Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5)

by LynDee Walker

  “As if.” I snorted. “Speed dating via surface judgement. Not my thing, but thanks for asking.”

  “Your surface judges just fine from where I sit,” he said.

  “I appreciate your opinion, though I think it’s clouded by your knowledge of my brilliant personality and sharp wit.”

  Kyle laughed. “Not clouded. Enhanced. But we should probably stick to business. Your new guy might not like you coming to see me otherwise.”

  I dropped my eyes to the table, biting down on the “he’s not the boss of me” because it was childish, and also because Kyle was right. And were the stiletto on the other foot, I couldn’t blame Joey, because I’d feel the exact same way.

  Nodding slowly, I raised my head. “We okay?”

  “Fine.” The word was clipped, and he ran a hand through his hair, mussing the curls attractively.

  Handing back my BlackBerry, he sighed. “Send me what you have. I’ll see what I can turn up.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked the phone away and smiled. “Anything interesting going on in your world these days?”

  “Nothing I want to talk to the media about.”

  “Off the record.”

  “Still tracking down the rest of that gun ring. Monitoring Caccione activity.”

  I swallowed hard, keeping my face carefully blank. But how much longer until Kyle figured out Joey had ties to the crime family he was investigating? His refusal to talk to me for the past few months either meant he was on the trail, or he was too pissed to worry about it.

  The look on his face said it could be either, or something else entirely.

  “How’s that coming?” I kept my tone light.

  “They haven’t chosen a new leader,” he said. “However that goes down these days. It’s less The Godfather and more a business—but we’re having a hard time getting any dirt on who might be in line for a promotion.”

  “You’ve been watching for three months and have nothing?” I couldn’t decide if that was shocking or relieving—or both.

  “It’s one of the biggest, best-connected syndicates in the country. Maybe in the world. You don’t build that kind of empire without a talent for keeping secrets.”

  Joey’s stoic, drive-Nichelle-batshit-crazy expression flashed through my thoughts. Ain’t that the truth?

  “How about you?” Kyle asked.

  “The publisher wants Bob to retire. I’m determined to stay ahead of everyone else in town, because as long as we’re winning the news wars, they can’t force him out.”

  Kyle nodded. “Anything for a noble cause. Totally you.” He paused, his eyes softening. “Since you’re clearly not going to offer, I have to ask: whatever happened with your grandparents?”

  Ah, my crazy family: my grandfather was kind of a medium Hollywood bigshot, and my mom got pregnant at sixteen and refused to get married. Plus, she insisted on keeping her baby. This was a point of so much contention, they disowned her. Seventeen years later, they sent me a big fat check and an I’m-sorry letter, but it took eleven more years for me to pick up a phone and call them. Kyle had witnessed much of the angst involved.

  I smiled. “My grandmother’s nice. We talk on the phone a couple times a month. She’s been following my work online since college, and she likes to hear about the behind-the-scenes parts.”

  “Have you met them?”

  “Even if I could take the time off, I’m not sure how I want to handle that. But all in all, it’s certainly better than I thought it would be. I was afraid and resentful for so long.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And what?”

  “You have something-I’m-not-saying face. What’re you thinking?”

  “That I want to know if she told you anything about your father.”

  The hundred-thousand-dollar question.

  That I was still a little chicken to ask. Even when my mom poured out the whole story, I didn’t get a name—she didn’t offer, and I didn’t pry. I called my grandmother for the first time fully intending to find out, but it’s a funny thing: when your throat closes around a question every time you start it, it never quite gets out there.

  “I haven’t gotten around to that.”

  “Afraid of the answer?”

  “It seems.”

  His lips tipped up in a sad smile. “I know the feeling.”

  I put one hand over his. “I’m sorry.” It was just above a whisper.

  He nodded, patting my hand before he ran one of his through his hair again and stood. “I’ll work on this and let you know what I find. You watch yourself. And call me if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” I stood, hefting my bag onto my shoulder. “I appreciate that. And I’m glad you’re doing well.”

