Crime Beat Girl

by Geri L Dreiling

  Chase paused. "And what about you? You chose to leave. And come back. Do you miss D.C.?"

  Christian's image popped into Debbie's mind. She winced.

  "Sensitive subject?" Chase asked.

  "No," Debbie said.

  "No to missing D.C. or no to the question of being sensitive?"

  "Um, I plan to go back. I hope to go back. Unlike lawyers, reporters have a short shelf life, especially in this era of dying newspapers. Lawyers are just hitting their stride by the time they reach forty. But when reporters reach that age, they're over the hill. And now it seems my mother is doing better. There are a few more tests that have to be done, but if she doesn't need chemo or radiation, then I might try to get my old job back."

  "It'd be a shame for you leave town," Chase said. "You seem to be doing well here. After all, I swore that I'd never trust a journalist. Yet I'm having dinner with one."

  "I don't know if I'm doing well," Debbie admitted. "I've been in the right place at the right time. Or, more accurately, the wrong place at the right time. But now I feel like I've hit a dead end."

  "Well, as I mentioned earlier, and this is completely off the record, I learned something earlier today that you'll find interesting."

  Chase paused and looked at her. Debbie could sense he was having second thoughts about telling her what he'd learned.

  "You have my promise," Debbie said. "Off the record."

  "So, you remember the carjacking at the grocery store?"

  "How can I forget it?"

  "I have a source who has an inside track to the SLMPD's crime lab. The cops found the bullet that they believe was shot at the mom. Seems it hit a nearby car."

  "Yes?"

  "The cops rushed an analysis of it."

  "Interesting. So what'd they find?"

  "Well, this isn't official yet. But what I'm hearing is that the bullet matches the bullets that killed Travis Hunt."

  Debbie took the bit of information in and pondered it for a moment. "But Roberto Simmons is in jail, was in jail at the time of the carjacking. And he's black. The suspects in the carjacking are white."

  "I know."

  The waitress, carrying plates of food, interrupted as she set down their meals.

  "Are you one hundred percent sure on this?"

  "No," Chase admitted. "I only have the hearsay of my source. However, I'll be filing a Brady motion asking for the test results," Chase said, referring to the case that requires prosecutors to turn over exculpatory evidence when asked by the defense.

  "That's the one. If the lab report confirms what I've heard, then I'm going to move to dismiss the charges against my client. I'll argue that there's no way Roberto Simmons could be mistaken for one of the two white guys involved in the carjacking."

  Debbie picked up her fork. "You know I'm regretting the off-the-record promise, don't you?"

  Chase smiled. "Of course. I'd be shocked if you didn't want to break your promise. But you won't. I'm guessing you'll find a way to keep your promise to me and track down an independent source who can back this up. You just have to work harder and wait a bit longer."

  "Hard work, I don't mind," Debbie said as she picked up her fork. "Waiting? That's never been a strength of mine."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Snitches

  The house was built with red St. Louis brick. The window frames and cornices were painted the color of dark summer leaves that some called South City green--even though the shade was popular on the North Side, too. Hot pink geranium blooms cascaded out of orange clay pots perched on the edge of each brick step that led up to the front porch.

  When Debbie called Ada Davis before her dinner with Chase and asked to stop by the next morning, Ada hesitated, fearing her home wasn't clean enough for visitors. Debbie got the grandmother to change her mind by appealing to Ada's unspoken concern that some tidbit in the story about her family would be wrong.

  Before Debbie could finish climbing the porch stairs, the front door swung open.

  "I heard you pull up. I was keeping an eye out. You can never be too careful," Ada said as she ushered Debbie into the home, which smelled of lemon furniture polish, Murphy's wood oil soap, and bacon. "I was just making some breakfast for Jarrett. He stayed the night so his parents could have a bit of a break. They've been working so much that they haven't had time to be together as a couple. Why don't you come on back? You look like you could use some food."

  Debbie smiled. It was true, all she'd had that morning was a cup of coffee.

