3 Buried Leads

by Amanda M. Lee

  Buried Leads

  By Amanda M. Lee

  Text copyright © 2013 Amanda M. Lee

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Author’s Note

  One

  I’m being stalked.

  I didn’t realize it at first, of course. It was just a mild irritation.

  My stalker started with simple emails: What are you doing? How is your day? Are you dating anyone?

  Then it progressed to Facebook. It was a new account, so when I got the “friend” request, I didn’t even hesitate. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Boy, was I ever wrong.

  The online stalking started small -- just a lot of “likes” on my posts. I have a feeling, though, that if my stalker had a choice those would have actually been “dislikes.”

  As a reporter, I don’t ever post anything personal on Facebook. Just a lot of links to my stories, general discussions on the weather – and the occasional pointed thread about how lazy my co-workers are. You know, normal stuff.

  Then it progressed. My stalker started nagging me. Nothing major, just minor things: You dress like that for work? Don’t you think you spend too much time playing video games? Isn’t it time for a haircut?

  Then, things started to get uncomfortable. My stalker started telling my co-workers and friends what they should be doing as well: Don’t encourage her to be obnoxious. I can see why she’s so unbalanced, you people are unbalanced, too. You all need to see if you can get a group rate on a shrink.

  The stalking then spread to my cell phone.

  At first, it was just texts: Hi, how are you? What are you doing? Don’t you want to talk to me? Why won’t you answer me? Why are you so ungrateful? I won’t forget this, believe me.

  It wasn’t that I was purposely ignoring the texts – no really. It was just that I was legitimately busy. Then, when I read them, I was glad I missed them.

  Things only got progressively worse – especially when the requests for Skype and FaceTime started coming in on a daily basis. I won’t do that with anyone, let alone my stalker. I cannot fathom sitting in a chair and holding up a cell phone and taping myself talking to someone. It’s too surreal to even contemplate.

  Why am I telling you this now? Because my phone is ringing, and Caller ID is identifying it as my stalker. I want a witness in case the police need to be called – or dental records eventually become necessary.

  “What do you want?” I probably shouldn’t be antagonizing from the onset, but I’ve seriously had it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m working.”

  “You’re always working.”

  “So it should come as no surprise that I’m working now, should it?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me!”

  “I’m not taking a tone! What do you want?” I’m seriously considering changing my phone number – even if it means I’ll be cut-off from the sources I’ve cultivated over the last few years. That’s how dire things have become.

  “I want to know if you’re coming for dinner?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I hedged. It’s best not to antagonize crazy people.

  “Avery Elizabeth Shaw! You had better not miss dinner. You blew me off last time, and I will not tolerate you doing it again!”

  Uh-oh, the middle name had come out. This must be serious. “Fine. I will make . . . every effort to make it to dinner.”

  “On time.”

  “On time,” I lied.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll come to your work – and I’ll dance. Everyone will think I’m a crazy person.”

  There it was: the inevitable threat that would always make me crumble. “For crying out loud, I said I would come, mom,” I practically exploded.

  The sound of my mother’s long-suffering sigh on the other end of the phone was enough to make my stomach tumble. I was definitely in for the world’s biggest guilt trip when I did finally make it to family dinner. I had only missed one in the last six months – but that was a capital offense in my family. You can get arrested. You can go to rehab. You can accidentally drive a car into the river. You can’t miss family dinner, though.

  I hung up – after a few more minutes of steadfast promises that my attendance at family dinner would actually happen – and seriously considered throwing my phone through a wall.

  My name is Avery Shaw. I’m a local reporter in Macomb County, Michigan, and I’m seriously considering going into witness protection to hide from my mother. I don’t know when she discovered technology – but it’s going to be the death of me, I swear. It was fine when she was just playing Plants vs. Zombies: that didn’t affect me. It’s quite another, though, when her obsession starts interfering with mine. I haven’t even had a chance to play Lego: Lord of the Rings yet – and I’ve had the game for two weeks. That’s just unacceptable.

  I’ve been a reporter at The Monitor – Macomb County’s longest running newspaper – for the past few years. I cover the police beat and general reporting. It’s basically crime, politics and ordinary features.

  Lately, besides being on my mother’s own personal shit list, I was also on my boss’ shit list. Last month, one of my co-workers had died in the parking lot. In my zest to uncover the truth about her death, I had inadvertently become involved in a huge drug bust that resulted in a few dead bodies, my cousin going to rehab, my co-worker getting caught in a house explosion and the pawnshop owner I was intermittently crushing on being shot. That was after I accidentally hit him with my car, of course.

