Deadly Politics

by LynDee Walker

  Deadly Politics

  A Nichelle Clarke Crime Thriller

  LynDee Walker

  Copyright © 2019 by LynDee Walker.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Severn River Publishing.

  Contents

  Also by LynDee Walker

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Thanks for Reading

  About the Author

  New LynDee Walker Book Series

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Prologue

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Chapter 1

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Chapter 2

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Chapter 3

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Chapter 4

  Read Fear No Truth

  Also by LynDee Walker

  Acknowledgments

  For DruAnn, Justin, Avery, Art, Tara, Aimee, Julie, Sarah, and Kristi, who believed Nichelle would get here.

  Also by LynDee Walker

  The Nichelle Clarke series:

  Front Page Fatality

  Buried Leads

  Small Town Spin

  Devil in the Deadline

  Cover Shot

  Lethal Lifestyles

  Deadly Politics

  The Faith McClellan series:

  Fear No Truth

  Receive a free copy of Fatal Features: A Nichelle Clarke Crime Thriller Novella, by visiting LynDeeWalker.com/newsletter

  1

  Every story has at least two sides. Some have a dozen, some a hundred. And the truth always lies somewhere in the gray, murky middle.

  A good reporter needs the objectivity to recognize facts peeking through thick curtains of perception. A great one needs the drive to keep digging when others abandon their shovels for the easy roads of official statements and press releases.

  Finding truth in situations both ordinary and exceptional is my favorite thing about the news business. When a big story breaks, my universe narrows to the thrill of the chase. Caffeine becomes a food group, adrenaline a friend. Schedules evaporate. Sleep is for suckers who settle for second place.

  I love every minute of it. But that rush has taught me to appreciate the quieter days, too.

  Like a gorgeous fall Friday that kicked off with a salted-caramel white mocha and zero corpses waiting in my scanner app—pretty fabulous in its own right, even before I strolled into my editor’s office for the news budget meeting two whole minutes early.

  “Morning, kiddo.” Bob clicked his monitor off as I dropped into my usual orange velour armchair like I was always the first in the door instead of the last. “What’s interesting in your world today?”

  I sipped my latte, tapping a pen on my yellow legal pad as I swallowed savory-sweet goodness that carried promises of short days and tall boots. “So far I have a robbery at a gas station in Church Hill overnight—no one dead—a shooting at a nightclub in Shockoe Slip—also no one dead—and court at one thirty. DonnaJo has spent the whole week hammering the meth lab guys from last spring. Should be a slam dunk for the CA’s office, but one of the defendants is a minor, so the judge might lighten his sentence.”

  “Charges?”

  “Manslaughter for the dealer who died, murder one for the kid, plus assault for the two firefighters who got hurt. And then all the drug charges. I’ll have the week-one wrap-up for you today. Defense takes over Monday.”

  He nodded. “Good stuff. Sounds like a busy day.”

  “Only until five. I have a date tonight.” I smiled and nodded hellos as the section editors trickled in, throwing Bob a wink and rapping my knuckles on the wooden arm of my chair. “I’ll take this version of busy any day.”

  The features editor set a vintage orange Tupperware box on the corner of Bob’s desk before taking her seat across from me. I leaned forward, the scent of spicy sausage and cheese making my stomach rumble.

  “Eunice’s breakfast bread, too? This day just keeps getting better.” I snatched up a slice a split second before the rest of the room descended. Conversation ceased, chewing the only sound until a chorus of thank-yous pattered out a few bites in.

  Eunice laughed. “My grandmomma always said a cook couldn’t get a higher compliment than a quiet room full of people eating. Happy fall, y’all.”

  Bob swallowed and picked up his pen just as the door opened, Trudy Montgomery’s auburn head poking around the frame. “Can I crash for a minute? I have something kind of big, and it’ll be easier to talk about here.”

  Bob waved her in. “I was just about to start the rundown, so why don’t you lead off?”

  She pulled in a deep breath. “Some of you might have read that we have a high-profile congressman looking at the fight of his political life this fall, thanks to some creative redistricting that passed last winter.”

  I nodded, forgetting my coffee as she talked. Nobody outside the beltway had more information on Washington’s inner workings than Trudy. Covering the White House had been my dream for practically my whole life before I’d moved to Richmond. This job was supposed to be a stepping-stone to it.

  Nine years ago. I loved the crime desk, but politics still beckoned.

  “Speeks has powerful friends who aren’t going to let that seat go without a fight.” Trudy clapped her hands together under her chin, flawless scarlet nails flashing in the fluorescent light. “So . . . the president is coming.”