  "Hey, Jarrett," Debbie said as she walked into the kitchen. The young man, clad in a red T-shirt and gray sweatpants, was slumped over the kitchen table, marking up a workbook with the pen in his hand.

  Ada tapped on him on the shoulder. "Sit up and mind your manners."

  "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was up late."

  "Having fun? Playing video games?" Debbie asked.

  He shook his head. "Naw. Studying. For the ACT. Miss Darlinda gave me some books with practice tests. I need a scholarship."

  "Your books bring back memories, Jarrett. I studied for the college entrance exam, too," Debbie said, though she didn't add that her parents also sent her to an expensive ACT prep class. She'd complained bitterly about having to take it. But now, seeing Jarrett, Debbie felt guilty about the advantages she'd taken for granted.

  "You know, if you take it and don't like the score, you can always retake it," Debbie noted.

  "Yeah," Jarrett said with a sigh. "But then my parents may have to pay more money."

  "True," Debbie admitted.

  "Sit," Ada commanded as she put a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Debbie. "Coffee?"

  "Please," Debbie said as she pulled out a chair to sit at a table covered with a blue and white checked cloth. "Just straight, no cream or sugar."

  Debbie reached into her oversized purse that doubled as a backpack and briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. "I typed up some notes last night; things I wanted to double check with you. Unfortunately, I can't bring the draft of the story for you to review. It wouldn't be proper journalism. But I can tell you that the story is a positive one."

  "Aw. You're not going to let me take a peek at it?" Jarrett asked. "I won't tell," he added, a conspiratorial smile turning his lips.

  "Now Jarrett," Ada admonished. "You heard her say that's not proper." Turning to Debbie, Ada urged, "Why don't you go on and ask your questions."

  The list was straightforward. Debbie started off with the spelling of the names of family members. She'd learned the hard way that people don't forgive--or forget--when you botch their names. After checking names, Debbie verified important dates and names of places.

  "That's it?" Jarrett asked when Debbie was done.

  "Yep, that's it. It may not seem like much, but every little mistake undermines my credibility. And it is so easy to screw up. You know, the night before something big I write gets published, like a profile or an investigative article, I can't sleep. My brain goes over the story again and again to make sure that I triple checked everything."

  "Kinda like after I take a final," Jarrett said. "I can't stop going over my answers in my head. But you wouldn't feel so anxious if you just let me peek at it."

  "Nice try," Debbie said. "I applaud your persistence. It is an underappreciated quality that will take you far. How about a compromise? I can show you the photos that I think are going to run with the piece. I've got them in a Dropbox folder on my phone. Do you want a sneak peek?""

  "Oh yeah!" Jarrett's head nodded vigorously.

  Debbie punched in her extra pass code for the app.

  "You're using different passwords for all your accounts, right?" Jarrett asked.

  "Of course. And two-factor authentication for sign-in. Journalists can't be too careful. I even have a special encrypted email service. I started using it as a reporter in D.C."

  "Excellent," Jarrett said.

  "Okay, here are the pictures. You can just scroll through,"
Debbie said as she handed Jarrett her phone, trusting him with a device that was the gateway to many of her secrets.

  Ada and Jarrett huddled together. With each swipe, Ada smiled. When she saw the photo of her sitting next to her grandson at the Teen Alliance fundraiser, she laughed.

  "How proud my husband is right now," was all she said.

  Jarrett said nothing, but Debbie could feel the weight of the expectations that he carried on his young shoulders.

  "You know, Jarrett, I'm really hoping this will help your quest for a scholarship," Debbie volunteered.

  Jarrett nodded. "Thank you, Miss Debbie. I don't want to let anybody down. Gran, do you need help with the dishes?" he asked.

  She smiled. "You just go on back to the living room. Keep studyin'."

  "I'd be glad to help," Debbie volunteered.

  "You're a guest. Guests don't do dishes."

  "Seems like a small price to pay for a delicious breakfast. I didn't realize I was so hungry. Even after eating dinner last night with Chase Laclede."

  Ada paused as she picked the plates off the table. "Ladies never eat much when they're on a date."

