"Interesting question," Beth replied. "What are some of the possible answers?"
"Maybe Joshua is lying about finding a key. Or maybe Joshua is telling the truth and he did find a key; perhaps he just likes breaking windows. Maybe the driver's window was broken in the crash and I'm wrong about that detail."
"There are some other possibilities," Beth said. "Perhaps the owner smashed the window to make it look like a stolen car, then left the key inside."
"That seems pretty farfetched," Debbie answered.
"Perhaps. But just spitballin' here. Did the car owner mention his key?"
"No. No he didn't," Debbie answered.
"Maybe he told the police, but he didn't tell you."
"I think I need to chat with him again," Debbie replied. "Try to get him to go over his story again."
CHAPTER TEN
Baby Steps
If Sam Hitchens had a spirit animal, it would be a bear, one just emerging from hibernation. He always seemed cross and hungry, Debbie thought as she sat across from his desk, describing in one long monologue her interview with Judge Jamison, her eavesdropping on Joshua, and her conversation with Flannery.
"So, you got that tight-lipped detective to talk," Sam said while he doodled spirals on his reporter's notebook with a red pen. "He wants something."
"Maybe he likes me. Maybe he trusts me," Debbie suggested.
"Flannery doesn't like anyone. Especially reporters. And you haven't been around long enough to earn his trust. No. He's playing some sort of game. I just don't know what it is."
"You're paranoid. Although he did admit that I might be another pair of eyes that can help find the gun."
Sam put his pen down. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get me. Look, we're all using each other. He gave you that information because he wanted you to have it. Not because he wanted to make you an honorary deputy."
Debbie shrugged. "What do you want me to do, tell him to go away?"
"Hell no. Just be careful. He uses you. You use him. If it's a mutually beneficial relationship built on using one another, well, it is what it is. Just be sure you don't lose sight of the fact that the duty you owe is to the truth, not Detective Flannery," Sam said.
"I never forget where my duty lies," Debbie snapped. "So, what do you think of the story about Jarrett?"
"Puff piece. But I'll admit that I'm rooting for him even though we all know philanthropy is Febreze for rich people, they use it to get rid of the stench of corruption. Either that, or it's about status: See how rich I am because I can give so much away?"
"I don't think all good works are a sign of a guilty conscience or showing off," Debbie replied. "If you're successful, isn't it important to share the fruits with those less fortunate?"
Sam sniffed. "When good works come via a press release, it isn't about helping the less fortunate. You're probably just trying to rehabilitate a shitty image. Philanthropy is the modern version of sack cloth and ashes. Show the world just how pious you are. There's always an agenda."
"Geez. You're really negative today." Debbie frowned. "And you know, you are working for a magazine catering to the very people you're sitting here torching."
"It's like you and Flannery. They use me, I use them. So long as I don't lose sight of my duty, then that's the way it is," Sam said. "I'm a pragmatic cynic. And you know what? I just might be able to get some good journalism accomplished."
Sam picked his pen back up and resumed doodling. "Enough philosophizing for one day. Get in touch with the owner of the Audi."
Debbie nodded, knowing as she left Sam's office and headed back to her desk that getting in touch with Hank Frederich wouldn't be hard. She had a hunch she wasn't done with him so she'd already gathered quite a bit of background information.
Sifting through social media was a first stop for Debbie. Sure, some people found it an objectionable practice for a reporter to snoop a private citizen's online accounts. But social media didn't come with a reasonable expectation of privacy. Flannery must've known that because Debbie couldn't find a Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram for him. She doubted he'd be a Snapchat user.
But Hank wasn't Flannery. Hank's Facebook privacy settings allowed friends of friends to view his posts. Debbie discovered that they had a mutual connection; an acquaintance who'd been a high school classmate of Debbie's. They didn't hang out when they were teens, and judging by the woman's posts, they likely wouldn't be friends now. But Debbie tried to keep a wide swath of connections. You never knew when they would come in handy. Hank Frederich was a prime example.
Judging from his shares, he seemed to love his car, Cardinal baseball, grilling pork steaks on the weekend, memes about standing for the flag, locally brewed beer, and boating on Lake of the Ozarks. Divorced. No kids.
For more about his professional life, LinkedIn was her go-to tool. He was some sort of upper-level manager at a large reinsurance company. He began his career as an actuary and climbed the ranks. It was likely he pulled down a thick salary. He was probably someone who liked stats. He analyzed risk.
His Twitter profile was mostly abandoned. There were a few reshares of sports news. He probably didn't like the exposure on the platform. Debbie wondered if he had a profile on Reddit. There was nothing under his name, and it was too much effort, at least for now, to see if she could find him under a pseudonym.
Debbie dialed the phone number she'd found online for Hank's office. She knew that once he answered--if he answered--the clock started ticking. She'd have to intrigue him enough so that he wouldn't hang up before she got the answers she needed.
"Mr. Frederich, I have some information on your stolen Audi," Debbie began, without giving her name. She knew it was a bit of a cheap trick, but she didn't plan to quote him--yet. She needed information first.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Your car key: Was it missing when your car was stolen?"
"What? What sort of silly question is that? Who is this?" he demanded.
