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

by LynDee Walker

  “What am I talking to him about?” I blinked. “You skipped that part.”

  “Right. I want a series. Inside the health care crisis. What people will do for those they love. This is great human interest stuff, wrapped up in a crime story.”

  “You know this guy might be a murderer.” I flinched at the memory of the woman lying in the pool of blood and gore on the floor of the closet. “You sure you want to use him for a story like that?”

  “That is exactly why it’ll sell papers. What’s more gripping than a murderer your average Joe reader can identify with? What if he did kill that woman? Was it an accident, or something more calculated? Who was she? The quotes you got from the nurse are fantastic. Nice guy. Devoted family man. Who snapped. This is it, Nichelle. Your chance to do something bigger. Something transformative. To really get inside this huge issue.” His eyes drifted to the Pulitzer on his wall, the coveted community service medal for a series he did on racism in the mid-eighties. My mouth suddenly rivaled the Sahara for lack of humidity. I grabbed my coffee and gulped.

  “You’re ready.” Bob leveled a serious gaze at me, his bushy white brows drawing down over his eyes. Everyone else in the room disappeared.

  “Am I?” My stomach hung somewhere around my knees. He was talking about the kind of story I’d always dreamed of.

  “You’ll kill it. No pun intended. Everyone in Richmond will be asking their best friend, their neighbors, their kid’s teachers: how far would you go for love? What would it take to push any of us to that breaking point?” He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, a confident grin spreading across his face. “This is going to be great.”

  “I’ll call Aaron as soon as I walk out of here.” I met Bob’s eyes and tried to match his smile, because I knew what he wasn’t saying.

  If I could hit this, it’d keep Andrews off Bob’s case for good.

  No pressure.

  14.

  Hypotheticals

  Aaron didn’t answer his desk phone. Or his cell.

  I left messages on both, then looked up a number for the NIH and dialed. For a day that started with oversleeping, it was shaping up. And there was the whole sexy boyfriend bonus.

  I gave the receptionist my name and told her I needed to talk to someone about registration of clinical trials.

  “Are you a doctor?” she asked.

  No. But I didn’t want the media relations people. The communications industry is a very six degrees of Kevin Bacon world, and I wanted this trail hidden from everyone else. Especially with the unsearchable online thing making Maynard hard to research.

  That whole situation was plain old creepy. Like Marty McFly’s vanishing family photo for the twenty-first century. Shudder. I jotted a note to call Chad after lunch.

  “I don’t need to register a new trial. I just have some questions about the requirements.” Every word true.

  And it worked. “Sure thing. Hold please.”

  Next up was a woman who didn’t sound old enough to be answering anyone’s phone, let alone a government health organization’s, but her answer spiel said she worked in the clinical research division and her name was Emma.

  “Good morning, Emma. I’m hoping you can clarify a few things for me.” I left my name and occupation off.

  “I’ll sure give it my best shot.” Her voice was high and sweet. Seriously, was she twelve?

  “I’m wondering about the requirements for registration of drug trials,” I said brightly, adding an edge of authority to my tone. “Specifically, if a private practice is running one, does it have to be registered?”

  “Any trial of medicine or equipment used on human subjects must be registered within twenty-one days of the first administration of treatment. The only exceptions are phase one drug trials or studies designed to discover something other than a medical outcome.” She’d obviously quoted that line more than a few times.

  I tapped my pen on my notebook. And Maynard had registered hundreds of the damned things. So where was the new one?

  Curiouser, indeed. I looked over the words I’d just scribbled. “What if you’re not testing it for approval?” I asked, trying for nonchalant. I’m a lousy actress.

  “Why would you test a drug on people if you’re not trying to prove it works?” The suspicious tone aged her voice considerably.

  “Just hypothetically,” I said.

  “We don’t get much in the way of hypotheticals, missy,” she said, and my mental picture morphed from middle schooler to feisty grandma. “Testing and approving new medications is serious business, and we treat it accordingly.”

  “Of course you do,” I said hastily, wondering if Maynard was keeping secrets, or if their computers had been hacked. “As well you should. I’m just trying to make sure I understand fully. I’m pretty new to this.”

  She chuckled. “I remember when I was new. It’s been a while.”

  “Not from the sound of your voice.”

  “You should’ve heard me when I was twenty,” she said. “My first year here, people thought there was a child playing with the phones. It was a bear getting to know everyone who calls regularly.”

  I smiled. Three and a half minutes on the phone, and I liked her. Her tone warmed and I decided the feeling was mutual when she said, “Tell me what you want to know.”

  “Is there ever any reason for a doctor to fail to register a trial?” I asked.

  “Not in my time here. Which has covered everything from swine flu to the chickenpox vaccine. To say nothing of Viagra. Good Lord, what a year that was. They had a hundred times more applicants than any reasonable trial would hold.”

