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

by LynDee Walker

  “And this person told you to find Maynard?”

  “She said he could help us. Really help us. Fix it.”

  I scribbled.

  “How did she know?” I held my breath.

  “Because he did it for her.”

  I jotted the words in my notes by force of habit, not likely to forget them. What the everloving hell was my dead doctor into?

  Deep breaths. Someone could have sent this guy on the wildest goose chase in the history of medicine, but my inner Lois Lane said maybe not. If Maynard was keeping his discovery a secret, it fit that his patients would guard it too. My mom, her hair coming out in clumps and her frail, chemo-weakened frame, flashed through my thoughts. If it had really come down to the wire for her, I’d have signed a confidentiality agreement in blood for a glimmer of a chance at a cure.

  “So you reached out to Maynard.”

  “I emailed him in the middle of the night and then watched my inbox like a kid looking for Santa Claus.”

  Wait. “Where’d you get his email address?”

  “From his website.” He gave me a look that said maybe I wasn’t as smart as he’d thought.

  A website that wasn’t there anymore.

  But it had been as recently as the spring.

  “But he wouldn’t see you?” That was a sticking point for me, with all the wonderful things so many people said at his retirement party, added to what Jeff the doorman told me. If he was such a compassionate guy, wouldn’t he want to help a young mom who had everything in the world to live for? Wouldn’t he want to help…everyone?

  “I begged. I offered him everything but one of the children. He said he couldn’t.”

  “Why?” It popped out before I could stop it. I wasn’t even really asking him so much as asking the universe in general. The why in the story is the heart of what I do, and this one didn’t make any sense.

  “He sounded sorry. And he told me to try his next trial. But she’s not going to make it to the next trial.”

  Especially not with Maynard on the coroner’s table.

  His hand ran absently over the stock of the gun, and I started to step backward. Was he a murderer? No. Not in his right mind. But grief-stricken people can do some crazy stuff.

  He looked up. “I’m not going to shoot you. Whatever this has done to me, it hasn’t made me a monster.”

  “I didn’t really get the feeling you were going to shoot anyone,” I said. “I have a pretty good eye for the type. You’re not it.”

  “I wanted to.” His voice dropped in tone and volume. “In my blackest, worst minutes, I wanted to think I could make someone else hurt as much as I do. Maybe that would make Maynard see Amy. But the truth is, I’m not that guy. I don’t want to be the cause of anyone else feeling like this. I just don’t want to feel it anymore. And now there’s no way out of it.”

  He lifted the gun, flipping the barrel back toward his face.

  I blinked, my brain refusing to process the scene for a split second. When the reality of it crashed in, thoughts of his children and dying wife followed in almost the same instant.

  Oh, hell no.

  Not today, dude.

  He braced the barrel under his chin and stretched a shaking hand for the trigger, and my foot shot out in a perfect ap’chagi, my Louboutin flying off end-over-end toward the wall as the rifle slid across the floor. A four-inch difference in the length of my legs, and I still made it there first. I snatched the thing up and whirled, kicking off my other shoe, and he fell to his knees, spreading his hands in front of him on the floor. One gulped breath issued back as the deepest, most horrifying scream I’d ever heard.

  “Why?” he sobbed. “Why us?”

  Dear God.

  There were, quite literally, no words.

  “Let’s get you back where you belong and get the cops out of here.” I stepped toward him.

  “There’s nothing for me. Not without her.” He was limp as an overcooked noodle, but I managed to haul him to his feet and still keep my grip on the gun.

  “There’s your children. They need you.” I steered him gently in the direction of the patient rooms. “And right now, your wife needs you.”

  He nodded, dragging one hand across his face. “My girls. Amy keeps saying I have to be strong for my girls. She’s right. She likes to be right.”

  My eyes flicked to the closed door in front of us.

  “Your children aren’t here?”

  He shook his head. “My in-laws have them. Bring them to visit, take them to school. The doctor said we should keep their lives as normal as we can.” He turned brim-full eyes on me. “Maynard was the key. I can’t believe he’s dead. What did we ever do to deserve such awful luck?”

  I’d never said the doctor was murdered. The fact that this guy didn’t know it was most of what I needed to assure myself he wasn’t behind it.

  “He didn’t just die.” I eased away from him, watching to make sure he could stand on his own, then studying his face for a reaction as I spoke. “Someone killed him.”

  His eyes popped wide. “I would never,” he said.

  “I believe you.”

  His eyes fell on the gun, clarity in them for the first time since I’d walked in. “The police…What the hell have I done?”

  “Taken thousands of people hostage and discharged a firearm in a public building.” Pity and resignation twisted around my words. Jail wouldn’t be fun for him.

  He nodded and opened Amy’s door. “Thank you, Miss Clarke,” he said. “I knew you could help us.”

  I turned toward the elevator, the rifle vibrating thanks to the adrenaline overload that had set my hands to trembling.

  Before I could figure out how I was going to keep Landers from locking this guy up on an aggravated assault and weapons charge (I wasn’t above begging), another scream almost made me drop the gun.

  I turned and spied a nurse standing in the open doorway just across from where I’d talked to the wannabe gunman.

