Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  “I know. I know. Believe me, they’ll never hear from me.”

  So I conspired against Nielsen, and promised to keep in touch about Kate’s murder. Whether he was guilty or not, meeting him was going to make Channel 3 an overnight news sensation. Just as soon as I got back to the station and told Noreen.

  “You what?” she screamed. “You met with a Nielsen family?”

  “He was more like a Nielsen individual,” I explained.

  She was more upset about that part of the encounter than she was about me sitting on a couch all cozy with a possible killer. “You could get us flagged.”

  “Flagged” was slang for when Nielsen put an asterisk after the station’s ratings; this indicated to advertisers that the sample might have been tampered with or otherwise tainted.

  “I didn’t find out about it right away,” I said. “Suddenly I realize he’s holding a people meter.”

  Noreen radiated fury, but she was also quite curious about the device and its functions.

  “Don’t you understand?” I said. “This means we can report that Chuck may have a better alibi than the cops think. The Nielsen data could actually corroborate that he was home watching TV during the murder.”

  Noreen now looked puzzled.

  “If the tracking shows that he pressed all the right buttons every fifteen minutes, he couldn’t have killed Kate. Geographically, they live too far apart.”

  “Riley, you’re not thinking of reporting that he’s a Nielsen household?”

  I could see worry lines furrowing her brow. And rather than a reassuring smile, like those flashed by anchors, Noreen’s was frightening. The rest of the newsroom staff was probably watching from their desks, through the glass wall, imagining what news jam I’d landed in now.

  “Well, yeah,” I answered. “It’s a story no one has ever done before. We’ll be first. We’ll also either help clear a guy or convict him. Those are both noble goals for our profession.”

  I could see she wasn’t impressed by my journalism principles, so I changed tactics from ethics to enterprise. “Either way, Noreen, it’s a fabulous story.”

  “Do you think Nielsen will see it that way?”

  I explained that we can’t just quietly hand the information to the cops. “We can’t be agents for the police. But if we report it on the air, they can subpoena the documents from Nielsen as part of their investigation.”

  “Right now, there’s no rush,” Noreen said. “The guy hasn’t actually been arrested. He might never need an alibi.”

  “It doesn’t exactly work that way.” I told her how the cops like to build an easy case if they see one. “Once they’ve put in the work, they resent having to throw it out and start over on a new suspect.”

  Her body language—eyes narrowed, arms across chest, body leaning back—told me her mind was set. The only thing that kept her from being the scariest news director in television was that she was also the most beautiful. In most industries, those two traits clashed, but in ours, she somehow made it work.

  But her being boss didn’t stop me from being pissed.

  “You haven’t wanted me to put any energy into that murder story all along. You just keep saying there’s nothing newsworthy. It’s just another murder. Well, now there is something newsworthy, and you still don’t want to cover it.”

  “Oh, I’ve changed my mind about the murder,” Noreen said. “I want continuous coverage. I just don’t want to report that one of the suspects is a Nielsen household.”

  “Well, what else is there to report?”

  “I don’t care what. Find something. Or rehash what we’ve already broadcast. And then call your new source and tell him to tune in to Channel 3 for the latest.”

  OMG. Suddenly I understood Noreen’s plan.

  Deep in their business souls, all news directors want to be general managers. That corporate ladder used to be easier to climb when the news department ruled the building. But now sales is the dominate force, and most of the GMs these days come from the second floor, not the first.

  If she could show dramatic ratings momentum, that would keep her in the promotion radar of our network owners.

  “So we decide to own coverage of the Kate Warner murder and use that to get her boyfriend and his people meter locked on our newscasts,” I said. “Is one household even enough to shift viewing patterns?”

  “We’ll find out,” Noreen said. “We both will.”

  So I packaged a story that night about why Buddy’s death didn’t rate as a felony. Not taking any chances, the newscast producer had me tape the segment rather than go live. By then, my YouTube video had nearly half a million hits. But I couldn’t bear to watch it.

