Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  No new leads here, Varner thought.

  “Okay, thanks, Steph. We’re still working on getting you video from the businesses nearby.” Varner checked his watch. “We don’t have much time for you to get this segment ready for the media at the press conference.”

  “Don’t worry, Nick, I’ll have it ready.”

  Varner headed for his floor. He stopped off at the cafeteria for a coffee. He’d missed lunch and grabbed an apple, biting into it in the elevator on his way to the twenty-eighth floor. Leaving the elevator, Varner went down the main reception hall, past the framed photos of executive agents. He glanced at the display nearby honoring agents killed in the line of duty as the result of a direct adversarial force, the “Service Martyrs.”

  Entering his section, he saw that most members of his squad were at their desks, working the phones and studying data. As he began making notes to prepare for the press conference, he found a story in the online edition of the New York Post.

  Mob Link to Queens Bank Heist Investigated: Source

  The story alleged that the robbery of a bank in Queens had to do with “bad blood” between the branch manager and a businessman with ties to the mob. It reported that bank manager Dan Fulton robbed his own branch after telling “shocked bank staff” his family had been taken hostage, according to an “inside source.”

  Varner cursed to himself after digesting the story.

  What a load of BS.

  Maybe the source was from the NYPD’s 115th Precinct, or maybe a disgruntled employee, or one of Luca Bazerinni’s competitors was spreading this bull.

  It doesn’t matter who it is. This kind of crap hurts us.

  Varner didn’t have time to dwell on it. He had to focus on the facts.

  Jerricko Titus Blaine was their suspect.

  His were the only prints tied to the crime. But he couldn’t have acted alone. The FBI and NYPD were working their confidential informants for any intel from the street as to who was behind the robbery. So far, nothing had surfaced. It could’ve had something to do with the fact that Blaine was in his early twenties, had no criminal record.

  And, he’d left a print, suggesting he was not an experienced criminal.

  Something’s out of place here.

  Varner opened Blaine’s photo.

  Looking at it, he recalled how one NYPD detective had raised the suspicion of a terrorist connection. Varner, being a member of the New York’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, the JTTF, had not ruled that out. There were JTTFs in over one hundred cities in the US, made up of an array of local, state and federal agencies, all monitoring possible threats in their jurisdictions. New York City had the largest JTTF, and as a member, Varner had access to many resources that were shared nationwide.

  One of them was Guardian, a database holding information about threat reports, questionable incidents and other intelligence information. Members entered suspicious activity reports, which could be viewed or searched immediately by all of Guardian’s authorized system users. Once Blaine’s name had surfaced, Varner took the precaution of submitting it and a summary of the case to Guardian.

  He logged in to check for any results.

  Nothing.

  He logged out.

  Apart from Guardian, Blaine’s name had also been submitted to a spectrum of national security databases, watch lists and no-fly lists.

  Nothing had emerged. He was clear.

  Something’s up with this one. What am I missing?

  He repeated the question to the framed photo of his wife, Jennifer.

  Help me here, Jenn, what am I missing?

  Varner’s heart softened. As he took in her smile he could almost smell her, feel her and hear her laugh. It’d been three years since he’d lost her to brain cancer, just when they’d started talking about having children. His life was never the same. Every year since, he’d run in the charity marathons with her photo tucked into his participant badge, so it faced his heart. Not a day passed that he didn’t ache for her.

  Next to the photo, he noticed a reporter’s business card tucked in with some papers. Pulling it out, a different woman’s face came to mind.

  Kate Page.

  She haunted him because her eyes held the same spark, the same intensity as Jenn’s. She was a firebrand, one of the best reporters he’d encountered. She frustrated him, yet he was drawn to her.

  Varner shifted his attention to preparing for the press conference and continued working until his phone rang.

  “Varner.”

  “Nick, Bill Kendrick in Los Angeles. Sounds like Wade Darden, our RA in Orange County, got something out of Santa Ana.”

  “Better give it to me fast, Bill. I’m heading into a news conference.”

  “When Lori Fulton was with the Santa Ana PD, she used her maiden name, Wallace. She was involved in a shooting where her partner was killed, and she killed his shooter. The shooter was Malcolm Jordan Samadyh, but—get this—his little brother is Jerricko Titus Blaine.”

  Varner was stunned. “Damn.”

  “I know. We’ll send you everything.”

  “All right. I’ve gotta go, but, thanks, Bill. And thank Wade and Santa Ana.”

  Varner had less than ten minutes before the press conference but first he had to alert his boss...

  He hurried from his desk to brief his supervisor face-to-face.

  35

  Manhattan, New York

  Dan, Lori and Billy Fulton stared from enlarged photos posted to the tripod beside the podium with the FBI seal.

  On the opposite side of the podium stood another tripod bearing an enlarged head-and-shoulder shot of Jerricko Titus Blaine and a picture of a Ford Taurus identical to the color and year of Dan Fulton’s car.