  She shrieked once more before she dropped to the tile.

  11.

  No way out

  I sprinted in bare feet as a doctor and second nurse crept out from under the station desk and scrambled to the doorway.

  Their murmurs told me the first nurse had fainted. I peeked into the room, which appeared to be a meds supply center, to see why.

  And wished I hadn’t. Blonde hair, matted with blood and bits of something I didn’t care to identify, a black-red hole above the left eyebrow.

  My eyes took in a sharp business suit and gorgeous Prada pumps on autopilot before I turned away, my stomach churning around the cornbread and cocktail that seemed hours upon hours ago.

  Clumsy fingers fumbled in my bag for the radio. “Aaron.” My voice came out as little more than a rasp. No reply. I shook it, then noticed the lack of the little red LED in the top corner. Could help to turn it on. I clicked the switch and tried again.

  “Nichelle! What the hell is going on in there? I have SWAT ready to blow open a door, and a highly agitated federal agent at my elbow who wants to draw and quarter me for letting you go inside.”

  “Simmer down, Kyle,” I said, my voice shaking. “Aaron, I have the gun.”

  “You what?”

  “I have the gun. The guy turned it on himself and I kicked it free and grabbed it.”

  “Jesus, Nichelle—” That was Kyle.

  “Everyone okay?” Aaron.

  “I’m fine. But I have a woman up here who is decidedly not.”

  “And the shooter?”

  I froze. That guy didn’t do this. Did he? I looked at the rifle, still dangling from my free hand. Maybe it was a better thing than I knew, me having this gun.

  “His wife is a patient. Terminal cancer. He’s b
ack in with her.” I swallowed hard. “Long story. I’ll fill you in.”

  “Coming in now.”

  “You come out this inst—” Kyle’s most commanding ATF agent voice blared from the speaker. I pushed the talk button and cut him off.

  “The situation up here has been diffused, Kyle.” The adrenaline tremble extended to my voice. “And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  A tap on my shoulder nearly sent me right out of my skin. I whirled to find the nurse who hadn’t fainted, her pink and purple scrubs creased from crouching under the desk.

  “Excuse me, miss—are you a police officer?”

  I chuckled, which seemed slightly ridiculous, what with the dead body and hostage situation. “I can’t do the shoes.” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m a reporter at the Telegraph. But the police are on their way in.”

  “Poor Mr. Ellinger.” Her soft soprano broke, her dark blue eyes filling with enough compassion for two hundred Peace Corps volunteers. “He loves his wife so much. We see a lot of heartbreaking things up here, but that’s made me cry more than once in the past few weeks.”

  I nodded, putting a hand on her arm as her eyes brimmed with tears.

  She took a hitching breath and continued, “I suppose he finally snapped. I thought I’d nodded off and was dreaming when he walked off the elevator waving a gun. It took me probably three minutes to hit the alarm and call 911.”

  “You’re the one who made the call?” I asked.

  She nodded, one tear slipping off her lashes and trailing mascara down her cheek. “He leveled the gun at me and told me to call the police. That he had something to say and needed them to be here so people would hear it.”

  I closed my eyes. He needed them to be here so I’d come. I flipped the safety on the gun and laid it down.

  “Did he ask you to call anyone else?”

  She shook her head, two more tears escaping. “No. He said no screaming, because he wanted Amy to sleep. And he told me to call the police. I pushed the silent alarm so security would lock the building down and did what he said.”

  My eyes slid toward the meds closet. “And then?”

  “I closed the doors to the patient rooms and locked them, and got under the desk like we’re supposed to. The only shots were just a few minutes ago.”

  I nodded, shaking off the adrenaline and rooting in my bag for a notebook and pen.

  “Can I get your name?” I asked.

  “Alisha. Alisha Royston.” She sniffled, wiping at her face and smearing mascara all over half of it.

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “Her name is Stephanie. Stephanie Whitmire. She’s a marketing rep at Evaris. I just can’t believe…”

  I nodded, turning when I heard the elevator bing. Kyle rushed off first, Aaron and Landers on his heels.

  “Nichelle!” I wasn’t even sure which of them was shouting. Or if it was more than one of them.

  I raised the hand that held my pen and tried to smile. Kyle broke into a run, clearing the rest of the hallway before I could open my mouth to say, “I’m really fine.”

  His big hands closed over my head, his eyes scanning me from head to toe while he palpated methodically for signs of injury.

  “I appreciate the concern, Kyle,” I said, grabbing his wrist when his arms dropped below my waist. “But really. I’m fine.”

  He crooked one finger under my chin and tipped my face up to his. “You don’t appear to be hurt. But you are cracked in the head somewhere. This place have a psych ward? Because I’m admitting you to it. Where the hell did you get the notion it was a good move to walk into an active shooter hostage situation?”

  I stepped backward, feeling temper bubble under all the adrenaline rushing through my system. “Remember those messages I showed you the other day?” I tried to control my voice. He was worried, not being a jerk. “This is who was sending them. Landers said he asked to speak to me. Me and Charlie. And she wouldn’t come in—”

  “But of course, you would,” he interrupted. “I’m on my way home after a long day. Thinking, ‘I’ll have a beer and see if I can find some football on TV.’ Then I get a newsbreak on the radio—there’s a shooter inside St. Vincent’s. The hospital is on lockdown, the staff won’t leave the patients and come out. Oh, and the cops reporter from the Telegraph just went inside. I thought I was going to have a stroke driving my car. I’m still not sure how the damned thing steered itself over here. Do I look like Knight Rider?”

