Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  She finally gave up around four. Wired from too much coffee, realizing there would be no sleep for her that night, Scottie decided to take advantage of the remaining hours of darkness and head back to Richmond. She stripped off her clothes and was stepping into Amy’s shower when she caught sight of her press pass tangled up with her black tunic on the floor. She picked up the pass and ran her finger across her name printed on the card.

  How could you be so stupid?

  11

  The four-hour drive home gave Scottie a chance to ponder her dilemma, and as much as she wanted to taste the glory of success, to be the photographer to bring the presidential election to a screeching halt, her conscience prevented her from contacting her news sources until she identified the stranger, until she knew for certain the man wasn’t Catherine Caine’s third cousin twice removed.

  With seventy-nine percent relative humidity and temperatures soaring near a hundred, Scottie broke out into a sweat the minute she stepped from her car in front of her house. Slinging her bags over her shoulder, she trudged up the sidewalk to her front door, surprised to find it slightly ajar. Her immediate thought was that Will or her parents had stopped by, but she’d forgotten to give either of them a spare key that fit the new locks. After their talk at the farm, she didn’t think Brad would break in, but his drug usage had made his behavior unpredictable lately. Pushing the door open, she called, “Brad, are you in here?”

  An eerie silence greeted her.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped across the threshold and into the foyer. The devastation in her living room sent shivers down her spine. Whoever had broken in had overturned most of the furniture and ripped apart the pillows from her sofa. Feathers covered nearly every surface. Her nineteenth-century Rose Medallion vase that once stood proudly on the mantle lay shattered in pieces on the hearth. A surge of anger pumped through her body, but was quickly replaced by fear. Throwing beer bottles at the exterior of her house was one thing, but she didn’t think her husband would destroy her most prized possession. The process of elimination led to only one possible scenario. Whoever had broken into her house was looking for the digital image files of Caine and her mystery man.

  She dumped her duffel onto the floor beside the stairs, but held tight to her electronics bag, the bag that held the evidence the intruder wanted. Leaving the front door wide open, she tiptoed down the hall where more destruction awaited her in the kitchen and family rooms. Grabbing the sharpest knife from the block on the counter, she searched both floors room by room, checking every closet and under every bed. Satisfied the house was empty, she locked the front door and texted her brother: Someone broke into my house. Can you come over?

  He texted back: On my way.

  When she greeted him at the door fifteen minutes later, after a quick glance up and down the street, Scottie yanked Will inside and locked the door behind her.

  “What the hell, Scottie? You’re acting paranoid.” Then he caught sight of the mess in the living room. “Brad, that asshole. Did you call the police?”

  “Brad didn’t do this. He came out to the farm on Sunday to see me. We made nice.”

  Will raised his eyebrows in question. “You made nice?”

  “You know what I mean. As nice as two people can be who are getting divorced.”

  “I don’t understand.” He motioned toward the living room. “Who would want to ransack your house if not Brad?”

  “People looking for some photographs I took.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said. “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time, Scott?”

  “A big one. So what else is new?”

  Will rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess you’d better show me the photographs.”

  “They’re on my computer in the kitchen.”

  He followed her to the back of the house.

  She closed the plantation shutters, not that a stranger could get passed the yipping Yorkie Terrors in the backyard next door. She set her laptop on the kitchen counter and accessed Lightroom. The image of Catherine Caine kissing the stranger filled the screen.

  Will glanced at the photograph, and then did a double take. “Whoa! That’s Senator Caine.” He leaned in closer to the computer. “That’s not her husband though, is it?”

  “I’ve been on the Internet all night trying to identify this man. I’ve studied every photograph ever taken of Catherine Caine, and I can assure you that is not her husband. I have no idea who he is.” Scottie scrolled through the three pictures, pausing to give her brother a chance to examine each one.

  Will rubbed his eyes with his balled fist as if to clear them. “Where and when did you take these?”

  “I took them last night in the alley behind the convention center after Caine’s acceptance speech.”

  Will’s mouth fell open. “You mean to tell me you just waltzed into a dark alley, marched up to the presidential candidate, and said cheese?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t waltz, march, or say cheese. I hid behind a row of trashcans.”

  “Where the hell was the Secret Service?”

  “They were there, in the alley, but they didn’t see me. I was wearing dark clothing and a baseball cap pulled down over my head, covering my face.”

  “Didn’t they sweep the alley?”

  “I guess. If you want to call their lame walk-through a sweep.” Scottie went to the refrigerator and poured two glasses of sweet tea. “Here, sit,”—she handed him a glass—”and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  For the next ten minutes, she fed him blow-by-blow details of the events in the alley and subsequent chase.

  When she finished talking, Will said, “Since I haven’t seen anything about any of this on the news today, I’m guessing you haven’t sold the photographs.”

  “Not yet. I haven’t decided what to do.” She slid the computer in front of him. “Look at them closely. Tell me what you see.”