  “Here?” Bob sat up straighter, clicking his pen out. “She hasn’t been here since the campaign. When?”

  I sipped my latte, trying to wash down the jealousy-green creeping into my complexion.

  “Monday,” Trudy said. “Here’s the thing: it’s big-guns time. She and her husband will both be speaking Monday night, at different venues across town from each other.” She turned to me with a grin. “Which means I could use a hand. You free?”

  I jumped and fumbled my cup, coffee and milk splattering caramel dots I barely noticed across the thigh of my cream linen trousers. “Me? Are you serious?”

  “Because I’d ask anyone else?” Trudy winked. “I believe I still owe you a favor.”

  I bounced in my seat, turning to Bob, who nodded approval. Two years ago, I’d shared some information with Trudy that led her to an exclusive on a massive scandal ensnaring then senator Ted Grayson.

  Still, this was one hell of a reciprocation. My face stretched into a grin so wide it almost hurt. “I’d be honored.”

  “I’ll clear the Tuesday front and leave it to you two to figure out the details,” Bob said. “Trudy, how late will they run? Do I need to schedule a hold for Monday night?”

  She shook her head, her perfect chin-length bob swinging softly.
“Both speeches are set to start at seven. They’ll be wrapped by eight. We’ll have copy to you by quarter to nine.”

  “Cutting it close, but doable.” Bob scribbled something on his pad. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I’ll have an advance for you by five.” Trudy turned to me when Bob nodded. “Catch up with me later and we’ll work out details?”

  I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak without gushing like she’d just handed me the key to a Louboutin warehouse.

  The door shut behind her and Bob cleared his throat. “Well. Now that we have next week’s big news all ironed out, what do y’all say we figure out the weekend?”

  I half listened to the discussion around me, my brain still trying to wrap fully around the I-get-to-cover-a-presidential-speech thing. Or a presidential-adjacent speech, anyway. Mr. Denham was a former two-term congressman from Nebraska who had leveraged his position in the East Wing into some massive public program overhauls in just under two years in office.

  The upcoming midterm elections held the fate of the rest of President Denham’s term in balance, and she had pulled no punches lately in stumping for her chosen candidate in hotly contested races. Scribbling ideas and questions as fast as they popped into my head, I didn’t even hear Bob talking to me until Eunice tapped the ebony toe of my new Jimmy Choo motorcycle boot with her foot.

  “Care to rejoin the discussion about today’s edition?” Bob winked.

  “Sorry.” I smiled. “I just—”

  He nodded. “I know. I was saying, you said you have two crime stories and a trial recap coming today. Anything else on your list?”

  “Not right this second.”

  “I have her feature on Southside’s renaissance for tomorrow,” Eunice said. “Lindsay got some fantastic photos. It’ll make a nice section front.”

  “Nichelle wrote a feature?” It wasn’t a real question—the sports editor followed his derisive tone with a curt laugh in case anyone missed his sarcasm. “What’s our banner? A day in the life of a dope fiend?”

  “I believe you’re confusing my work with your training camp piece from August.” I flashed my most Splenda-riffic smile.

  “Enough, Spence.” Bob shot me a Don’t feed the troll look, turning back to Eunice. “I read it last night. It’s a good piece. How many pages are you looking at for tomorrow?”

  The rundown went on, and I floated back into my political daydreams. Would I get a chance to meet her? Or him? How did that even work? Did the Secret Service have to approve people? Of course they did. I had background clearance with the state, but I’d never been through a federal screening.

  I scribbled more notes, my foot bouncing with excitement. I had to tell someone. Right now. Reaching for my iPhone, I clicked my boyfriend’s name in the favorites and opened a text. GUESS WHAT? I typed. Before it finished sending, I fired off another: Best. Day. Ever. And I’m not even to the part where I get to see you yet.

  I dropped the phone in my lap, jiggling one foot.

  Robbery. Gunman. Exploding meth dealers. Focus on today.

  Pretty damned near impossible.

  Bob was on the business section, which had an inside tip on a merger announcement that could rock the financial world, when my phone buzzed. I smiled before I even looked at the screen. Joey has a way of making me do that.

  A scanner alert bleated as I turned the phone over.

  Not Joey.

  Kyle.

  Buzz. Now Aaron.

  I skipped the scanner notification in favor of the rapid-fire texts from my favorite cops, my stomach closing around the breakfast bread and coffee.

  “Nichelle?” Eunice sounded far away. “You okay, sugar?”

  Reading Kyle’s message for the third time, I started shoving belongings into my bag.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “So much for knocking on wood. You’re going to want to clear tomorrow’s front, too, chief.” I popped out of the chair, tossing my half-full latte in the corner trash can. “Aaron and Kyle have a body. I’ll send you something for the web before TV can get it on air at noon.”

