The Maggie O’Malley Mystery Series
by Kathleen Valenti
PROTOCOL (#1)
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Copyright
PROTOCOL
A Maggie O’Malley Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | September 2017
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen Valenti
Author photograph © TaguePhoto.com
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-239-9
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-240-5
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-241-2
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-242-9
Printed in the United States of America
To Alan, my partner in crime writing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s been said that writing is a solitary act. For me it’s felt like one great big group hug.
I’ve been lucky enough to experience the embrace of encouragement from friends and family, from that first “Hey, I think I’ll write a book” to the moment I held Protocol in my hands. It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a small nation of experts, readers and grammatical doulas to birth a book.
I have a million thanks, but not nearly as many pages, so I’ll keep my words of gratitude brief-ish.
First, my many thanks to my family: my husband, Alan, who believed in me when I didn’t; my children, who tolerated overly detailed updates on imaginary people; my mom, who was my first teacher of love and loss; my dad, who always encouraged me to reach higher; my mother-in-law, Molly, for her close-reading and rum cake baking; my kind and talented cousin-in-law, Tara, for reading and cheering me on; John for serving as a beta reader; and Phyllis for her meticulous proofreading.
I’m also grateful to those who are like family for offering endless support and tireless beta reading: Valerie, dear friend and browbeater-in-chief; Nancy, best friend, Jazzercise compatriot and writing inspiration; Tenley, Georell and Lisa, former coworkers, forever friends and happy hour companions; Randy, faithful reader and flying buddy; and Ed and Martin, amazing humans and cherished friends.
I also benefited from the incomparable expertise of industry and category mavens. My greatest debt of gratitude in this regard is to Jim, who provided unflagging pharmaceutical counsel and never once suggested that I gave that whole “there are no dumb questions” adage a run for its money. I am also deeply grateful to Vince for his technological expertise, and to Kristen, who made my manuscript drop and give her twenty.
Of course, this book would never have seen the light of day if Jordan at Literary Counsel hadn’t said, “I do” when I asked him to be my agent and if the amazing team at Henery Press hadn’t welcomed me into their feathery fold. The Hen House is home to some of the kindest, most gracious people I’ve ever known, and I feel especially blessed to have Rachel as my editor and ally, as well as Erin, Kendel and the rest of Henery’s crack editorial team.
This book may have my name on the cover, but it belongs to all those who helped me create it and to all those who choose Protocol to grace their nightstands. To all who have helped and all who read, I am truly grateful. The only things for which I can claim 100 percent credit are any errors; those are mine alone.
Prologue
It wasn’t until she was five blocks from home, well past the newsstand but before the buckling sidewalk in front of the old library, that Elsa Henderson knew she was being followed.
She’d left the office late, her desk a maze of notes and lipstick-stained paper coffee cups, and headed into the starless night with her briefcase empty and her head full of the work that would be waiting in the morning. She didn’t worry about walking alone at night. This was Collinsburg, for God’s sake. Safe. Charming. The Goldilocks of the Midwest. Not too anything. Except maybe hot.
Then…a feeling. A tingle at the base of her neck. The sensation of being watched.
She turned, casually flipping salon-blown hair, and looked behind her.
The street was empty.
She sighed and shook her head. Laughed her signature throaty laugh. Work was getting to her. Maybe the protests, too, although those were daytime affairs and more nuisance than worry. She needed a glass of wine, a hot bath and an hour of mindless television. Maybe Dancing with the Stars or—
Elsa stopped. The hair at the back of her neck stood at attention as if an icy hand trailed a finger along her spine. A feeling of unseen eyes crawled over her.
She spun quickly this time, eyes darting from the streetlight to the blue US Mail drop box to the doorways where darkness clotted.
The street was still vacant.
Hadn’t she heard something? A whisper of fabric? The slip of rubber soles on a pebble? Or was it all in her head, a figment of her imagination—or what her coworkers insisted was increasing paranoia over unseen and undefined danger?
She squinted as if trying to read the street. A half-block away, in the doorway of her favorite smoothie shop, the shadows seemed darker. Denser. Man-shaped.
Elsa’s heart thudded sickly in her chest. She quickened her pace, the clap-clap-clap of her heels in time with her heart. Telegraphing her growing dread.
Hurry up. Stop.
Get home. Stop.
Don’t look back. Stop.
She wanted to run, but didn’t. That would’ve been rude. What if she was overreacting? What if she was being paranoid? Maybe the man (the shadow?) was simply walking the same way. She hadn’t even seen him—seen anyone, for that matter. Even if she had, there was no proof of pursuit beyond a sound, a feeling.
And yet…
Elsa Henderson broke into a light jog. A bead of sweat snaked beneath her arm, settling at the waistband of the Spanx she had yanked on that morning. Unable to resist, she chanced a look behind her.
