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

by LynDee Walker

  I grabbed my BlackBerry and texted Chad.

  She used Gmail. Can you get into her account? Or find out if it was a Google drive backup? Her friend said the password was something to do with her birthday.

  I paused and clicked back to the profile, then tapped: September 22.

  I stared at the screen and waited.

  Bing. Email address?

  I sent it to him and scrambled out of bed, flipping on the coffeemaker on my way to let Darcy out.

  By the time I’d pulled on a navy wool skirt and a rose cotton tank, I was back to Maynard and the possibility of a computer or tablet that might tell us what he’d been working on.

  Would Kyle know?

  Maybe.

  Could I get it out of him?

  Questionable.

  Considering my best options for that, I pointed the car toward my office.

  My BlackBerry and my scanner started bleeping at the same time.

  I glanced at the phone screen and saw a number I didn’t recognize, then turned up the scanner.

  Burglary. I listened for the address and slammed my foot on the brake, spinning the car through an intersection and heading back toward Willow Lawn.

  The dispatcher reeled off the address again, but I heard it in Felicia Lang’s voice, making my foot heavier on the gas.

  Maynard’s office had just been robbed.

  I parked in the narrow lot and surveyed the plain facade of the concrete building. It certainly didn’t look like the sort of place a genius doctor would choose if he were trying to attract patients: flat, gray walls led up to a red metal roof. There were no signs—just insignias on the doors and numbers next to them.

  I climbed out of the car and walked the length of the building, looking at the doors. The fifth one had plain white letters that spelled out “David Maynard, M.D.”

  “I guess this is it,” I said.

  “This is what? It looks like a lot of nothing to me.” Charlie’s voice came from my left, and I turned to see her climbing out of her van, waving at the cameraman to go park.

  Crap. Check surroundings before speaking, Nichelle.

  “Exactly,” I said, sliding in front of the door with Maynard’s name on it. “This is it. As in, all of it. Nothing more than this.” Every word true.

  Not that she wouldn’t find out where we were at the briefing. Then again, given how tight-lipped Aaron had been lately, I couldn’t swear he’d say more than “open investigation, sorry folks.”

  She gave me a once-over and tipped her head to one side, turning back to the van. “Who would want to rob this joint?” Her tone was conversational, but forced.

  “I have the exact same information you do,” I said.

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole truth. You’ve been a leg up on me all week,” she said. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  I sighed. “I miss sleeping.”

  “There’s driven, and then there’s psychotic.” She nodded to Dan Kessler from WRVA. “And then there’s I’ve-been-here-too-long-to-get-fired.” The words came out of the corner of her mouth and I coughed over a laugh as Dan walked into earshot, pointing his cameraman to the building exterior and the street sign.

  “Do I have to ask which one I am?”

  “I think you might need meds.” Charlie lost interest in Dan and rounded on me. “It’s always been the extra kick I need, keeping up with you. But there’s a difference between being a good reporter and making the job the be all and end all of everything. It is just a job, Clarke. What’s with you?”

  I paused four beats, but I knew the look on Charlie’s face well. She had a scent and she had me cornered. I could cough up something, or deal with being hounded until I did.

  “Bob,” I said. “Bob is what’s with me.”

  Her brow furrowed and she laid a perfectly manicured hand on my arm. “He’s not sick again?”

  Competition or no, Bob was an institution in the Richmond news business.

  I shook my head quickly. “He’s fine. At least for now. He just turned sixty-five and Andrews is trying to shove him out. As long as I’m on top of my game, Andrews stays off his ass.”

  Her eyes widened and she gave an exaggerated nod. “No wonder.” She scrunched her petite nose. “Rick Andrews is a weasel. He remind you of a politician, too?”

  “I’ve never liked him. Though I’m minding my p’s and q’s this week, thanks to my temper. I may have told him off the other day when I caught him chewing Bob’s ass.”

  “Over your PR piece for the PD.” She didn’t even bother with the question mark. Charlie’s ambitious, ruthless, and occasionally bitchy, but she’s not stupid.

  I nodded.

  She rolled her eyes. “At least now I know you’re not losing your mind. And I can stop beating myself up on top of the ass kickings you’re delivering.” She glanced over her shoulder and waved a hand toward the squad car turning into the parking lot. “Showtime. Wonder what took them so long?”

  I shrugged, but I knew before the car door opened that Landers and Aaron had come all the way from the river. When Kyle climbed out of the back of the cruiser, Charlie elbowed me.

  “That’s your old flame, right? We’ll revisit how you let that get away another day—but since when does he work at the PD?” The accusatory undertone made me bristle.

  “He doesn’t work at the PD,” I said, the words clipped. “And he has been less than no help with whatever’s going on here.”

  “Simmer down.” She pasted on a smile as Aaron pointed two patrolmen who’d just pulled up in another car to the walkway, instructing them to tape it off and waving us into the parking lot. “I wasn’t suggesting anything unseemly. Just wondering what I’m missing. If he’s still captain hotshot at the ATF, why is he here?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  She threw me a sharp look and I raised my right hand. “I swear. They’re not talking.”

