A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  Still standing beside the desk, Mr. Arenburg hastened to explain. “You must realize we need to leverage our lead on this story. The revenue it will provide is significant. Also, the national and international implications are astounding. This story will, in fact, put Medford on the map.”

  Whit nodded. “I understand.”

  A message was silently transferred between the two men with a quick glance; then Mr. Arenburg spoke softly. “I’m aware of your recent recovery from a personal tragedy.”

  Here we go.

  Woven between the lines was an unspoken reference to her emotional breakdown at the Los Angeles Times. Not a breakdown, exactly, but a heated and tearful argument with her editor regarding her “lack of concentration” on the job and the subsequent forced leave of absence, which had ended with Whit’s resignation. It was all spelled out in black and white in her personnel file, including the kidnapping events in Afghanistan.

  After yesterday’s disturbing flashbacks, she was more than a little apprehensive about her own emotional stability, but she would never let them see that. Whit said defensively, “I can handle the story.”

  “Yes, you’re a very accomplished journalist.” Arenburg paused, as if searching for the right words. “I’m simply concerned about the level of stress this story will generate. You’re a recent widow and you’re recovering from a head injury. We just want to be considerate of that fact.”

  Flushing to the roots of her hair, she said, “With all due respect, Mr. Arenburg. This is not my first rodeo. I’m a seasoned professional. I can handle it.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. We have confidence in your abilities and we want you to continue to cover the story, but feel it best to bring in support.” His gaze swiveled to Stu, who appeared uncomfortable. “What I’m trying to say is that, in light of your situation, we wouldn’t want to burden you with undue stress. This story will attract some highly contentious media. The competition for information will be fierce. So we’ve assigned an assistant, George Cook, to help you.”

  Stu chomped into a glazed doughnut and swallowed without chewing. “I know. I know. George is still a rookie, but he writes sharp copy. And he’s only one semester from his BA.”

  She’d seen George in the newsroom and during some of the morning meetings. He was one of the few interns Stu had assigned real stories to cover on his own. She’d been too busy learning her new crime beat and juggling investigative stories to pay him much attention. All she knew was that he was a preppy kid from Pepperdine University.

  Mr. Arenburg crossed his arms in a fluid motion that suggested the matter was settled. “It will be a great opportunity for George to work with a journalist from a larger market. You’ll have your hands full with these network interviews, so you’ll need someone to do legwork. He’s also very good with social media. And we’ll have a couple of freelancers in the office to assist both of you.”

  She’d covered big stories with partners in the past. As annoying as it was to have George, a junior reporter, assigned to her, she could see the wisdom in it. If yesterday was a foreshadowing, she was in for a rough ride ahead, personally and professionally. And as much as she hated to admit it, she could use the help. “All right, it’s a deal, but I take the lead.”

  Stu chomped another bite and swallowed, shaking his head. “Always have to get the last word.”

  Whit smiled. “Well, I have to have a little pride.”

  Both men laughed, the situation defused.

  “Listen, McKenna.” Stu briskly rubbed his hands together, dislodging doughnut debris onto a paper plate. “We have another reason for assigning George to your story. You start digging deep into this killer’s turf and things could get dangerous. Bad things don’t just happen to journalists in war zones. We want you to keep in close contact with George.”

  “Yes, Stu, I’m fully aware.”

  “All right then. Watch your back and keep me posted.”

  “Don’t worry. Since my ‘tragedy,’ I carry a gun in the glove box of my car. I have a license to carry, so if I get nervous, I’ll keep it close.”

  Stu’s brows shot up. “You realize we have a no-gun policy at the paper.”

  Arenburg said, “Do what you need to do, McKenna; just check it at the door before entering the building. The security guard has a lockbox.”

  She nodded, grateful for the support.

  “Oh,” Stu said. “I almost forgot. I’ve arranged with the district attorney for you to sit front and center at the conference this morning and dibs on the first question.”