  He scrolled back and forth, inspecting each photograph closely. “The man’s kiss is close enough to Caine’s lips to suggest familiarity, but it’s not a full-fledged kiss like lovers have.” He clicked to the next shot. “Same thing with the embrace. A friendly greeting, but not necessarily one that exudes passion.” He closed the laptop. “As far as whether or not Senator Caine is romantically involved with this man, I’d have to say the evidence is inconclusive. I would love for it to be true, because a scandal like this would ruin the election for the Democrats. But based on the images, I don’t think you should assume these two people are having an affair.”

  “That’s what I thought too, until an hour ago when I came home and found my house torn apart.” She waved her hand at the computer. “Why would someone break into my house looking for the digital files unless they had something to hide?”

  “And you assume that someone is Senator Caine?”

  “Or one of her team members,” Scottie said. “The Democratic Party has the most to lose if those photos go viral.”

  Will pursed his lips in thought. “I’m not sure you can say that with absolute certainty until you know who this man is. He may have as much at stake as Caine does.”

  “I seriously doubt that. He’s not a congressman. I went through all five hundred and thirty-five of them. He’s not a Fortune 500 corporate exec or on the Forbes list of the richest people in the world.”

  “Hmm.” Will scratched his chin as he considered the possibilities. “Maybe he’s a big donor who prefers to remain anonymous?”

  “He’s definitely anonymous,” Scottie said. “The man doesn’t exist. At least not as far as the Internet is concerned.”

  Will brought his fingers to his forehead. “Off the top of my head, I can think of ten different scenarios why a wealthy man would want to protect his identity. He could be English royalty, fifth in line for the throne. Or a Saudi Arabian oil baron. Or a South African diamond miner.”

  “Yes!” She smacked the counter with the palms of her hands. “The more
prestigious the man, the juicier my story will be. I can see the headlines now: Senator Catherine Caine Has Romantic Interlude with Wealthy Playboy.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Scott. You need to carefully consider how you proceed. Whoever it is you are dealing with already broke the law by breaking into your house. Do you realize your life might be in danger?”

  “No one wants to hurt me,” she said. “They just want to get their hands on the digital files.”

  “Then why not sell the photographs to ABC News and be done with it?” Will suggested. “Going public with the images will remove the pot of gold from the lion’s den.”

  “And miss out on my big chance? No way. If Catherine Caine is in fact having an affair with this man, someone will eventually break the story. And I want that someone to be me.”

  Will buried his face in his hands in frustration. After a minute, when a thought struck him, he looked back up at her. “You said earlier that you were wearing dark clothing and a baseball hat. How did these people who broke into your house identify you so quickly?”

  Scottie removed her press pass from her camera bag and dropped it on the counter. “Exhibit A.”

  Will picked up the press pass. “Please tell me you weren’t wearing this in the alley.”

  She shrugged. “I forgot I had it on. My goal was to get a family friendly photo of the senator, not rock the biggest scandal in American politics since Monica Lewinsky had oral sex with Bill Clinton in the Oval Office.”

  “There you go getting ahead of yourself again. You need to do your homework before you break the story. I’m sure this encounter is easily explained.”

  “Give me a little credit, Will. I’m a professional. I have every intention of investigating the situation. But I have a gut feeling about this. And my ransacked house is evidence that there is more to this encounter than meets the eye.” Scottie slid the computer in front of her and began saving files.

  “Listen to me, Scottie. You can’t handle this situation alone.” Will’s voice was full of desperation. “You need to call the FBI or the local authorities. Why don’t you simply go to Caine directly and ask for an exclusive interview in exchange for the files?”

  She slammed the laptop shut and hopped off her bar stool. Grabbing a handful of Will’s shirt, she dragged him to his feet. “Thanks for coming over, little bro, but you need to go now.” She took his hand and led him down the hall to the foyer.

  “What are you planning, Scottie?”

  “I’m a sitting duck here, waiting for Caine’s people to come after me. I’m going to DC. I know someone there who can help me identify this man. By the way”—she removed a key from the drawer in the small table beside the front door—”I had my locks changed last week when I kicked Brad out. Here’s the new spare.”

  “Just in case I have time this weekend to clean this mess up?”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. “This mess isn’t going anywhere. I’ll deal with it when I get home.”

  Will removed her old spare from his key ring and replaced it with the new one. “Aren’t you leaving for the Olympics soon?”

  She shook her head. “Not until next week. We’ll have pizza night before I go.”

  Will reached for the doorknob, but then stopped and turned to her, his face serious. “Promise me you’ll call me, no matter what time or where you are, if you get in over your head.”

  “You have no reason to worry about me.”

  “Ha. Since when?”

  “Okay, you have plenty of reason to worry about me, based on my poor decisions of late, but I promise I’ll be careful. And I’ll call you at the first sign of trouble.”

  “I don’t believe you, but okay. Do you need any money?”

  “Now you sound like Dad.” She opened the door and shoved him out onto the stoop. “But I appreciate your concern more than you know.”

