Dead Man's Rules

by Rebecca Grace

  He started toward the door, but she shook her head. “He’s gone. I looked back when I started knocking and he left before you opened the door.”

  “I’ll keep a watch out,” he said with a nod as he slid back onto the chair where he’d been earlier.

  “I’m really sorry I had to bother you. I mean, what if you had a lady guest?”

  Rafe almost choked as he took a sip of coffee. “Lady guest?”

  She gave him a coy smile. “You never know.”

  He grunted and shook his head. “In this town, I know. I think I dated every girl within five years of my age before I left. And don’t you start trying to set me up with people. I get enough of it from Mom.”

  “You’re lucky your Aunt Rosalie is not still around. When we were in high school, she was the queen of matchmaking. I never had to look for a date because she would always find someone for both of us. If she was still with us, she’d be searching from Taos to Albuquerque to find the right woman for you.”

  He didn’t want to encourage her, but he was pleased to see her earlier tension had eased. At least she was now smiling. This was the Lottie he knew and enjoyed. “Are you saying she’d set us up?”

  She laughed. “Goodness no. She’d find a way to get my Cere out here and introduce the two of you.”

  Cere Medina. TV star. He knew how proud Lottie was of her journalist daughter, but he’d watched her reports and all he could think was no thanks. “Well, I hear you’ve got the hottest romance in town, dating the mayor?”

  She made a face. “Don’t tell me you listen to that crazy gossip. And we’re just friends.” But her giggle was more like a teenager than a retired fifty-something. Then she sobered. “You know what? I think I saw that car last night too, when Bradley and I were coming out of Gennaro’s Restaurant. Oh, my gosh. You don’t think I have someone following me, do you?”

  Chapter Two

  “Here they come!”

  The shout was a war cry—a call to arms. A long black limousine provided the objective, with cameras and microphones the weapons of choice. Cere eyed the gathering swarm of warriors preparing to storm the castle—except these warriors wore expensive suits and designer ensembles instead of armor.

  Another day of battle on the news front.

  She drew a deep breath and hurtled into the thick of the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of little Randy. The custody battle had waged for three days, but this was the first time he was expected to appear and tell the judge his side.

  Switching on her microphone she searched the frantic throng until she located Audrey Jones. Her photographer’s statuesque height was invaluable in tight situations. Cere didn’t see Freeda, but this was every woman for herself. Ducking around thrusting microphones and waving cell phones, Cere maneuvered her way to the front. She swung out her elbow to clear a spot for Audrey to join her and photograph Randy as he emerged from the limo.

  The boy was shorter than she expected, a skinny kid with flaxen hair in a blue suit that appeared to be too big, even though it was probably custom-made. The public adored Randy for his rubbery face and wide blue eyes, which exuded glee on the screen. He’d made millions in a string of comedies, but today his thin lips pinched together, his cherubic face as pale as his hair. His willowy, platinum-haired mother kept her arm around his small shoulders as though issuing her visible claim to the boy.

  The media army surrounded the pair as they fought their way up the steps and into the sanctuary offered by the courthouse. Around Cere, still photographers frantically focused and snapped pictures. Television cameramen shouldering compact equipment jostled for the best position. Microphones with colorful logos thrust forward like swords. Boom mikes dangled overhead like vultures about to pounce. Cere shoved her hand microphone at the pair, battling to be heard over the others.

  “Randy, who do you want to live with?” she shouted.

  He blinked, blue eyes growing larger, but he didn’t answer.

  “Where’s your dad?” Gail Martin, the frail network correspondent, jostled aside the reporter next to her with the zeal of a linebacker.

  “Are you going to testify?”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “Hey, Randy, look over here.”

  The boy’s eyes flashed with fear as he contemplated the stampede of reporters and cameras. His mother shielded him, ignoring the questions. A cadre of attorneys and police officers fought to shove the crowd aside and keep the pair shuffling toward the doors of the courthouse. As quickly as they arrived, the two were swept inside, and the media army retreated.

