by Linda Bond
He stood. “It’s not your fault.”
She nodded, but tasted the gritty truth in her mouth. She surveyed the area. “We have to talk to the guy who packed his parachute.”
“Yeah. My gut tells me this wasn’t an accident.”
Her jaw dropped as his meaning sank in. “Then, what? Murder? You’ve got to be kidding?”
And why would Zack, ex-military man, care if it were?
What she really wanted to do was go home, take a sleeping aid, and crash for twelve days. But she couldn’t. She had a job to keep. And if she wanted to help Maxwell now, the best thing would be to figure out what had really happened to him.
She forced herself to look down at her mentor. Maxwell’s glassy eyes stared right through her. Her stomach heaved. She gagged as the acid taste of her breakfast rose up in her throat. She would find out what happened to her mentor, and she wouldn’t let anyone stop her. She had to do this.
For you, Maxwell, she silently swore. And for me, too.
Chapter Three
A fading five o’clock sun continued to pulsate heat over the Skydive Drop Zone. Sweat rolled down the curve in Sam’s spine as she stood in front of the Eyewitness News TV camera, her chest burning with a rising rush of panic. Great. Just freaking great. Here it comes again.
How could she do this? Maxwell was barely dead. She rubbed her arms, feeling dirty. Mud stains were embedded in her new dress. She’d barely had time to run a brush through her hair and redo her smudged mascara.
She prayed her photographer’s frantic movements behind his TV camera meant technical difficulties would prevent her from having to go through with this live shot. These freaking panic attacks were the ultimate irony for a live news reporter to be suddenly afflicted with. The debilitating problem had started six months ago, right after her mother’s accident. After she had to take on the financial and emotional responsibility of providing for a parent who needed extensive medical care. She’d been seeing a therapist for a few months, but none of his suggestions calmed her once the camera started rolling. Sam desperately wanted the attacks to just go away so she’d stop screwing up live shots at work. If she didn’t… She couldn’t even think about losing her job.
“I still don’t hear any audio, George,” she said hopefully.
“I’m working on it.” Sweat fell from the forehead of her tall, skinny colleague. He struggled with the cords leading into his camera, pulling one out and replacing it with another.
They were supposed to shoot a live news headline straight up at five. She glanced down at her smartphone. 4:58. Her chest tightened even more. Two minutes until the start of the five o’clock news, and she still couldn’t hear anything in her earpiece. There was a God. The device connected her to the producer in the TV studio forty-five miles away, but so far she hadn’t heard the producer’s voice or the commercials leading up to the news. She whispered a silent thank you for the divine intervention, while rubbing away the tension spreading between her breasts.
George’s camera jostled precariously on the tripod, his movements rapid but controlled. After a day in the hot sun, his pale Irish skin raged as red as his hair. The stress of the situation didn’t help. She knew better than to say another word. Instead, she gave thumbs down to the camera, hoping her producer could see her, and stepped out of range of the camera’s lens. A sigh of relief escaped. Whenever she felt a panic attack coming on, she knew she had to ruthlessly control her breathing. Just inhale and count to five before exhaling.
“Sam, can you hear me?” The female voice blasting through her earpiece gave her a jolt. She froze. What should she do now? Ignore her producer’s question? Pretend the audio problem hadn’t been fixed? Her heartbeat picked up speed and her mouth went dry. She heard the commercials leading up to the news open. She balled her fists, forcing her French-tipped nails into her palms, looking for a little pain to stop the flow of adrenaline coursing through her veins in a headlong rush. Seconds away from the live newscast. Her throat tightened.
“Damn cable.” George stood behind the camera, ready for action, but his eye wasn’t on the eyepiece. “Steele, did you hear the producer?” He stared at her, eyebrows up.
She shuffled back into place, head down. “I hear you.” She could barely even hear herself over the blood pounding in her ears.
“You’re at the top of the show.” The producer had the high-squeaky enthusiasm of a kid just out of college. “Your headline is forty-five seconds away.” The young woman probably didn’t even know Sam had just watched her friend die. Her demanding and often insensitive news director wouldn’t have bothered to mention that. “I also need a roll cue to your package. That hits two minutes into the show.”
Roll cue. Right. She’d been doing her job for so many years, her brain kicked into autopilot, despite the simmering panic. “Here’s a look at the shocking accident.” The words flew out of her mouth as crazy thoughts banged around inside her head like out-of-control bumper cars.
“Twenty to the top of the show.”
Her brain registered the producer’s voice, but she couldn’t respond.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just breathe.
Finding a quiet place in her mind had enabled her to survive the painful journey of her life—her father’s abandonment, their lack of money, her mother’s failed searches for a well-to-do knight in shining armor, and most recently her mother’s near-fatal accident. Why was her skill at meditation failing her these days? Anxiety had her in its wicked claws, and was squeezing her breathless.
“Sam, go. You’re live.” Her producer shouted into her earpiece.
Sam opened her eyes, and looked directly into the TV camera.
And froze.
…
Ice Queen.
That was what Zack thought as he watched Samantha Steele perform her job as a TV reporter. How could anyone look so hot and be so frigid? When they’d talked earlier, when he’d seen her emotional reaction to Wentworth’s death, he’d thought she was different from others in her trade.
