Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Jane turned back to her pad, flipping the spiral-bound pages. She didn’t like to take notes on her computer, even though it was more efficient. Callers could hear the typing, and it often made them nervous. Especially if they were counting on being confidential. Half the time Jane had trouble reading her own scrawly handwriting, but it was better than having a source clam up.

  She blew out a breath as she read over her notes. Had she been too aggressive with poor Tosca? Convincing reluctant people to talk, persuading them to go on camera—that was one of the worst parts of TV reporting. Jane had never quite come to terms with arm-twisting persuasion. Sometimes with an indecisive possible interviewee, especially a crime victim, it crossed her mind to whisper, You know, you don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to go on camera. Just say no, and I’ll go away. But then Jane wouldn’t get the story. And someone else might.

  Plus, how could she know what was in their minds? Maybe they wanted to talk. Maybe it would be beneficial for them to talk. Maybe convincing was exactly what they needed.

  First do no harm, that’s what doctors promised. Part of a journalist’s job was the opposite: to do harm. But only to the bad guys. When it came to the good guys? Especially victims? All Jane could do was be careful with people’s fragile lives.

  “Tosca, huh?” Fiola took out a shiny black compact, checked her teeth, patted a foam puff across her nose, frowned into the tiny mirror. “Got to love that state of mind. A diva. And dead.”

  “Poor thing.” Jane thought about the other person she’d tried to convince to go on camera today. “Did our Adams Bay guy say anything about—”

  “Tarrant didn’t say anything worthwhile about anything.” Fiola snapped her compact closed, waved a dismissive hand. “He was a total jerk.”

  True, Jane remembered. “Mr. Big. Couldn’t wait to get us out of there. Can you imagine being a college student who’d been assaulted? Or drugged? Trying to tell him about what happened at some vodka-fueled frat party?”

  She shook her head, not waiting for Fiola to answer. “There has to be someone else at the college. Like … a rape counselor. Or whatever they’d call it. I think the feds require it now, under the Title Nine law.”

  Jane punched up the Internet, talking while she clicked at her keyboard. “That’s who we should talk to. That’s who’s gonna know.” Jane loved this part, when she got to learn the rules, to pull open the investigative doors, see what went on behind them. If you were going to discover where the system was broken, first you had to know how it was supposed to work.

  She turned back to Fiola, now arranging her hair in the mirror she’d thumbtacked, precariously, to their wall. “I’ll find out.”

  Jane looked at her notes again, thinking about “Tosca” and where she was, and what she said had happened to her. Why would she choose that particular name, a woman doomed by love and revenge? “She might call me tomorrow,” she said. “Cross your fingers.”

  “Go on camera?” Satisfied with her hair, Fiola turned from the mirror. “You think?”

  “Fifty-fifty.” Jane wobbled a maybe hand at her. “But listen, where’s Adams Bay’s procedure for handling these things? Do you have their handbook, or whatever? Seems like the school didn’t support her, and she’s pretty clear the guy was never punished or anything. Oh.” Jane held up one finger, then turned to her computer again. “The guy. She said he’s on Facebook.”

  “Find him. We’ll nail him.” Fiola pointed at Jane’s monitor. “Did she say his name?”

  “No. But we couldn’t say his name and not hers.” Jane shook her head. “That’d be so unfair.”

  “We’re not saying it,” Fiola said, waving her off. “She’d be saying it. Tosca. Not us.”

  “That’s—” A lawsuit waiting to happen, Jane didn’t say. “Anyway. She didn’t give me any way to find him,” Jane lied. Not a chance she was naming a guy without … well, without a criminal conviction. She’d read that Rolling Stone disaster a few years ago. She’d read about Duke. And the kid at UMass Amherst who said his life was ruined by a false accusation.

  She was convinced Tosca was telling the truth. Pretty convinced. But if Tosca didn’t want to show her face, how could they show his? She and Fiola could cross the fairness bridge later, though. No need to argue about identifying hypothetical student rapists. Now, at least.

  “Hey, you two.” Marsh Tyson, a cell phone in each hand, took up all the space in their office doorway. Jacket off, pale blue oxford shirt with white collar, yellow tie. “Burning the midnight oil?”

