by I. L. Wolf
“What?”
“You said there was a press leak. And then you told me that you figured it was Tipsy. Does that mean you fed her the information?”
“I don’t think that’s important.”
“Are you kidding me? So what, she told you she’d keep it off the record?”
“Venetia.”
“And you believed her? What did she do, bat her eyelashes? Flash you a big smile and you were ready to leave me out to dry? Have you ever seen anything she’s done? Why do you think she’s still a field reporter, Detective?” She pushed the box back toward him. “No thanks. She decides to run a hit piece on me, and you give her such good material, she sends you a thank you? Are cops even supposed to take gifts?”
“We should go. It might take a while to retrieve the data,” Brooks said. “It’s not the most fluid form of storage.”
“Seriously, Venetia, I don’t have time for you to keep getting worked up. It’s a thank you.”
“Right,” she said. “Brooks, as far as Brenna’s case is concerned, it looks like no one’s going anywhere,” she said, “so it won’t matter if it takes a while.”
Detective James’ phone rang, and he answered it, giving them a small wave. Then he held up a single finger. They stood where they were.
He hung up the phone. “How long ago did you leave Dane Froxen?”
“I don’t know, half an hour maybe? Forty minutes tops?”
“And there was no further physical altercation, not beyond what you already told me?”
“Of course not,” said Venetia. He looked at Brooks.
“What? I’ve been with her the whole time.”
“It’s true,” she said, “He has. Back into the car, the drive, and then he’s been here with the both of us, obviously. Except for the pit stop.”
“Yeah,” said Brooks. “I had to make a pit stop. But he was gone when I went back inside.”
“So when you left him in the coffee shop, you can definitively say that Dane was alive?”
“What kind of question is that?” said Venetia.
“Answer it.”
“Of course he was. How else would have been?”
“Given that he was found dead five minutes ago in the alley behind his office—” he looked pointedly at Brooks, “The alley that has the coffee shop on the other side—it’s a pretty necessary one.”
Venetia sank back into the chair. “Dane’s dead?”
“Yes,” said Detective James. “He’s dead.”
“What happened?”
“Not sure yet,” he said. “You said that earlier today he was afraid for his safety? He and your aunt?”
“Sissy. Do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but we’ll send out a patrol car to make sure she’s all right.”
“You mean like you did for Billie?”
“Venetia, that’s not fair, or even entirely accurate.”
“He’s dead.”
“You were working up a pretty good hatred of him,” said Brooks, “I’m not sure why you’re sounding kind of upset.”
“Her reaction to people she doesn’t like dying is an interesting one,” said Detective James. “This makes two. That I know of.”
“You’re not starting with that again, are you?”
“No,” he said. “They’re checking the footage from the coffee shop or surrounding business to see he was if alive when you left him. Brooks, don’t move.”
“No interrogation this time?”
“Not yet. Not of you.” He typed quickly into his computer, and then picked up the phone. “Was Dane there when you made your pit stop?”
Brooks shook his head. “Didn’t see him.”
“Yes,” he said into the phone, “this is Detective James. I understand that there was an altercation prior to—I see. So he came back. Was the other? Gone? Thanks.” He clicked the phone back down. “The officers at the scene reviewed the footage, and they said he was already gone by the time you came back.. He left, you came in. Besides, from what I was told, it was bloody. And you two are awfully clean.”
“So he really was afraid. It wasn’t a ploy.”
“We don’t know why he was killed,” he said. “But I think it would be best if the real nature of that plate stayed between us until we know exactly what’s on it.”
Chapter 25
The tech office was in a plain brown midcentury block of a building.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Venetia said. “That doesn’t look particularly modern to me.”
“It’s only the building,” said Brooks. He got out of the care and carefully retrieved the platter. “Like I said, this is going to take them a while.” They turned the corner toward the entrance.
“Define a while,” said Tipsy Nightingale, standing directly between them and the door.
“What are you doing here?” Venetia said. “Don’t you have a bunch of lies to spread about me?”
“Your name is all over those corporate documents, Venetia. And I’m a reporter. I find out things for a living.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“I have sources.”
“Dane?”
She shrugged. “I have sources.”
Venetia’s lips were tight as they slid to the right side of her face. “And I’m pretty sure I know how you get them,” she said.
“What are you implying?”
“I think that was more of an outright accusation than an implication,” said Brooks.
“You know what’s really sweet?” said Tipsy, taking a step and then another step toward them, her blond flipped hair bouncing. “Mason really tried to get the station to kill the piece. Poor guy, he doesn’t even know you have a thing for that cop.”
“I don’t have a thing for that cop,” said Venetia, “and I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”
“He has a thing for you,” she said. “You and your gang of merry defenders. But that’s not going to work for me.” She smiled, her flat eyes shimmering like those of a reptile. “I’m going to need that plate.” Her head tilted downward toward Venetia.
“Why do you think we’d give it to you?”
