along once in a lifetime. Normally she would give Stu the name of her sources if they were on the record, but Katie had agreed to the quid pro quo only under promise of anonymity.

  In the silence, Stu breathed into the phone. Her heart pulsed in her ears.

  Finally Stu said, “I’ll head back to the paper and make sure the copy people don’t screw it up.”

  “Excellent!” Enjoying a little jab, Whit said, “Just make sure my byline isn’t misspelled.”

  Stu grunted. “Egomaniac.”

  Laughing, Whit hung up, but another part of her braced for what was sure to be a media war zone beginning bright and early tomorrow morning.

  CHAPTER

  10

  THE EXHILARATION OF writing a front-page international story left Whit deflated and feeling strangely lonely. John wasn’t waiting to share her victory. No chilled wineglasses ready to raise in a victory toast. No strong arms eagerly wrapping around her while he listened to the myriad details of her journalistic coup. With a regretful sigh, she turned the key in the front door of her townhome.

  It was after one in the morning and she wanted nothing more than to pour a glass of wine, fall into bed, and wipe everything out of her mind. In the shadows of the living room, she hung the keys on a rack by the door. The muted sound of the girls’ television carried from upstairs, so presumably at least one of them was still awake. She kicked off her shoes just as Reggie came barreling around the corner from the kitchen. The mass of panting, quivering, fawn-colored pug practically knocked her over.

  “I missed you too!” She plopped into a chair and gathered him up in her arms and tried to dodge his slurping tongue. His fur was soft. He cried and whined in a high pitch, as if admonishing her for leaving the house without him. She laughed in spite of herself. “You beast!”

  “Hey, Mom.” Jor
dan emerged from the hall with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. “He sure misses you.”

  “He’s telling me all about it.” Whit lavished Reggie with hugs and kisses; then, sufficiently loved, he jumped down and pranced toward Jordan. “How are you doing?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I’m fine. Bored.”

  “What are you doing up so late?”

  “Got the munchies.”

  “Munchies?” Whit suspected Jordan had been smoking pot lately. Surely she wouldn’t be so blatant. On closer inspection, her eyes were awfully red.

  Deciding to fortify herself with a glass of wine before any confrontations, Whit brushed the blond fur off her skirt and headed toward the kitchen. She paused and embraced Jordan, holding tight, knowing it was their last year together before college.

  Marijuana had a distinctive smell, and it clung to Jordan.

  Whit reached up and cupped Jordan’s chin. “I love you. You know that?”

  A soft smile touched Jordan’s mouth before she rolled her eyes, as if it was all too embarrassing. “I know, Mom.”

  Awash in disappointment about the pot, Whit released her and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She rummaged in the cabinet and tossed Reggie a jerky stick, then poured a glass of wine. A weak substitute for the strength needed to confront an authority-defiant teenager, but she was all tapped out.

  Jordan had followed them into the kitchen. “So, I was thinking of driving to the coast tomorrow to take some shots of the ocean. The cliffs are beautiful, and I want to enter a few contests. Can I use Dad’s equipment?” She leaned against the counter, her curly brown hair, with an unfortunate swath of bang recently dyed fuchsia, hanging over the shoulders of her Led Zeppelin T-shirt nearly to her hips, which were encased in baggy black sweat pants.

  Whit sipped her wine.

  Jordan had been close to John, often going out on assignments with him. She’d reveled in the mud-soaked shoes required to capture the perfect shot of the New Year’s Day flood; the hours trapped on the roof of the Holiday Inn hotel, sitting in blazing heat for an aerial shot of the president’s motorcade; even climbing steep terrain in the dark to capture a perfect sunrise photo. They had the same spirit of adventure. Every time Whit looked at Jordan, she saw John’s inquisitive blue eyes.

  All of John’s camera equipment had been carefully packed before moving from Los Angeles. Whit hadn’t had the heart to unpack most of his things yet. “You know it’s very expensive equipment. And you’re hard on things.”

  “I’d be careful.” She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth, a defiant tilt to her strong chin. Even her mannerisms were like John’s. If he faced an argument with no intention of changing his mind, his chin lifted just like that, and he never said much, but she knew the conversation was over. But Jordan was her daughter and the last word had to be her own.

  “Careful? Let’s review the past six months. You’ve lost your phone three times. You’ve blown a tire on your car playing wheelies in a parking lot at midnight. You ran the battery down in the car on a two-lane road in the middle of mountains in the dark of night. You drove the car into an orchard and got stuck in the mud and had to call a tow truck. These are not the things a ‘careful’ person does.”

  “So I’m clumsy.”

  “Come on, Jordan. Then there’s your appearance. You stopped wearing makeup, and half the time you don’t even brush your hair. You dress in these sloppy sweats no matter where you’re going. Personal hygiene seems to be a thing of the past. I’m concerned.”

  “Hey, I’m a hippie.” Jordan shrugged. “A free spirit. What can I say?”

  Whit could feel her temper rising. “First of all, you can take responsibility for your actions.”

  “I’m a teenager, Mom. That’s what teenagers do.”

  “Only the ones headed for trouble.” Whit swigged her wine in frustration. “Listen, I know your dad’s death left a big hole in your life. And probably a lot of feelings you don’t know how to handle. Hell, I don’t know how to handle it either. But we have to do our best. Under the circumstances, I haven’t said much. I’ve been trying to be compassionate, but now I think I’ve just been foolish.”