  Debbie blushed. "It was just work. I swear."

  "Mmmhmm," Ada replied. "He's a handsome young man. I wouldn't blame you. So what were you working on, if it wasn't a date?"

  "I have a lot of stories that I'm interested in, but they're not ripe. I'm stuck," Debbie admitted.

  "Why is that? Can't you just write?" Ada asked.

  Debbie shook her head. "I wish it were that easy. I've got a lot of open questions right now."

  "What kinda questions?" Ada asked as she poured Debbie another cup of coffee, sensing her guest was ready for a refill.

  "I've got three crimes I'm tracking. They happened in different parts of the city. I don't think they're related. And yet, I have a good reason to believe the same gun was used in all of them. I just can't figure out the connection."

  "For someone so smart, you don't know much about how things work in the real world, do you?" Ada said as she sat down.

  "What do you mean?" Debbie asked.

  "Look, you know how you can go to the library and check out a book?" Ada asked.

  "Sure, of course," Debbie answered.

  "On the street, instead of books, some people check out guns," Ada said.

  "What?"

  "Mmmhmmm," Ada replied. "You got all types who want to get their hands on guns. Kids who are too young or too poor. Grown-ups with records. And there are so many guns floating around town. And people who can legally get guns sometimes get them stolen. I wouldn't be surprised if you got a pistol in that purse of yours, given the neighborhoods you're heading into alone."

  Debbie opened her bag for Ada. "Nope. I don't think I'd have the nerve to shoot. Then the gun would just be used against me. Besides, the keyboard is mightier than the firearm."

  "I wouldn't be too sure about that," Ada said. "But look, if you're a kid or a criminal, you can't be caught with a gun. So instead, guns are like those scooters I see fools out on the streets ridin'. People don't own the scooters, they just rent 'em. In many a neighborhood, there's spots where you can find a gun tucked away. People just borrow it and put it back. Gettin' ammo is easy. But gettin' a gun can be harder."

  "A lethal library? But why don't people who live in the neighborhoods tell the police?"

  Ada pointed to the next room, where Jarrett had resumed his studies. "That's why. We live here. Contrary to what outsiders think, there are lots of hardworking, law-abiding folks just trying to get through each day. People who love their families. And they don't want to see them get hurt. They keep their heads down and mind their own business."

  Ada sat back in her chair. "Bad things can happen to snitches. Bad things can happen to the families of snitches. And the police aren't always your friends. Too much history with the law in these neighborhoods. What's crazy is that my son, Jarrett's uncle, is a cop. And I'm proud of him. But even having a police officer in the family doesn't stop run-ins. Jarrett's dad has been stopped many times while minding his own business. Even Jarrett has been stopped while walking on the sidewalk, forced to answer questions from the police."

  Debbie frowned. "But Jarrett is a good kid."

  "Yes, he is. But you gotta make it through each day."

  Ada continued, "I try to be a good neighbor, even with the broken families, the ones struggling with drugs and dysfunction. I bake cookies for the kids. A baby today is a teenager tomorrow. I try to make sure they always have a soft spot for my treats."

  "I see. You win people through their stomachs. Like you did with me."

  Ada smiled. "I know the Good Lord says pride is a sin. But I can't help it. I'm proud of my cooking. Oh, that reminds me. I have cornbread for your mother. I heard she's sick. And I've got a huge batch for sharin'."

  Debbie stopped. "How'd you know?"

  "I told you that my son is on the police force. He asked around about you. Told me about your parents. I thought your mom could use something. I know what it's like to be facing hard stuff without your husband. Even if you've got kids. It just isn't the same as having your man."

  Debbie nodded as she stood up. "I suppose I really hadn't thought of it that way."

  "Of course you didn't," Ada said with a smile. "Most kids don't."

  Slinging her purse over her arm and picking up the plastic container filled with cornbread, Debbie said, "I guess it's time for me to get going. Thank you for everything. I know that my mom will appreciate these. As do I, because you know I won't be able to resist them. I'll be sure to return your container."