  I giggled, jotting that down just because, and considered her words. Maynard had driven this block a few times. Two possibilities, then: someone had erased just his recent work from the NIH database, or he wanted to keep his secret more than he wanted to obey the law.

  “Your computers haven’t been hacked recently, have they?” I asked in my best innocently-wondering voice.

  I could almost hear her brow furrow. “Not that I’m aware. Why do you want to know? And who did you say you were with?”

  “Just trying to learn as much as I can,” I said breezily.

  “You still didn’t say who you’re with,” she said.

  Damn. “Thanks so much for your help, Miss Emma. Have a lovely day.” I laid the phone in its cradle and tapped a fingernail on the handset, turning toward my computer. This internet thing was becoming a stickier wicket with every new clue.

  The greatest hack in history, Chad said. Time to brush up on my information technology skills.

  I read for an hour about how impossible it is to remove anything from search results. Celebrities and public figures can plead a case to have good results show up ahead of bad ones, and in other parts of the world, the government can dictate what’s there and what’s not (searching Tiananmen Square Massacre in China, for instance, returns zero results). But things don’t work that way in the land of the free. Or they’re not supposed to, anyway. Which is likely why Chad was so frustrated.

  Resisting the urge to call him just yet, I pocketed my BlackBerry and strode to Parker’s office. His door was open, his chair facing the computer screen on the opposite wall. I tapped lightly, reluctant to break his concentration if he was in a groove.

  He spun the chair to face me and smiled. “Morning. Glad you’re still breathing.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Back at you.” I stepped inside and leaned on the wall. “Thanks again for letting me drag you along yesterday. Sorry we didn’t get to talk.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Hostages take priority.”

  “So what’s up? You seem less bothered this morning.”

  He grinned. “I’m not bothered at all. I—”

  “You
’ll never guess which Councilman voted against the school funding tax hike!” Mel barreled around the corner, her breathless tone telling me she’d sprinted from the elevators. Maybe from City Hall.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Hey, Nicey.” She stopped short and smiled. “Glad you didn’t get shot last night.”

  “Me too.”

  “Am I interrupting?” She shot a glance from me to Parker and he shook his head.

  “Just shooting the breeze. I missed you last night.” He waved to the chair across from his desk. “Come tell me about the meeting.”

  She crossed to the desk and sat, and I raised my eyebrows at him. “Rain check?” I mouthed.

  He nodded slightly and I turned for the door. “See y’all later.”

  “Really glad you’re okay,” Mel called before she launched into the details of last night’s council blowup.

  Coffee in hand, I wandered back to my desk. Too much of this was related for it to be coincidence.

  I picked up a pen and clicked it in and out, staring at a silver-framed photo of Jenna’s kids. The whole freaking thing was crazy. Maynard couldn’t have found a cure for cancer. People would know. Who can keep that quiet?

  I nodded. Someone would find out.

  My inner Lois Lane whispered it was the wrong someone.

  Wriggling my computer awake, I noticed the name of the Telegraph’s old editor in a Whitepages search bar. I clicked to page two of the results and there they were: Herman and Sophia Kochanski, an address in San Jose.

  I wanted to know more about little Mrs. Eason and her growing collection of dead men.

  Clock check: too early to call West Coast retirees and not risk pissing them off. I copied the number into my BlackBerry.

  Opening a file on my laptop, I started typing out what I knew. Just so I didn’t forget anything.

  Three pages of suspicions later, Aaron had texted twice to apologize for being unavailable and say thanks for the PR bump my story had given the department.

  Glad to help. Need a favor. Call when you can. I tapped back.

  Will do.

  Still on his good side meant he’d tell me whatever he could get away with. And Charlie had blasted him for not making an arrest, so I’d get a jump on her because she was in the doghouse.

  I checked the day’s court docket (nothing that required my butt in a seat) and the other police reports (feather light. Still quiet, except for the oh-so-mysterious dead doctor), before I grabbed my bag. The hospital was open for visitors, and I needed to interview Tom Ellinger.

  I made it three steps before my BlackBerry rang. DonnaJo.

  “What’s up, sweetie?” I said in place of hello. “You bored with the criminals you have today?”

  “I found something on the one you’re looking for, I think. Can we get coffee?”

  Of course we could.

  15.

  Served

  DonnaJo walked into Thompson’s twenty minutes later, not a blonde hair uncoiffed despite the gusting wind that said fall had arrived and winter wouldn’t be far behind.

  I smoothed my mahogany waves out of my face and smiled as she stepped into line behind me at the counter. “Still bored?”

  “It’s working in my favor, finally. I couldn’t shake the stuff you were asking me about the other day, so I did a little digging.”

  “Where? You said y’all didn’t have a file.”

  “I had dinner with my parents last night.”

  Oh? I raised an eyebrow at DonnaJo as I ordered a skinny white mocha and a turkey bacon English muffin. She nodded, asking the cashier for a caramel latte and following me to the other side of the counter to wait for our drinks.

  “What did you find out?”

