Triple Threat

by Camryn King

  “Thank you. Covering your foundation is very different from the columns I usually write.”

  “That’s what my team said, and why they were suspicious.”

  “Your team as in the Navigators?”

  “No, as in the people I have around me to keep me safe.”

  “From . . .”

  “Predatory reporters who’ll do anything to get a story.”

  “Are you talking about me specifically now?”

  “You are an investigative reporter, right?”

  “A reporter, not a predator.”

  “Yeah, they warned me about you.” Christian’s low chuckle was met with silence.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Who are these people warning you about me?”

  “See, there you go again. Trying to get the scoop.”

  “Let me guess. One is your uncle, the one you call Pete.”

  “Yep.”

  “Even though he’s your uncle. The other is the pretty blonde glued to your side at the gala. Your girlfriend, I guess. Or one of them.”

  “You don’t miss much.”

  “One would have had to be blind to miss that.”

  Christian chuckled. “That was Zoey, the one who helped you set up the first interview. She handles my PR.”

  “I can assure you both you and your team, Christian, that there is nothing to worry about. A couple more articles and this series will be over. And I will be out of your life.”

  “Don’t sound so happy about it. I might want to prolong your stay. In fact, that’s why I called.”

  “Okay.” The long, drawn out way she said the word conveyed her wariness.

  “Dang, woman. Are you this suspicious of all men? Don’t answer that question because, honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m not them. Anyway, we’re having a home game tomorrow. I want you to come.”

  “Why? I told you I’m not a fan.”

  “That’s part of the reason. I want to make you one.”

  “Can I take the ticket and give it to my boss? He’s someone who would really appreciate it.”

  “Maybe next time. I want tomorrow to be about me and you.”

  “Wait, is this a date?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes. I don’t date people I write about.”

  “All right, just friends then. The game, dinner and drinks.” No response. “You do eat, right?”

  “Occasionally.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll leave the tickets at will call along with a pass so that after the game you can wait inside while I change to go out.” More silence. “You coming or what?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Cool.”

  “See you tomorrow night.”

  22

  On Friday night, a fresh-faced, curly-haired Mallory joined twenty thousand fans who cheered the Navigators to a nail-biting three-point victory over one of their biggest rivals, the Cleveland Cavaliers. The pregame show was an event in itself. New York’s own Mary J. Blige sang the national anthem. Stars were everywhere, the biggest ones on the court. The game was exhilarating. The atmosphere was electric, no more so than the section where she sat. It was filled with the players’ families, friends, and according to Chatty Cathy sitting beside her, many of their mistresses, or side pieces, as Chatty said they were called. At halftime, Mallory pulled out her phone to record a few observations she wanted to remember and to check her emails. While various women around her had given her the side-eye, then whispered and giggled as though they were twelve, she hadn’t expected any bold enough to approach. That opinion changed when one sat down beside her.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Don’t worry about who I am. Are you here for Christian?”

  “I’m here for the same reason you are, to watch the game.”

  “Ah, yeah. You must be a newbie to think anybody would believe that shit. Just know that you’re not ready for this level, baby. He can throw tickets at bitch for a game now and then, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been with him before you and all those other hoes, and I’ll be the last one standing. Believe that.”

  Just as the average New Yorker would not run from a fight, neither would Mallory. Especially a verbal one she felt sure to win.

  “It would appear to me that you’re the one who needs to believe it. Because this unfortunate show of your ignorance and insecurity suggests that your status, if not in jeopardy, is at the very least in doubt.”

  “Really, bitch? You going to talk shit like that me? You don’t know who you’re fucking with?”

  “You’re right, but not because I didn’t try to ascertain that information. I’ll try once again. Who are you?”

  “Keep fucking with Christian, and you’re going to find out.”

  Mallory watched the woman traipse back to her seat three rows above hers, shooting daggers while offering the friend beside her what Mallory assumed was play-by-play.

  Looks like the publicist has some competition, she thought, having continued her assumption that she and the ballplayer were fucking. If forced to choose which woman would take the win, Mallory’s money wouldn’t go on the loudmouth who’d just accosted her, but on Zoey.

  After the game Mallory passed on lounging in the bleachers with friends, fam, and fans waiting for the players and headed to the town car to wait with Treetop. Christian joined them forty-five minutes later, slid into the back seat and leaned over for a hug.

  Mallory acted as though she was part of Big Joe’s Terror Squad and leaned back. “What are you doing?”

  “What, no love for the winners? I played my heart out for you out there.”

  “Oh, just for me, huh.” Mallory allowed the embrace but kept it short. He felt too good and smelled too lovely to chance more than a second or two. This was all for Leigh, she reminded herself. The only reason she’d agreed to this date was to find answers and get justice for her friend.

  Christian hit the back of the seat. “Let’s roll, partner.”