  “The PD and the ATF have the same body?” Bob’s bushy white eyebrows shot clear to his receding hairline. “Where?”

  Hand on the doorknob, I turned back. “In the governor’s office.”

  2

  Maneuvering around two state troopers and three RPD uniforms in a narrow alleyway five blocks from the capitol, I was pretty sure my fabulous Friday was about to take a sharp turn.

  Good turn or bad turn, I couldn’t tell.

  I found a tiny space to wedge the car into and half ran toward the square, only slowing my stride as I closed in on the lawn. Nearly every emerald inch was obscured by camera riggings, TV reporters, or cops and firefighters.

  I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, my phone buzzing again.

  Joey: What’s up, baby?

  I stared at the little gray dot-bubble in the bottom corner of the screen that meant he was still typing.

  Buzz. Also, what’s going on at the capitol? I think every emergency vehicle in the city has blared by here in the past half hour.

  I touched the screen to reply and a message alert rolled down from the top.

  Kyle: Are you here yet?

  Out front, I tapped.

  Meet me at the corner of Grace and 9th in five.

  Four blocks away. He didn’t want anyone to know he was talking to me.

  I surveyed the massive building, its white stone columns gleaming in the October sunshine. History practically thrummed in the air around it. Designed by Thomas Jefferson. Survived the Civil War.

  What the hell was going on in there today?

  I plopped my sunglasses over my face, turning for the corner Kyle mentioned. Maybe none of my broadcast colleagues had spotted me yet.

  “Nichelle? Hey, Nichelle!”

  Or maybe they had.

  My foot froze in midair as I turned, fixing a polite smile on my face as Dan Kessler from WRVA jogged over.

  “What do you know?”

  “That an unresponsive person was found in the building this morning,” I quoted the dispatch from my scanner app.

  Kessler arched one perfectly waxed eyebrow, his troweled-on layers of pancake foundation creasing when his forehead moved. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Come off it, Clarke. Everybody knows you’re the detective’s pet. Where are you off to?”

  “I’m flattered that y’all give me so much clout with Aaron—truly, Dan—but most of it is in your head.” I pointed to the Starbucks sign outside the hotel across the street. “You know how this works. They won’t be out to give a statement for a while yet. I’m going to grab a latte—you want anything?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Coffee. Right.”

  “It’s October. Salted caramel is back.” I smiled.

  “You really have nothing?”

  I spread both hands wide, blinking for effect. “I have the same statement you got.” Every word technically true. “Can Charlie say the same?”

  He spun back to the lawn, looking for the Channel Four crew. Poor Dan. He’d once been the crime reporter to beat in Richmond, but his station had recently fallen another notch in the local ratings thanks largely to his years of contentment with following me and Charlie to the big stories. Probably trying to hang on to his job.

  But it wasn’t mine to babysit him.

  “Sure I can’t bring you anything?” I asked the back of his Brooks Brothers jacket.

  “No, thanks,” he called, striding toward Charlie, who had planted herself half a breath from the lectern a pair of RPD uniforms were wiring mics to on the lawn.

  I pulled my phone out and tapped, On my way, to Kyle.

  He was pacing between the lamppost and the corner when I found him.

  “Finally,” he muttered, dragging me across the street to the park. He stopped behind a massive magnolia next to the statue of George Washington, running a hand through his burnished
bronze curls as he opened his mouth and closed it again on replay.

  I knew Kyle—in every sense of the word. Before he was a hotshot ATF special agent, he was my first love. Even way back then, he was pretty damned hard to render speechless.

  “Kyle?” It came out an octave too high. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What’s going on?”

  He tapped a foot. Blew out a long breath.

  I swallowed hard. “Who’s dead?”

  “I need your help,” he said. “Off the offest, blankest record there has ever been.”

  I nodded, my eyes not missing a single tight, twitching muscle as he stared down at me.

  “You remember Lakshmi Drake?”

  My eyes fell shut. “Shit, Kyle.”

  Her face floated on the back of my eyelids. Long, thick dark hair. High cheekbones, straight nose. Wide, almond-shaped brown eyes. Last time I’d seen them they were scared, and Lakshmi was packing her things to heed my warning that the underground escort business funding her graduate studies was about to be dragged into the TV spotlight.

  I opened my eyes and shook my head. “That was two years ago. And she said she was done with that life. Are you sure it’s her?”

  He ran one hand through his hair. “We’re working on a positive ID for the remains. I need to know about your interactions with Lakshmi. Did she ever say anything about anyone besides Grayson? Did she mention any other clients to you?”