  “Foolish?” Jordan flipped a cascade of curls over her shoulder. “It’s my life. If I want to screw it up, that’s my business.”

  Whit swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her ears. “Are you smoking pot?”

  “What if I am?” Her eyes flashed defiance. “I’m almost eighteen. I can do what I want!”

  “You do what I say in my house. Are you or are you not smoking pot?”

  “Dad said he smoked pot in high school.”

  “So that gives you a reason to make the same mistake? You’re smarter than that, and I won’t have it.”

  Flushed with anger, Jordan raised her voice. “Yeah? I don’t think you need to be talking to me about pot when you’re drinking wine. Again …” She jabbed a finger at Whit’s glass, slapping the stem.

  Whit gasped as chilled wine splashed across her blouse, soaking through to her skin and sloshing onto her bare feet. Dark, seething fury surged through her, an instant wrath that she never saw coming. “What … is … the … matter … with … you!” she shouted, every instinct urging her to attack. Frightened of her own emotions, she spun away, eyes squeezed shut. “Get out!”

  She caught hold of the counter as the room spun. The glass dropped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, shattering. The images of John’s death in her mind’s eye were so very vivid that it seemed her wine-drenched blouse became the blood-soaked shirt she’d worn that dreadful day.

  Whit sucked in raw air, gulping as if she’d been drowning underwater.

  “Mom?”

  Jordan’s arm was wrapped around her waist as they leaned against the counter.

  Whit cried into her hands. Grief enveloped her so completely, with gut-wrenching sobs, that she had no resistance to fight it, nothing to dull the avalanche. All the willpower in the world could not suppress it anymore. The horror of John’s last minutes on earth tore at her heart.

  Lost in her tears, Whit moved willingly as Jordan guided her down the hall to her room and stuffed tissues into her hand. Exhausted, she fell across the bed, allowing the racking sobs to vent her pain.

  After a while, she became aware of Jordan kneeling on the floor next to the bed, her hand on Whit’s shoulder. Gazing into those concerned blue eyes so like John’s, she apologized. “I’m … I’m sorry, Jordan. It’s been a long, difficult day.”

  “It’s okay.” Her voice quivered with tears. “I didn’t mean to spill your wine. I didn’t mean … to make it worse.”

  Whit squeezed Jordan’s hand. “You didn’t make it worse, honey. This was a long time coming, months of grief, and it’s been building all day. You did nothing to cause it. I’m just processing a lot right now, just like you are.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s been hard, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  Jordan frowned, “You scared me just now. I thought you were going to pass out. Do you need to see a doctor?”

  Blowing her nose, Whit shook her head. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “Are you sure? I can call Grandma and Grandpa, or I can stay here with you for a while.”

  “No. Go on up to bed and get some sleep. I needed a good cry. I’ll be fine.” This would not be their last confrontation, Whit was sure. But at least Jordan seemed more receptive. Now was probably a good time to press her point. “And Jordan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll think about your trip to the coast. Borrowing your dad’s cameras. Promise me you’ll make a real effort. Clean your room. Take a shower. Stop the drugs.”

  “I will, Mom.” Jordan hugged her and left the room, her footsteps creaking on the stairs.

  Reggie nudged her leg and got in a few slobbery licks before she bent down to pet his head. She slid off the bed and walked to the utility closet in the hallway and grabbed a broom and dustbin.

  Af
ter the cleanup, she poured a new glass of wine and carried it to her nightstand. Maybe it would help her calm down. What bad timing for the dam to break, in front of Jordan, and while she was knee-deep in the Niki Francis story.

  Whit washed her face, changed into a comfortable nightgown, and propped against bed pillows as she opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out an old Flor de las Antillas Belicoso wooden cigar box. She flipped the lid, exposing an array of John’s personal items. Gold cuff links he’d worn to a photojournalism award ceremony at the Waldorf Hotel in New York. He’d rented a tux with a red cummerbund and been sexy as hell. They had celebrated with friends late into the night, then returned to their hotel room and made languid, passionate love. She fingered a few favorite coins he’d collected from various countries they’d visited. Each symbolized a special date. His thirty-sixth birthday in Baghdad, where they’d met, a war zone, which in a way defined their lives together. She picked up and sniffed two half-smoked cigars from the days that Jordan and Emma were born, with the words It’s a Girl! stamped on them. She smiled at those, recalling how he’d been kicked out of the hospital for lighting up in her room, always a lark and a rebel.

  She slipped on his gold wedding band over hers. There was no hurry to remove her ring. In her heart, she was still a married woman. She absently rubbed the smooth metal around her finger as tears wet her cheeks. Even though his camera had captured some of life’s cruelest moments in some of the most violent places on earth, John never lost his amiable smile or his generous heart. Unlike her, impulsive and headstrong, he was thoughtful and reasonable. Comforting … so comforting …

  She had half nodded off to sleep when Reggie’s boisterous snores brought her awake with a jerk. He snorted and hacked on something, then fell back into his doggy dream world.

  Dropping the coins and John’s ring back in the box, she caught sight of the silver lighter. The last time she’d seen him use it was the morning they were kidnapped from the Serena Hotel in Kabul. After breakfast at Café Zarnegar, John had walked outside and sat near the fountain to smoke his cigar, while she gathered their equipment for an interview she’d scheduled with the Ministry of Women’s Affairs. She had no idea how she had ended up with the lighter. She flicked the lid open, remembering his hands using it many times. With a sigh, she slipped it back into the box.