“Oh, God, Kinnon!” Elizabeth rose again and stepped behind me, circling her arms around my waist.
My hands never came off the counter. I couldn’t turn around. I didn’t trust myself. I just kept talking.
“Then last Friday, I met with Chief G and he’s got something he wants to talk to me about. There’s been a number of hate crimes in the next county and he and Roarke have reason to believe the group connected to those crimes, the Aryan Knights, is trying to recruit in Plummer County. So he shows me pictures of the guys they think are doing the recruiting. One of them was Doyle McMaster.”
“The guy who punched Addison’s husband?”
“Yes. The other one—the other one is Benny Kinnon.”
Elizabeth’s arms tightened around my waist. “Oh God, Kinnon. What are you going to do?”
“Chief G and Roarke wanted someone to get close to him, figure out what he’s doing. They want to know if the Aryan Knights are organizing here in Plummer County.”
“Don’t tell me you’re helping them.”
“I met Benny this morning.”
“You didn’t.” She released me and I finally turned around.
“Yeah, I did,” I said, leaning back with my elbows on the kitchen counter.
“Does he know who you are? Did you identify yourself to him?”
“There is no doubt I’m his son—he knows it, too. He doesn’t know anything more than that.”
“What did he say to you? What did you say to him?”
“Let’s just say we had a general philosophical discussion on the value of parents. He doesn’t want me to come looking for him ever again—he made that much pretty clear.”
“You’re not going to do that, are you?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“He’s got a room at the Travel Inn. I’m going back there this evening.”
Elizabeth sighed. “When are you going to stop doing this kind of stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“This dangerous, put-your-life-on-the-line shit that you do. What if he’s pissed you showed up again? What if he’s got a weapon?”
I shrugged. She was right. There was more than one occasion where I’d put myself in harm’s way to get a story, but it was what I do, who I am.
“What if you had a wife? What if I’d said yes the other night?” she continued. “Would you promise me you wouldn’t meet with this guy, even though he was your real father, if there was a chance you could get hurt?”
“Probably not. I’d still do it.”
“See, Kinnon? That’s part of what makes me crazy about you. You’re willing to do anything to get a story, even if it means getting hurt in the process. What kind of father would that make you? That you’re willing to forget your kid or your wife to get some ink across the front page? Does that make you any better than this Benny Kinnon?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I lied. I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 26 Addison
By two o’clock, the time of the focus group meeting, I had a change of clothes and my car, courtesy of Duncan and Isabella, but I was exhausted and starved. Breakfast from Aunt Bea’s had been my only solid food since being awakened by Katya’s cries the previous night. Lunch was a candy bar, two cigarettes and two cups of coffee from the employee break room.
At least I wouldn’t have to go to the meeting wearing the same dirty laundry I’d had on since Katya Bolodenka came knocking at my door.
Stepping out of the ladies room stall where I’d changed, I shoved the clothes into a plastic grocery bag. They smelled of dirt and sweat and cattle.
I’d yet to see Earlene—the bookkeeper Peggy said she’d had some kind of appointment and hadn’t come in yet this morning—so I didn’t have the chance to tell her about the lead story before the paper hit the streets.
If her dad, J. Watterson Whitelaw, was still at the helm, I’d feel comfortable calling him at home on the story. Then again, he lived and breathed this newspaper. If he wasn’t in his office, he was probably in the emergency room.
I didn’t feel that way about Earlene.
I hadn’t felt comfortable when her father turned the reins over to Earlene. I wasn’t the only one—the entire staff felt that way. Much married and very spoiled, she never worked at the Journal-Gazette until her father’s retirement. For the first four months she’d been here, she’d called the paper the Journal-Tribune.
I ran my fingers through my short choppy hair in front of the ladies room mirror and sighed. Part of me was dreading her reaction; another part was filled with bravado, my balls-to-the-wall, who-runs-this-newsroom-you-or-me attitude that I knew would get me in hot water.
“OK,” I said to my reflection. “Here we go.”
Earlene was seated behind her Queen Anne writing table, in front of that awful equestrian portrait. Today’s paper was folded on her desk and she smelled of fresh hairspray. There was a pot of coffee and a tray of cookies on the credenza.
The focus group—car dealer Angus Buchanan, Pastor Eric Mustanen, the dowager garden club queens Naomi Callum and Hedwig Ansgar and my own personal nemesis, Melvin Spotts—were seated in a circle around her desk. The only open chair was between Buchanan and Spotts; I dragged it to the side of Earlene’s desk.
“I need a good writing surface for my notes,” I explained.
“Thank you for joining us, Addison,” Earlene cooed. Her tone had an edge to it, although her words were smooth. “I have to say, that is some front page we had today, darlin’. We can discuss that later, but right now let’s get started. These folks have some very interesting thoughts on the Journal-Gazette.”
“I’m sure they do,” I answered. Shit.
Spotts didn’t waste any time going on the attack.