Apparently not.
She’d just watched a man she cared about die, cried in his arms, and an hour later, she was cool as a cucumber on TV, her face looking animated as she spoke to the camera in front of her. Vulture.
He wasn’t close enough to hear her words, but what could she possibly be saying to make what had happened here today all right? His stomach churned in distaste. She’d sold out her friend’s privacy for a few minutes on the evening news. No telling what she’d do to him if she knew who he really was, and why he was here.
He was tempted to walk away, but knew he couldn’t. He had a mission to accomplish. The clueless reporter would pack up and leave after the five o’clock news. The local cops would finish their questioning, and then he could get back to his own private investigation.
Gaze drawn back to her, he watched Samantha jerk something out of her ear. Both hands covered her face, and her shoulders shook as if she was crying. At least she appeared to feel a little guilt over turning her friend’s death into a news story.
Suddenly, she swayed and bent over, her hands resting on her knees for support. She seemed woozy. He took a step forward, but knew he couldn’t reach her fast enough to break a fall. Thankfully, she steadied herself, then stood and looked his way.
He tried to deflect his gaze, but too late. Their eyes met and held as if glued together. He shifted his weight and finally felt compelled to look down.
Men probably stared at her all the time. He had to admit she was great looking, and he had enjoyed flirting with her earlier, sympathized with her after Maxwell’s death. Even thought about looking her up and asking her out after he got back to his normal life. But when the satellite news truck pulled up, and he realized she was about to throw a huge spotlight on the company he was investigating, he’d gone stone cold. It had to be all business between them now. He couldn’t risk anything else.
Reluctantly, he looked up again. She held his gaze for a moment, then abruptly turn
ed away.
He pulled his Ray Ban’s back into place so Samantha couldn’t read the intent in his gaze and strode toward her. He had to convince her to leave immediately, before she stuck her reporter nose in where it didn’t belong, asking questions and stirring up even more interest in the adventure vacation company.
She remained near the camera, but luckily her photographer was walking back to their truck in the parking lot. The last thing he needed was the cameraman running around taking more pictures that might later air on TV. The publicity generated today would make his job much more difficult. He didn’t want either of them hanging around asking more invasive questions, scaring witnesses—and possibly the killer—and blasting crucial evidence across the evening news. Not to mention what she might dig up on him personally.
Be nice, he told himself as he approached.
That was his goal, but when he reached her, and she cocked her head as if in challenge, his true feelings stormed out. “How can you do that?”
“Do what?” Her face was still red and puffy under a new layer of makeup that didn’t quite hide her distress.
“Turn your emotions on and off like that. One minute you’re crying hysterically on my shoulder, the next you’re this indifferent journalist reporting a death as if the man was a stranger to you. Don’t you feel bad about that?”
Her eyes looked as if they would pop out of her head. “It’s my job. It’s what I have to do, like it or not. Some of us have to work to survive.”
“What you did was cold.” He knew he was pushing her buttons, but couldn’t help it. His past experiences with reporters had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Samantha cast an icy stare his way. “Then I’m sure you’ll be glad to know I froze on live TV. Couldn’t speak a word. No one knows what happened to Maxwell because I couldn’t even breathe long enough to get the story out.” With each word, her voice rose in pitch and volume. She swiped the back of her palm against her cheek, smudging a black streak of mascara across it. “Now, I’m probably going to be fired.”
Taken aback, a flash of regret slugged him. And shame. When he was a kid, his dad’s condescending words had cut through him on a regular basis, making him feel small and worthless. Stupid and unworthy. How could he be so quick to make another person feel the same way, deserved or not? And apparently he’d been wrong about her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—” He shook his head. He really was sorry. But he also wondered how much information had made the broadcast despite her freeze-up.
A man behind them cleared his throat.
Zack whipped around.
One of the cops who’d arrived earlier in a marked cruiser sauntered up to Samantha. He was dressed in khakis and a dark green polo shirt with a Pasco County Sheriff’s Department emblem on one side. Casual for a detective. Zack could spot a Homicide dick a mile away.
“Am I interrupting anything?” the detective asked Samantha. The dude was tall, with a body-builder’s physique, and he moved toward her in a familiar way.
“Not at all, Stuart.” She shot Zack a guilty look. “I mean, Detective Johnson. I wish you’d arrived a few minutes earlier. Maybe you could have saved me from a total meltdown on TV. Again.”
“Meltdown?” The cop seemed puzzled by her response.
Samantha’s phone rang. She glanced down at the number, sighed, and looked back at the detective.
“You going to get that?” Johnson watched her, his brow wrinkling.
“Nope. If my boss wants to fire me, I’m going to make him do it in person.” She pressed a button on her phone. The ringtone ended. “Can this day get any worse?”
“Talk to me, Sam.” The big man moved closer as if to offer comfort, but he stopped short of touching her. Unexpectedly, he turned to Zack. “And you are?”
“This is Zack Hunter,” Samantha jumped in. “Ex-Army Ranger, current adventure seeker.”