  Kate Page estimated some seventy newspeople had gathered for the FBI’s press conference at Federal Plaza. Intense light washed over the room’s front as news crews adjusted lenses and microphones. Reporters tested recorders, texted, scribbled notes, gossiped or made last-minute calls while FBI, NYPD and other officials took their places, lining up abreast behind the podium.

  Standing at the back, Kate tapped her notebook gently against her leg, searching the line of investigators until she found Varner and Tilden. She needed to talk with them privately later about what she’d discovered.

  Prior to the press conference she’d contacted one of the legal research agencies Newslead used. After conducting an urgent documents search, they’d obtained records showing Wallace was Lori Fulton’s maiden name. Her marriage license showed that she’d kept it after marrying Dan. Later, around the time they’d moved from California to New York, she’d changed her name to Lori Fulton.

  In the cab to Federal Plaza, Kate had devoured several more archived articles on the shooting from the Los Angeles Times and Orange County Register. No other news organization had reported that Lori Fulton had shot and killed Malcolm Jordan Samadyh.

  That was all Kate had, and, so far, it appeared that no one else had this information. Her competitors’ news reports never went beyond portraying Lori as an insurance fraud investigator with Dixon Donlevy. The shooting was Kate’s lead and it could be a significant exclusive.

  Kate was doing all she could to keep her friend Ben Keller at the LA Times from jumping on the California angle to the New York robbery. She continued promising she would share information once she’d unearthed more about whether Lori’s past was tied to the robbery.

  “Let’s get started,” FBI special agent Leo Hurwitz said from the podium.

  After introducing the sober-faced men and women in suits and uniforms who were flanking him, Hurwitz gave a summary of the case, which echoed the handout every journalist had received upon arrival. Then he moved on to their latest findings.

  “Security video from the branch shows Dan Fu
lton in the bank’s vault removing the cash and departing the parking lot in his blue 2015 Ford Taurus SEL, which has not yet been recovered,” Hurwitz said as the FBI then showed about twenty seconds of footage on the large monitors at the front of the room.

  “Our investigation has identified Jerricko Titus Blaine as a person of interest.”

  Kate wrote down the name in her notebook. Another piece of the puzzle, she thought as the agent continued.

  “We’re currently attempting to locate Mr. Blaine. We’re appealing to the public, to anyone with any information about this crime, to contact us right away. We’ll take a few questions now,” Hurwitz said, opening the floodgates.

  “If there’re bombs involved, have you ruled out a link to terrorists?” a reporter shouted over the cacophony of voices.

  “Nothing’s been ruled out.”

  “What about reports that the robbery’s connected to someone with mob ties—is this true?”

  “While not all reporting on the case has been accurate thus far, nothing can be ruled out at this time.”

  “Have you dismissed the possibility that Fulton himself is involved, that this is an inside job?”

  “We are prepared to say that that scenario is also being investigated.”

  “What can you tell us about Jerricko Blaine?”

  “His last known address is in Dallas, Texas.”

  “Why are you interested in him? Is he a suspect?”

  “We’re not prepared to go into that sort of detail.”

  “Does he know the family?”

  “Again, we’re not going into that kind of information.”

  “Is anyone else involved?”

  “All part of the investigation.”

  For the next twenty minutes the press was unrelenting with questions.

  Kate watched Varner and Tilden, who remained poker-faced, betraying no reaction to the questions or responses. When many of the questions became repetitive, Hurwitz moved to conclude matters, stating, “Before we wrap this up, we want to stress that this case only became known to law enforcement earlier today. The investigation is ongoing on several fronts. More information will be released when we have it. Again we’re asking for anyone with any information about this crime to contact us. Thank you all for coming.”

  Kate was relieved that no one else had raised questions about Lori Fulton’s time as an ex-cop in California. She texted Varner.

  Need to speak with you now. Have information on the case.

  Kate saw Varner reach for his phone, read her message, lift his head and nod to a corner. She worked her way through the departing press and police pack toward an alcove where Varner and Tilden waited.

  “What is it?” Varner kept his voice low.

  “There’s more to this case than you guys are telling us.”

  “Is that so?” Tilden said. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

  “I know Lori Fulton used to be a cop in California with Santa Ana PD and that she killed the perp who killed her partner. Why did none of that come up here?”

  Varner and Tilden shared a look but said nothing.

  “How did you come about this information?” Varner asked.

  “Journalistic investigation. Some of us still do that sort of thing rather than just swallow what you guys shovel out.”

  “So why are you telling us your theories?” Tilden said.

  “These aren’t theories. They’re cold, hard facts, Detective Tilden, and I’m going to report them. Now, here’s my theory—I think there’s way more to this case than you’re releasing. I think this could be about somebody settling an old score.”

  The muscles in Varner’s jaw were pulsating.

  “Let’s cut the bull, Page. I’ve told you before, this case is complicated. Lives are at stake, and revealing those details at this stage could jeopardize the safety of innocent victims.” Varner nodded to the faces of the Fulton family on the tripod. “You want to risk their lives for your story.”