  “Damn!” Cere grimaced in pain as her gaze lowered to her black Italian pumps. During the fray, someone had stepped on her foot. The scuffed blemish on the expensive leather hurt worse than her mashed toe. She leaned down to rub it.

  Audrey appeared beside her. “You should have worn Reeboks.”

  “Probably. Did you get anything good?”

  “Great shots of the kid. Wanna see it, or do you want it downloaded to your laptop?” She hefted the video camera from her shoulder with one hand, tanned arms displaying fine muscular tone.

  Turning to the courthouse, Cere waved her hand in frustration. “I want to be in there. I want to hear what they tell the judge.”

  “Now what? Another day of waiting? Writing a running blog and keeping up with Twitter fans?” Audrey scanned the activity outside the courthouse as she shoved her blue baseball cap higher on her forehead. Her blonde ponytail poked through the back.

  Around them reporters and photographers were setting out lawn chairs under a green awning as though preparing for a giant picnic. Most were already tapping on laptop keyboards or texting into cell phones.

  Cere pulled out her phone. “Go ahead and transfer the video to my laptop and send in video of the kid.” She hated waiting, but she could send a preliminary report for the web to use with Audrey’s pictures.

  “You want tonight’s lead,” Audrey teased as she unlocked the van to retrieve Cere’s laptop. “You’re wearing your new Prada jacket.”

  Cere didn’t react to Audrey’s baiting, though she had paid special attention to her wardrobe and hair, which was why she’d chosen the Italian pumps over running shoes. She’d carefully selected the navy blazer, beige linen slacks and a sleeveless pink shell. She’d also taken care with her make-up, using a light shade of green to enhance her brown eyes and blush to make her face look less round. She was pleased she’d had the foresight to have her customary auburn streaks put into her shoulder-length brown tresses a couple of weeks early.

  “It is the lead.” She waved at the throng of reporters. “Look at this circus.”

  Their van was one of several dozen emblazoned with bright logos that lined a side street near the courthouse. Rows of microwave trucks sent up towering masts, while across the street, several bulky satellite trucks pointed their dishes into space. Lines of cable snaked across the street which was closed at both ends by barricades. She held up her phone, snapped a picture of the media crowd and emailed it to the web producer.

  Reporters stood in front of the courthouse to deliver reports for local and cable stations but Cere didn’t have to worry about going “live.” Scope was a syndicated news program broadcast every weekday. Their ongoing work would be uploaded on the Scope website and their full edited report would appear on the evening program.

  Cere watched with disguised envy as Gail barked orders at her photographer in front of the courthouse. Why was Gail the network star while she couldn’t get noticed? Could it be the woman’s wild mane of honey-colored hair and willowy figure? People called Cere cute and curvy, but men didn’t stare at her when she walked into a room—not like Gail.

  Freeda, wrapped in a black leather coat, popped her head around the corner of the van. Her dark eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner that only emphasized their bloodshot nature. “Hey, guys, where is the network star today?”

  Cere put her finger to her lips and gestured at Gail’s producer who was setting up
a chair nearby. Because they worked for the same network, Cere and Gail sat near each other, though Cere knew the reason was Audrey’s video. Gail’s camera person always seemed to be out of position, while Cere made certain her photographer got a good spot.

  Audrey appeared from the back of the van and shook a finger at Freeda. “You look as bad as I feel. Nice outfit. Cere, didn’t you buy that last week?”

  She drew a quick breath and jerked around as Freeda removed her coat, displaying a beige Kate Spade sweater and black knit St. John skirt. Damn! Her cousin was always dipping into her closet, but she’d hoped to save the ensemble for an important occasion.

  “I had to rush,” Freeda replied without apology. “So the kid’s already inside, huh? Damn, I missed it.”

  As though noticing Cere’s clenched hands, Audrey thrust the laptop at her. “Video’s all here, babe. Great stuff.”

  With a sigh, she took the computer and set up a folding chair at the edge of the awning. She placed the laptop on her knees and called up the video file. Freeda leaned over her shoulder.

