Justifiable

by Dianna Love

  He was also a bottom-line kind of guy.

  “You firing me?” Riley asked calmly.

  The GM straightened to his full height and whispered something vile under his breath. “You deserve it. Should have expected something like this out of you after that last fiasco.”

  Lehman’s voice had trailed off but Riley caught the insinuation. He ignored the stab in his gut every time someone referred to Detroit as if he’d been going after ratings when he met with the Kindergarten Killer. He’d have gladly handed off the story to another station and lost his job without a peep if they’d saved Sammy Dell.

  But Biddy’s future was at stake here, too, so Riley kept his eye on the goal and countered the slight with facts. “I’ve given you solid reporting for three months.”

  Lehman held up his hands, palm out. “I actually argued against firing you.”

  Huh? “Why?”

  “Because it sets a precedent for a news man to get canned over confrontations. I don’t want anyone making my people in the field a target just to get them fired.” He paused, facing Riley straight on. “I back all my people, but not if they’re reckless.”

  That isn’t what I’d call a vote of confidence, but it’s better than I expected. “So the board agreed?”

  “Not exactly. The board’s giving you a week’s suspension with no pay, but there’s no leeway on the terms of your probationary contract.”

  “Fine.” Riley could live with that. He still had a story to turn in that would only get stronger once he figured out the connection between the judge and Sally Stanton.

  Lehman’s faced twisted with puzzlement. “You’re awfully confident for a guy one step away from getting canned.”

  Riley shrugged. “I’m meeting my contract commitment so far.” All he needed was for the station’s PR department to show some balls and for legal to negotiate a quick settlement with the newspaper. With that, Riley would be back in the anchor seat in a day, maybe two. This whole fiasco might play into his favor for gaining that last point.

  In this biz, everything revolved around points and money.

  If the Stanton murder turned into a real story, he’d ace that last point and more. That would give him the power to negotiate a new contract with some meat to it.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about meeting your contract commitments.” Lehman said in a voice that almost sounded genuinely concerned. “If you don’t deliver three points in eight days you – ”

  “I know the contract terms,” Riley cut in. He had his sights set way beyond the probationary 90-day contract finishing up next week. Why would Lehman think he wouldn’t make that last point? “This thing with Henry at City Hall will kick up the last point, maybe more, if it’s handled right.”

  Lehman lifted his eyebrows in a “not so fast, buddy” look. “The board wants today’s incident downplayed so we don’t lose advertisers, too. We spent the first two weeks you were here dealing with picketers. The specials you did on the police and that charity event finally shut them up, but we lost a major advertiser because they felt our station had turned into a media circus of its own.”

  The advertiser was right. You brought me in to perform like a carnival freak. He kept his thoughts to himself and let Lehman finish his discourse.

  “To make that last point count, we have to also maintain our market share over the next eight days. And there’ll be fallout no matter how we spin it. Don’t think even Tom Brokaw could pull a ratings hike out of his ass in so little time.”

  “Don’t underestimate Brokaw,” Riley countered in a tone a hell of a lot calmer than he felt. “Or me.”

  “You don’t understand. You’re out on unpaid leave for seven days. Still think you’re sitting pretty?”

  What the hell? He thought he was only losing a week’s pay. Riley kept his temper wrenched under control, but every instinct warned him the tables were rotating in a way he wasn’t going to like. “You’re locking me out of reporting for a week when you could use this to boost the station? Does the board realize what keeping me off the anchor desk means?”

  “Let’s get something straight. The board brought you in for a quick hit in ratings, nothing more. You’ve handed in some stories with meat and brought up our market share more than anyone expected, but the board’s made up of financial gurus, not newsies. I convinced them to keep you, but until you do something that puts this station in the lead, you’re just another anchor that can be replaced. Getting the station hit with an assault charge makes you very replaceable.”

  Riley hadn’t caused this latest problem, but he refused to throw Biddy out as shark bait. “That’s exaggerating what happened this morning.”

  “This isn’t about just this morning. You’re combative with everyone downtown from the DA to the mayor.”

  “WNUZ afraid to take a poke at City Hall?”

  “There’s poking then there’s damaging,” Lehman said. “Having a WNUZ anchor in conflict with the city and other media isn’t going to play well with the viewers over a long period of time. People will get a thrill out of watching the Henry incident on the news tonight, but if this gains momentum it’ll poison the station’s presence in the community and the backlash could undermine everything we’ve managed to build.”

  Un-damned-believable. Who’d I piss off in a past life to end up with this one?

  Lehman shoved his bottom lip up in a bulldog stubborn frown. “If we don’t see another point this week we’ll still hold our own, but if we lose ground because the viewers think WNUZ is a bully in the media community I can assure you the board will not renew your contract for any length of time.”

