Honor Redeemed

by Loree Lough

  “How’s ‘impersonating a professional’ sit with you?”

  “You need some new material,” he said, accepting the cop’s hearty handshake. “So how goes it, Sam?”

  “It goes.” He gave the rookie a quick once-over. “I see you’ve met Matt Phillips, big-shot reporter.”

  “Don’t know about the big-shot part,” said the newbie, “but I knew he worked for the Sun. Saw him talking to Finley couple weeks back, when that truck got hung up on the Key Bridge.” He said to Matt, “Austin says you two go way back, to before 9/11.”

  If this wasn’t a “gotcha” moment, Matt didn’t know what was. Caught, trying to pass himself off as a firefighter, then reminded of his days as a down-on-his-luck beat reporter in New York. The image of the smoking mountain of rubble that had been the World Trade Center flashed in his mind’s eye, and he quickly blinked it away. Better to focus on the good times that happened before that awful day because God knew there weren’t many afterward, for him or Austin. “Don’t know who was dumber back then, him or me.”

  “From what I know,” Sam said, smirking, “that’d be you.”

  Chuckling, the newbie laughed and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Gibson,” he said as Matt shook it. “Abe Gibson.”

  Instinct made all three men duck and press their hats to their heads as a helicopter hovered overhead, spotlighting the still-smoldering jetliner. “So what’s the count?” Matt shouted over the roar of rotors.

  “How long have you been here?” Sam asked.

  ” ‘Bout ten minutes.”

  “Then you must’ve seen the ambos …”

  Matt shook his head. “No, I came the back way, to save time.”

  Sam harrumphed. “Not enough time, then.” He told Matt that so far, no one knew what had brought the plane down, but, by his estimate, a couple dozen people, pulled from vehicles that skidded into the crash site, were on their way to area hospitals. “Half dozen more were medevac’d to shock trauma, and that’s just here at the river. Before the sun’s up, I expect that number will triple on 95.”

  Triple, at least, Matt thought, remembering what he’d seen over there. He was wondering if his contact at the University of Maryland’s R Adams Cowley Center was on duty when Abe said, “You really okay talking about all this in front of a reporter?”

  Sam responded to a signal from a cop across the way. “Be there in two,” he bellowed, holding up two fingers before facing Abe. “Matt, here, is good people. Most trustworthy reporter I know.”

  “Trustworthy and reporter don’t even belong in the same sentence.”

  All three men turned toward the sultry female voice. Matt recognized her as Honor Mackenzie, who’d been featured on TV and in the papers for her work with search and rescue dogs. Twice, he’d seen her in person, too. The first time had been about a year after losing Faith, when he’d covered the collapse of a parking garage, and then about six months ago, after a construction trench gave way and buried two guys laying cable for Verizon. Both times, Liam had sent him to cover the cause of the cave-ins, not the rescues. And both times, Matt had to suppress guilt inspired by the feelings Honor had stirred. What kind of guy had thoughts like that so soon after losing his wife? Not a loving husband, for sure.

  Yet here he stood, thinking them again.

  Judging by the looks on Sam and Abe’s faces, they felt the same way. Not that Matt could blame them. Honor was sure easy on the eyes. “Where’s Rowdy?” he asked, mostly to change the subject.

  “Back in the SUV,” she said, but her attitude added, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Well,” Abe said, backpedaling toward the river, “let’s hope you won’t need the dog.”

  Honor never took her wary eyes off Matt. “You’ve got some nerve, cowboy,” she all but growled, “impersonating a first responder.”

  He’d run into plenty of people who aligned with the “reporters are scum” mind-set, but she had them all beat. By a long shot.

  She took a step closer. “I read all about how you won an award for that piece about that slimeball who conned a bunch of old folks out of their life savings. I guess you got that story masquerading as a banker, huh?”

  Matt was half tempted to defend himself by admitting he’d never written a word that couldn’t be substantiated, even when his gut told him the unsubstantiated stuff was 100 percent true. But why waste his breath?

  She crossed her arms. “So, does it work?”