  “Good, I wanna see how it went down.”

  “Do you mind if I watch too?” Gail walked over to join them.

  Cere bit her tongue and tapped the “play” icon. The pictures showed Randy emerge from the car with wide, startled eyes. The crowd moved in, and Audrey’s lens caught the mess for a moment before zeroing in on the boy’s tense face. Cere’s voice sounded shrill as she shouted her question and she grimaced. Better remember to bring her voice down a notch next time.

  Freeda giggled at the chaotic scene. “Damned media parasites.”

  “As if you wouldn’t have been right in the thick of it,” Cere said.

  “Nice video,” Gail cooed. “Mind if I get a copy?”

  “Sure, when I’m finished with my report.” In a proprietary gesture, she pulled the computer closer to her and began tapping the keyboard.

  Freeda turned her attention to her phone and began texting. “Muchos gracias. Just like I was there. Shall I ask my EP if he wants to buy that video?”

  “You work for a competing network,” Gail protested, looking from one to the other. “You two are going to get into trouble sharing, and you weren’t even there!”

  They didn’t work on the same story often and never shared video without permission, but Gail was getting angry. Cere shook her head at Freeda. “Not this time.”

  “I’m gonna sack out in the front seat,” Audrey said with a yawn. “I’ll keep my camera handy. Call me if they come out.”

  Cere didn’t look up from her keyboard. “You set up your tripod outside the courthouse in case there’s a news conference and sent in the video, right?”

  Audrey barked out her answer with a grin and salute. “Yes’m, drill sergeant!”

  “You think she’d take a chance of slacking when she’s working with the scourge of photojournalists everywhere?” Freeda teased.

  “What?” Cere looked from Freeda to Audrey but both were smiling.

  Freeda winked. “People know better than to argue with you, right, Audrey?”

  Audrey tilted her head toward Cere and saluted again. “Yes’m, drill sergeant!”

  “Screw you both. The guys can call me stubborn and aggressive all they want. I’m just being meticulous—”

  Freeda snorted. “And killing the competition. Climbing fences, getting locked into restricted areas. Normal things.”

  Cere knew that while some journalists disapproved of her tactics, her bosses trusted her to get a good story. A few feet away, Gail smiled as she focused on her computer, obviously enjoying the exchange.

  Cere had heard enough. She waved at Audrey. “Go take your damn nap. I need to send this in.” As she sat up after finishing her report, Freeda leaned toward her.

  “Mind if I borrow your computer? I left mine somewhere last night.”

  “The computer I let you borrow? You lost it?”

  Freeda flicked her hand like swatting a fly. “Misplaced it. May I borrow yours to check in?”

  The computer was an old laptop, but Cere was tempted to say no. Sooner or later her cousin had to stop being so careless.

  Gail snapped her fingers to get their attention. “I would like to look at that video again.”

  Cere forced a smile. “Sure, Gail. I’ll give it to you when she’s done.” She handed the computer to Freeda who plopped on the ground cross-legged. Hopefully grass stains would come out of the new skirt—if she got the item back before Freeda traded it.

  For now clothes weren’t her main concern. She needed a new story or a different angle. With dozens of hungry reporters around, she didn’t intend to get stuck in the crowd. She was going to make that leap to the network—one way or another.

  “I need to talk to the parents.” She pounded her thigh with her fist in frustration. An exclusive interview would put her on the network news.

  “Good luck,” Freeda said, without looking up. “I’ve been trying all week.”

  “His dad is out of town,” Gail added with a smirk. “My producer learned that Richard Waverly was spotted in Italy this morning.”

  Cere noted the emphasis on “my producer.” Why couldn’t Scope provide her with a producer to make calls?

  On the ground, Freeda was oblivious to their conversation. She was engrossed with the computer so Cere used her phone to check whether her report and pictures had been posted online.

  After a few minutes, Gail began to pace, and finally stopped above Freeda, her body vibrating with tension. “Are you almost finished?”

