19.
Bloody Monday
“Who died?” Shelby asked as I stepped off the elevator into the newsroom Monday morning.
I glanced down at my black tank dress and cropped black jacket, my eyes coming to rest on my favorite Mary-Jane-style Jimmy Choos as a giggle burst from my lips. “I suppose this shows you how excited I am to have a meeting with Andrews first thing in the morning.”
Shelby’s head tipped to one side as she fell into step beside me. “What for?”
“Charlie.” I practically spat the word. My story would be ready to go live on the web as soon as I could track down Burke’s family and Bob gave the green light. As of thirty minutes ago, Charlie had nothing online, so hopefully I could still beat her to the punch and shut our publisher up. For today, at least.
I knew that as well as I knew my shoe size (Nine and a half US. My feet aren’t what anyone would call dainty), Parker would be the sticking point. Andrews understood what a family the newsroom was, and he was just douchey enough to try to make me cast suspicion on my friend. I wouldn’t. But at the same time, I didn’t want to pull more heat onto Bob.
How to get around the publisher’s demands without causing trouble for my boss had me twisting my hair into knots as I turned back to Shelby and filled my coffee cup. “Charlie called Andrews looking for a comment on a story I’ve had since Friday, but Bob and I decided not to run until today. And he’ll take any excuse to bitch about either of us. He must be positively giddy to have us both in his crosshairs today.”
I pulled a bottle of sugar-free white mocha syrup from the cabinet above the sink and tipped it over the coffee, stirring in a little milk from the container I kept in the fridge and taking a sip.
Shelby laughed. “Tell me how you really feel about our head weasel.”
“Rick Andrews isn’t mammalian enough to be called a weasel. I’ve stepped in things I like better.” I was so annoyed I didn’t even care that on a normal day I wouldn’t badmouth Andrews to anyone but maybe Bob, simply because it wasn’t professional. To hell with it. He’d been a festering sore on our collective limbs for nearly a year, and I was about tired of killing myself to make him happy. I couldn’t stop, because of Bob. But I didn’t have to be nice and pretend I liked the little snot either.
Shelby nodded. “I’d love to see that in a tweet. Or a book.”
I smiled, genuinely glad to have her around for the first time since I met her. “Stay tuned.” I picked up my coffee, striding back to my desk.
Flipping my screen open, I clicked into my search bar and typed Richard Burke’s name.
Google, don’t fail me now.
The top hit was a bio. Click.
The victim’s father had taken over his family’s construction empire and spun it to follow his passion—BurCo was the only construction company in Virginia that specialized in restoration of historic properties. Exclusively.
Lucky for them, we had plenty of old buildings to go around.
I found a number and dialed, knowing Richard Burke probably wouldn’t be in the office today but hoping someone could get him to call me.
A chirpy receptionist transferred me to the public relations desk when she heard the newspaper’s name. “PR, this is Jonas” picked up on the third ring.
“Hi Jonas, this is Nichelle Clarke over at the Telegraph, and I’m working on a story about Mitch Burke for tomorrow’s paper. I’m so sorry to have to call about this, but is there any way I could get in touch with the Burke family today? I’d like them to have a chance to talk about their son.”
“The family isn’t taking calls or visitors at this time, but I have a statement I can fax you if you’ll give me the number.”
I reeled it off and thanked him, smiling as I put the phone down. Easiest family talk I’d ever had to do about a murder.
I grabbed my coffee and the fax and hurried to Bob’s office, tapping on the doorframe as I poked my head around it. “Morning, chief.” Andrews wasn’t due in for another fifteen minutes.
Bob sat back in his chair and sighed, gesturing to his monitor, which was dominated by my story on Burke. “Not a word in here about Grant.”
I settled myself in my usual Virginia-Tech-orange velour armchair and crossed my legs at the knee, sipping my coffee. “There is not.”
“Charlie called asking specifically about Parker, Nicey.”
“So I hear.”