“In about an hour-and-a-half, one of two versions of the news story will run. There’s the one in which we only talk about ShamCorp.—”
“I was totally set up.”
“They always say that,” Tipsy said. “Or there’s another one.” She wrinkled her little nose. “I like that one better.”
“You do realize that slander is a thing, right? And a deliberately false news story would be slander?”
“Funny you should mention slander,” she said, taking another step toward Venetia, her biceps clear and defined in her sleeveless top, “because that second version has you doing a little slandering of your own.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re going in” She tried to push past Tipsy, but she stopped her with a surprisingly solid shoulder.
“I’ll go,” said Brooks.
“I don’t think so,” Tipsy said. She unzipped her purse and slipped her right hand inside.
“Look, lady,” he said, “I can appreciate that you’re in fine physical shape, and kind of Amazonian, really—”
“What, you too?” said Venetia. “It’s like men lose all sense around a tall blonde.”
“But I have something here,” he continued, shooting a glare Venetia’s way, “that’s probably going to ensure that the man who killed my sister pays for it. So while I’m not one to resort to physicality with a woman, I am going to go inside.”
“Right, that’s who you are, it’s been driving me crazy.” She shook her head. “He told me I’d probably end up running into you.”
“He?”
“None of your business,” she said. “I need the plate.”
“You’re not going to get it,” said Brooks.
“I think I can be pretty persuasive,” she said, finally pulling her hand out of her bag. She held a
gun.
“Are you kidding? Put that thing away,” said Venetia. “You’re going to hurt someone.”
“I’d prefer not to,” she said, “but I’ll do what I have to. Give me the plate.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Why would you assume that?” Tipsy said. “People are always assuming that about me. They send you to twelve beauty pageants and you cover the state fair seven times in a row, and people think you got the job because of your looks.”
“You didn’t?” said Venetia. She bit her tongue about two seconds too late.
“You see?” said Tipsy. “You see?” she emphasized her words with the gun. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’ll have you know I went to Columbia.”
“In New York?” said Venetia, once again wishing she’d remembered that it wasn’t the best idea to antagonize the woman holding a gun.
“Yes, in New York. You know, as another woman, I’d expect more from you.”
“You do realize you’re pointing a gun at us, right?” said Brooks.
She shrugged. “Still.”
“You’re one to talk,” she told Brooks. She turned back to Tipsy. “I don’t get it. Why are you doing this? If you want the story about Brenna, we’ll give you the story. Put the gun away, let us get the information, and you can have an exclusive.”
“Now, see, that’s exactly what can’t happen,” she said. “You can’t get that plate. I need it.”
“What’s on it?” Venetia said.
“Don’t try that with me. You still think I’m stupid? I’m not stupid. Geez,” she said, her voice creeping to a genuine shout. “World, I’m not stupid.”
“We get it,” said Venetia. With a quick jerk of the head, she gestured to Brooks to edge around her. “You’re not stupid. But what I don’t get is why you don’t want a career-making story.”
“It wouldn’t be career-making for me,” she said.
Brooks took a half step, and then another one.
“Of course it would. It’s huge. If you know what’s supposed to be on the plate, then you have to know who’s involved.”
Brooks tried a slightly larger step. He was barely off of parallel with Tipsy.
“I know who’s involved,” she said. She sighed. “And if this gets out, forget even the beauty pageants. Forget the state fair. I won’t be able to get a job doing the farm reports in Nebraska.”
“I don’t understand,” said Venetia.
“And yet you think I’m dumb.”
Brooks, now a step behind Tipsy, raised his shoulders a fraction of an inch. Venetia widened her eyes in what she hoped was a universal signal for “Run for it.”
Tipsy turned around. “Where do you think you’re going?” she said.
“Inside,” he said.
“I already told you, no you’re not. I’ll smash that thing to pieces if I have to.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” said Brooks, planting himself firmly. “I’ve seen people who know how to handle a gun handling a gun, and you are not it.”
“Don’t push me,” Tipsy said. Her necklace and her gun glimmered in the sun.
Venetia decided to take the risk. “Did you,” said Venetia, trying to make sure she phrased it as diplomatically as possible, “did you kill Dane?”
The hand holding the gun went slightly limp, the barrel pointed at an angle toward the ground. “Dane’s dead?” she said. “Actually dead? When?” Her arm sunk from ninety degrees to forty-five and then a negligible angle. Venetia widened her eyes again at Brooks, who took the moment to disappear into the building, platter carefully gripped with both hands.
Tears welled in Tipsy’s eyes, the false lashes at the top picking up droplets with every blink, her mascara leaving faint lines. “Dead?”
Venetia nodded. “He’s dead. Murdered, it looks like.”
“I didn’t do it,” Tipsy said, “I didn’t.” She took the few steps to the side of the building, where she leaned, the gun dangling precariously. Taking advantage of the dazed moment, Venetia quickly bent, removing it from Tipsy’s loose grasp. Tipsy let go as though she didn’t remember she was holding anything.