  I finished up and drove home, but my head was a mess. Needing a distraction, I reached to my bookcases for something to read. I decided against crime fiction, because I was living that genre. I wanted some escapist fantasy that didn’t require much thought.

  Beckoning from the lowest shelf were my school yearbooks. I grabbed one from college and looked up Laura’s picture. Mine was on the back side of the page, she and I both being at the tail end of the alphabet. I flipped back and forth between us, marveling again that, minus haircuts, we really hadn’t changed much.

  Inside the front cover, amid all the good wishes from classmates, I found her message. “From Laura to Riley, best friends forever.” Ah, I thought, that’s how we’ve changed.

  I spent the rest of the evening trying to brainstorm a fresh angle on her sister’s homicide for tomorrow’s news. To my surprise, by the time I got to downtown Minneapolis the next morning, one was waiting for me and had Kate’s name written all over it.

  CHAPTER 15

  The crowd gathered outside the Hennepin County Government Center, waving signs reading “Justice for Buddy” and “Dogs Are People, Too.”

  They probably would have demonstrated inside the building, except several of them brought their pets along on leash, and only service animals are allowed indoors.

  I heard about the protest from county attorney Kreimer, who called to express her irritation. “I suppose I have you to thank for this mess.”

  “I just put it on the air,” I explained. “I can’t predict what’s going to set them off.”

  Hers wasn’t the only Buddy call I’d received, but it was the only one I’d returned. A dozen messages, even one from the owner’s ex-wife, were stacked up next to my phone. But listening to them bellyache wasn’t going to advance my story, while listening to the county’s top prosecutor just might.

  “Well, Ms. Spartz, why don’t you examine what’s wrong with a world that cares more about the accidental death of an animal than the intentional homicides of our citizens?” Kreimer said. “Where are the protesters against murder?”

  I suddenly realized she was right and saw a way to please Noreen and still do an intriguing story about what motivates people to picket for a cause.

  ((ANCHOR CU))

  MINNEAPOLIS IS HEADED FOR A

  RECORD YEAR OF HOMICIDES, YET

  TODAY PROTESTERS DECRIED THE

  DEATH OF A DOG WE FIRST TOLD

  YOU ABOUT LAST NIGHT.

  RILEY SPARTZ EXAMINES THE

  PHENOMENON.

  I had been worried I might simply have to report that authorities continued to seek tips in the Kate Warner homicide. A Crime Stopper version of the case. That would be lame, so soon after the crime, and our competitors would hoot in derision at such an uninspired follow-up.

  Both 911 callers, the neighbor and the boyfriend, had signed consent forms for me to get the audio recordings, but that sound wasn’t worth an entire story. Mostly that would add color if Chuck was ultimately charged with the crime. And right now, I didn’t want the other media to meet either caller. Especially not Chuck.

  Going public with the chalk fairy business could be a story, but would upset Laura and launch a war with the cops. I wasn’t prepared to do either just yet, thought I hadn’t ruled out reporting it eventually.r />
  “I’ll pitch the animal-human sociology story if you speak on that issue,” I told the county attorney.

  So I collected a sound bite from Kreimer decrying the rationale of the demonstrators outside, another from a university expert analyzing human behavior, but the most interesting feedback came from the marchers themselves. I felt like I was talking to clones of my old animal rights activist source, Toby Elness; except he was behind bars.

  ((PROTESTER SOT))

  WE SPEAK FOR BUDDY BECAUSE

  HE CAN’T.

  ((PROTESTER SOT))

  ANIMALS ARE THE TRULY

  INNOCENT.

  ((PROTESTER SOT))

  PETS DESERVE EQUAL LAW.

  Wrapped in the same story, Kate Warner became the Channel 3 poster girl for Minneapolis murders. Her face appeared next to Buddy’s in a nicely produced split screen effect. I spoke about Kate being the girl next door, and Buddy being every dog.

  I tagged the piece out with the traditional call to action.