  Treetop entered the traffic and headed uptown.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to a place where the chef is a personal friend of mine.”

  They rode to the Upper East Side and arrived at a restaurant with a private room. The award-winning chef whose face Mallory recognized greeted them personally before seating them in a discreet corner booth.

  Christian studied Mallory a moment. “I didn’t say anything earlier, but you look nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. When it comes to little black dresses, I’ve probably seen a thousand. But that colorful scarf and the bangles,” —he nodded and leaned back to peer beneath the table—“even those ankle boots. Nice touch.”

  “I’m glad you approve, although it would be perfectly fine if you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure. But no matter. I like your style—simple, practical, but with a little flair. But the coat. Is that real fur?” Mallory nodded. “That threw me.”

  “It’s not my style nor my coat. Belonged to a friend who is no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. You might know her. Leigh Jackson?” Mallory watched his reaction closely for any signs of recognition when she mentioned the name. “She loved basketball and was a huge fan. I think she may have met you.”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I meet a lot of people.”

  The chef interrupted them with the night’s menu. Conversation shifted after that to Christian’s childhood and the balancing act of having one foot in the exclusive, upstate Clifford Park neighborhood where he lived and the other in areas like North Philly where his cousins resided. They exchanged stories of a reality familiar to many in the biracial world. The dilemma of being too white for one culture and too black for the other. A friendship began developing on this common ground.

  A
mid succulent appetizers and exquisite entrees, Christian reminisced about being an outcast in his early years and how that changed the day his cousin’s uncle put a basketball in his hands. His natural skill gave him confidence, and something in common with the relatives who had no interest in the Dow that he discussed with his father or the love for astronomy he shared with his uncle Pete. She asked about his apparent closeness to Brandon and learned that in the boy Christian saw his younger self.

  “Understandable, then, why you’d get so offended at someone suggesting he tried to commit suicide.”

  She watched eyes fixed on her for most of the evening now try and avoid her.

  “That is what happened, isn’t it?”

  “You asking as a reporter or as a friend?”

  “It can be off the record if you’d like.”

  “That’s the only way I’ll answer. If you promise that what I share won’t end up in print.”

  “It won’t.”

  Christian took a deep breath as his eyes met hers once again. “The rumor’s true.”

  Mallory nodded, her only reaction. “I’m sorry. That had to have been a terrible thing to find out.”

  “It was horrible. Couldn’t imagine a worse feeling had it been my own kid.”

  “Why would he do that? Was he bullied, or is there a mental condition?”

  “No. None of that. His father got shot.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “They’d only recently reconnected. The parents divorced years ago, and Danny left town for a while. Brandon was torn up over that pretty bad, according to his mother.”

  “Karen.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I met her after my interview with Harmony.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Strong woman.”

  “Got to be. Anyway, when Danny came back to New York a few years ago, Brandon became his shadow. He stopped fighting and getting into trouble. His grades improved. They grew very close. Then Danny got shot, and Brandon couldn’t take it. Thought he’d lost him again. This time forever.”

  “But the dad, Danny, survived.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “But he’s not back with Karen.”

  “Have you turned reporter, or is this still the friend asking? I heard that murder and mayhem is your thing, but I don’t want this in the papers. Am I clear?”

  Mallory took note of Christian’s tone, how it had grown dark, almost threatening.

  “There’s really no line between who I am and what I do. But I’m not a liar. I said I wouldn’t write on this. And I won’t. But I’m curious. Why would someone want to kill Brandon’s father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know that, either.” Christian’s eyes narrowed. “Been looking for him to ask about some things, make sure he’s all right. Maybe as an investigative reporter, that is something you can find out.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  Christian told her.

  Mallory typed it into her cell phone’s memo section. “Won’t make any promises but I’ll give it a shot.”

  Conversation shifted again, to jazz this time. Mallory finally told him about the woman who’d confronted her at the game. Christian laughed it off, said it came with the territory. He then shared a war story or two about dodging determined groupies and borderline stalkers. Mallory didn’t know it, but by the time dessert arrived she knew more about him than women he’d slept with, even dated, for months at a time.

  What Christian didn’t know is that he’d given Mallory a shovel full of information that should he have anything to do with Leigh’s murder might help her dig his grave.

  23

  The next day, Saturday, before the sun went down, Mallory knew everything on public record regarding Danny Groves. Everything but his current whereabouts. She was more than a little frustrated, so when Ava’s face showed up on her cell phone she was ready for a break.

  “Hey, girl.”

  “Don’t ‘hey, girl’ me. Why am I finding out about you and Christian online instead of by phone, like before, during and after the game?”

  “What’s online?”

  “Google yourself and find out.”

  Mallory opened a search engine and typed in her name. Up popped a picture of her and Christian from last night, taken on the side street next to Vaucluse as he helped her from the town car. The camera’s angle made it appear that she was looking into his eyes adoringly, a big smile on her face. The truth was she’d almost tripped, he’d grabbed her arm, and they’d shared a good laugh. But the look on his face and the way her body leaned in to his told a different story. So did the caption.