  Unless the cops made an arrest, nothing of any real interest would be shared with the press. It was a facade, merely damage control and grandstanding for city officials. Her front-row seat was just a power grab by the Chronicle. Still, better than the back row, and it would elevate her among her peers.

  “Sounds great.” Whit stood to leave and was halfway out the door when she remembered the Delano story. She pivoted around. “Oh, I met with the fire victim’s wife this morning.” She quickly relayed the interview. “She’s convinced he was murdered.”

  Leaning back in his chair at a cocky angle, Stu said, “Oh yeah? What’s your gut tell you?”

  “That he was into something secretive. And that secretive thing killed him, either directly or indirectly.”

  “Another homicide.” He bounced out of his chair, getting worked up. “We gotta nail it then. We’re rockin’ and rollin’.” He turned to Arenburg. “So who do ya think? Breckenridge?”

  Whit stepped up to the desk. “I’m meeting with Mrs. Delano tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t we give that one to Breckenridge? You need to focus on Niki Francis. And I’ll need follow-up copy by ten tonight. Anything. Whatever you got. We’ll be flippin’ stories on that one for weeks.”

  “Mrs. Delano specifically asked for me,” Whit protested. “And as a new widow, she relates to me. Why don’t I meet with her and get back to you?”

  His bushy gray brows came together in a frown, the deep circles of a sleepless night evident.

  Whit pressed her advantage. “If it looks like an in-depth investigative piece that would draw me away from Niki Francis, then you can toss it to Breckenridge.”

  “Sounds like an in-depth investigative story already.”

  “I’ll check it out and let you know.”

  She hurried away before he had time to refute her. She’d already developed something of a bond with Mrs. Delano, and she’d written the lead story. Common sense prevailing, she should have lightened her load, but like any good newshound, when she smelled the scent of blood she had to follow the trail.

  CHAPTER

  14

  CITY HALL HOUSED the mayor’s office, the police department, and various other municipal agencies in a boxy, three-story concrete building with expansive tinted windows.

  The media circus had begun. Roadblocks barricaded the streets nearest the building, which were jammed with traffic. Whit cranked the wheel toward a side street and backed into a parking spot two blocks away in front of an old Victorian house, the remnant of a bygone neighborhood.

  She’d left her new partner, George Cook, at the office to coordinate her afternoon schedule and dig up any leads on Delano. He seemed eager to chase whatever bones she threw him. Now she could focus on Niki Francis.

  Whit gathered her bag and marched across sun-drenched asphalt into the shade of the municipal building, which was clogged like a backed-up parade with media. She pushed her way through. The air was heavy and disturbingly still. The sky to the east swelled over the Siskiyou Mountains with eerily greenish storm clouds, as if laden with algae. She hoped it wasn’t an ominous sign for the day ahead. It would be a nasty storm for sure and another hellishly hot day. A uniformed officer stopped her at the barricade. She flashed her credentials and hurried inside.

  It felt like old times, excusing and pardoning her way through the clogged aisle to the front-row seats. After eight months of barren desert, as far as high-profile media a
ssignments, this was glory land. Already the big hitters were in play. The networks, CNN, FOX, ABC, and NBC, were all there, along with the local pack. She sat down and took note of every detail of the posse of officials up front.

  On the platform, Detective Riggs’s blonde pixie under the lights caught Whit’s eye. The only female on the podium, her petite frame was dwarfed by the five men around her. She wore cream slacks and a matching sleeveless top. As the spokesperson for the medical examiner’s office, she attended every press conference of relevance.

  After checking microphones and television feeds, the city manager introduced the mayor, who in short order introduced the district attorney.

  Edward Littrell began with the official announcement of the death and ongoing murder investigation of Niki Francis. He then gave a long-winded statement regarding the unfortunate circumstances that had summoned the press to such an event. His sharp features, pale even in summer, held a snide contempt, as if he was above it all. He wore a tailored suit and tie. As expected, he shared nothing of any real interest.