  Kate glanced toward the photos.

  “Are you asking me not to publish what I’ve learned?”

  “I’m asking you to use your head and not rush into anything.”

  “Let me be clear. I would never, ever, want my reporting to be the cause of people getting hurt, but at the same time I’m not going to suppress valid news that I’ve obtained. Sooner or later, someone else will discover Lori’s past life and report it. You both know that’s the way it works.”

  “Look, what do you want, Page?” Tilden asked.

  “A deal.”

  “A deal? We look like we’re selling cars?”

  “I’ll hold off reporting on Lori Fulton’s past, and you give me exclusivity to any breaks on the investigation. It’s win-win. I get the story, but I only publish it when you give me the green light.”

  Tilden looked at Varner, who glared at Kate, letting a long, tense moment pass before blinking.

  “All right, I’ll consider it.”

  “You’ll consider it?”

  “No guarantees. That’s the best you’re going to get right now, Kate. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “And, Kate? Don’t ever pull this again.”

  36

  Manhattan, New York

  Reeka swooped upon Kate the instant she’d returned to the newsroom from the press conference.

  “How was it? Anything there that will get us ahead on this story?” She walked alongside Kate to her desk while checking her phone.

  Kate couldn’t reveal what she had on Lori Fulton. Not yet. She needed more time to dig, she thought, as she sat down and logged into her computer.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  In the tense air of Reeka’s question, Kate stuck to her rules.

  Never tell an editor what you’ve got until you’ve nailed it. And never tell an editor what thorny deals you’ve arranged with sources. Reeka wouldn’t understand or support Kate’s agreement with the FBI—she’d want to take the lead and run with it as soon as possible. But this angle had the potential to be huge and she needed her deal with Varner to pay off—if it went sideways, it would be disastrous.

  In frustration, Reeka tapped Kate’s desk with her phone. “Kate, what’ve you got?”

  “Sorry—nothing concrete at the moment. I’m just following a few loose ends.”

  “Okay, here we go.” Reeka was suddenly distracted by a message on her phone. “Here’s a development. FBI agents have just raided Jerricko Blaine’s apartment in Texas. Our Dallas bureau has sent us raw copy. I’m flipping it to you now. I want you to weave it into your update story.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Kate, we have to go deep on Jerricko Blaine. Work with our Dallas people to find out who he is. Let’s craft a biography.”

  After Reeka left, Kate quickly read through the copy sent by Tasha Krause from Newslead’s Dallas bureau. It was solid stuff on the SWAT team at Jerricko Blaine’s apartment and the reaction from residents. Kate called Tasha for more details.

  When Tasha answered, Kate could hear a honking horn and laughing children in the background. Tasha was outside on the street.

  “Hi, Tasha? It’s Kate Page in New York. Got your copy on Blaine—looks good. Anything new on Jerricko Blaine to add?”

  “Bits and pieces. I’m still talking to residents.”

  “Do we know much more about him?”

  “A little. The FBI took a roommate in for questioning. Neighbors say Blaine was pretty quiet, kept to himself. That’s what they always say, isn’t it? One weird thing—he had a pet snake, a python or boa. Anyway, it’s illegal and the animal control people took it away. They needed four guys to carry it. We got pictures.”


  “You find any relatives or friends?”

  “Not yet. I’ll try to get the roommate.”

  “What about Blaine? Does he work? Is he a student?”

  “He works. Hold on... I’ve got something here from a neighbor.” Tasha was quiet and Kate could hear as she paged through her notes. “Here it is—he works, or worked, at the Fire and Steel Truck Emporium, washing big rigs. It’s a truck stop on the LBJ Freeway.”

  Kate wrote it down.

  “You talk to anybody there, Tasha?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, leave the truck stop to me. Keep us posted if you get anything from the roommate.”

  Kate went online and found the website for Fire and Steel Truck Emporium. She combed through several pages until she found a number for the truck wash and called it.

  “Truck wash, J. T. Flores.”

  “Hi, J.T. I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead in New York.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Do you have a second?”

  “That’s about all I got. I got units waiting.”

  “Do you know Jerricko Blaine?”

  Kate heard a two-way radio then heard Flores yell to someone.

  “You’re done, buddy, take it! Go! Jerricko, yeah. He used to work here. Quit a while back. What’s this all about, anyway? I got a business card here from some FBI agent who dropped by asking about Jerricko when I was at the dentist today. I’m supposed to call him. You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “You haven’t seen the news?”

  “Ma’am, I’m a busy workin’ man.” Another crackle on the radio, and Flores shouted, “Roll it ahead, to the left. No! Left!”

  “Blaine’s wanted by the FBI for a bank robbery in Queens, New York.”

  “What? A bank robbery? In New York? Jerricko—no way. Hell, that’s gotta be wrong. I do not believe it. Not one bit.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was just such a quiet kid and a good worker. I can’t see him doing something like this.”

  “Did you ever talk with him much?”