  Jane smiled, trying to be optimistic. It was hardly ever a good thing if the news director wanted you. And it was never a good thing if the news director was at your door. It could mean an unpleasant assignment. Bad news. A lawsuit. Maybe all of the above. Harder to say no—or make up an excuse—when the boss was looking right at you.

  “Hey, Marsh,” Jane said. “Just working on our—”

  “It’s going great,” Fiola interrupted. “We’ve got an Adams Bay student, a sexual assault victim, who’ll talk on camera about what happened to her.”

  Jane felt her eyes widen.

  “Jane’s clinching it, tomorrow. But we are so rocking this,” Fiola chirped.

  Very high degree of chutzpah, for Fiola to take the credit for Jane’s success, yet still make it Jane’s fault if it fell through. Jane was glad this day was almost over. She hoped Jake wouldn’t be too late, whatever he was doing. His text hadn’t specified.

  “Terrific,” Marsh said. “But, Jane.” He held up one of his cell phones. “Just got a call from the DA’s office. ADA named Frank McCusker?”

  “Yeah,” Jane drew out her answer.

  “You witness some kind of car accident?” he asked. “They want you over there, like, now.”

  “It was a—”

  Marsh held up both phones, not letting her finish. “’Parently you told them about it. Good for you. Said you had to talk to me first. Good for you. However, you didn’t talk to me. Not so good.”

  “Well, just not yet, you know? Because I, we…” Should she have immediately gone to his office? Right then? “… I figured tomorrow would be fine.”

  “Well, the DA’s office didn’t think it was so fine. Neither did Barbara Dougan, or Allan Migdall.”

  The station’s lawyer, the station’s owner. “You talked to them? Tonight?”

  “I figured tomorrow was too late,” the news director said. “So did they. So off you go. McCusker’s waiting for you at the DA’s office.” He stashed a phone into one pants pocket, pulled out a yellow piece of paper from the other. “Here’s a cab voucher. Go.”

  “Is Barb Dougan coming with me?” Jane stood, clicked off her computer, grabbed her tote bag. “I’d feel better with a lawyer.”

  “Why would you need a lawyer? You do something wrong?” Marsh gave her a look. “Ha ha. Just go.”

  “And tell them everything? I mean, is it our place, as reporters? It feels like we’re crossing a line, Marsh.” Jane looked at Fiola, saw she was on her own. “What happens when we don’t want to tell them something? Then they can say, How about that other time, when Ryland came to our office? Why is there suddenly a problem? See what I mean? What if they want me to testify in court? I mean, there’s no way I’m going to do that.”

  “What’s the big whoop?” Marsh put both palms up, stopping her words from reaching him. “We help them, maybe they’ll help us next time there’s a big story.”

  “But they won’t. And anyway, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.” Jane was fighting this losing battle without Fiola’s help. But she’d go down swinging. “We do our jobs. They do theirs. Separately. Nobody ‘helps’ anybody. Plus, I won’t get there till, like, eight-thirty.”

  “That’s exactly when they expect you. And, Jane? Your job, right now, is to get over there and tell them what you saw. Capisce?” He turned away from her, then pivoted back. Held up a cell. “Call if you need me.”

  12

  EDWARD TARR
ANT

  “Avery Morgan? You sure?” Edward Tarrant waved the student who’d just arrived at his office to a seat in the not-quite-comfortable chair across from his desk. Frowned as he closed the door again. Frowned as Trey Welliver stumbled over the fringed edge of the oriental rug. At least he’d taken off his damn Sox cap.

  Edward tried to remember to be cordial. After all, he relied on his helpers, kids like Trey who had some debts to pay.

  “You sure?” he asked again. “Dead? In the pool?”

  “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.” Trey looked a little green around the eyes, and his plaid shirt was coming untucked from one side of his jeans.

  “How’d you hear?”

  “You know. I was riding my bike, saw the cop cars. Ambulance. Detective car. I know where she, you know. Lives. Uh, lived. The Reserve.”