“What does she know?” Bob leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head.
I met his hard gaze with one of my own. “I haven’t the first damned clue. Not enough to go on air with it is all I can tell you. She’s fishing. And I’m not offering my friend up as a sacrifice because she might beat me on a story. I’ve been ahead of Charlie for months. I’m not afraid of her.”
The crease in Bob’s brow said he might be, which took a bit of the wind from my sails.
“We know there’s a chance…” he began, his strained tone belying tried patience.
“No, we do not,” I snapped, closing my eyes and hauling in a deep breath. Bob was being difficult, but he wasn’t the actual enemy here. Just one hell of an irritating devil’s advocate. “We actually know nothing anyone could prove. Here’s the only thing I have for sure—Mitch Burke was a first-class dick, and a borderline disturbed one, at that. He had enemies by the truckload, including some with mafia ties, probably.” I paused for a breath when Bob’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to shout,” I said, more controlled. “I also know Parker. He did. Not. Kill. Anyone.” I punctuated the words with a pound of my fist on the arm of the chair. “I’m not saying in the paper and all over the damned internet that he might have, Bob. I’m just not.”
“You’re not what?” Melanie’s voice came from the door and I felt my eyes fall shut as she stepped into the room. “Everything okay in here?”
She tucked her phone in her pocket with a smile and I realized she hadn’t heard anything else. Phew.
“Just arguing tomorrow’s headlines,” I said.
She shook her head. “You have more passion for this job than anyone I’ve ever met.”
I shrugged. “Keeps me out of trouble.”
Bob snorted and I shot him a shut-up look. He straightened his face and turned to Melanie. “What can I do for you, Mel?”
“I have a couple of councilmen who want to use the paper to grandstand on the new ballpark proposal, and I’m having a hard time with it,” she said. “On one hand, it is news. It’s big news.”
Bob nodded.
“But I’m getting a lot of pressure from both camps, and I don’t want it to look like the paper is biased.” Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth.
“That would be easier if you weren’t, I suspect,” Bob said.
My eyes volleyed between the two of them as Mel sighed.
“I’m trying to stay out of it and just do my job, but it’s hard when Grant feels so strongly about something.” Mel’s eyebrows drew down and her tone gained a defensive edge. “And I agree with him. Progress is important, but so is history.”
Bob ran one hand through his thinning white hair. “Listen, Melanie, every one of us has issues we know in our gut are right a certain way. This isn’t any different than last year when they wanted to cut the funding for the inner-city after-school arts program. You knew it was wrong, but you reported the story fairly. Do it again here.”
She sighed. “I suppose. Thanks, Bob. I’m a little all over the place right now.”
“Of course you are. But you can do this. I wouldn’t have hired you if you couldn’t.”
“Put a hard eye on it when I turn it in, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
As she disappeared into the newsroom, Bob turned back to his monitor, tapping one finger on the edge of the keyboard.
“This is good solid reporting, Nicey. It’s a thousand percent impartial, except for the failure to mention Parker, and I know how hard that is for you.” He gestured after Mel. “Boy
is causing me all kinds of trouble this week.”
I smiled. “He wouldn’t do that on purpose.”
“My point is this, kiddo: Think about what Melanie said. If you’re really keeping his name out of it because of a lack of evidence, I’ll run it like this. Andrews will live. But you need to ask yourself what it would look like if the dead guy had sent threatening letters about anyone else’s fiancé last week, only to show up on the same property in a wine barrel less than forty-eight hours later.”
I was still pondering that when Andrews stepped into the room and shut the door.
“Morning. I won’t say good, because it isn’t.” Rick Andrews flashed an attempt at a withering look at each of us and stomped across the room to take the chair opposite mine.
“It’s definitely Monday, but we all woke up this morning. Given the subject matter I work around, that’s usually a good enough reason to be happy.” I put all the sunshine I could muster into the words, mostly because I knew it would annoy the fire out of him.