  Secretly, Whit was somewhat pleased, because that would force the rest of the media to seek out the Chronicle for information until they could dig up their own sources. Eventually Littrell opened the floor for questions. Ignoring the raised hands, he pointed to Whit, reminding the assembled, one and all, his tone not especially flattering, of her scoop in this morning’s paper.

  Without hesitation, she said, “My question is for Sergeant Blackwell. Do you have any suspects or persons of interest in this investigation?”

  Blackwell lumbered up to the microphone, massaging his black moustache, thick stomach bulging under his belted uniform, his dark eyes roaming the crowd. He introduced himself and identified his position on the investigation team, his Texas twang elongating his words. Sloow and steeady.

  “We’re an interagency team. A network of detectives from city police, county, and state. Our clear rate is ninety-four percent. Much higher than other counties. We’re confident that everything that can be done is bein’ done. We have over thirty officers conductin’ field investigations on this case. The FBI has been briefed and special agents are assisting. Now, Mrs. McKenna, I can answer your question.

  “It’s still early in the investigation. We’re followin’ up on any leads as they arise and cannot make any further comments at this time regarding persons of interest.”

  Another fifteen minutes of questions and noncommittal answers from various officials added nothing of any interest, at which time the DA called an end to the meeting. Deflated, everyone stood to leave.

  Whit packed up her gear, ready to beeline it back to the Chronicle for her scheduled interviews, then paused when a woman from the back of the room shouted her name.

  “Whitney McKenna.”

  She stood, searching out who had called her.

  A woman stepped forward. “McKenna!”

  All movement in the room froze. In the sudden silence, Whit faced a vaguely familiar woman, probably from one of the network channels. She was tall, long dark hair, dark eyes, and clothed in a red dress. “Tami Dunn with NBC. Aren’t you the same Whitney McKenna who worked for the L.A. Times and was attacked in Afghanistan last year because you insisted on following the story into a dangerous area? Wasn’t your husband killed? Photojournalist John McKenna shot and killed by al-Qaeda insurgents?”

  Every head spun back to gawk at Whit. She heard sharply indrawn breaths. Papers rustled, chair legs creaked. Her gaze darted around the room like a trapped animal. The faces stared back, stark, blatantly curious, some with unveiled pity.

  Cameras flashed.

  The air, which had previously been pleasantly cool, was now cloying with prickling heat along her spine.

  Blindsided by one of her own. No, another species altogether, a broadcast journalist. Not that there was much difference anymore.

  Apparently the grace period was over, the gloves were off, and she was fair game.

  Cameras spanned toward Whit.

  All the guilt and media-led accusations that had swamped her on the return from Afghanistan flashed through her mind. The emails and letters accusing her of warmongering and grandstanding even over her husband’s grave. As if her bloodthirsty desire to cover news in hot spots had led to her husband’s death. John had a history of photographing war regions and dangerous locations, but none of that seemed to matter. The fact that Kabul had not really been on the danger list for years didn’t matter either. She had been branded as callous and self-seeking. An egomaniac who would chase a story at everyone else’s expense. It was true that over the years she’d amassed a great many news articles from dangerous places and situations, but that hardly classified her as a warmonger. Her own guilt at having asked John to accompany her was certainly enough of a head trip.

  Heat flushed her face. Yesterday’s anxiety came surging back, buzzing in her head like a thousand bees. Her knees nearly buckled, and heart pounding in her ears, she stared back at Tami Dunn, speechless.

  The weeks of unrelenting negative public scrutiny had precipitated her breakdown at the Times.

  She couldn’t handle that kind of public betrayal right now. Her recovery was too fragile.

  She sensed Riggs at her side, heard her whisper, “You don’t need to respond to that.”

  If she didn’t, they would hound her. She swallowed hard.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m Whitney McKenna. I don’t think my personal history has any relevance here. I will not discuss it. I’m a reporter with the Medford Daily Chronicle now, and as you heard the district attorney say, I broke the Niki Francis story. She was the victim of homicide, her body buried in a shallow grave. Why don’t we focus on that? She has millions of fans eager to hear any news. In light of that, does anyone have any questions for me regarding Niki Francis?”