  “I’m well aware.” Edward stood, pushing back his wheeled chair and coming around to the front of his desk. He crossed his arms, his fingers drumming his starch-stiffened shirtsleeves. “Did they say she was killed? Avery Morgan? What, exactly, did they say?”

  “Say? There’s no say. I just heard them talking. But there was a homicide cop, maybe two. One cop was even wet. Then I came here. You said tell you first.”

  “Correct.” Edward jabbed one finger at the kid, emphasizing. “Good boy.”

  This was bad news, however. Very very bad. Avery Morgan, brilliant, gorgeous, high-strung. Much pursued by drama schools across the country that were much bigger and admittedly more prestigious than little Adams Bay. But they’d—he’d—won her over with the perks. And now she was dead? Why? He had to figure out why before someone else did, and before the story got out of control. Homicide cops meant murder, no question of that. Which torpedoed another thought into the conversation.

  “Press?”

  “Huh?”

  “Any press? Reporters? Anyone with a camera? Were they there? At her house?”

  “Um. Like I told you, I came here.”

  Trey’s eyes didn’t seem to be focusing, but what else was new.

  Edward scratched at an ear, trying to remember it was an advantage Trey had shown up, and not an annoyance. Trey’s job, like the others’, was to keep Edward in the loop and allow him to get ahead of the curve. He had to make a move, and now. He gestured to Trey. Stay there.

  “Whatever,” Trey said. The kid pulled out a cell phone.

  “You expecting a call?” Another fire to put out. “You know they can—” Trace those things, he didn’t say. No need to spook the kid. Or educate him. “Don’t make any calls. And no texting. Just sit there while I think.”

  Edward put a hand on his desk phone. His first instinct was to call Avery, pretending he didn’t know anything, see who answered. He took his hand away. That might engender more questions than it answered. Why was he calling? they’d ask. Why just then?

  Plus, her death. Her death? He touched his fingertips to the sleek wood of his desktop, trying to ground himself. No need to panic. Maybe it was an accident, a fall, a heart attack. Like the kid said, in the pool. He knew that pool behind the Morgan House. Homicide cops, though. That meant real cops—ah—would be descending on the school any moment now, and his office could be their first stop. At least now he could be prepared.

  How much time did he have to make this all work? He put out fires. And this was one hell of a fire. He needed to calculate the potential damage. He needed to check with campus police, see if they knew anything. Then shut them up.

  He also needed time. There wouldn’t be much of it.

  Reaching under his desk, he clicked a hidden metal lever, eased open the narrow top drawer. Was about to pull out a—but wait. Not in front of the kid.

  “Thanks, Trey, you can go.” He tried to make his smile look genuine. “And see? This is exactly what I was talking about. No one knows you’re here, no one will ever know. Just as I promised. Correct? It’s no skin off your nose to tell me this.”

  Trey actually touched his nose.

  “It’s an expression,” Edward went on. “Same as ‘I’ll scratch your back if’ … never mind. I’ll take it from here. And as always, this chat never happened. Right?”

  “Right.” Trey looked more confused than ever as he backed toward the office door.

  Probably smoking weed again, Edward thought, trying to keep his patience. Or whatever they called marijuana this week. He raised both eyebrows, communicating, If there’s nothing else, get the hell out.

  As the door clicked closed behind Trey, Edward went back to the drawer. He eased out a thin book–sized square of wood, with rows of tiny twist-in metal hooks, each labeled with a narrow white numbered sticker, each holding an unlabeled brass key. He selected the one to 1606. Slid his “key board” back into the drawer, back into its secured place.

  Down the empty hallway—no one. Around the corner—no one. Nothing but the dim incandescent bulbs spotting the tweedy carpet and a row of closed wooden doors, some with embossed slide-in nameplates, some with empty brass slots. He stopped outside 1606, listening for footsteps or the crank of the elevator. Nothing.

  The brass holder of 1606 displayed the nameplate: Avery Morgan, Drama Department, Visiting Adjunct. He’d teased, “We should add a star,” when he’d shown her the new office. “Lovely,” she’d trilled. Before she realized he was kidding.