"This is Debbie Bradley, the reporter. We met the other day. I heard a rumor that the key was in your car when Joshua Lucas took it."
"I'm not missing my key. And I have the spare. And if the key had been left in the car, why was the steering column so badly damaged?"
"You're absolutely sure about the key?" she asked again.
"Of course. Who do you believe, a criminal or me?" Frederich said. "What else did the punk say?"
"Not much," Debbie answered. "He claimed he didn't steal the car. He said he found it, and the window was already busted out on the driver's side."
"Yes, another expensive repair. Obviously, if the burglar had the key, there would be no need to break the window."
"Do you have the car back yet?" Debbie asked.
"I talked to my repair shop yesterday. They're working as fast as they can, they claim, but it still isn't ready. And it took quite a while to get it from the tow lot."
"What was the delay?" Debbie asked.
"The usual. Evidence. The cops. Unhelpful clerks, not enough tow truck drivers to move it from the lot to the dealership," he said, sounding exasperated. "You name the excuse, and I'll have heard it."
"Thanks for your time, Mr. Frederich," Debbie said politely.
"Hey, how did you get my number?" he asked.
"I'll be sure to let you know if I learn anything else," Debbie said as she hung up the phone.
After jotting down her notes from the conversation, Debbie checked her email and found a surprise message from the prosecutor's public information officer, Michelle Lee, with a heading that read: "Probable Cause Statement."
The body of the email was professional, short, and cordial. The PIO was contacting her about the homicide of Travis Hunt. An arrest had been made, and charges were issued. The defendant, Roberto Simmons, would appear in court the next day.
The probable cause statement, a public document attached to the official charges, revealed that the defendant was twenty-two. The police claimed that
the defendant acted with three other as yet unknown individuals in Hunt's murder. The statement claimed that the murder involved a dispute over drug territory. It also noted that the forensic analysis indicated that the murder weapon was a 40-caliber handgun. It didn't reveal that the handgun was used in another crime.
And there was a lead. The last known address for the defendant. It was incomplete--just a street name with the first two numbers of the four-numbered address of the house--but it was a start.
Debbie gave the probable cause statement a second read. Even though prosecutors file charges, police officers are the ones who are responsible for the probable cause statement and put a signature on the document. This one was signed by Detective Daniel Flannery.
Debbie picked up the phone and dialed the prosecutor's office.
"Michelle, this is Debbie Bradley," Debbie began. "I just wanted to thank you for the probable cause statement."
"You're welcome," Michelle said, full of professionalism and lacking warmth.
There was a pause as Michelle waited for Debbie to continue. She's a pro, Debbie thought.
"I was wondering if you could provide any additional details about the charges," Debbie said finally.
"I'm sorry, but we can't go outside of the probable cause statement," Michelle said firmly. "The prosecutors have to comply with the ethical rules. To protect a defendant's constitutional right to a fair trial, I can only provide as much information as what is in the public record."
"I understand completely," Debbie answered in her most professional voice. After all, Michelle was correct. And Debbie hadn't yet established the sort of relationship that would encourage off-the-record discussions. It was something Debbie knew she needed to do--quickly. Not only with the prosecutor's PR person, but also the public information officer who represented the police.
"Can you help me obtain a mugshot?" Debbie asked.
"Yes," Michelle answered. "Is it okay to send via email?"
"Perfect," Debbie replied.
"I should have it over in about ten minutes," Michelle answered. "Anything else?"
"That's it. I really appreciate your help," Debbie added before hanging up the phone.
Debbie pulled up the blog post she'd written right after the murder. It was more a blurb than a story. She'd simply update the first few paragraphs of the piece by noting that a man had been charged in the murder. And she'd note his age, his general address, and the fact that the remaining individuals were still unknown. The rest would stay the same. It was a piece that took fifteen minutes to update, plus the time spent attaching the mugshot and verifying the spelling of the names.
It was 4 p.m. when the piece was approved and uploaded to the website. Debbie sat back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the armrest. Flannery had known the information when she ran into him in the courthouse.
Perhaps Officer Parker could help her out.
Before Debbie climbed the cracked concrete steps with crumbled edges, she heard the wails of an angry child. The sound slipped through the iron bars covering the open front window that faced out onto the porch where a jumble of plastic toys were piled to one side. A pink Barbie convertible missing one back tire had been parked in the sink of a lemon-colored play kitchen that was streaked with dirt left after a summer storm.
Officer Parker had given Debbie the full address of Roberto Simmons, but she hadn't been happy about it. Debbie persuaded the officer to help her cause by conjuring up the image of a female reporter, armed only with a pen and notepad, knocking on the door of every single home on the block to find the friends and relatives of Roberto Simmons.
Debbie got her address. But now she knew that she owed Parker a favor.
There was no doorbell next to the front door, so Debbie rapped her knuckles as loudly as possible against the metal screen door, hoping that between her banging and the banging of the loose door against the metal frame, she'd be heard above the crying.
A young woman's voice shouted something that Debbie couldn't quite make out. A latch clicked and then the wooden door, dented in the places either feet or fists reached, opened slightly. Debbie looked down to see the wide eyes of a girl who couldn't have been more than five studying her.