  “My dad plays golf with Mr. Eason’s attorney.”

  Oooh. I liked the sound of that. I grabbed my coffee and found a table. DonnaJo followed, folding her willowy frame into the wooden ladderback chair across from mine and sipping her drink.

  She put the cup on the table and leveled her I-know-something-you-don’t-know look at me. The one that made her a favorite of unsuspecting jurors everywhere. She should hold a patent, hand to God.

  “Just tell me. You’re not trying to convince me, remember?” I sipped my latte, holding her gaze over the rim of the cup.

  “So, I told you how much my mom hated the new wife?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, so did everyone else Mr. Eason ever met, from what the lawyer said. Especially his daughter.”

  “He had kids?”

  “Just one. And she got most of the money. Wife number two got the condo and an annuity that earns interest and provides her a modest monthly income.”

  Three hundred and ninety-six society photos—with Elizabeth Eason in a different gown in each one—flashed through my head on fast-forward. She wouldn’t care for a modest monthly income. Not even a little.

  I chewed a bite of bacon. “Who oversees the trust?”

  “Eason’s daughter, Sarah Jane. She was a classmate of mine at Saint Catherine’s.”

  “What does she do now?”

  “Anything she damn well pleases if she’s got all her dad’s money. She was a housewife for the past several years anyway. She has two little ones.” The edge in DonnaJo’s voice told me she hadn’t changed her mind about her own biological clock, which she’d long wished would run out of batteries. She neither knew how to take care of nor understood children, so the reason any human would want to reproduce escaped her.

  “And is there friction there? Between her and Elizabeth? Over the money?”

  “I have it third hand that the wife erupted into a screaming rant that would’ve made Alexis Colby proud when the will was read. She swore he told her he’d changed it and left the bulk of everything to her, and given Sarah Jane a trust.”

  “But the lawyer knew nothing about this?”

  “Mr. Eason never said anything to him.”

  “So if the wife found out he hadn’t changed the will…” I let the words trail off.

  “Could it have made her mad enough to kill him? Maybe. But with what? What could she have done that would convince the ME he had a heart attack?”

  I tapped a finger on my chin and picked up my cup, shaking my head before I took a sip of my latte.

  “And that’s a stupid motive for a murder that wasn’t in the heat of the moment. Because when she’d had time to think about it, she’d have realized killing him when he hadn’t written her into his will would leave her in a tough spot. The comfortable life was what she was after all along, from what I hear.”

  DonnaJo nodded. “True.”

  “Did your folks seem surprised you were asking about her?”

  “I didn’t really tell them why.” She grinned. “And I’m decent at manipulating a conversation. But my mother really hates her. She gets this look on her face when she has to talk about something she finds unpleasant—like she’s internalizing a scream because she just stepped in dog poop. It’s kind of funny when you know what it means.”

  “And you get a look when you know something you’re not saying. It’s how you keep juries on the edge of their seats. So let’s have it.”

  She dropped her head back and laughed. “My mom heard some of her friends at the club talking a few weeks back. Seems this woman had moved on to someone else who would be able to keep her in the lifestyle Mr. Eason got her accustomed to.”

  I put down my cup and forgot to breathe. She was planning his funeral. But to have it confirmed? Jackpot.

  “A doctor.” DonnaJo continued. “My dad sort of knows him, but not well. Daniel someone?”

  “David Maynard?” I managed to force it out in a whisper instead of an excited shout.

  Her neatly arched brows disap
peared under her bangs. “Yeah, that’s it.” She paused, her pink lips popping into a perfect O. “Holy shit.”

  I nodded. “He’s the victim Aaron and Landers are being so quiet about. I’d say it’d be nice to have a copy of his will, but I think you’re already to that point.”

  “Any idea who his attorney was?” she asked.

  “Nope. But this story gets more tangled every day.”

  “Let me make some calls. Before I get buried in the gunman from the hospital. Notice I haven’t asked you why the hell you gave White such a glowing write-up for not arresting a clear murder suspect.”

  “I did, as a matter of fact.” I winked.

  “I respect you. And I get that you don’t want to share when you’ve got something in the works. But I’m going to hear that story at some point.”

  I flashed a smile. “Call me if you find Maynard’s attorney?”

  “Of course. I’ll keep my ears open, too. Cops talk to lawyers.”

  “I really appreciate it, DonnaJo.”

  “Just remember it the next time someone screws up and a criminal walks?”

  “Deal.”

  I turned for the door and her voice stopped me. “Hey, Nichelle?”

  I spun back, my smile fading when I spotted the official-looking envelope in her hand. I’d been around the courthouse enough to know a subpoena when I saw one.

  I met her eyes and she twisted her mouth to one side. “Nichelle Clarke, you’ve been served with this summons on behalf of the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

  “Dammit, DonnaJo.” I eyed the paper like normal people would look at a rattlesnake. “I’m supposed to cover the news, not be the news. I can’t report on the trial if I have to testify.”