  Riley had never bullied anyone in his life. This was just another example of the power of the media and how it could turn on anyone. “What if I bring you a story no one else in the city can touch?”

  The interest that flared in Lehman’s eyes died beneath some hidden thought while he debated for several breaths. “If you care about what happens to this station, you’ll hand over any news opportunities to the rest of the staff while you’re off the desk.”

  The unspoken implication was that if he didn’t share information he was only bluffing about having a story and if he sat on something big he clearly had no investment in the station’s future.

  Nice move, Lehman. Riley had never let anyone see him sweat and wouldn’t give the GM that satisfaction. When in a corner, bluff. “I have a source who won’t speak to anyone else.”

  “If you can turn a big story legitimately then I’ll be the first one to congratulate you, but if you pull some razzle-dazzle crap that puts this station in a jam I’ll be the first one using a shovel to bury you.”

  Detroit was not razzle-dazzle, asshole.

  Riley let it go. He had one more concern. If he was getting a week off without pay, Biddy might face two since he was the one who had gotten physical with Henry. “What about Biddy?”

  “Bidowski? Can’t be saved.” Lehman’s voice hummed with finality.

  “Firing him?” Riley couldn’t make that compute. Sure, Biddy shouldn’t have let Henry bait him, but altercations happened in the news business all the time, especially to camera operators in volatile situations.

  Legal had dealt with far worse and not lost a cameraman.

  Lehman was crazy if he thought he could get away with giving Riley a deal and Biddy the axe.

  Not going to happen.

  “Biddy didn’t shove the guy out the window. It was an accident.”

  “Don’t you understand? The board isn’t foolish enough to let you go, but they don’t want picketers on every station this week. Someone’s got to be responsible.” Lehman sank into his leather chair and leaned back. “Don’t make a stupid mistake. You’re getting a break. Worry about your own neck and keep your opinions to yourself if you expect to have any chance at a contract in eight days.”

  Probably good advice, but Riley had never taken the easy way and didn’t intend to start accepting career tips from George Lehman.

/>   He had an idea for how to keep both his and Biddy’s job, but like any gamble it could backfire. Riley still had Jasper to think about since he couldn’t help the aging man if his next job was two thousand miles away in a town with a three-digit population.

  Riley forced the tight muscles in his chest to relax so he could sound calm and sell this with confidence. “Biddy and I were together at City Hall this morning. You shell out two different penalties, won’t go well with the unions. Raise a ruckus with them, and I doubt the board will like that either.”

  When that didn’t generate a response, Riley clarified, “Biddy goes, I go.”

  Lehman studied him for several long seconds before he asked softly, “You trying to blackmail me, Walker?”

  “Me?” Riley shook his head and allowed a smile to creep into his voice. “I’m helping you. If the unions get involved, the board will be looking for a scapegoat. Who do you think they’ll toss under the bus then?”

  Contempt seeped into the GM’s watery eyes. Not a man to be bested by anyone. But Lehman knew the station’s public relations department could spin this incident if their legal team made a cash settlement to quiet the newspaper blowhard.

  On the other hand, if the unions teamed up against the station in a blue-collar city the board would need more than money to appease the viewers.

  Lehman should be thanking him, because Riley’s suggestion protected his job, too, and the bastard was still locking him out for the next seven days.

  Standing up abruptly, Lehman shuffled to the window again as if some answer would fly by outside the glass.

  Riley had one hope of saving his future while he was off the anchor desk – nailing a story that rocked. Something big would have to break on the Stanton murder this week to meet that requirement.

  Riley liked a challenge but this was the end-all-be-all of challenges.

  Three solid ratings points in eight days to save his job and Biddy’s, too, since he wouldn’t be far behind Riley getting tossed.

  Could be a slamdunk.

  Or a major shut out.

  First, they had to have jobs to lose.

  Chapter 8

  Kirsten dodged patches of ice as she cut a heel-clicking path down the empty sidewalk toward Philadelphia’s morgue, a nondescript two-story building on University Street with unloading docks on one side. She’d blown the last red light to reach the parking lot by eleven on the dot.

  Finding the front door was a challenge for anyone walking erect. Since most visitors arrived laid out on a gurney that was weighed then wheeled into a giant refrigerated space, the complaint box didn’t get much action. Once inside, Kirsten whipped past the examination rooms on her left where an ME snapped photos of a colorless victim sprawled along a stainless steel table.