  She closed the door behind him and wheeled her small suitcase up the stairs. The vandalism to the upstairs rooms was even more disheartening for Scottie. What kind of person destroys a baby’s nursery? She closed the door and vowed to dismantle the room and give the furniture to charity as soon as she returned home from the Olympics. Sorting through the clothes strewn across her bedroom, she removed the dirty ones from her suitcase and stuffed it full with clean T-shirts and jeans.

  She returned to her laptop in the kitchen and made two password-protected copies of the image files, saving one on each of her cloud drives. She exported another copy of the files to a thumb drive, which she hid in the box of tampons in her suitcase where no man would dare to search. With a pair of scissors, she cut a small slit in the lining of her electronics bag and slipped the memory card with the original raw image files inside. She would have to tear the bag apart in order to get the memory card out.

  If it came to that, she was in more trouble than her brother could bail her out of.

  12

  Scottie was stowing her bags in her car when Will called. “I’m pretty sure someone followed me back to work. You are in over your head, Scott. Call the police. Now.”

  She slammed the rear door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. What kind of investigative reporter would I be if I called the police?”

  “A safe one. You are playing a very dangerous game, and you need to get some help.”

  “Which is why I’m heading to DC. You’ve got to stop worrying about me so much.”

  “That’s hard to do considering your track record.”

  “I’ll be fine. Gotta go now. I’ll text you from DC.” She ended the call.

  As soon as she pulled away from the curb, a nondescript sedan fell in behind her. The one distinguishing feature on the four-door, gray Ford Taurus was the blue and gold Pennsylvania license plates.

  Scottie made a right-hand turn at the Stop sign. When the Ford followed her, she took a quick left and another hard right. Sure enough, the Ford stuck close to her bumper. At the next red light, through the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of the large man who was driving. His face was hidden behind dark glasses and a baseball cap. She saw the shadow of a figure in the passenger seat, but she couldn’t make out the features enough to tell whether the person was male or female.

  I know this town a lot better than you do, buddy. When the light turned green, she sped off down Eighth Street. Zipping around downtown, weaving in and out of traffic, she gained distance on the Taurus, although she could still see him in her rearview mirror struggling to keep up. She zoomed down Canal Street and worked her way over to Hollywood Cemetery. The Taurus was closing in on her when she passed through the main gates. She raced past the row of mausoleums beside the river and careened up the hill just beyond Jefferson Davis’s gravesite. Scottie knew Hollywood better than her own neighborhood from the frequent visits to her grandparents’ graves. She quickly lost her pursuers in the hundred-plus acres of valleys and hills that served as the final resting place for two American presidents and thousands of Confederate soldiers—including twenty-two generals. Departing the cemetery from the other side, she got on the downtown expressway, and with frequent glances in her rearview mirror, headed up Interstate 95 toward Washington.

  Scottie was ten miles outside of town when she realized Guy’s cell number was the only contact information she had for him. She had no idea who he worked for or where he lived. She exited the interstate in Ashland and drove to the nearest shopping center where she located an ATM machine and withdrew the balance in her checking account. Other than the money she needed for her trip to Rio, which was tucked away in her savings account, she was flat broke. Crossing the highway to a convenience store, she filled her tank with gas and purchased a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke from inside the store. She sat in her car in the parking lot composing her text to Guy while she ate her lunch. She kept the tone professional so as not to give him the wrong idea.

  Sorry I missed you at the convention yesterday. I’m
on my way to DC and would like to meet with you privately about an urgent matter. I look forward to hearing from you regarding your availability.

  She set her cell phone in the center console, with the screen facing up, to await his response.

  Without Guy, she didn’t have a plan. Even if he didn’t work for the Secret Service or the Department of Homeland Security, he might know someone with access to software that might identify Caine’s mystery man.

  She was nearing Alexandria and beginning to worry she wouldn’t hear from him when she received his text: I’m wrapping things up at work. I’ll meet you at my apartment in an hour. He included the address of his apartment building on Massachusetts Avenue near Logan Circle.

  She drove willy-nilly around the DC business district until she was certain no one was following her. She parked her Mini in Guy’s parking deck and went inside the lobby to wait for him. He arrived ninety minutes later.

  “I’m sorry. I got caught up in a meeting.” He led her by the elbow to the elevator. “Let’s go up to my apartment where we can talk.”

  They rode up to the fourth floor, and then walked down the hallway to his apartment. He unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter. “It’s small but works for me. I prefer to live alone, so I can’t afford much.”

  The main living space included a kitchen and sitting room, which also served as his home office judging from the messy desk in the corner. What Scottie assumed was the master bedroom opened off to the side. She felt like she was on her family’s farm amongst the leather furniture and oriental rugs. Her eyes traveled to the set of bull horns on the wall over his bedroom door. “A souvenir from the ranch, I presume?”

  He laughed. “Something like that. Have a seat.” He motioned to the sofa and they sat down side by side. “Tell me how I can help.”