  “No inside police info for you this time?”

  I shook my head.

  “So if I want my producers off my ass,” she said, stepping into the parking lot and plopping her sunglasses over her blue eyes, “what I have to find is who will talk.”

  She walked back to her cameraman and motioned orders, and I pulled out my BlackBerry and texted Chad.

  Hurry.

  Thankfully, Aaron and Kyle weren’t on the list of people willing to talk—to Charlie or anyone else.

  “The former tenant was in the process of vacating the space,” Aaron told the small circle of reporters twenty minutes later, his best poker face firmly in place. “The landlord notified the RPD of a suspected break-in when he went in to make sure the air conditioning had been turned off.”

  A hail of questions followed, and I held my breath until the last “no comment” had been uttered.

  Charlie caught me on the way back to my car. “What’s gotten into him? It’d be easier to get a dossier on the President’s mistress from the White House chief of staff than it is to get a decent story out of White this week.”

  I nodded full agreement. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “Something tells me you know why.”

  Sharp, that Charlie. “He’s under a lot of pressure.” Every word true.

  “From what?”

  “If you manage to find out, let me know.” I smiled and spun on my heel before she could utter another question, tucking my notes back into my bag as I opened the car door.

  More than eight years, and I’d never seen Aaron be so stubborn about giving up a victim’s name. I liked the leg up on Charlie, but the deeper this silence went, the more unsettling it became.

  Political sleight-of-hand: reveal the beloved doctor as the victim and release the killer’s mugshot on the sa
me day, and most people become so focused on hating the murderer, they forget to wonder why the victim is dead.

  I wanted the who, probably nearly as bad as Landers did. But I needed the why. My mom might someday need the why. Amy Ellinger needed the why.

  And my window for getting it out before whoever was pulling the PD’s strings could make it vanish with PR smoke and mirrors was inching shut.

  27.

  Shady deals

  Speeding toward the office with Richmond’s hallmark side-by-side art deco and classic architecture blurring into a mash of brightly colored concrete, I was so lost in the story I almost didn’t hear my phone ringing.

  I fished it out of my bag and glanced at the screen. The office.

  “I’m not late yet,” I said, putting it to my ear. “And wait ’til you hear what I’ve got.”

  “I’m not Bob,” Shelby’s high pitched twang came back at me through the speaker. To listen to the two of us, you’d think she was the one who grew up in Texas.

  “Sorry, Shelby. What’s up?”

  “There was a woman here looking for you,” she said.

  “Who was it?”

  “Alisha Roy-something? She was bawling so hard I didn’t get the rest. She said she’s a nurse over at St. Vince’s.”

  Oh, crap hell.

  “She was crying?” My throat tried to close around the words, heaviness settling in my gut.

  “I told her I’d tell you. She said she’s working the second shift at the hospital today.”

  I stopped at a red light and made a slightly illegal U-turn. Alisha might not be at St. Vincent’s, but I needed to know if Amy still was.

  “Thanks, Shelby.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”

  “Not until I have more of it figured out. But I haven’t told Bob much, either, so it’s nothing personal.” There was something I never thought I’d hear myself say.

  “I get it.” The words had a sad tinge. “But thanks for saying that.”

  “Can you do me a favor and let Bob know I’m going to be late? He gets pissy when I miss meetings, but I think he’ll approve of the reason.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thank you. See you in a bit.”

  I hung up and turned into the hospital drive, bolting for the door and tossing the valet my keys. I repeated a quick prayer for Amy’s health on a loop in my head as I told the security guy where I was going and waited for the elevator.

  When the doors binged open on five, it was everything I could do to avoid breaking into a run. I breathed easier when I saw the uniformed officer still posted outside the door to Amy’s room.

  “Miss Clarke.” Never have I been so thrilled to be on the business end of a go-to-hell look.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Sky is blue, sun is shining, dude in there is getting away with murder. What do you think?”

  “That I’m not arguing with you, Officer. Have a nice day.”

  I walked past him into Amy’s room, and stopped cold.

  Three little girls stood in a ring around the bed, two of them holding their mother’s hands and a third clinging to her sisters for dear life.

  Tom looked up when the door clicked shut, and I nodded to him as the children finished the last chorus of “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Amy smiled and raised her hands to their dark, glossy curls. “Beautiful. Just like you.”

  “Mommy, I don’t want you to go see Jesus. Daddy says you can’t come back.” That was the littlest one, probably three, standing at the foot of the bed. The words were followed by a wail and a torrent of tears.

  I stepped backward. Not only was it heart-wrenching to watch, but I’d never felt more like an intruder than I did in that moment.

  “Nichelle.” Amy settled her hands in her daughters’ and smiled at me. “Please come in. You haven’t gotten to meet my girls.”