  They pushed forward, asking questions all at once.

  The horde descended …

  Did you personally know or have you ever met Niki Francis?

  Can you give us the names of the eyewitnesses?

  Who reported her missing?

  Have you interviewed the family?

  Did you see the body?

  “That’s it. That’s all I have right now. If you want a more detailed account, you can contact my editor, Stu Davenport.”

  She caught Riggs’s nod toward the back exit and hurried out the door. Whit blew out a breath. “Shit. That was … I wasn’t ready for that.”

  Riggs grabbed her arm. “Come on. Walk with me.”

  They moved along at an easy pace for a couple of blocks in amiable silence, which Whit was grateful for while she collected her chaotic thoughts. She paid little attention to where they were going. Before she knew it they were blocks away from all the hubbub. Even at midmorning the heat was unbearable. She was grateful for the building’s shadows along the walkway.

  “Let’s have a few shots and a smoothie.” Riggs suddenly paused at the door of Wamba Juice, a small Mediterranean deli.

  “I could use a drink, but it’s early yet. Now that you mention it, I might have a mini-bar bottle in my bag.”

  “No, you lush. Not that kind of shot.”

  They entered the small restaurant, which had only one patron sitting at a side table, as it was only half past eleven. Riggs greeted the tattooed and pierced young man behind the counter. “Hey, Monte. Good morning. We’ll take two double wheatgrass shots. One Green Goddess, and I think my friend would like the … Wamba Wizard.”

  Laughing, Whit rolled her eyes. “Of course. I should have known. I’ve had all kinds of shots in my life, but never a wheatgrass shot.”

  “You’ll love it. Lots of energy. Good for the soul.”

  “Shoot me now. I was hoping for something stronger.”

  “My treat,” Riggs said, and paid the bill. “You can have that bottle in your purse later. I’m not even going to ask how it got in there or why you carry it around.” She motioned to a two-seater table. “Let’s sit by the window.
”

  Whit admired a painted mural on the wall of a ship in harbor and rolling green hills. It reminded her of a long-ago train ride through Italy that she and John had enjoyed. She sat with a sigh at the plastic-covered table, grateful to be away from the eyes of the media.

  The shot glasses with foaming lime-green juice were delivered to the table. Riggs raised a toast. “Here’s to being a survivor.”

  “To being a survivor.” All for being a good sport, she choked down the bitter brew, but couldn’t hold back her disgust. “God, Riggs, why don’t you just go out and pluck some grass and chew it. I’m sure it would have the same benefits and sure as hell the same taste.”

  Unfazed, Riggs grinned. “Lots of antioxidants. Helps fight cancer and lower cholesterol.”

  Sucking air through her teeth, Whit looked around for some water.

  “For all your hard-core journalistic fearlessness, you can be a real pansy.”

  “What! I can suck it up with the best of them, but for God sakes, get me some water.”

  Laughing, Riggs went to the counter for their smoothies. “Here, prima donna, the smoothie will make it all better.”

  Whit suspiciously sniffed the pinkish smoothie. “What’s in it?”

  “Berries, other fruit. Just drink it and stop your sniveling.”

  “Sniveling? I take offense at that. I never snivel.” She sipped, pleasantly surprised by the sweet frothy cream. “Okay, I can officially let you back in my good graces.”

  “Great. Now … let’s talk about that fiasco. I hope you’re not going to let that ‘one-shot wonder’ derail all your progress.”

  “No. Of course not. I should have seen that coming. For some reason it just never occurred to me. I’ve never been a fan of ambush reporting. Not my style, and it lacks intelligence. She won’t get far with it, and I don’t think she accomplished anything of value today.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you. You handled it very well.”

  “Thanks. I’ve had my doubts the last couple of days. Wondering if I came back to work too soon.”