  He bristled a bit under her scrutinizing glare and hoped his stiff-backed posture would hide it. “Does what work?”

  “You know, skulking around like a sewer rat in search of really good gore for your front page.”

  Maybe she’d been dumped by some slimy reporter. Or a slimy reporter had written something damaging about her. Later, he’d find out what had turned her into an unbridled reporter-hater. For now, he said, “I’m not fussy. Run-of-themill gore will do.”

  She rolled her eyes. The biggest, greenest, longest-lashed eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Get this big goof out of here,” she told Sam, “before he gets hurt. Or gets somebody else hurt.” Halfway between where they stood and the river, she stopped. “Hey, Sam,” she yelled, “I think you oughta arrest him. For impersonating a firefighter. Think writing about that’ll earn him a Pulitzer?”

  “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” Sam said, shaking his head as she jogged back into the woods, “if I wasn’t married, and old enough to be her father, and thirty pounds overweight …”

  He laughed, cleared his throat, and didn’t stop talking about the crash until Matt had scrawled pages of notes. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a donut, to show my appreciation?” He nodded toward the parade of TV news trucks and reporters, trying to penetrate the line of cops that kept them far from their story. “Ain’t every day the paper beats ‘em to something this big.”

  “Just keep my name out of it. Anybody wants to know what we were talking about, I’m gonna tell ‘em you were pumping me for information about Mack,” he said, heading back toward the jetliner, “and I said you’re not good enough for her, no matter what anybody says.”

  No matter what anybody said? “Good way to pique a reporter’s interest!” But he didn’t have time to follow Sam for details. Not if he hoped to file his story in time for the morning edition and get home before the boys woke up.

  Once he’d thanked Harriet and sent her home with a fistful of fives—and a mug so full of milk and sugar it seemed dishonest to call it coffee—he’d put the twins on the bus and head back to Calvert Street. Traffic downtown was bound to be easier to maneuver by then, and if he was lucky, Liam would have another juicy assignment waiting in the queue.

  Staying busy was about the only thing that would keep his mind off the feelings Honor Mackenzie had awakened inside him … and the pounding guilt that went with them.

  3

  Honor hated quoting tired old clichés, but seriously, the nerve of some people!

  Bad enough Phillips tried to pass himself off as a firefighter. If the guy was Sam’s idea of trustworthy, she hated to think what the cop’s version of dishonest looked like. No doubt, the reporter was shooting for another Pulitzer-winning story, but not even furthering his career excused the conscienceless way he’d tried to pry facts from rescue personnel, even those in the thick of administering aid.

  Correction. Phillips hadn’t tried. He’d succeeded, and the proof was splattered across the front page of this morning’s Baltimore Sun. The memory of him scurrying back and forth, pad and pen in hand as he questioned the dazed flight crew was bad enough. But then he’d started in on ambulatory victims. The full-color photo of the copilot, head wrapped in white gauze and nose hidden by a metal splint, infuriated her. “Some people will do anything for a minute in the spotlight,” she griped, tossing the paper onto the kitchen table. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out he had a few other traits in common with her Uncle Mike.

  Rowdy rested his head on her knee and whimpered,
as if to say, “Easy, Mack. What’s done is done.”

  “How’d Phillips get those pictures?” she wondered aloud, absently patting Rowdy’s head. “I never saw him with a camera.”

  Rerun stepped up for a little attention and echoed his brother’s whine. Honor ruffled his fur, too, then shoved back from the table. “Person can’t nurse a grudge, even for a minute,” she said, grinning, “with the two of you around.”

  The pair danced in spirited circles beside her chair, and then Rowdy tugged his leash from the hook beside the back door. “Sorry, handsome,” she said, putting it back, “no time for a walk this morning.” Stooping, she hugged them both. “I promise. Tonight. Before supper. You. Me. Around the block.” She drew an invisible circle in the air. “Twice. K?”