He pursed his lips. “How lovely for you.” Snide contempt practically dripped down his chin.
I widened my eyes and smiled my best clueless smile at Andrews, which set him to muttering and scowling. And it hadn’t even been five minutes.
I shot Bob a wink as he coughed over a snicker.
“What can we do for you this morning, Rick?” Bob asked.
“You can explain to me why in Sam Hill you two were out celebrating the wedding of a murder suspect all weekend, apparently in the thick of the action, yet Channel Four has beaten us to the story.” He crossed his legs at the knee and swung his polished black loafer back and forth, a quarter inch of fish-belly white shin peeking out above his dark sock.
“I haven’t heard the sheriff name a suspect, have you, Bob?” I asked.
Bob shook his head. “Don’t believe I have.”
“Then why is Charlie Lewis convinced our sports columnist is headed for prison?”
I spread my hands. “I honestly have no idea. To my knowledge, they haven’t even questioned anyone in the wedding party.” I wasn’t fool enough to think that would hold with Charlie on this trail, but it was technically true.
Andrews’ gaze flicked to Bob, who nodded. “Nichelle has been all over this since Friday night.”
“Then why hasn’t it been in the paper?” Andrews practically roared.
“It happened forty miles outside our local coverage area, and the only thing we know for sure is that a body was found in a wine barrel. There’s no coroner’s report yet. No cause of death. No solid suspects. I don’t even have a police report,” I said. “I have no idea what the heck Charlie is up to or where she’s getting her information, but I promise you one thing: If she had anything on this, especially anything explosive about Parker that would make me and the Telegraph look bad, she’d have run it already.”
Andrews tipped his head to one side, moving his right index finger to his chin. I talked faster.
“The sheriff is still piecing together what happened to this guy. There’s no story here yet. The facts I have are only good enough for ‘suspected foul play’ with a few details. She called you because she’s fishing. Don’t fall for it.”
I sat back and took a breath, my eyes skipping over Bob, who nodded so slightly half a blink would’ve obscured it. Andrews folded his hands in his lap, his face flicking from indecision to annoyance. He didn’t like me, and really had it in for Bob. But if there was one thing a narcissist hated above all else, it was being made a fool.
Bob cleared his throat. “I’ve been wondering all night why Charlie didn’t call me. I run the newsroom. Parker works for me. It seems she thinks you’re gullible enough to force Nichelle to give up an exclusive, Rick.”
“Well, she’s wrong,” Andrews snapped.
“Bob has a story with the facts—only the facts—as we know them,” I said. “We should post that before the obituary hits, and the family has scheduled it for tomorrow. We’re still ahead on this because the local paper out there shuttered last year, and none of the TV stations were close enough to get wind of what was going on this weekend, so they’re playing catch up. That’s all Charlie is doing. Trying to catch up. Think about what it would do to our ad sales if we accuse Parker of something so heinous.” Andrews nodded, and I knew I had him. Appeal to the bottom line. “The facts don’t support it. Not today.”
He swung the foot some more, tapping his index finger against his lip before he spoke. “Put it on the web. Have Ryan tweet and post it to our Facebook with an ‘exclusive’ slammer.” He stood, turning a glare on each of us in turn. “But if the TV station ends up with something on this story we don’t have, you’ll both be sorry.”
I pinched my lips together and nodded, wise enough to stay quiet since we’d won the battle at hand.
Now all I had to do was make sure Charlie didn’t have anything—or that I beat her to the headline if she did. Simple (not).
Andrews strode out, pulling the door shut hard. Bob sighed, dropping his head into his hands.
“You ever miss our nice normal drug wars?” he asked the carpet.
“I do today.” I stood, resting one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t worry, chief. I have a whole sled team of dogs in this, and I’m not letting anyone down.”
I had five hours before the noon broadcast to make sure of it.
20.
Catching up
My brain flicking through what circumstantial things I knew, I stepped out of Bob’s office and smack into another human. My bag flew out of my hand and scattered lip glosses and tampons across the mottled brown seventies chic carpet.