  ((RILEY LIVE))

  AUTHORITIES WANT JUSTICE FOR

  ALL THE CITY’S HOMICIDE VICTIMS,

  IF YOU HAVE INFORMATION ABOUT

  KATE’S DEATH OR ANY OF THE

  OTHER CASES CALL MINNEAPOLIS POLICE.

  Once the piece was ready to air, Noreen watched as I dialed Chuck’s number from a special cell phone registered to a post office box we kept for our investigative unit. This way, phone calls or mail couldn’t be immediately connected to the station. If Nielsen ever scanned Chuck’s bills, my call wouldn’t attract attention.

  When he answered my call, I assured him that even though there hadn’t been a break in the case, Channel 3 was keeping Kate’s murder in the news.

  “This way, if anyone out there knows anything, Chuck, it might take the heat off you.” Or might land him in jail, though I was careful not to share that thought.

  As he thanked me, I reminded him that if the time came when it made sense for him to do a camera interview, we’d be there to tell his story.

  Then I repeated the information about that night’s newscast: “Remember, Chuck, the story about Kate will be on Channel 3 at ten o’clock.” Ends up, he was in the backyard and didn’t have a pen handy. “Don’t worry, Chuck, I’ll call a few minutes before airtime and remind you.”

  My boss winked.

  And the next morning, the overnight ratings had us leading our competitors by a point. Usually we trailed by three points. We’d hoped to tighten the viewer gap, or at least keep our lead-in audience from eroding, but a swing this size was unexpected. And I knew the other network affiliates would be trying to analyze what happened, before dismissing it as a statistical fluke.

  Some of the gain undoubtably came from dog lovers, because the Buddy angle had been heavily promoted during the network prime-time shows. And there was still some curiosity from viewers eager to see if I could hold myself together during a live shot.

  But Noreen and I both knew Chuck Heyden’s finger on the trigger of his invaluable remote was what fired the shot heard around the viewing area.

  Noreen praised the entire newsroom staff during the assignment meeting, never once mentioning the name Kate Warner. Then she hauled me into her office and made it clear this hushhush scheme was going to be a continuing strategy “for however long it lasts.”

  “Riley, we need to find another reason to mention Kate Warner’s name in the news tonight. So start looking.”

  I didn’t have to look long before a story landed on my lap, or rather, my laptop.

  CHAPTER 16

  Laura didn’t say anything, just opened the door a crack to the house where her sister died. Her face was as white as if she’d just heard the word “homicide.” For a second, I thought she’d changed her mind and wasn’t going to let me in.

  No answer when I called last night to give her a head’s up about the Kate follow-up, and also to check whether the biohazard clean-up had been completed. But today I got a frantic call that she needed me immediately. Because I was under orders to keep alive the story of Kate’s death, I had no problem leaving the station.

  Laura handed me an envelope with Kate’s name. “Look what I found in the mail.”

  The postmark and return address indicated it had been sent from New York City. Inside was a sizable check dated a few days earlier. Bigger than my paycheck. Even bigger than the number on my W-2 tax form at the end of last year.

  Piles of cash in the back of a closet or under a bed often mean trouble. Trouble with drugs. Or sex. Certainly trouble with the IRS. But checks are generally good clean income, though Laura’s face showed no glow of having won a lottery.

  “I don’t know my sister anymore.”

  I took my eyes off the dollar sign with all the numbers. I didn’t recognize the company issuing the check, but noticed the words “Desiree Fleur” typed on the memo line.

  “What do you think it means?” I tried to keep my question neutral. I didn’t volunteer that my first thought was the name sounded like a porn star. But Laura was way ahead of me down that path.

  “It means my sister was a smut peddler.”

  My eyes widened. I hadn’t expected her to use such harsh language. And she talked like she meant it.

  I mumbled something about being sure there was a good explanation—just the kind of thing I’ve learned over the years to say on the job when there really isn’t a good explanation.