“I know you didn’t do it,” said Venetia. “I also know you must have had feelings for him, heaven only knows how.”
“What?’
“The necklace,” she said. “He went through a phase of giving all the women that same one. He got a deal from the jeweler.”
“All the women?”
“Long story you probably don’t want to know.”
“You believe me? That I didn’t kill him?”
“Well, he died within an hour or two, and you don’t have a spot of blood on you. That make-up of yours would have taken hours itself, there’s no way you could have killed him and cleaned up.”
“He’s really dead?”
“Yes,” she said. “And my guess is that, if you don’t start talking about what the hell is happening here, Tipsy, you will be, too. And soon.”
“He’d never kill me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. He’s already killed Brenna, not without help from you, I’ll point out.”
“I had no idea she’d be killed. It wasn’t like that, you have to believe me.”
“And I’m guessing Dane,” Venetia continued as if Tipsy hadn’t spoken. “He seemed awfully afraid of him.”
“He would never do it himself,” she said, “his hands don’t get dirty.”
“No kidding.”
Brooks emerged from the building and gave Venetia a nod. “It will take a while,” he said, “but they’ll read it.”
“Tipsy, I think it’s decision time. If it helps at all, coming with us now and talking about what’s happening here is less likely to result in jail.”
“But more likely to result in death,” she said. “Apparently.”
“Fine,” said Venetia. “Up to you.” She waved to Brooks, and they got about a third of the way back to the car.
“Wait,” said Tipsy. “I’ll talk.”
“What about the news story?”
“It’s set to go,” she said, “it’s getting broadcast.”
“I guess you’ll have to handle this all on your own, then. You’ve been doing such a good job of it, though, so it should be fine.”
“I can’t leave a hole in the news,” she said.
“Up to you,” said Venetia, “but I’m really not feeling like I’ll need to help you, given that you’re attempting to utterly destroy my reputation. Probably won’t help you much either, when the truth comes out.”
“The truth?”
“It always does, Tipsy. It always does.”
Chapter 26
They sat at a round table in a room at the police station, Brooks, Venetia, Detective James and Tipsy.
“So you pulled a gun on them?” he asked again.
“It was out of necessity,” she said.
“I don’t think that actually counts as necessity,” said Venetia. “She wanted the platter.”
“I didn’t want it, I had to get it. He was willing to kill me if I didn’t.” Her eyes were wide, crumbs of mascara dotting her lower lashes after her tears.
“And by ‘he’ you mean?”
“Alden Sway,” said Tipsy, sneaking a look at Brooks and then staring down at the table.
“He told you he was going to kill you?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “It was pretty much implied.”
“What does that mean?”
“The contact wasn’t through him, directly. It was through his lawyer.”
“His lawyer?” Venetia said. Detective James glared at her.
“His lawyer?” he said.
“That Walter Bloaerd.”
“Walter Bloaerd was the go-between?”
“That’s what Dane said, too,” Venetia said. “He said he never spoke to Sway directly.”
“I did,” said Tipsy. “Several times. But not about this.”
“About
what?”
“A job. He owns several stations, after all, and I don’t plan on being a Local 9 reporter forever.”
“What’s wrong with Local 9?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it,” she said, “I want real news stories.”
“I think you got your wish there,” said Brooks.
“If you two can’t restrain yourselves, I’m going to make you leave,” Detective James said. “You’re only here because Tipsy asked if you both could stay.”
“A group feels a little safer,” she said, checking her shoulder nonetheless.
“So when did it start?”
“Years ago. Around the time his sister died.”
“She had a name,” Brooks said.
“Sorry. It makes it easier for me this way,” she said, pale under her light tan. “Brenna. I didn’t forget it. Brenna. Alden called me in and told me he’d be looking for a host for a new morning program he wanted to launch. But he needed to see how far I was willing to go to get the job.”
“That sounds pretty casting-couchy” said Venetia.
“I’ve warned you,” Detective James said.
“I know, I thought so too,” Tipsy said, “but then he told me he meant he needed to see if I was a skilled reporter. He told me,” she stopped as her voice cracked.
“Do you need some water?” Detective James buzzed the phone, and the same intern appeared with a cup. She gave him a quick smile before she took a long sip.
“Ready?” he said.
She nodded. “He told me that he needed me to get information about his wife, Brenna, as a test of my investigative skills. And I believed him. I can’t believe I believed him. I knew there was a divorce pending, but he was so convincing, saying that the station was an asset in the divorce, that they were trying to up the value with this new line of programming, and they needed to screen the reporters.”
“Yeah, right,” Brooks said. He draped an arm over the back of his chair. “And you bought it?”
“Yes,” said Tipsy. “I did. I knew a lot about Alden Sway. And Brenna Sway—”
“Chale,” said Brooks.
“But the divorce was sealed. I couldn’t get any info on it, so why wouldn’t I believe it? For all I knew, the divorce was amicable.”
“I thought you gathered information for a living,” said Venetia.