  I had spent the last month with my nose pressed to the grindstone – well, for me anyway – and I’d made a concerted effort to be a solid and reliable employee. No one at work seemed to believe my new work ethic would stick, though. I found their disbelief hurtful – and understandable. I’m not great with follow through.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  I turned to see my editor, Fred Fish, standing behind me. It was casual Friday, so instead of wearing his usual suit he was wearing a tracksuit straight out of the1980s. It made so much noise when he moved, I was surprised he managed to sneak up on me. The online stalking by my mom was seriously starting to derail me. My natural survival instincts were on the fritz.

  “No one,” I answered with false brightness. I was used to Fish being irritated with me, but the outright hostility he’d been regarding me with lately was starting to get uncomfortable. I can’t remember the last time he was this angry with me. It was probably when I called in sick on Jobbie Nooner Friday and went to the big boat party instead of covering it for the paper. I was caught when I showed up in the background of a few of our photographer’s photos.

  “No one?” Fish was regarding me suspiciously. I could see the glint of disbelief in his blue eyes as he peered at me over the top of his reading glasses.

  “Just my mom,” I conceded. I didn’t want him to think I was hiding anything from him – at le
ast right now.

  “Was it important?”

  Just her usual crap. “No.”

  “Good,” Fish supplied. “I have an assignment for you.”

  This was a step in the right direction. He was giving me an assignment in person. For the last month, my assignments had consisted of a series of uncomfortably terse emails – and a stack of obituaries waiting on my desk when I got in each day. Ironically, most of those assignments hadn’t required me to leave the building. I had the distinct impression he didn’t trust me. I have no idea why. Granted, the murder of Darby, one of our editorial assistants, had taken a dark turn. I wasn’t responsible for that, though. Very little of what transpired could actually be blamed on me. Less than half, really.

  “What do you have?” I projected as much fake enthusiasm as I could. I was determined to get out of Fish’s doghouse – even if it meant being one of those bright, shiny people I can’t stand.

  Fish shook his head as he regarded me. I don’t think I was fooling him. “There’s a missing woman out in Romeo.”

  “Romeo? I don’t want to go to Romeo.” So much for getting out of the doghouse. I said it before I even realized what I was doing. I’m not a chronic complainer. What? I’m not. I just don’t want to drive to Romeo. It takes like forty-five minutes – and it’s far too rural for my taste. I avoid any place that isn’t inundated with fast food chains and coffee houses.

  “Well, you’re going,” Fish dismissed my complaints with his patented hand wave. In other words, don’t even bother starting to bitch. It won’t work.

  I sighed internally. I’d better just suck it up. “What do we know about her?”

  “She’s a 32-year-old mother of two,” Fish supplied. “She’s been missing about a week.”

  “Why are we just hearing about this now?”

  “There was some confusion about whether or not she was on a work trip or not,” Fish answered flippantly.

  “Who’s holding the press conference?”

  “The sheriff’s department.”

  Shit.

  “If they’re not sure that foul play is involved, why is the sheriff’s department involved?” I don’t have a problem with the police in general – okay, I do – but I really didn’t want to run into one law enforcement official in particular right now. It just so happened it was Macomb County Sheriff Jake Farrell, my ex-boyfriend. Jake hadn’t spoken to me since the drug bust debacle – and I wasn’t looking forward to our first meeting happening at a press conference.

  “I don’t know,” Fish answered stiffly. I could tell he didn’t want any of my particular brand of drama to infringe on his day. “I guess you’ll find out when you get out there.”

  I can’t wait.

  Fish handed me the piece of paper he was holding in his hand and walked away. I scanned it briefly. It was a press release from the sheriff’s department. There was very little information on it. Just the basics. If I wanted to make it to the press conference on time, I would have to leave now.

  I reluctantly grabbed my purse – it was a vinyl Star Wars model I had stumbled on at Hot Topic the week before – and a notebook and pen. I might as well get this over with. If I was going to get back in Fish’s good graces, I would have to do a good job on this story. Even that might not work, but I had to start somewhere. I’m really sick of typing up obits.

  Two

  The drive out to Romeo is long and tedious. The Monitor is located in Mount Clemens, the county seat of Macomb. It has easy access to I-94 and Gratiot Avenue. Sure, it’s located in front of a sewer plant and next door to a white trash flea market – but it’s also close to the Clinton River and good coffee.

  Romeo, on the other hand, is located in the northern end of the county. There’s no easy way to get there. Essentially, the freeway doesn’t go there. To get there, you have to take several smaller side roads. The farther you drive, the less there is to look at – besides trees. I know some people like that, but I’ve seen enough horror movies that it freaks me out.

  It was early fall, so there were a lot of fruit and vegetable stands erected near the road on North Avenue. The homes out this way are generally old farmhouses with large gardens and a lot of empty acreage. The homeowners like to peddle their garden wares – and quirky craft projects -- this time of year. I was actually considering stopping at one on my way back and picking up some fresh corn. Hey, just because I mock it doesn’t mean I don’t like to eat it.

