Mason Black (The Complete Collection): 6 Gripping Crime Stories: The Complete Collection + BONUS Story

by Adam Nicholls

  Conan Reed sighed, fidgeting with his cufflinks. ‘I’ll have to start–’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Evie blurted. As soon as she did, she regretted it.

  Laughter erupted around the table, and although there were one or two people nice enough to try hiding it behind their hands, it was no less humiliating.

  ‘The coffee girl wants a job,’ one of the men said, snickering. Evie recognised him as Troy Bukowski – Pulitzer winner of 2010. He was handsome, too, in a cheesy Prince Charming sort of way, but he seemed to know it. ‘If this falls through, you could always promote her to distributing pastries.’

  Everybody laughed at that. Evie felt her face redden.

  Conan, however, didn’t say a word. He hadn’t joined in with the laughter, but he hadn’t had the decency to look at her, either. All he did was stare down at the table, deep in thought.

  Evie couldn’t take it anymore. Leaving the trolley where it was, she passed through the door as fast as possible. She could never come back here now. Not after that. All she had wanted was to get her foot back in the door of the journalism trade, and it had backfired.

  Before anyone could stop her and ask where she was going, Evie entered the elevator and slammed the heel of her hand into the buttons. Never in her life had she been so embarrassed, and for something as simple as offering her skills.

  3

  The doors sprung open and Evie stormed out into the lobby. People were staring at her, red-faced and on the verge of tears, but she found peace in the fact that she would never see these people again.

  Suddenly there were footsteps padding quickly along the marble and somebody was shouting her name. It echoed through the lobby like the halls of a hospital. For a moment, people stopped, but soon resumed their business as they realised there would be no drama unfolding today.

  Evie stopped and turned, spotting Conan Reed jogging towards her. What could he possibly say now that wouldn’t make her feel more like a fool? Realising there was nothing, she simply rolled her eyes and continued toward the door.

  ‘Miss Black, please.’ He finally caught up to her, placing a hand on the glass door and preventing her from opening it. ‘I wanted to make sure that you were okay.’

  ‘I’m not okay,’ Evie said. It was louder than talking but quieter than shouting – enough to make her point known. Besides, it wasn’t like she could lose her job, so shouldn’t she stand up for herself? ‘That was all different kinds of humiliating, and not a single person came to my defence. If that’s the kind of company this is, I’d rather not be a part of it.’

  She tried the door again, but Conan was far stronger than he looked. ‘I can’t apologise enough, but maybe giving you the column would be a good way to start.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s yours, Evelyn – may I call you Evelyn?’

  ‘Evie,’ she said numbly, still trying to absorb the offer.

  ‘Evie, then.’ Conan let go of the door and looked right at her. His features were subtle, but his eyes were a sharp blue. He had a trustworthy face, and even male pattern baldness seemed to suit him. ‘If you think you can fill it, the column is yours.’

  It took every ounce of her strength to keep from telling him to get lost. Ever since she was a teenager, she had moulded her morals into a strict guideline and followed them to the letter. However, it had never gotten her where she’d needed to be, and now that an opportunity had come knocking, she could at least consider betraying herself for a moment.

  ‘I really am sorry that this happened to you,’ Conan said.

  Evie nodded her head, snapping out of her thoughtful trance. ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Great.’ Conan breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back from the door, grinning. ‘Well, the theme is injustice. Strictly for balance, we want to show a side of New York where people can be misled by the media.’

  ‘But we are the media,’ Evie said, feeling it was too soon to use the word we.

  ‘Indeed. Lookit, almost every story in the past year has been about war, terrorism and all other forms of violence. If we can, we need to stick with that subject. But ideally, we would stop people from pointing the blame at somebody and simply realise what was lost. Too often we’re told to hate this person and that person because of what they did. But when do we ever take the time to step back and remember what’s been lost? We never form our own opinions anymore, and we need to address that.’

  As well as experiencing new-found respect for Vision Magazine and its chief, Evie was intrigued by the angle. ‘It’s strong, but risky.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Evie looked down at her shoes, tapping her toes and mulling it over. ‘How long?’

  ‘Ten days, max.’

  Wow. That was barely long enough to get the story, much less write it and do it well. But it was that or making coffee for a tableful of assholes, and she wasn’t about to get back on that path. ‘Fine. Leave it with me.’ Evie pushed open the door, stopping briefly. ‘And Conan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If you had taken the time to Google me, you would know that you’re not taking too big a risk.’ With that, she let go of the door and let it swing shut behind her. She had made an offer, been handed a job, and now she had to prove herself. Which, she thought, would have been a lot easier if she knew what the hell she was going to write about.

  4

  Calvin Durant sat in his cell, his knees to his chest and his hands covering his eyes. He was being treated like a killer. Hell, it may even be that he was a killer, but that was no easier for him to digest.

  No matter how many times he pictured his wife and daughter, there was always a dark stain of blood oozing from their skulls. It was a horrific sight to behold, but it could have been that this was his punishment. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, nobody would come to visit him either. Everyone who had ever trusted him was either dead or disgusted with him. The only certain thing was that he was utterly alone.