  In the silence of the empty corridor, he took out the key and opened the door. Paused. Listened half a second. Nothing. Eased around the doorway and into Avery’s office. Closed the door again and calculated his timing. Security would have to call him first, before anyone came up here. Then it’d take at least five minutes for whoever it was to sign in with the security guard. Then the guard would call the super to get the keys to Avery’s office. But the super wasn’t around, so the guard would call Tarrant’s cell again. At that point, he could scuttle back to his office. Pretend he’d never left. The super had the only official keys, so that’d delay things even further. And if the cops wanted to see inside Avery’s office, wouldn’t they need a warrant? Another delay. He had time. But not much.

  He tucked the contraband brass key into his pocket. Far as the college knew, his keys did not exist. But a firefighter like Edward needed keys. Some decisions simply had to be made.

  He scanned Avery’s shadowy office, the evening light coming through the open blinds allowing him to see as much as he needed to right now. Movie posters on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookcase, one side books, the other boxes of videocassettes. Which was—he shook his head. Problematic. Where could you play videocassettes these days? Maybe across the street at the journalism school. But there was no way he could look through tapes or tape boxes, not now.

  A calendar was what he needed. Avery’s calendar. Remembering not to touch anything—although, wait. What would it matter? You couldn’t tell how long a fingerprint had been there. This was his school, after all, and Avery his colleague. And friend. Hell with it, he thought. I can touch whatever I want. He looked at his watch. But—quickly.

  He flipped through the piles of papers on Avery’s desk, mostly ripped-out magazine articles. No way to read them all now, or assess them. He paused for an instant, distracted by the fragrance of her flowery perfume, the scent of roses, perhaps captured in the tweedy upholstery of her chair or clinging to the crimson silk scarf draped over its ivory cushions. He shook off the memories, focused on the present. She was gone.

  He focused on her desktop computer, the monitor sleeping and the screen black.

  A white plastic mouse sat on a black foam mouse pad that read “Silver Screen,” with a photo of … He squinted, identifying. Rosalind Russell. Focus, he told himself.

  He jiggled the mouse. The screen saver came up, the roaring MGM lion. He extended his right forefinger. I’ll wipe the keyboard clean, he thought. What was her password? He touched his finger to the keys: “one two three four five.”

  Incorrect.

  Typed “Avery.” Incorrect. “Silver screen.” Wrong.

  Th
is was a loser of an idea. It would be undeniably suspicious if he were found in here. He stopped, assessing. Was there anything here that could tell him something? Anything that would incriminate him? He was haunted by those rows of videotapes, but there was no way to deal with them, unless he could somehow erase them all.

  He could almost hear the time ticking by, could almost hear his office phone ringing. Although office hours were over, so if he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there. He pulled his cell from his pocket. If it rang, he could simply ignore it. Or answer. And say?

  He shook his head, dismissing his hobgoblins. He didn’t need to come up with excuses—he needed to come up with answers. Because the questions were already relentless. And he wouldn’t be the only one asking them.

  Will it be a black mark on the school? Who’s going to deal with the press? With the students? Did the presence of homicide cops mean she’d been murdered? If so, who the hell killed her? Why? And where was the killer now?

  He needed reassurance there was nothing untoward in Avery’s office. If such a thing existed, he needed to find it before anyone else did, then decide what to do about it. His one opportunity was now.

  He thought of all the occasions he’d visited the Morgan House, pre-Avery and after the college rented it to her.

  And then she moved in, lock, stock, and—

  He smiled. Extended his forefinger again. He tapped the seven letters, confident as a concert pianist. “POPCORN.”

  The Adams Bay seal appeared. Avery Morgan’s computer was open.

  13

  JANE RYLAND

  Jake hadn’t answered her text.

  Jane could only hope he’d eventually get it and understand she would be even later than he was. She grabbed the brass handle on the heavy glass door to the DA’s office, yanked it open. Her stomach was rumbling in earnest now. She always kept food with her, almonds usually, since reporters could never know when they’d be starving, but she’d left them in her other tote bag. Fiola had the right idea about food stashes, at least. Though in a less healthful way.