A pair of headlights suddenly swung into view.
There was no man, no silhouette. Just sleek steel, shiny chrome and hungry, churning tires.
The headlights grew larger. The tires squealed, eating pavement as the car sped toward her, shuddering with each gear shift, nosing aside a rubber garbage can wheeled to the curb for tomorrow’s collection.
“But—” she said.
The car struck her, tossing her into the air like a crash-test dummy without the car. Her head collided with the windshield, creating a pebble-sized ding in the glass and a spider web fracture in her skull.
The car sped on, pushing Elsa toward the roof rack until she rolled off, hitting the asphalt with a wet splat. She watched the red taillights recede into the darkness through the haze of blood now streaming down her face. The lights stopped. Then flashed to white.
The car backed up. Rolled over her. Then did it again.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Bones ground to dust. Bl
ood bloomed from her head. Her heart, with nothing left to pump, stopped.
Then everything became shadow.
Chapter 1
Maggie affixed what she hoped was a believable smile on her face. An arrhythmia-inducing techno beat thrummed through her body as a band called The Florid Drunks performed relentlessly a few feet away. Three women with long hair and short skirts danced toward the low stage, shoulders dipping and hips rolling, trying to catch the eye of the lead singer, who strummed the microphone cord in front of his crotch.
Whoever said it took more muscles to frown than smile had never been to The Office Bar & Grille.
“Isn’t this great?” Zartar shouted, her kohl-lined eyes squinting against the bar’s colored strobe lights.
Maggie widened the pasted-on smile and nodded. “Oh, yes,” she yelled back. “Fantastic.”
She had felt a ripple of panic when her two new coworkers had invited her out for a drink at the pharmaceutical crowd’s favorite watering hole. Sure, her new lab partners were nice, but Maggie didn’t friend easily. Outside of Constantine, she had, what? Two, maybe three friends?
But today was the beginning of a new chapter, her first day at her first real job. What better time to do something different, be something different, to define her life instead of the other way around?
She just had to get through the evening without losing her hearing. Or making a fool of herself.
Zartar glanced at Maggie’s drink and raised her hand to catch the waiter’s attention. She held three fingers aloft, the international sign for another round of the same. “Let’s turn up the fun, shall we?” she trilled.
Before Maggie could protest, the waiter trotted off toward a black walnut bar crammed with twenty-somethings. Maggie shifted in her seat, trying to scoot farther into the tiny booth that threatened to disgorge her and her new coworkers/maybe-friends.
Her mouth ached with muscle fatigue. She licked her lips and took a sip of water.
The band ended its set and the musicians fist-bumped their way to the bar. Maggie’s ears still rung with their cover of “Crazy Train.”
“Finally,” Zartar said, pulling her peasant blouse lower as the guitarist walked by. “Now we can hear about your first day.”
“Yeah,” Roselyn said, lining up her mozzarella sticks like tiny jets readying for takeoff, then blotting them with a napkin. “How was it?”
“Good,” Maggie said, smiling genuinely for the first time. “Great, actually.”
And why wouldn’t it be? The position had been a real coup, not just because she’d bested a hundred and forty other applicants, but because she’d found something in her field with a company on the rise. The economy had left most new grads scrambling for the crumbs that fell from the corporate table. She was damn lucky, especially now that her father needed her. Plus, she was trying new things, like tonight.
The drinks arrived, white wine for Roselyn, margarita for Zartar, and vodka Collins for Maggie. Maggie took a long drag on her drink, savoring the sensation as the alcohol burned a path from her lips to her belly. “So how many years have you logged at Rxcellance?” she asked.
“Rx,” Zartar corrected. “That’s what everyone calls it. Rozzie’s been there two years, I’ve been there three. Nearly four.”
“You like it?”
“Something like that,” Zartar said.
Maggie grabbed a jalapeno popper and stole a look at Zartar’s face. Not a crack in the pore-minimizing foundation. She glanced at Roselyn. She was busy squirting hand sanitizer from a trial size bottle onto her hands. “Trouble in paradise?” Maggie asked.
Zartar downed her drink in two gulps, then sucked her teeth. “Not really. I just grew up to be someone different than I thought I’d be.”
Maggie was trying to find a nice way to ask what that was supposed to mean when her phone chimed, its cheery bicycle bell warbling through the thin fabric of her nylon purse.
She plunged her hand into the bag, batted aside a billfold, a wad of Post-it notes and a half-eaten Luna bar, then pulled it free. She looked at the screen, sure it was her father checking in after her first day of work—a.k.a. Day One as the Human Life Raft.
A photo of a middle-aged woman with a designer haircut framing model-perfect cheekbones smiled back.