  I waved as he pulled out of the parking lot. I hated that Kyle was sad because of me. Surely I was smart enough to figure a way to help him—as soon as I dug up a little more on Aaron’s mystery murder victim.

  Journalism in the age of the Internet 102: part of the reason newsrooms have smaller staffs is because computers make it possible for me to accomplish in a half-hour what would’ve taken my 1979 counterparts three days of hunting through files.

  Back at my office, I flipped my laptop open and pulled up the website for the condo complex. I copied the architectural firm’s name into my Google bar, and in ten minutes, I had a set of blueprints for the building on my screen.

  The bright as noon unit from last night? Number seventeen-oh-four.

  Clicking open another window, I pulled up the city’s property tax record database. A few keystrokes and three clicks later, I had a name.

  David Maynard. I jotted it in my notes and tapped the pen on my blotter.

  Journalism in the age of the Internet 103: the computer can only get you so far.

  While the odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Maynard being the victim, I couldn’t print it. Could be him. Could also be the landlord (Maynard was the seven-year-old condo’s original owner). Or maybe the victim didn’t live there at all. What if it was a guest, a friend, a relative? The information was handy, but without confirmation, its usefulness was limited to one sentence that would mostly fill space and show Andrews I’d done my homework.

  I also knew Charlie well enough to know if she hadn’t finished this particular task, she would before the end of the day. So I needed something she couldn’t get before six. Where could I find it?

  The cute, flirty doorman.

  Let Aaron keep his secrets. A way around the answer was there for the taking—I just needed the right source.

  5.

  Leads

  Jeff the doorman was standing at his post when I pulled up, but the RPD uniform between the parking lot and the front door was twice as broad—and ten times as prickly—as Officer Palmer from yesterday. I tucked my notebook into my bag and touched up my lip gloss before putting on my best haughty expression, channeling Percival’s owner as I strode purposefully toward the door.

  “Miss?” The barrel-chested police officer took two steps toward me as I crossed the opposite end of the driveway, but was waylaid by an agitated man in a four-thousand-dollar suit who gestured toward the door and then the top of the building as he talked.

  I didn’t stop walking until Jeff moved to open the door.

  “Percival in that much of a state, or did you miss me?” he asked as he pulled on the heavy steel handle, and I returned his smile. He was cute, and probably not too used to being turned down.

  “I’ll never tell.” I stopped just inside the door, shooting a glance at the elevator. Hopefully Landers was occupied, if he was around.

  “Then I choose to believe the latter,” he said. “Nothing wrong with a Wednesday morning ego boost.”

  My smile wide
ned into a grin. “I am here on business.” Every word true. I leaned on the wall and feigned innocence. “There are still police cars all over the place. What’s that about?”

  He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Someone died.”

  I popped my mouth into an O and widened my eyes. “How awful! Who was it?”

  “Dr. Maynard. Great man. Nice. Really smart. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.”

  “Hurt him? Surely they don’t suspect…” I let it trail off and he nodded. Bingo. I arranged my face into an appropriately sorrowful expression.

  My brain flashed through what I could safely ask without looking too interested. It’s a tricky line, getting someone to talk about something sensitive. “What kind of doctor was he? Did he work at one of the hospitals?”

  “A long time ago, I think,” he said. “But he had his own office for the whole time I’ve known him. Retired to pursue his passions, he said.”

  Kyle’s jealous wife theory flashed through my head, but I couldn’t start picking at the good doctor’s personal life without making Jeff wonder why I wanted to know.

  “That’s so sad.”

  “It is. I heard building management last night, trying to convince the cops he’d had a heart attack. Don’t want to upset the other residents. Might affect their income or something. But the detective said there were marks on the doc’s neck.”

  Jackpot. No one else would have that yet as long as the coroner’s office didn’t put out a press release before the end of the day.