  They yipped happily as she grabbed her bag—more a combination first-aid kit and briefcase than purse—and headed into the garage. She grabbed the newspaper on the way, thinking to read the rest of it during her lunch hour. “That’s a joke,” she muttered, firing up her boxy SUV. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d taken a real lunch break in the past year and have fingers left over. According to her coworkers, Howard County General had been a beehive of activity, even before the merger with Johns Hopkins. If management had planned smarter, the crew insisted, they would have hired another clerk or two. But if they had, Honor couldn’t count on overtime hours to help bypass destructive, self-pitying thoughts … and redirect gossip about her past.

  The downward spiral began when her fiancé joined half a dozen firefighter pals in New York to help carry survivors— and those who didn’t make it—from the rubble. If she’d known he’d become a victim of 9/11, too, Honor wouldn’t have been so supportive of his decision to volunteer all those years ago. Wouldn’t have joined the department after his funeral in personal tribute to his sacrifice. Wouldn’t have made the biggest blunder of her young life. To be fair, she’d had help with that last one. But even now it was still hard to believe that one unscrupulous TV correspondent had the power to destroy her career and her reputation with one broadcast and nearly take her lieutenant down at the same time.

  Nearly two years had passed since Brady Shaw’s reputationdestroying story hit the airwaves. She’d dealt with the whole Uncle Mike fiasco; shouldn’t she have a better handle on the bitter, depressing emotions aroused by the article by now?

  “Evidently not,” Honor grumbled as she drove past the hospital entrance. Annoyed at her lack of concentration, she went into a U-turn but didn’t cut the wheel sharply enough. The scrape of her hubcap, grinding against the curb made her wince and hit the brake. Which made the guy behind her lean on his horn.

  “Yeah, well,” she said when he sped by, mouthing God knew what and shaking his fist, “same to you, buddy.”

  Tempting as it was to sit in the parking lot, pounding the steering wheel and cussing her bad luck, Honor didn’t dare. SAR missions had made her late for work three times this month, most recently, just three days ago. How long before her so-called pals in the billing department called her boss to task for allowing her to get away with repeated tardiness? The appearance of favoritism had been at the root of her other troubles, and Honor had no desire to help that history repeat itself.

  Head down, she tucked her keys and gloves into her bag and looked up in time to see the blue-uniformed EMT at the elevator … but not soon enough to keep from colliding with him.

  “Holy mackerel, girl,” Austin said, steadying her, “where’s the fire?”

  “Sorry. I’m this close to being late.” She groaned. “Again.”

  He returned her smile. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “Only my pride.”

  He thumbed the elevator’s Up button. “That was some mess last night, eh?”

  “I’ll say. What time did you get out of there?”

  “Not till about half hour ago. What about you?”

  “Same here. Didn’t even have time to shower. Just fed and watered the dogs and let ‘em out for a potty break.” And caused some poor guy to lose his cool. “So what’s the latest?”

  A furrow formed between his eyebrows. “Two went from critical to stable, one died.”

  “Awful,” she said. Hopefully, neither of the little blond kid’s parents. He’d have plenty to cope with, just being a survivor, without losing his mom or dad. Or worse, both. “Has anybody come up with a total yet?”

  “Not that I know of. Just the info from that last report— twenty-seven dead.”

  And let’s pray the number doesn’t rise in the next few days.

  So far, the only really positive news to filter down from higherups was the report stating that every passenger—those on the plane and the ones in the vehicles it had crushed— had been accounted for. That left nothing to do but wait—and pray—that every patient hospitalized by the crash would improve enough to move from the critical to the stable list and that those deemed “stable” could go home.

  “Will you be at T-Bonz tonight?”

  One way or another, she usually got wind of get-togethers at the steak house, where first responders observed birthdays and holidays or gathered to blow off steam. But she hadn’t heard about this one. “What’re you guys celebrating tonight?”

  “My engagement.”

  Honor smiled, and for the first time today, her heart was in it. “No kidding? Austin, that’s great news!” She gave him a congratulatory hug. “So who’s the lucky lady … the one I saw you with a couple weeks ago?”