  He paused for a breath and I laid a hand on his arm. I didn’t care for him bawling me out, especially in front of my detectives, but I couldn’t fault him for caring about me. “Kyle. I’m fine.”

  He put his hand over mine and squeezed, then pulled me to him and cut off my air supply with a bear hug, dropping his chin to the top of my head. “But what if you weren’t? Why is the story that important?”

  I wriggled until he relaxed his hold enough to let me breathe, aware that Aaron and Landers were picking up every word. Every touch. They were talking to witnesses, sure, but they were good cops, and good cops are champion busybodies.

  “Hey there, pot. I’m kettle,” I said, stepping back so I could look at Kyle when he let go of me. “You chase cases into danger every week. I watched you get shot a few months ago going after the bad guys, remember?”

  “I’m a cop. You’re not. I’m trained to protect myself.”

  “Until your luck runs out.” I wanted to stuff the words back into my throat as soon as they hit the air.

  He froze for a split second before he forced a smile. “Let’s hope it holds. Generally speaking, my life is pretty charmed.”

  “I pray for it every night. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”

  “I hate to interrupt.” Aaron’s tone said he didn’t mind one bit. “But I’m going to need a statement, Nichelle. The radio had a mysterious transmission failure.”

  I spun to face him, my lips already forming the first syllable of “I’m not sure what happened.”

  “When did he shoot the woman?” He got the question out before I could talk.

  “He never went near that doorway,” I said. “Not after I came in. He didn’t even look that way that I can remember. I don’t know for sure what happened to her.”

  Aaron’s brows went up and he checked his watch. “I’m thinking the guy with the rifle had something to do with it.” He turned toward Landers, who was bagging the gun as nurse Alisha pointed toward Amy’s hospital room.

  I grabbed Aaron’s arm. “Wait.” My mouth filled with cotton, a bunch of it leaking up to my brain. What to say? There was a dead woman ten feet away, and it sure looked like a bullet had done her in. But I felt so sorry for the guy. And I sympathized with him, to an extent. Not his methods, maybe, but his desperation and intent. Fear and grief can make people do some screwy stuff.

  Did he kill someone? Maybe. Could Aaron and a jail cell wait ’til his wife was gone? Very possibly, though I hadn’t the first clue how. But there was justice, and then there was cruelty. Why take this dying woman’s husband from her in her last days? And what about his kids?

  So many questions. A few answers this week would be really freaking nice.

  “Aaron, please. Hear me out.” I gestured toward Landers. “Stop him.”

  Aaron locked his eyes with mine. “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  More staring. “I suppose I have good reason to.” He heaved a sigh. “Chris!”

  Landers’ head appeared in my peripheral vision in a flash. Did he run?

  “What’s up?” he huffed.

  Yep, he did.

  “I don’t know. But Nichelle seems to not want you to go talk to the shooter. I thought we’d see why. Nobody’s going anywhere.”

  Landers nodded and they bo
th turned to me.

  No pressure. “I know you’ve had a rough evening. And I know your suspect is in that room. I saw him go in there. But…do you have to take him out of there right now?”

  “Why would I have the slightest intention of doing anything else?” Landers sounded impatient. And annoyed.

  Because the thought of it broke my heart. But Landers wouldn’t care unless I could convince him I had a point. “This man is half out of his mind because his wife is lying in that room dying, and if you haul him to jail, you’re taking away the person who loves her most when she needs him the most. She didn’t do anything. How is that fair?”

  Aaron listened without comment, twisting his mouth to one side when I paused to breathe.

  Landers tapped a foot and opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. He and Aaron exchanged a long look.

  “If the suspect was sick, we’d put a guard outside his door and leave him here.” Aaron’s words were quiet. Kyle’s eyebrows shot up and Landers rolled his eyes.

  My face split into a grin. “Like a modified house arrest? Y’all are overcrowded anyway, with all the drug arrests the last few weeks.”

  Kyle vanished, reappearing a minute later with my shoes. I took them and smiled a thank you, my eyes staying on Aaron and Landers, who looked for all the world to be having some sort of silent battle of wills.

  “Come on, Landers.” I slid my feet into my Louboutins. “They have young kids, and she’s dying.” I paused, fixing him with an I-know-you’re-not-an-asshole stare. “Don’t do this.”

  He sighed. “Do you know what happens to us if we walk out of this building without a collar?”

  “The press will have a field day,” Kyle said.

  I tipped my head to one side. “Are you kidding? Who are you talking to?”

  They exchanged a look. “Girl Friday,” they said in unison.

  Ah, Alexa. Yeah, she’d bitch.

  “No one reads her blog anyway,” I said. “She’s still got the same two hundred conspiracy nuts she had in June. She even lost a few followers after she got such a huge piece wrong. I can handle that. And you can, too.”