  “How wretched.” I shook my head. “On both counts. A man is dead, and people who knew him are worried about money.”

  “They liked the doc fine, but the dollar is king, for sure.”

  “The police going to be around much longer?”

  “I hope not. People get stopped out there and then bitch to me for twenty minutes about freedom and why the cops have a right to stop them from entering the building. I like this job because folks are mostly pleasant. I get to chit chat with them about their lives as they come and go.”

  I nodded, looking him over again. “What did you do before this? Or have you always dreamed of being a doorman?”

  “I have not.” He chuckled, turning to push the door open for a petite woman with silver hair and a fox stole. At eleven in the morning on a warm October day. “Mrs. Eason, you look lovely, as always.” Jeff smiled. “Anything exciting happening today?”

  She shook her head, a disapproving eye on the RPD officer twenty or so feet away. “I’m afraid not, Jeffrey.” Her voice quavered as she pulled the stole a millimeter tighter. “I’m on my way to Blythe and Rogers to start arrangements for David’s services.”

  I shrank back into the ficus decorating the corner, mouth shut and ears open, eyes on Mrs. Eason. Chanel blouse, Stuart Weitzman shoes, Louis Vuitton bag—she was a walking Saks billboard.

  “I don’t understand why this whole business has to be so unpleasant,” she said, shooting another something-I-stepped-in look at Officer Surly. “Why can’t they go away and let him rest in peace? Do you know, they won’t even let me set a date for his funeral until they’re through with this nonsense?”

  “I’m pretty sure they think someone killed him, ma’am.”

  Jeff’s eyes flicked to me as he spoke, and I cast mine down and tried to blend in with the papered wall behind me.

  Mrs. Eason waved her hand. “Preposterous. Who would want to hurt my David?” She shut her heavily made-up eyes for a long second, sniffling as she reopened them. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He had such a gentle soul. Brilliant mind. Kind heart.”

  Her David? My fingers itched for a pad and pen. On so little sleep and so much caffeine, I hoped I could trust my brain to keep it all straight until I could write it down.

  Jeff patted her thin shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She blotted the corner of one eye with a lace handkerchief, squaring her shoulders and squeezing Jeff’s hand. “You’re a good boy, Jeffrey. Thank you.”

  “Drive carefully, ma’am.”

  She strode to the parking lot, folding herself behind the wheel of a Jaguar parked in the first space. Brow furrowed, Jeff watched until her taillights disappeared. I stepped forward, another glance at the elevators telling me I was safe to chat a bit more.

  “Wow. What an awful way to have to spend your day,” I said.

  “She’s a tough old bird.” Jeff smiled. “Lived through more than most people I know, and that’s saying something.”

  “Sounded like she was close to the doctor.” I held his gaze with one of friendly concern, nothing more. I practiced that look in the mirror at least a couple times a month.

  “They were friends. Getting to be closer, maybe. Her husband passed on last Christmas. She took up going to the opera with the doc. And now he’s gone too.”

  That piqued my news radar, though I couldn’t see that frail woman strangling any sort of grown man. But if the husband was dead, too…

  “How heartbreaking. How did her husband die?” I was so curious, I forgot to be indirect.

  “Heart stopped.”

  “Was he ill?”

  Jeff eyed me a little warily. Oops.

  “Just curious,” I said hastily. Still true. “You might call it a bad habit.” I widened my eyes and flashed a grin for effect.

  He smiled. “No worries. There was a tangle of reporters out front all afternoon and evening. I imagine they’ll be here again today. Too damned nosy for their own good.”

  I held the smile and nodded. Oh, boy.

  “It was a sudden thing,” Jeff said. “Mr. Eason. He was pretty fit, for an old guy. Vietnam veteran, retired CEO—he ran every morning along the river. Early.”

  My brain ticked back ten months and change.

  “They found him down there. Just off the jogging path,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

  His eyebrows went up. “That’s some memory you have there.”