“What are you doing about the federal government hiding hundreds of barrels of radioactive material in the old Traeburn Tractor plant? I called you about it last week. You never called me back. There have been trucks going in and out of that site at night for years.”
Earlene and the other members of the focus group looked incredulously at Spotts and then at me.
“Yes, Mr. Spotts. We looked into that and didn’t find anything.” I tried to stay calm.
“Of course you didn’t! It’s a cover up! You need to do some digging— literally!”
“The old Traeburn Tractor plant has been an auto parts factory for a number of years. They operate three shifts a day, five days a week. It’s not surprising that trucks come in and out of there at night,” I said. “And neither I nor my staff will trespass on to private property late at night with a shovel on a rumor.”
“That’s because you’re too close to the powers that be. You believe anything they tell you.” Spotts pointed a bony finger at me. “Now we’ve got U.S. marshals hiding dangerous federal witnesses here and nobody seems to know about it until this poor guy ends up dead. This radioactive storage is a disaster waiting to happen! It’s going to be too late when every little kid in the county starts getting cancer like that over there at that Chernobyl plant.”
“We contacted the EPA at both the state and national levels, and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. They said no such storage site exists.” After they quit laughing at my reporter, I wanted to add. “And yes, local law enforcement is very unhappy that there was a federally protected witness here that they didn’t know about.”
Earlene looked over at me cautiously, her eyes wide. Whether that was because of my words or Spotts, I didn’t know.
“What are your sources, Mr. Spotts?” she asked politely.
Spotts blinked. “Sources? You want me to reveal you my sources?”
Angus Buchanan jumped in. “Mr. Spotts, that plant makes engine hoses. They ship them out at the beginning of third shift. That’s why the trucks are there.”
“Well, my sources couldn’t be wrong. They’re very high placed government officials. But I won’t reveal their names.” The old man folded his arms across his chest and li
fted his chin sharply at Buchanan.
“I can’t do anything unless I know who to contact,” I pressed. “I don’t have to use their names. I just have to know how to contact them.”
“Nope. Not gonna tell you.” Spotts’ chin went even higher.
“Uh huh.” Earlene arched her eyebrows and turned to the gardening divas. “And ladies, what were your concerns?”
The Dowager Empress crossed her spotted old hands across her wide bosom.
“Well, my membership has always been concerned about why the Plummer County Peonies photo submissions are always in color and ours are in black and white,” she said. “The Garden Club of Jubilant Falls keeps a scrapbook of our annual activities, which we submit for our annual convention. We have been marked down on several occasions because the pictures weren’t in color.”
I glanced at Naomi Callum, who was hiding a smirk behind her hand. Somehow I knew that her club’s scrapbook won convention honors more than once.
Seriously? I wanted to ask. I should be digging into who shot a federal marshal and I’m spending my afternoon mediating a garden club spat over color photos?
“I’ll take this one, Addison,” Earlene folded her hands and sat up straighter, like a third-grader convinced she had the right answer in class. “One of the things I’ve learned since taking this position is that putting color on a page depends on whether or not there is color advertising on the page. The color ads depend on if a business buys them or not.”
“A lot of times, that’s me, Buchanan Motors,” Angus interjected, pointing at himself.
“Our weekly home and garden page sometimes has color advertising and some times it doesn’t,” I said, picking up where Earlene left off. “Either Dennis Herrick, my city editor, or I, put those pages together and when we have color photos—”
“Oh, who wants to hear about these old biddies and their foolishness?” Spotts jumped in. “I want to know when you’re going to look into the meetings that are going on in the barn next to my farm.”
“What meetings?” I asked, exasperated.
“There’s a group of folks, they meet in the barn at the place next to me, on a regular basis. They bring their big ole trucks and their confederate flags, they play loud music and keep me up at night.”
“Did you call the sheriff and file a complaint?” I asked.
“They don’t do nothing,” Spotts said. “They tell me that if that nonsense lasts after midnight, I’ve got a complaint. But what about those of us who go to bed earlier? Don’t we have any rights?”
“Who is it? Young people? Teenagers? I would bet that it’s kids partying in the barn, killing time before school starts,” Angus said.
A complaint about Spotts’ loud neighbor wasn’t going to get me interested in a story either, any more than his beliefs about buried radioactive waste. I nodded, feigning interest.
“Who lives there?” I asked, doodling on my notepad.
Spotts shrugged. “I don’t know. The barn hasn’t been used in years. I don’t know who lives in the house anymore.”
“Maybe you ought to go over and introduce yourself to the parents,” Angus said. “Maybe they don’t know what’s going on there.”
“In my experience as an educator…” Naomi droned.
I could feel the meeting getting out of control, and I resisted the desire to take my pencil and stab myself in the thigh to keep from shooting off my mouth.
I knew this was going to end up like this. I knew I’d spend an afternoon with people who had no concept of what it takes to run a newspaper, including my boss. I can’t leave, because who knows what promises she’ll make to these people. Earlene might have me run each garden club photo in color, regardless of advertising and chasing down every barking dog complaint in the police reports for an investigative piece. Please, God, just kill me now.