He shook the detective’s hand. The cop’s grip was firm, strong, and serious. Zack casually checked the ID clipped to the man’s belt and confirmed his name.
Johnson turned back to Samantha. “So, what happened out here today?”
Zack bristled at the subtle blow off, even though he should have been glad the cop hadn’t recognized him. The law enforcement world was a small one. He didn’t want his cover blown in front of this reporter.
“Isn’t it your job to tell me?” She placed both hands on her hips.
The detective smiled, as though they’d faced off in this contest before. “I need to see the video you shot before, during, and after the accident. Including the footage you didn’t have time to air.”
“And I need to see a subpoena,” she stated, but her words lacked bite.
“Come on now, we’re old friends.” A compassionate smile spread across the detective’s face as he put an arm around her and gave her a friendly squeeze. “And I can tell you’ve been crying. Let’s work together on this, okay? Let’s just forget the normal red tape bullshit.”
“Stuart.” She glanced Zack’s way. “I mean, Detective.” She cleared her throat and pulled slightly away from him. “I can’t give you the raw video. Station policy. You know that. I can’t afford to piss off my boss any more than I already have, so you’re going to have to go through the red tape.” She shrugged and made a sympathetic face. “And besides, no one shot video of Maxwell’s landing. I put the camera down before I ran over to him. George was still up in the plane.”
“How well do you know the deceased?”
Her gaze dropped, and her chest rose and fell. “Maxwell Wentworth and I were good friends. He dated my mother for a while before he got married again, kind of took me under his wing.”
“I’m sorry.” The detective gave her another squeeze. “Hell, no wonder you froze. Your boss is an asshole for making you do it.”
Zack’s respect for the man went up a notch.
Johnson’s gaze moved to the dead man still on the landing field. Then he took his arm from around Samantha’s shoulder and pulled out a small notepad. “Okay. Let’s go over it. You were here covering a story, right? On Wentworth?”
She nodded. Her phone made a humming noise. She glanced down at it, but didn’t pick it up.
Zack wondered how long she would continue to ignore her boss, kind of admiring her for being that bold.
“Notice anything suspicious? Did Wentworth do anything out of the ordinary before this jump?”
She shot the detective a resigned look and told him about the kid packing Wentworth’s chute.
The cop nodded. “Forensics will check out the parachute and every piece of gear the deceased—Mr. Wentworth—had on him. We’ll process it all. You know the name of this kid?”
She shook her head. “I don’t even know if I’d recognize him. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Zack watched her energy sink even further and felt a little sorry for her. “Only a handful of teenagers hang around here trying to make a buck or two packing gear,” he offered. “I’m sure we can find him.”
Now why had he said that? He wanted her out of here. Like, right now.
Johnson scribbled a note. “Did Mr. Wentworth jump a lot?”
“Every other weekend. He practically lived up here.”
“You think this was an accident?” The detective directed his comment to Samantha, but watched Zack.
“I don’t think Wentworth’s death was an accident and neither do you, Detective. Am I right?” Zack said. “Are you investigating Skydive Drop Zone or the X-Force Adventure Vacation Company?”
The big man puffed up and stepped closer to him. Zack could smell the sharp tang of a hot day hanging off him.
“He’s okay, Stuart.” Samantha tried to step between the two, but Zack put an arm out to stop her.
He didn’t need her protection. Or her help. He stared down the detective. “I think someone tampered with Wentworth’s parachute before he jumped. They did something to force that parachute to spring open too quickly. That sudden impa
ct could kill a man instantly.” He watched the detective carefully.
“You seem very interested in Wentworth’s death. Why is that?”
“I’m on this vacation, too, and I don’t want to be the next one to have…an accident.”
The detective’s gaze ran up and down the length of him, his jaw set, but Zack didn’t even begin to flinch. He’d held up to much worse in the military. Bring it on.
“You vouch for this guy, Sam?”
“I—I don’t really know him.”
Zack’s stomach tightened as he broke eye contact and glanced at her. Her face was a hot mess, makeup gummy and mascara running down her cheek.
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Johnson flipped his notebook closed. “Off the record, of course.”
Samantha nodded.
Zack nodded, as well. Why the hell not? So far, they were both making this easy.
Wiping drops off his brow, the detective pursed his lips. “Maxwell Wentworth wasn’t the first person to die during one of these fancy-ass adventure vacations. About eighteen months ago, a man named Scott Fitzpatrick died during an underwater cave dive at Peacock Springs State Park up in the Panhandle. He went down in the Orange Grove sink with a couple of other men, got separated, and never resurfaced.”
Samantha gasped. “Another accident?”
Zack managed to cover his reaction, but his body went on full alert. So, this guy knew about the other incidents. Was he putting two and two together? So far, no one else had been able to.
Johnson shrugged. “Maybe. Took a couple of days to find this Fitzpatrick guy’s body. When the local police hauled him up, they didn’t find any trace of foul play. A friend of mine is with the local force up there and said Fitzpatrick had run out of air in his tank. Probably got lost and died trying to find his way out of those underground caves. It’s happened before. An employee with the adventure vacation company and a family member ID’d the body. Case closed.”
“Then…how does that relate to Maxwell?” Samantha worried her lip.