  “I must’ve read it somewhere,” I said dismissively. “Things I read get stuck in my head.” Things I hear, too, but not as readily. I needed to go make some notes.

  I took a step backward. “I just remembered something I have to do.” Lame.

  He pursed his lips, his eyes flicking from his watch to the elevators. “What about Percival?”

  Think fast, Nichelle.

  “It’s for him,” I said. “I forgot to bring his favorite treat with me. He does better when he gets rewarded.” Two steps back. I needed a notepad, and I needed to not get any further into this hole with Jeff. He looked suspicious enough already.

  A shrill “You have GOT to be kidding” came from the far end of the drive, and we both turned toward it. Ms. Social Network, Percival being dragged behind her on a rhinestone-studded leash, screeched a full-throated “go away” at the police officer, trying to shove past him to get to the door.

  Captain Surly spun her around and folded one arm behind her back, saying something I couldn’t hear. Jeff took a step toward the scene, then turned to look back at me. “You said—”

  “So nice chatting with you, Jeff,” I blurted, spinning on one Louboutin and sprinting for my car.

  So. Close.

  I didn’t even check the rearview to see if snotty Clarice was headed to jail.

  A block up, I squealed the tires pulling into the Virginia War Memorial parking lot. Throwing the car into park, I snatched a pen and pad out of the console.

  David Maynard. Doctor. Single. Possible girlfriend with a dead husband. A funky, suspicious dead husband if I remembered right.

  My hand flew across the page, my brain replaying the conversations of the past half-hour and hoping like hell there were no details left out.

  Private practice. Maybe the office website had a
photo of the doctor. I made a note.

  Pulling my BlackBerry from my bag, I texted Bob an I have something. Maybe a big something, if Charlie didn’t get it before eleven.

  I opened a new message, my fingers still hesitant to type the name “Shelby” into my phone.

  Our copy chief and I had the longest-running feud in Telegraph history, fueled mainly by the fact that she’d always wanted my job (still did), and wasn’t above any means of getting it (until recently). We were at a peace accord of sorts these days. Maybe.

  I stared at the screen. How to ask without tipping my hand? Shelby and I might not be out for each other’s blood anymore, but the quickest way to lose an exclusive is to blab it all over, even in your own newsroom.

  When you have a sec, I need a file from you. Filling in holes. Good. Vague. Send.

  I tapped a pen on the notepad in my lap, my thoughts racing. Sex and money are both great motives for murder, but little Mrs. Eason as the Black Widow? Not a lock, but I’d seen stranger.

  Bing. Which one?

  The philanthropist CEO guy they found down by the river last Christmas. I’d read the story on my laptop while munching cookies at my mom’s kitchen counter, and the memory of being annoyed at Shelby filling in for me on a body discovery was pretty fresh ten months later.

  Bing. Old guy. He had a heart attack. That’s what the ME said.

  That’s what I thought I read. I chose careful words. Updating my files. Do you still have the ME’s report, by chance?

  Tap tap tap.

  Bing. Yep. Want me to put it on your desk?

  I shook my head at the screen, hearing a helpful tone in her high voice as I read the words. So. Weird.

  That’d be fabulous. Thanks!

  I clicked the phone off and dropped it back into my bag, staring out the window at the white marble walls of the memorial. Bruises on the neck were certainly a pointer to strangulation, but it wasn’t definitive. The best I could do was suspected cause of death.

  And I was on the fence about printing the name. Did anyone else have it? Probably not. So why not sit on it for a day or two? Keeping it quiet would score big brownie points with Aaron, and it might keep the family, if there was one, from hearing it on the news before the cops could track them down. Andrews wouldn’t know—or care, as long as I had it first when it did go out. Plus, it kept my research under wraps if I didn’t put the victim’s name in the paper when the PD wasn’t releasing it. I could maybe stay one up on everyone else by digging up everything I could on Maynard before they even knew who he was.