  I followed the directions on the press release, pulling into a windy subdivision off of 32 Mile Road. This is a rich area. The homes are all at least two stories – and many are modern colonials intermixed with older Victorians. It’s a subdivision – but it’s not a normal subdivision. It is much more visually appealing.

  I didn’t have to look too long before I found where the press conference was going to be held. It wasn’t hard. I recognized the Channel 2 news van from several blocks away.

  I parked behind the news van, making a mental note that they were the only television presence in attendance. I saw a reporter I recognized from one of the larger Detroit dailies milling about, and several representatives of smaller weeklies in the area. This wasn’t a full-blown media event – at least not yet. The whole circus only comes out for murders and synthetic drug busts these days. We’re a cynical and hardened bunch, what can I say?

  I searched the area surreptitiously for Jake – all the while pretending I was looking through my purse for a pen. I was relieved when I saw one of his investigators – Tony Winters – instead. It’s not that I don’t want to see Jake; I just don’t want to deal with him when there’s a crowd around. To say that he wasn’t happy with me after what went down last month would be an understatement. Even though we hadn’t dated since high school, there were times when we slipped back into old rhythms. The fact that I had accidentally stolen a flash drive with important evidence on it from one of his crime scenes hadn’t exactly endeared me to him. The old rhythm we were slipping into at this point was outright rage on his part and mild contrition on my part.

  I made my way over to the gathered reporters, greeting the two from the weeklies and nodding to the Detroit reporter. I ignored the television reporter. In general, reporters segregate themselves into two groups: Television and print. The television reporters are all about flash – and promoting themselves. The print reporters are all about finding the truth and reporting it in the best possible way. What? That is totally true. It’s not just perception, I swear.

  Tony smiled at me when he saw me. I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely happy to see me – or if he was just entertained by the stories that, I’m sure, were flying around the sheriff’s department about me. I’m something of a local celebrity. Celebrity, disaster, they’re both the same thing aren’t they?

  “Hey, Tony.”

  “Avery, how are you?”

  “Good,” I lied.

  “That’s good. We’ll be getting started in a minute.”

  “No hurry.” I can’t afford to piss him off, too. Right now, I’m persona non grata at the sheriff’s department. I can use all the backup I can get.

  “You’re Avery Shaw?” I turned to see that the Channel 2 reporter had approached me. I recognized her vaguely. I think her name was Ariel Cook. She was young, with perfectly coiffed hair and a stylishly pressed suit. I hated her on sight.

  “I am,” I said to her stiffly.

  “The Avery Shaw that was in the middle of that drug bust last month?”

  I saw Tony try to hide his smile. “I wasn’t in the middle of it,” I protested. “I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.” That’s the story of my life. In fact, it will probably be the title of my autobiography: Avery Shaw: She Was At the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.

  “I thought a body was found at your cousin’s apartment?” The reporter looked confused. I was guessing that was her perpetual state. She was named after The Little Mermaid, what do you expect?

  “She didn’t kill anyone,
” I argued. Lexie, my cousin, had been caught up with some very bad people. They had been manufacturing meth. Lexie, a chronic pot smoker, had decided to go to rehab after a nitrous tank exploded in the hallway of her building and she was evicted. She was due to get out of rehab any day now.

  “I didn’t say she killed anyone,” the reporter didn’t seem dissuaded by my tone. She’d learn.

  “You insinuated she did,” I countered.

  “I did not.”

  “You did, too.”

  Tony swiftly stepped between us. “We’re going to start the press conference now,” he said smoothly.

  Ariel Cook smiled at him sweetly. “Thank you, officer,” she cooed.

  What a fake. I glanced down at her shoes. Payless, no doubt. I noticed she was looking at my new Converse Arkham Asylum high-tops with equal disdain. I have a weird thing for shoes – but only if they’re cute and comfortable. I think you can tell a lot about someone from their shoes. I could tell that this woman spent a lot on suits and nothing on shoes. What a waste. Of course, she probably took one look at my shoes and thought I belonged in an asylum myself – preferably that creepy one Jessica Lange is presiding over on FX these days.

  Tony stepped to the center of everyone and started talking. He laid out the facts. Sarah Frank was, by all accounts, a reliable wife and mother. She worked for an insurance firm in Detroit, while her husband, Brian Frank, had a small business at home. Last Friday, after an argument with her husband, Sarah had left the house in a hired car that was supposed to take her to the airport for a flight to the Bahamas. No one had seen her since.

  “When was she reported missing?” I asked.

  “Yesterday,” Tony answered.

  “Why so long?”

  “The husband thought that she was still mad and that’s why she didn’t call from the Bahamas.”

  The husband totally did it. What? I’m not jumping to conclusions. That would be unprofessional, after all.

  “What did her boss say?”

  “He said that, when Sarah missed the flight, he just assumed she had something going on at home. She had told him that she might not be able to make the trip and he figured that something had come up at home that had prohibited her from making the trip this week.”