  “From Knight Writing to High Rolling.”

  And the subtitle, in case one verbal punch to the gut simply wasn’t enough. Looks like New York’s Golden Boy has a New Boo.

  Mallory knew she shouldn’t read the article, but she couldn’t help herself.

  After bringing his team from behind once again, and trouncing the Cleveland Cavaliers, New York Navigator and the night’s MVP, Christian Graham, was seen getting cozy with his latest love interest just outside of Vaucluse, one of several upscale, private restaurants owned by the James Beard Award–winning chef Michael White. The lucky lady is investigative journalist and New York News columnist Mallory Knight, whose latest series highlights the basketball player and the foundation that bears his name.

  “Mal? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Reading this nonsense.”

  “That’s what you get for hanging with a superstar. Welcome to their world. The story’s actually pretty accurate. It could have been much worse.”

  “The story is bullshit. I’m not Christian’s love interest, and we weren’t getting cozy. I went to the game and to dinner afterwards. After that I came home. End of story.”

  “Don’t get mad at me because the evening ended early. That you didn’t get in a round of horizontal aerobics with his fine ass is entirely your fault.”

  Mallory scrolled down the page, clicked different links. “I hope this doesn’t dilute the strength of the series and have readers think I wrote from a biased perspective. Christian’s Kids is an excellent center with an aggressive educational component that pushes those kids to greatness. I’d hate for that to be second-guessed because he and I shared a meal.”

  “It’s not me you’ll have to convince. It’s any reporter who sticks a mike in your face angling for a story.”

  Mallory wasn’t much worried about that. This was New York, and these were New Yorkers. Jaded. Unbothered. Minded their own business. By the time she went to work on Monday, this story would be two days old. Virtually forgotten. A good thing, too, because after the research she’d done on Brandon’s father, Danny Groves, Mallory had more important things on her mind.

  Except, not really, a fact she discovered Monday morning when she turned the corner of the building where she worked.

  “Mallory!”

  “Ms. Knight!”

  “Is it true about you and Christian?”

  “Are you dating Christian Graham!”

  Mallory reacted instinctively, put her head down, pasted a don’t-fuck-with-me-frown on her face as she barreled her way through more than a dozen reporters. One thing about New Yorkers, though, including reporters: They were tenacious, and when going after a story, relentless, too. The questions continued, pounding her back as she slipped past the angel of a security guard who halted their progress as she continued to the elevator that would ferry her away.

  She reached the New York News offices, and after a quick side trip to the bathroom to collect herself, she marched directly into Charlie’s office armed for battle and ready for war.

  “Hey, Charlie. Got a minute?” She turned and closed the door. She reached into her satchel, walked over and plopped down a manila folder on his desk.

  “What’s that, your resignation?”

  “Why would you think
that?”

  “Because of this.”

  He tossed a newspaper on top of her folder. A collage of pictures from Friday night. A shot of Christian scoring a three-pointer. One of her smiling and clapping, one readers would assume was her cheering him on. Truthfully, she probably was. Dammit.

  “Yeah, about all that, Charlie. It’s not how it looks.”

  “How is it?”

  “Christian and I are not hooked up. I went to a game, just like twenty-something thousand other people. We were all cheering.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t like basketball. So I’m left to assume that your cheering was for a player, not the game.” Charlie smiled and wriggled his brows as he sat back and chewed on an unlit cigarette.

  Rather than comment, Mallory swiped the newspaper to the floor and pushed the folder toward him.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Evidence. Take a look.”

  “Evidence of what?” Instead of responding, Mallory removed her hat and coat and threw them over a pile of papers stacked in the corner before sitting down.

  He opened the folder and just as quickly slammed it shut. “Oh, no, Mal. Not this again.”

  “Just hear me out, okay? Look at what’s in front of you. Real proof that points to the conclusion she was murdered. Just take a look. Please.”

  Silence as he opened the folder and skimmed the file’s contents.

  “She was pregnant?”

  “Yep. Whoever killed her murdered two people.”

  “Or the father didn’t want her or the baby, so she killed herself.”

  Mallory bit down rage and chewed on patience. It was an angle she hadn’t considered. Leigh had shared dreams of marrying wealthy, international travel, and becoming a socialite, but had never painted a picture that included babies, a dog, and a white picket fence.

  “That picture is of a unique jigsaw puzzle sculpture. The one behind it, yeah, that one, is of what appears to be the sculpture’s missing piece. That sculpture hangs in the home of one of Christian’s kids. The missing piece belonged to Leigh.”

  Charlie held a picture in each hand, looked back and forth. “That’s interesting. But still, doesn’t prove much. For all we know there are hundreds of sculptures and pieces out there.”