  Austin nodded. “Yeah. Her name’s Mercy.” One shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. “We go way back. Had some issues, but … long story.” The shoulder rose again as the elevator doors opened. “That’s history now, thank God.” He stepped into the car. “You’d love her, Mack. And she’d love you, too. See you at seven? The wings are on me.”

  Honor was about to say thanks but no thanks when the doors hissed shut. And then she remembered the advice Elton gave her a couple of weeks ago: “How are people supposed to know you’re innocent of what that sorry excuse for a reporter accused you of if you don’t socialize a little, let the guys get to know the real you?”

  She reminded him that “the real her” didn’t care much for socializing. “If I didn’t have to work full time to keep the wolf from the door, I’d be content, living a hermit’s life.” Then she wondered aloud if she had the backbone to take it on the chin when they put her to the test with hard questions and judgmental comments.

  “You’re already taking it on the chin,” he’d pointed out, “so what have you got to lose?”

  True enough, she decided, seated at her desk with two minutes to spare before starting time. A sign that her life was about to take a turn for the better?

  Only one way to find out.

  4

  Elbows leaning on a bar-height table, Austin waved Matt over. “Hey, dude, you remember the love of my life,” he said, sliding an arm around the dark-haired beauty beside him.

  Matt kissed her cheek. “It’s good to see you again. You look gorgeous, as always.” Shaking Austin’s hand, he added, “Congratulations, bud. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  Elton hollered from the next table. “Neither did any of the rest of us.”

  “Took you long enough,” came another voice from across the room.

  Someone else put in his two cents. “Let’s not go countin’ chickens till after the I do’s.”

  Masculine laughter bounced from every wall as WJZ’s evening anchor Vic Carter passed the baton to Bob Turk, who launched into the weather report.

  “How come you ain’t doin’ TV news?” Elton wanted to know.

  “Yeah, Phillips,” Sam agreed. “How come?”

  Julia delivered beer and sodas as her boss slid two plates of wings—one spicy, one regular—onto the table. “Good question,” the owner said, ” ‘cause you’re sure purty enough.”

  The wisecrack invited another round of good-natured laughter. “Better watch it, Derek,”
someone said. “There’s a rumor going around that your wife’s the jealous type.”

  “Like the fire chief’s wife, y’mean?”

  Matt didn’t recognize those last two voices, but he could identify the new mood that had spread through the restaurant: subdued. He sat back, listening as the guys volleyed hearsay about the affair back and forth. And they say women are gossipy, he thought as each tacked on a personal observation.

  In the years since her engagement had ended, they said, Honor had failed at two additional relationships. He was still bristling from the brusque inquisition she’d given him at the crash site and wondered if what he’d just overheard—about her relationship with her loo—explained her attitude and solitary status. Maybe the swirl of controversy stirred up by the TV news story, and the half a dozen equally damaging articles that followed, had been too much for the guys to handle.

  Her heart-stopping green eyes sparked in his memory. Unconsciously, Matt shook his head, unable to believe she could have used her good looks to climb the fire department ranks. Hours spent face to face, interviewing rapists and robbers, hookers and killers had honed his people-reading skills to a keen edge. It seemed to him that despite all the effort she’d put into matching their tough, untouchable expressions, Honor had a long way to go if she hoped to hide flashes of—he couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly—vulnerability? Loneliness? If she was guilty of anything, his gut told him, it was bad acting. Besides, if memory served, hadn’t it been a stationhouse lieutenant, and not the fire chief, who’d shared the controversial spotlight with her? If the guys could distort something that important, they’d no doubt messed up other pertinent details, too. Matt made up his mind, then and there, to reserve judgment until he’d had a chance to roust out the facts.

  As if cued by a Hollywood director, the door opened. Bright sunlight spilled into the restaurant’s semi-darkened interior, silhouetting a shapely figure and haloing gleaming auburn curls.

  Honor.

  She moved with the grace of a gazelle … until the place fell silent. It was clear by the look on her face that Honor knew why everyone had so abruptly stopped talking. Matt racked his brain for something—anything—that might put her at ease.