  It was enough to make even Calvin start to wonder if he had done it. Anything could have happened during his blackout, and all the clues pointed at his guilt; the hammer, the blood, the fact that nobody else was in the house. The only thing missing, in fact, was a motive. Even that seemed vital.

  Interrupting those dark thoughts, the door clunked open. Detective Little – who was anything but – entered and looked at Calvin like he was something he’d stepped in. It was the same man who had arrested and escorted him to the police station. And being that he was a six-foot-something black homicide detective with a threatening snarl, Calvin hadn’t dreamed of resisting.

  ‘Come with me, Mr Durant,’ Little said, reaching forward and taking him by the elbow.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Interrogation.’

  Neither of them said a word as they walked through the narrow white corridors. Calvin was eventually shown into an interview room, and it was exactly how they always looked in the movies – empty, bright, with a table in the middle and a two-way mirror along the long wall. It was the room where most people would confess, but what could Calvin really do?

  ‘Take a seat.’ Detective Little closed the door, and sat on the far side of the table. He seemed adamant to give not so much as a glance to Calvin Durant. Instead, he just looked down at the files in his hands and flicked through them, preparing himself for the interrogation. It was as though he could happily lock a man away, and then carry on with his life while forgetting that he was stuck behind bars until he died.

  It doesn’t look like he wants to hear a damn thing that I have to say. Calvin sat tense in his chair, thinking desperately about how he was supposed to convince someone that he wasn’t a murderer. Especially when he couldn’t even convince himself.

  5

  The sun was an orange line of brightness on the horizon – a natural reminder that she hadn’t slept. She’d been up all night in her crappy apar
tment, looking in every dark corner of the Internet for a story that might be worth reporting.

  Of course, it was just her luck that it was all trash. Everything had been used and reused. That might have been enough for your everyday reporter, but not for Evie. She needed something concrete. Something new that grabbed Conan by the balls and said, “Hey, buddy, look at me.”

  It was time for a break. She was a hot mess, and her eyes were sore from looking at the screen for so long. She needed air and she went out to get some. A wander around the city and a hot dog for breakfast could be just what she needed.

  As she walked the streets, Evie found it tough to familiarise herself. New York was totally unlike San Francisco, where she had grown up. Here, she still felt like an outsider – like a nerdy little alien who wasn’t welcome. She even considered a fresh look. Doing away with the Clark Kent glasses and black hair might do her some good. Contacts and bleach, however, were quite the stretch when you had no money to pay for them.

  In Central Park, Evie found a coffee stand and decided to treat herself. She stood to one side with her hands around the cup and her nostrils hanging over the coffee, not letting a single whiff of caffeine go to waste. She watched the joggers doing their laps, the businessmen cutting through the park on their way to work. She closed her eyes and listened to the chit-chat of those passing by. She focused, and heard…

  ‘Murdered?’ It was a man’s voice, surprised.

  ‘Yep. With a hammer, no less.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was there to see it myself.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yep.’ There was even a hint of pride in this one’s voice. This was the type of person that made Evie sick, but her ears were pricked all the same. ‘I heard the screams and burst in. There they were on the floor, blood everywhere. It was crazy, man.’

  Evie opened her eyes, studied the men (who were both dumpy and looked like they couldn’t be trusted to hold your wallet) and listened closer.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ the first man said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve known the guy since we were kids. He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’

  ‘Shows how much you know, dummy.’ He jolted a finger forward and made a farting noise. They both laughed in raspy, twenty-a-day chuckles and half-heartedly wrestled each other. It looked like the discussion was over.

  But not for Evie.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ she asked, stepping away from the coffee cart.

  The men looked at each other before the chubbier guy answered. ‘Calvin Durant. Why, you know him?’

  Evie shook her head.

  ‘Arrested for murdering his wife and kid,’ the first man said, repeating what he’d been told only seconds ago. It looked like he was trying to impress.

  ‘And you don’t think he did it?’

  ‘Well, uh… not really.’

  It wasn’t exactly what she had been looking for, but Evie wondered if she could make something of this. Even if the man turned out to be as guilty as suspected, at least she might have a shot at twisting the story in a way that would work for her. As long as she didn’t lie or upset anybody (which happened to be her golden rules), she could print what she wanted.

  ‘We gotta go,’ that same man told her, and they both turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait.’ Evie fished through her purse for a notepad and a pen. She pulled the lid off with her teeth and spat it to one side. ‘Tell me more.’

  6

  A couple of hours was all it took to gather everything for her case (others might have called it a project, but to Evie that seemed so final – she thought that a story could go one way or the other, but “project” implied that it had an expected outcome). The web had given her everything she’d needed. Everything but the permission to pursue this story.

  Before lunch, Evie made her way to the Vision Magazine building and took the elevator to the editors’ floor. Once there, she took long strides past the desks, trying to pretend that she couldn’t feel the eyes on her or hear the whispers of people asking what she was doing there. She didn’t look back until she reached Conan Reed’s office, and didn’t dare stop to knock.