  "It was the least I could do," she said, flicking her hands as though she was whisking away Debbie's words and walking toward the front door. "Oh, and don't worry about the plastic. I have a cupboard full of them. I give food away and food seems to come back to me. I seem to have a never-ending supply of Rubbermaid containers and Ziploc freezer bags. I was a recycler before it was trendy."

  Debbie looked at Jarrett as she passed the living room on her way to the front door. "Good luck with your studies today."

  Jarrett looked away from the workbook he'd been scribbling in. "Thanks, Miss Debbie."

  Ada opened the door for Debbie and stepped out on the porch. "I know you're a grown woman. But I always make sure my visitors make it out safely."

  "I appreciate it," Debbie said as she descended the steps. Ada's home had a comforting warmth that left Debbie glowing inside. She reached her car then turned to wave goodbye. A single shot rang out. A metallic ping made Debbie bounce as a bullet ricocheted off her car. Debbie ducked her head. She dropped the container of cornbread in her hands, the contents spilling out onto the street.

  The noise ended as abruptly as it began. Debbie looked at Ada, who stood frozen in the doorway.

  "Your hand!" Ada shouted. Then, like a medic on a battlefield, Ada commanded: "Jarrett, call 911!"

  A paramedic was wrapping a bandage around Debbie's hand when Flannery arrived.

  A bullet had pierced the driver's side window of Debbie's car, leaving a hole with fracture lines spreading out from the center. A small shard of glass had hit her hand. As Jarrett dialed emergency, Ada had rushed out with a towel to put pressure on Debbie's wound.

  The ambulance arrived about ten minutes after Ada worked to stop the bleeding. Flannery wasn't far behind.

  "What are you doing here?" Debbie asked.

  "I'm a cop. There was a shooting."

  "I'm not surprised to see a cop. I'm surprised to see you."

  "I think Jarrett called his uncle," Flannery said.

  "The police officer?"

  "Yep. His uncle knew I kept having run-ins with you; thought I'd want to know."

  Debbie rubbed the bandage and flexed her fingers to make sure the wrapping wasn't too tight.

  "The side windows aren't as strong as the windshield glass. Someone was either very deliberate with their aim or they got lucky. What were you doing here anyway?"

  "I
had stopped by to fact check the story about Jarrett and Teen Alliance. I was just leaving."

  "Did you see anyone when you walked outside?"

  "Besides Mrs. Davis?" Debbie said. "No."

  Flannery asked, "Mind if I search your car?"

  "Knock yourself out."

  The driver's side door was already open. Debbie had left it ajar when she was struck by the glass.

  "It appears that the bullet entered from the outside," Flannery said, stating the obvious, as if he was already drafting the narrative of his police report. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door. "Here!" he said, pointing to a deformed bullet that lay on the floor. "We'll have to have the crime lab test it, but I guess that the shooter was pretty far away because the bullet didn't get too far. It looks like it was deflected down."

  He summoned one of the officers getting out of a crime lab van who began taking photos and gathering evidence.

  "Look," he said to Debbie after directing the evidence technician, "your car is going to need to be towed. There's shattered glass all over the front seat. I know a mechanic who'll fix it--and he won't overcharge you. Do you want to have the tow truck take your car there after we get done here?"

  Debbie nodded. "Yeah. I talked to my insurance agent already. I've got to pay a five-hundred-dollar deductible. We'll see how much it costs to get the window replaced."

  "Do you need a lift somewhere?" Flannery asked.

  "Naw, I'll just go with the tow truck driver. And I'll ask my mom to pick me up from the repair shop."

  Flannery reached out one hand. "Here, hand me your reporter's notebook."

  Debbie eyed him suspiciously. He may as well have just asked for her diary, already opened to the page with the juiciest tidbits.

  "I just want to write down the name of a good mechanic," Flannery said.

  "Oh," Debbie muttered as she flipped to a blank page and handed the notebook to him. He scribbled a name and address and handed it back to her.

  "My guy won't take advantage of you. Just show it to the tow truck driver and tell him Detective Flannery recommended the place."