  “Huh?” Freeda glanced up in confusion.

  “I need that laptop to view Audrey’s video.”

  “Oh, sure.” Freeda turned to Cere. “Do you have a printer in the van?”

  “No, why?”

  “I want to print this story so I can finish reading it. Remember the Palladium? That old dance hall in New Mexico near where your mom is living? There’s a story about it. Remember how scared we got when we went out there ghost hunting as kids?”

  “What?” She leaned over her cousin’s shoulder. Instead of a script, Freeda was reading what looked like a webpage.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gail cried.

  Freeda ignored her and grinned at Cere. “Your mom emailed you a link to a Santa Fe newspaper.”

  “You’re reading my email?” She had to fight to keep anger out of her tone.

  Nonplussed, Freeda gestured at the laptop. “Remember? Some kid told a story about the place being haunted. The ghost was a guy who left a bloody handprint on the wall when he killed himself.”

  Cere looked beyond her at a picture. She’d been twelve years old, and their evening ghost hunting expedition with several cousins haunted her dreams for weeks. Now the building looked like a long pile of sagging rocks with boarded up windows.

  Freeda enlarged the picture and another beside it. “There’s the ghost.” She pointed at a grainy black and white photo of a young man. “Meet Marco Gonzales.”

  “I need the damn computer,” Gail insisted.

  Her demanding voice faded as the day grew still. Cere’s stomach clenched and her breath caught as goose bumps rose on her skin. She stumbled backward.

  “What?” Freeda asked, noting her alarm.

  Despite the faded image, Cere knew Marco. His eyes burned from the screen.

  “That… that’s the man in my dream.”

  Chapter Three

  Rafe spotted short bursts of dust plumes in the distance and turned his Jeep Grand Cherokee off the highway beside a tilted wooden sign. The letters on the sign were barely readable, and rust had taken a toll on the “no trespassing” sign that hung nearby on the barbed wire fence. Someone had used the metal sign for target practice. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt provided confirmation that someone had ignored the sign and driven to the Palladium.

  The owners needed to put a locked gate on the road. That might not keep out determined teenagers who wouldn’t hesitate to climb over or through the b
arbed wire, but it might deter casual interlopers. He chased away kids all the time, but he understood the allure. How many times had he been out there as a kid? Hell, he’d made a business out of leading the curious to the dance hall in search of the elusive ghost of Marco Gonzales. No one ever witnessed anything supernatural, but no one asked for their money back either. The spookiness fulfilled all promises of a frightening adventure.

  As he rounded a bend, the long stone two-story structure with its pitched, rusting tin roof came into view. It hadn’t been used in at least thirty years and the interior was a major disaster waiting to happen. The floor boards were rotting when he was young. Now they had to be dangerous.

  Why the hell didn’t the owners tear it down? The interior was a smelly mess of bird and cow droppings and the walls were scarred by graffiti. One day someone was going to get hurt in there. Things hadn’t been so bad until recently, when a Santa Fe newspaper reporter dredged up the old story. This was the fourth time in two weeks he’d had to chase someone away.

  The sun glinted off a black Cadillac Escalade parked in the gravel parking lot. Texas license plates. This wouldn’t be good. Expensive cars often meant jerks. Hopefully it wasn’t a bunch of rich kids on a joy ride. Or perhaps…could this be the vehicle that frightened Lottie?

  He saw no sign of anyone as he stopped his patrol vehicle beside the big SUV. The afternoon air caught him like a hot blanket as he stepped outside. Its stillness could hypnotize with its silence. Nary a rustle came from the grove of cottonwood trees that bordered a pond beyond the building.

  A loud crack broke the stillness. He trotted around the building to the wooden veranda that bordered the back end and stretched along the side overlooking the pond. A tall lanky man hunched over a boarded up window in the back. He pulled at the rotting slats with a crow bar. Fresh scratches in the peeling paint of the back door indicated he might have first tried to pry off a metal latch. The thick door had refused to budge and so had the thick padlock.