  “I don’t really feel like this is the best time to pop in on y’all.” I smiled apologetically. “I wanted to make sure you were…” I searched for words. “Okay.”

  Amy nodded. “I’m always better when I have my babies here.”

  “Mommy’s not okay.” The words strangled out of the tallest little girl, who looked maybe eight or nine. Except for the eyes, which were about a hundred and forty and sizing me up. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a reporter at the Telegraph.”

  “Why are you here?”

  I paused. I didn’t want to worry this child any more than she already was.

  “Nichelle is my new friend,” Amy Ellinger said, and one glance at her eyes told me she knew exactly how much trouble Tom was in. Potentially in. She was worried about her kids.

  The little girl lost interest. “She’s not a doctor,” she said, turning back to her mother.

  Amy shook her head. “I get tired of seeing doctors all the time. You know what she is?”

  “What?”

  “She’s nice. And she’s really funny.”

  I smiled. “I do what I can.”

  She looked more animated than I’d seen her thus far, and it cracked a tiny ray of hope in my heart. Was she on a new treatment? Had they found a different doctor? I couldn’t really ask with the kids in the room.

  Tom half-smiled at me, hauling the littlest child into his lap and quieting her tears. “Mommy’s not going anywhere today, love. All we know about is today.”

  Amy nodded and eased over so the other girls could get in the bed with her. “You munchkins want to watch a movie?”

  The children were careful of the tubes and wires attached to their mother—the kind of careful that comes with constant coaching.

  I was an adult when this happened to my mother, and I remember how down-in-your-bones, can’t-eat-can’t-sleep terrifying it was.

  These poor babies.

  Damn David Maynard, and whoever killed him, too. How could he turn her away? Leave these kids either living in constant fear of hurting their mother, or just not having her there altogether?

  If he weren’t dead, maybe I could have convinced him to treat Amy.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  She flipped to an in-house video on demand service and found a kids’ movie, and Tom turned his chair so he and the baby could see too. He laid his head on Amy’s arm, and she moved her fingers to run through his hair, her eyes falling shut.

  I backed toward the door, checking my watch. Alisha wouldn’t be there for hours. I wondered if she’d left a number with Shelby. New day, new question: if Amy wasn’t dead, why did her nurse show up in our newsroom in tears?

  I barreled off the elevator looking for Shelby, but a ten-minute search of the building failed to produce my old arch rival.

  I dropped my stuff at my desk and went to the break room in search of caffeine. Parker’s lower half protruded from the cabinet under the sink, his top half muttering something I couldn’t make out.

  “Lose something, Parker?” I reached into the upper cabinet for my mug, filling it with what I hoped was fresh coffee, since the pot was pretty full. Reporters don’t go through anything faster. Well, except alcohol. But that had been absent from the newsroom since the seventies.

  He didn’t emerge from the cabinet, making the words muffled when he replied, “I know there was a bag of chocolate under here. I saw it last week.”

  I glanced at the clock. “At nine in the morning? You have PMS?”

  He stood up, brushing dust off his knees. “Mel does. I’ve done the math enough months to know what helps. But I can’t find any.”

  I laughed. “I have some Godiva pearls in my desk. You’re a pretty decent guy, you know that?”

  He winked.

  “Shhh. Don’t let that get around.”

&n
bsp; “Richmond’s Casanova, domesticated to the point of hunting up hormone-quelling candy.” I shook my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Who would’ve thought?”

  He put one arm around me and squeezed briefly. “Certainly not I. Thanks, Clarke.”

  I patted his arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to get back with you last week, but you look better. Everything okay?”

  He nodded, his eyes taking on a sheen. “I think so. I’m happy. Nervous as all hell. But happy.”

  My eyebrows floated toward my hairline. “How happy are you, Parker?”

  He flashed the grin that made women in five counties feel faint—and feign interest in sports at any event where he was speaking. “That happy. Just waiting for the right time.”

  Well, hot damn. It had been better than a year since I’d pointed our quietly striking city hall reporter and superstar sports columnist toward happy hour at the same time, and I felt a warm flush from fingertip to toes at having a hand in something so wonderful.

  That’s why he’d been freaked—any guy who’d been through as many women as Grant Parker had to be terrified at the thought of forever with just one. But he was more in love than he was afraid.

  I bounced, a small squeal escaping my lips, and hugged him. “That’s awesome. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “Trying to do it right.” His words were soft in my ear. “I only plan to do it once.”

  “Holler if you need a sounding board.”

  “I may.” He turned for the door.

  “I’d be honored.”

  I told him where to find my candy stash and he disappeared with a thank-you wave.

  I doctored my coffee with milk and Splenda, still grinning. My story and my own life might be tangled as hell, but my friends were happy. Go, me.

  I made it to the door just as Shelby rushed around the corner.

  “There you are,” I said, just as she blurted, “Nichelle! I’ve been looking everywhere!”