  Inside, Conan got to his feet immediately, unsettled by Evie as she burst into the office. On the other side of his desk was none other than Troy Bukowski, slouched in the chair with sunglasses covering his eyes. It was one of Evie’s pet hates – sunglasses in a dark room.

  ‘Evie.’ Conan said. ‘I’m in the middle of–’

  ‘I might have a story,’ she said, stepping inside and holding the door open for Troy, although his smug grin told her that he hadn’t got the hint.

  ‘You gave it to the coffee girl?’ Troy asked. That grin was fading.

  ‘Troy, excuse us for a moment.’ Conan sat back down and gestured for Evie to sit.

  But Evie continued to hold the door, and her daring stare didn’t relax until Troy was up and out of the room, muttering something under his breath. Only then did the door close, and Evie presented the case to her potential employer.

  ‘Interesting,’ Conan said, handing the papers back. ‘What’s your angle?’

  ‘Well…’ Evie cleared her throat. ‘Everyone thinks he’s guilty, but he might not be. If this guy is innocent, it will prove everything you wanted. Suddenly the suspect is the victim. One of three, anyway. Every paper and magazine that has deemed him guilty will have to print a retraction. Except for us, of course.’

  Conan folded his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘You think he’s innocent?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure, but I’d like to meet him and check it out.’

  ‘You don’t need my permission for that.’

  ‘It’s not your permission I want,’ Evie said matter-of-factly.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Your approval.’

  Conan rose out of his chair and turned to the glass on the back wall. It had a magnificent view of the Big Apple but looked like it could provide an unhealthy dose of vertigo. Finally, he sighed. ‘Look, this is your article. Yours. If you want to chase this then that’s your decision. But if it turns out he’s guilty after all, you’ll be back to making coffee. If you’re okay with that–’

  ‘I’m okay with that.’ Evie stood and collected the papers from the desk. ‘Thanks for your time.’ She was out of the office in the bat of an eyelid, making a mental checklist of things to do. There was no shortage of tasks, either, and it all began with arranging a meeting with Calvin Durant.

  7

  Innocent, innocent, innocent.

  Calvin had insisted it a thousand times throughout his interrogation, but it didn’t seem to have changed anything. The murder weapon had his prints on it, and his family’s blood was on his hands. How could anyone believe him?

  Since being returned to his holding cell, he’d sat on the bed with the painfully thin mattress and sat bolt upright. God only knew how many hours had passed – he only knew that it must be night time, for the lights had been turned out and silence filled the corridors.

  Silence, except for the footsteps coming his way.

  Moments later, keys jangled outside his cell. Calvin looked up from his haunting stare and fixed his eyes on the door as it sprung open. He hadn’t expected anyone to waltz in with good news (no news was good news, especially in his case), but he sure wouldn’t have bet on seeing Detective Little with such ire in his eyes.

  ‘Get up,’ Little demanded. His gritted teeth were illuminated by the thin ray of light filtering through the open door. ‘Right now.’

  Deliberately hesitant, Calvin Durant climbed off the bed. His feet had barely touched the floor when Little clenched his shirt, pulling him up the rest of the way. Calvin stumbled and would have fallen, had Little not dragged him so they were face-to-face.

  ‘Let go of me,’ he said weakly, wriggling only as much as he could.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ the detective spat, pausing to let that sink in.

  Calvin couldn’t begin to imagi
ne who might want to see him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Some reporter. She’s coming by tomorrow to get your story, and you’re going to tell her what she needs to hear. You got that?’

  Somehow, Calvin knew that “what she needed to hear” wasn’t that he was an innocent man. In any case, he wasn’t so sure himself. His stomach knotted further as a brief image of his wife entered his mind – so much red, pooling across the kitchen. ‘No.’

  Detective Little released his shirt and clasped a palm around his neck. He squeezed just hard enough for Calvin to struggle for his breath. ‘Listen, you’re going down either way. But if you confess, you’ll be making prison a little easier on yourself. You wouldn’t want me to get in touch with some of my buddies on the inside, would you?’

  Calvin knew very well what people did to child-killers in prison. Being honest with himself, he had to believe that prison was where he would end up, and perhaps he shouldn’t be risking what the detective was threatening. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Grunting, Little threw him back onto the bed, regarded him with an expression of sheer disgust, and left the cell. The door locked behind him and the footsteps started again, growing quieter as they faded away.

  Tomorrow, if he was brave enough (or stupid enough), Calvin Durant had a chance of giving his own version of the truth. It may be that this reporter would be interested in what he had to say – that she might think there was more than one side to every story.

  He had only one night to consider it.

  8

  The street outside her apartment was no quieter at eight o’clock the next day. Garbage men, schoolchildren, and early-rising birds all contributed to the atmosphere of a typical Manhattan morning.

  Evie was no slouch, either. By now she was showered, dressed and ready for her interview with Calvin Durant. She wondered what he would be like in person – she had seen his photo when doing her research, but photographs meant nothing when it came to reading somebody’s personality.