Zartar peered over her shoulder. “Who’s the hottie?”
Maggie stared at the tiny screen. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve never seen her before.” Maggie tapped the phone’s screen. A phrase appeared beneath the woman’s photo:
MEETING REMINDER
TIME: 9 p.m. – 11 p.m.
Maggie frowned and tapped the screen again, hoping a name, contact information, something helpful, would materialize.
Nothing happened.
“If you’ve never seen her before,” Zartar asked, reading the text, “then why do you have a meeting with her?”
“I don’t,” Maggie said. “I mean, it says we’re scheduled to meet, but I’ve never seen her before, and I definitely didn’t arrange any meeting.” She shrugged, deleted the photo and dropped her phone back into her purse. “Must be some kind of glitch. I just got this phone a couple of days ago.”
Maggie made a mental note to ask Constantine about the phone.
Maggie stayed longer—and drank more—than she intended. After she hit the bottom of her third drink and second serving of nachos, which had arrived at the table with a tiny Mexican flag as if the nation had conquered mountains of chips and cheese, she checked her watch, a dainty rhinestone affair that had once belonged to her mother.
Ten fifteen. How had the time gone so quickly?
She stood, peeling the backs of her sweaty knees from the leather seat. “I’ve gotta go. It’s getting late.”
“Late?” Zartar choked on her margarita. “What are you, ten years old?”
“Careful, or I won’t share my candy necklace with you.” Maggie folded some bills and slipped them under her glass. “I have to catch up on a couple of journal articles tonight, get up early for a run and—”
“Prepare your speech for The World’s Most Boring Twenty-Five-Year-Old,” Zartar finished. She pulled a tube and compact from her clutch purse and reapplied lip gloss. “I’m kidding. I mean, I prefer my exercise between the sheets, but whatever floats your boat. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” Roselyn said, bouncing up to give Maggie a quick hug. “I’m so glad you came out with us.”
Maggie gave her a small squeeze back. She was glad, too. Despite the crowds and the noise, it had been a good evening. Fun, even. And she was starting to like her new coworkers. Maybe this doing-something-new thing would pan out.
Maggie excuse-me’d and pardon-me’d her way toward The Office’s entrance. She glanced up at the enormous TV near the door. Someone had changed the channel from football to the news. A “BREAKING STORY” banner bleated from the top of the screen. Maggie read as she dragged her hand through her purse, trolling for keys.
Post Reporter Killed in Hit-and-Run
It wasn’t the words that made her breath catch in her throat. It was the image that accompanied them.
The photo was a classic promotional shot, dated but professional. It featured a woman with long straight hair, fuchsia-colored blush and oversized eyeglasses. Maggie had never seen the photo before, but the woman’s features, her self-assured gaze, were unmistakably familiar.
Maggie felt something stir deep in her belly, a feeling of disquiet that yawned and stretched and awakened. She swallowed.
It was the woman from the strange meeting reminder. Maggie was sure of it. She plucked her phone from her purse and scrolled.
No photo. No meeting reminder. Nothing to prove that the woman whose face was splashed across the TV screen was the same woman who had appeared on Maggie’s phone a couple of hours earlier.
Right. Because she had dele
ted it. Genius.
She cleared her throat. The bartender, who looked as if he moonlighted as a Swedish tennis star, looked at her. “Can you turn that up?” she asked.
He gave a toothpaste commercial smile, grabbed the remote from beside the cash register and stabbed the volume button.
A hair-helmeted woman in a nipped-in navy blue jacket looked earnestly into the camera. “Tragedy tonight as award-winning journalist Elsa Henderson was killed in a hit-and-run in the heart of the city. Henderson, who worked for The Post, is remembered by friends and colleagues for her talent, professionalism and determination to get the story.”
The camera cut away from the news anchor to archival footage of the woman who had been on Maggie’s phone. Elsa Henderson receiving awards. Elsa Henderson being interviewed. Elsa Henderson looking cool and professional. And alive.
Maggie took a moment to marvel at how quickly the station had pulled together footage. It made sense. Elsa was print and they were TV, but as a journalist, she was one of their own.
The story was long on sentiment but short on answers. There were no eyewitnesses. No security camera footage. Just the reporter’s description of Elsa Henderson’s body lying in the street, arms outstretched in the equal sign that formed the crosswalk.
Maggie tapped a finger against her mouth. The more she watched the footage, the more she was certain that it was the same woman from the appointment reminder. The woman who had been killed within hours of appearing on Maggie’s phone.
A chill scuttled up Maggie’s back. She rubbed her arms briskly to scrub away the goose bumps that had sprung on her skin. She had a sudden and intense urge to get out of The Office, to escape the TV screen and whatever the strange coincidence meant.
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