My cell phone vibrated on Earlene’s desk. It was a text from Dennis, upstairs in the newsroom: “Jerome Johnson’s parents are here. They want 2 talk 2 U. NOW.”
Earlene leaned over to read the message along with me. She nodded at me.
“Go ahead and go. I’ll handle this,” she whispered.
Feeling like I’d been released from prison, I shot out of her office and ran upstairs. I didn’t care if Earlene promised them the moon—right now, I’d do whatever she asked. I just wanted some insight on how a black man who spoke perfect Russian ended up dead on a farm in Plummer County.
***
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. I am so sorry for your loss,” I extended my hand to the tall somber couple standing in the newsroom. “I’m Addison McIntyre, the editor. My husband and I had your son and Ms. Bolodenka over for a barbecue on Sunday.”
They were an older black couple, both rail thin and well dressed, with an air of formality about them. He was tall, with a salt-and pepper beard, dressed in khakis and a white shirt, with a red bow tie.
His dark brown skin was wrinkled and reading glasses sat halfway down his nose, beneath brown eyes filled with sorrow. Her chocolate skin was set off by the tailored blue dress she wore and matching sensible flats.
Her graying hair was bobbed at her chin and she wore round wire glasses. They looked like academics, unsure about their son’s profession, one that had resulted in his death.
“Thank you, Mrs. McIntyre, but his name wasn’t Jerome,” Mr. Johnson shook my hand. “May we talk in private?”
I ushered them to my office, closing the door behind us and invited them to sit in the two battered wingback chairs, wishing I had something better for this elegant and couple to sit in.
“We must reintroduce ourselves,” said Jerome’s mother. “The gentleman in the newsroom made the assumption our names were Johnson when I introduced us as the parents of the young man who died. I’m Dr. Yolanda Simms. This is my husband, Dr. James Reed. Our son’s real name was Terrell. Terrell Simms-Reed.”
“I apologize for that, but you can understand his mistake,” I said.
“Mrs. McIntyre,” began Dr. Reed. “We hold no grudge. We just want you to know the truth behind our son’s life. It’s not exactly what you printed in today’s newspaper.”
His head sank to his chest and his shoulders began to shake. Dr. Simms reached over and grasped her husband’s hand.
“We are professors at Howard University in Washington, D.C.,” she began slowly. “I teach literature. James teaches political science. Terrell was our only child. We came here to Jubilant Falls to bring his body home.”
“I’m so sorry. Tell me about Terrell.”
“Maybe he was a little spoiled, maybe we were just trying too hard to keep him from ending up like so many other young black men, but either way, we struggled to keep Terrell on a straight path,” Dr. Simms began. “Finally, after a few brushes with the law as a juvenile, his probation officer suggested that maybe the military was the best option for Terrell.”
“It was not the choice we wanted for our son, but we felt we didn’t have much of an option,” Dr. Reed said. “We wanted him to attend college, become a professional, like us. It was very difficult to send him off to basic training at Parris Island.”
“So he really was a Marine?” I asked. “Katya Bolodenka told me he was stationed in Russia, but after she said everything else wasn’t true, I wondered.” They didn’t need to know how much effort Gary McGinnis and I had spent in trying to track down the truth about the two of them or the brick walls we hit. Of course, if he was searching for a fake name, it’s no surprise.
“Yes—on both counts. The Marine Corps taught him discipline and he became an MP, a military police officer,” Dr. Simms said.
“Our son has—had—” Dr. Reed stumbled over the verb “—a wonderful gift for languages. He learned Russian in the Marines, which is how he ended up at the American Embassy. He was going to return to the States and attend the Defense Foreign Language Institute to learn Farsi, but his assignment in Moscow was cut short.”
Dr. Simms pursed her li
ps as she picked up the story.
“There was apparently more than one woman able to lure our son into dangerous situations,” she said. “He apparently frequented prostitutes, which could be construed as a security risk. When his commanding officer found out, Terrell was sent home. While he received an honorable discharge, nothing of this incident—” Dr. Simms stepped carefully around the word “—nothing was reflected in his record, but he was not encouraged to reenlist.”
“I see,” I said.
“Because of his law enforcement background and his language skills, he was able to land his present, I mean, this job with the marshal service and the witness protection program,” said Dr. Reed. “Many times, he was assigned to people and locations he couldn’t tell us about. Many of those he protected were Russians and involved in organized crime. He said that knowing where he was or whom he was protecting would put us in danger, so we just had to trust what he told us. He said he would often have new identities as a way to protect these people as well. We knew he was assigned to protect a number of Russian mobsters, but often we couldn’t know where he was, such as this situation with Miss Bolodenka.”
“Were you aware they were romantically involved?” I asked.
Dr. Simms pursed her lips again and looked sharply at her husband.
“Not until I read it in your newspaper,” she said flatly. “If this woman is the reason my son died—”
Dr. Reed patted her knee. “Ssshhh. I’m sure there will be an investigation.”
Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) Page 15