"Momma!" the little girl shouted. "Some lady."
Debbie could hear cursing from inside the house and stomping across a wooden floor. The mother, who didn't look more than twenty-five, appeared with a crying baby clad only in a diaper on her hip.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you," Debbie began, trying to soothe the frazzled mother. "I'm a reporter with River City magazine. I'm trying to find out some information about Roberto Simmons."
"That deadbeat ass don't live here no more," the woman said defiantly.
"So you know him?" Debbie asked.
The woman shifted the baby from one hip to another. "The man who always leaves messes behind?" She placed a hand on top of her daughter's head and looked at the baby in her arms. "These girls don't need a daddy like that."
The child who'd opened the door wrapped her arms around her mother's leg.
"Do you know if he had any guns?" Debbie asked.
"I don't know nuthin' 'bout no guns. And even if I did know, why would I tell you?"
The woman took two big steps back into her home, pulling her children with her. The door slammed shut. The lock clacked.
Debbie sighed loudly. As she turned back toward her car, she caught sight of a curtain moving in the house next door. Someone had been watching.
Debbie mulled her options. She could retreat to her car, or she could approach the person who'd been spying. Retreat was a word she just didn't like.
The next-door neighbor's porch was tidy. A broom was tucked into a corner, and an outdoor mat had been placed by the front door. Pink geraniums in pots placed on the windowsills softened the look of the bars. A dark curtain betrayed the faintest tremble.
Debbie lifted the old knocker on the door and dropped it down three times.
"Go away!" a shaky woman's voice said from an open window that was covered by bars and draped with a curtain that hid her face.
"I'm sorry to bother you," Debbie said as she introduced herself as a journalist.
"I already heard your speech. I got nothing to say," the strained voice of an older woman said. "Do you know what happens to snitches? I don't want no trouble. And you should leave that girl alone. She's got enough problems taking care of those babies. If you knew what was good for you, you'd be gettin' on back to your car. Ain't safe for you to be wanderin' 'round asking questions that are none of your business."
"I'm just trying to find out about the man who lived next door," Debbie said.
"I don't know nothin' 'bout it."
"He may have been involved in a shooting. I imagine you were watching when the police arrived to arrest him. Do you know if they took any guns out of the home?"
The woman laughed. "Silly girl. No one owns a gun."
"But," Debbie stammered, "there's been gun violence in this neighborhood. People are getting shot. Someone has to own a gun."
"You don't know much, do ya?"
The window slammed shut. The conversation was over.
"You just missed my secretary," Beth said as Debbie entered the front door.
Beth was sitting on the couch, a stack of papers with yellow, blue, and pink Post-it Notes piled on the coffee table in front of her.
"Mom, seriously? You just had surgery. Don't you think you should rest a bit more?" Debbie remarked as she dropped her purse and keys at the front door.
"I'm fine," Beth said, even as she winced slightly while changing her position to face her daughter.
"Right," Debbie replied.
"I took a long nap and went on several short walks between the living room and the kitchen," Beth announced. "And then I went outside on the back porch. Got a little fresh air and walked to the garage and back."
"You should be resting, Mom," Debbie said.
"For me, this is resting," Beth answered
. "If I were forced to Netflix all day, I'd go mad. Anyway, how was your day?"
"Unproductive and confusing," Debbie said as she summarized her day. "I can't seem to get anyone to talk to me."
"You have to earn people's trust, Debbie. Look at this from their perspective. They don't know you. You come into their neighborhood, ask a bunch of snoopy questions, demand answers, and then you get in your car and leave. Clearly, some fear retribution. They're the ones who must live with the consequences--not you. You get a story. They get harassed. Their loved ones may suffer. The limelight makes them a target. For some, they figure it is better to keep their heads down and fade into the shadows. "
"I know. But I'm trying to help. And then I get lied to. People claim that no one owns guns in the area. Really? I'm not an idiot. Do you know how many 'shots fired' alerts I get daily from that area?"
"What if you weren't being lied to?" Beth asked.
"What do you mean? Guns are being fired all the time. I even heard a shot when I was walking back to the car. It was far off, but it was no firecracker."
Beth nodded. After all, she lived in the city and raised her child there. She also knew the distinctive pop, pop, pop of a firearm.
"Hear me out," Beth said. "The claim was that no one owned a gun. That isn't the same as saying no one used a gun or had access to a gun. The question you're asking is about ownership, not use."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thin Line
The young mom preferred grocery shopping early. The woman, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a beige scrunchie, was dressed in snug yoga pants and a billowing T-shirt that fell below her behind. She hadn't imagined that it would be so hard to get rid of the last few pounds of baby weight, even after nearly two years of trying.
She parked her cart, stuffed with bags, next to the Ford Taurus that had been only a few years old when she got it before going off to college. Now, after marriage and a baby, the car was battered and worn, but it refused to stop running. The mom wiped cookie crumbs from her toddler's face, then fished her keys out of her purse, rummaging past tissues and boxes of raisins. After unlocking her car, she lifted her son out of the cart and buckled him into the car seat in the back.
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