  “Follow me.” Laura grabbed my arm and led me past the murder scene and down the hall into a home office. Messy, like mine. A laptop computer sat on a desk near the window. A bookcase dominated the room. I looked closely because I believe you can tell a lot about a person by their books.

  Laura pointed to the bottom shelf, and immediately I saw why she was so agitated. About a dozen paperbacks bragged “Desiree Fleur” on the spine. I pulled them out and saw sensual covers with sweaty couples in erotic embraces. I set them on a table in the office, and noticed another one titled Black Angel Lace.

  “Tramp,” Laura said.

  “Calm down. So your sister wrote novels. Sure the covers are a little racy. But authors don’t get to pick their covers. That’s a publisher—”

  “But nothing, read inside. Raunchy.”

  I opened the book randomly and started reading a graphic depiction of a boy and girl having sex in a cemetery. I flipped through the pages and noticed the plot seemed to move from one steamy scene to another.

  I understood Laura’s point. While Black Angel Lace wouldn’t legally qualify as pornography, it was a long shot from a Harlequin romance or even Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

  “Whore.” Laura was going overboard with the name-calling.

  “It’s not as bad as you think. Your sister was not a prostitute. If she was a whore, she was a whore of words. You could say the same thing about lots of lawyers or politicians.”

  Laura wasn’t buying the comparison. “She knew what she was doing was shameful. That’s why she kept it hidden.”

  The sisters came from a strict Catholic family who probably believed reading The Da Vinci Code to be sinful. Clearly Kate was able to shake that philosophy.

  “Possibly she wanted to shield you from embarrassment or just avoid a family fight,” I said. “She wrote for the money, she certainly wasn’t writing for fame.”

  I reminded Laura that her sister used a pen name. And her book jacket bore no author photo. The bio on the inside cover vaguely stated only that she lived in the Midwest.

  Those points seemed to calm Laura. “You’re right, Riley. I just have to hope no one else finds out.”

  Here’s where journalism gets tricky. And why it’s best not to get involved in stories with friends or relatives. Discovering that the deceased was a secret and successful author of erotica suddenly made her murder more interesting than it was an hour ago, when she was merely a dead medical transcriptionist.

  I wouldn’t be so cruel as to debate the rule of on the record versus off the record with Laura. But this
bit of information about her sister was more than just a news scoop for me. It could be a clue to finding her killer.

  “Laura, you have to take this to the police.”

  She shook her head, sat in the office chair, and put her hands over her face. “Absolutely not. Clearly my sister felt guilt or she’d not have kept this hidden.”

  “I know you’d like to keep this hush-hush. But it’s not the kind of thing that can stay quiet. For one thing, you have to tell Kate’s publisher that she’s dead.”

  “No way. I’m not talking to those freaks.”

  She grabbed Black Angel Lace from my hands and threw it against the office wall. As the book hit the floor, the binding appeared to tear. She repeated the exercise with three more paperbacks before calming down.

  I picked a book called Beyond Passion off the stack and held it in her face to make my point.

  “Laura, this information about Kate could be vital to the homicide case. What if this ends up being an important clue to finding her killer?”

  “How could that happen?”

  “You can’t ever tell where an investigation might lead,” I said. “But not letting the cops in on this development could hold back justice for your sister.”

  Laura was quiet. She seemed to brood over my words. Then, without looking up, she mumbled, “Fine.”

  Years of interviewing people has taught me that saying something and meaning it are very different. And avoiding eye contact with me was evidence that Laura was still not completely swayed.

  “What are you going to tell the police?” she asked.

  “Me? No, I think it best if you’re the one who goes to the cops first. Show them the check and the books. They can take it from there.”

  That’s when she told me that she’d had enough of the police. She’d already talked to them plenty about her sister’s murder. This would just lead to more questions she couldn’t answer.

  “You don’t understand, Riley. She was more than my sister. She was my closest friend. It’s hurtful she deceived me like this. I don’t want to have to discuss it with them.”