“I’m so sorry!” I stooped to grab the bag, blowing my hair out of my face. “That’s twice in a week. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Looks to me like you’re in a hurry.” The honey-butter voice stopped my hand cold as I closed it around an Urban Decay lipstick tube.
I raised my head slowly to find the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen shining above a grin that could give Parker a run for his charisma.
“Hey, Miss Clarke.”
“Troy!” I shot to my feet and yanked him into a hug. “What on Earth? And why didn’t I know about it?”
He swooped all my stuff into his long fingers and stood, dropping it back into the bag when I opened it.
“Mr. Parker got me an internship. I’ll be here all summer.” He grinned. “We thought it’d be fun to surprise you. I want to work in TV, sure, but I’m not going to get very far without knowing how to find a story, am I?”
“You are not.” I couldn’t have lost the smile threatening to crack my face open if I’d wanted to. Troy Wright grew up in a rough neighborhood and lost his older brother, Darryl, a couple years back in the drug wars Bob had just mentioned. A bright kid with a passion for sports and a personality that screamed ESPN, he’d stayed on the straight and narrow, winning a National Merit scholarship and becoming the first person in his family to go to college.
“How’s school?” I asked, slinging the bag over my shoulder and motioning for him to follow me to my little ivory cubicle.
“Great.” He fell into step beside me. “I got A’s in both my journalism classes this year, and the professor in the freshman reporting class offered me a position at the campus paper in the fall. He gave me special permission to get credit for working here this summer too—usually they don’t let you do internships for credit until you’re a junior.”
I dropped my bag under my desk and grinned. “They do when you’re an overachiever.”
He chuckled and leaned one thin shoulder against the edge of my cube. “And you wouldn’t know anything about overachieving—shot, stabbed, surgery, all manner of crazy folks. But you get your story.” He shook his head. “My momma prays for you every night.”
My breath stilled for half a second. “That means more to me than you could possibly know.” I had massive heaps of respect for Joyce Wright, a single mom who’d raised two boys working as
a housekeeper and seamstress after she booted their deadbeat father out of the house. Losing her oldest son had nearly killed her, but she was so proud of Troy it practically seeped from her pores. “How is your mother? I haven’t talked to her in a while. Tell her I promise I’ll remedy that soon.”
He nodded. “She’ll be so glad to hear from you. She won’t ever forget what you did for Darryl, Miss Clarke—and neither will I.” He cleared his throat, ducking his head.
“Nichelle. Please. And it was truly my pleasure.”
He nodded, wiping at his nose. “I saw the trial coverage. Couldn’t bring myself to go down there. But y’all really got the bastards, huh?”
I nodded. “DonnaJo is a hell of a prosecutor. They’ll stay right where they are for a long time. Things a little quieter in your neighborhood these days? I haven’t seen a murder out there in months.”
“It’s almost like they’ve figured out shooting other folks only makes it more likely they’ll get shot themselves.”
I flipped open a notebook and scribbled that down. Interesting, the violence that had plagued Southside for so many years dying a rather sudden death.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but as soon as I had time, I’d ask around. What a fantastic feel-good feature—and I wasn’t exactly swimming in those, working at the crime desk.
I glanced at my calendar and saw that I was due in court at noon for an assault case involving a football player from Richmond American University. Damn. DonnaJo had been prepping for months—I couldn’t skip.
Before I could ask Troy to elaborate any more, my phone rang. He raised both hands and stepped backward. “Don’t let me interfere with your work, Lois Lane.” His dark eyes took on a teasing sparkle and I grinned, my spirits bouncing back from the depths of a meeting with Andrews to something resembling normal. I liked Troy. A lot. It would be fun to have him around for the summer. I laid a hand on the phone and nodded. “We’ll catch up later?”
“You got it.” He pointed to my coffee. “Where’d you find that?”
Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6) Page 15