  Good thing she was on time since Detective J. T. Turner waited near the suite of autopsy rooms, one boot impatiently tapping. With skin the rich color of warm molasses, he stood in contrast to the reflected fluorescent light bouncing off shiny white walls and polished tile floors. Turner’s slate gray suit showcased his beefed-up, six-foot body in a way that made her wonder when he found time for the gym with his schedule. He wore a fedora cocked with an air of confidence befitting the detective named as one of Philly’s finest. The keen intelligence in his brownish-black eyes struck her as the most remarkable part of a face that was quietly attractive.

  The closed door on his left did its best to shield odors of the examination room, but Kirsten knew from experience, the lingering smell of death couldn’t be gotten out of clothes, hair or skin without a thorough washing.

  She offered a conciliatory smile. “Thanks for meeting. What have you got, Detective?”

  “Might not be much, ma’am.” Detective Turner was as nice a person as his clean cut looks promised, but his tone suggested he was not happy about a second trip to the morgue.

  “I’ll take any information on the Germantown case at the moment.” Frustration slipped through her voice before she could stop it.

  Turner’s gaze snapped with annoyance. “I emailed you a copy of my report, ma’am.”

  Kirsten ran her fingers up to shove a lock of hair behind her ear and frowned at his reaction. Her fault. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I know how prompt you are in filing reports. I wasn’t at my office when I spoke to you so I didn’t get a chance to access my computer before I headed over here. I haven’t read your report yet. Would you, please, give me the short version?”

  The subtle lift and softening of his black eyebrows indicated he understood and allowed his anger to slide away. He lifted the notepad in his hand and flipped back a couple of pages then started reciting in a monotone.

  “Vic is Sally Stanton, mother of one, a five year old boy. 9-1-1 was called at 12:52 am this morning with a report that a woman’s body would be found in the Germantown area. Fully clothed corpse, no sexual abuse noted, single gunshot to the forehead. Lack of blood near body indicates victim was killed at a different location than where the body was discovered. Hole consistent with a .38 caliber bullet, which the ME dug out of her skull an hour ago. Location of body identified as the residence of Judge Earl Berringer.”

  “Did the judge find the body?”

  “No, ma’am.” Turner glanced up from his notes, those sharp eyes holding something back, but he continued before she could pinpoint what it might be. “Want to know what I called you about?” He indicated the examination room behind him with a tilt of his head.

  “Sure.”

  “One of the ME interns found oil on Stanton’s head.”

  “What kind of oil?”

  Turner rolled one of those wide shoulders in a shrug. “Won’t know until further testing is performed, but the tech said the clear appearance and viscosity is similar to cooking oil.”

  Kirsten turned that over in her mind. “Maybe Stanton was killed at home while cooking?”

  “No idea. I have men searching Stanton’s apartment at Philomena House and interviewing neighbors. No sign of blood or struggle reported from there so far. Be a while before we get the ME’s final report.”

  Probably a long while with the ME’s backlog of work.

  “Any guess on when they’ll have that report?” Of all people, she knew how strapped local law enforcement and everyone else involved in the investigation was for funds. Having worked part-time during college at a small police station to gain experience for being a DA Investigator, she had an appreciation for how much Philly PD accomplished with so little.

  Turner drew a deep breath and expelled the lung full of air while he thought out loud. “Two, maybe three months. If interns weren’t here right now and hungry for details after watching too many CSI shows we wouldn’t have heard about the oil at all.”

  Without strong forensic, or any evidence to the contrary, this played into Cecelia Van Gogh’s hands, blast it. The DA would leap on any chance of writing off Stanton’s death as DV, which the case was starting to sound like.

  Not that Kirsten wanted to turn Stanton’s murder into anything it wasn’t, but neither did she want City Hall forcing her to close the case prematurely.

  “Is that all, ma’am?”

  She really hated to be called ma’am in that tone when she was only twenty-seven. Turner couldn’t be much older and probably considered his address professional, but every time Kirsten heard ma’am she got a vision of her mother in clothes by the same designers who outfitted Queen Elizabeth.

  Kirsten didn’t overdress. In fact, she wore clothes with a little attitude. Screw the Massey name and image.

  But she needed to make allies in Philadelphia not enemies, especially with the police department.

  “Yes, that helps a lot, Detective Turner. Thank you for waiting. I know you’re busy and appreciate your time.” Kirsten had bent over backwards to show the local PD she was not Cecelia who thought playing hardass around law enforcement was part of her job description. The DA didn’t seem to care that she rubbed people on the government’s side of a case raw
as lye soap. “I’ll find out if we have any funds available to send this out to a private lab and cut that time.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Kirsten had her doubts, too, about getting any help on this case in particular when the evidence was pointing toward a domestic crime. There was no strong tie between this and the drug-related killing of a young man from Philomena House ten days ago except the bullet hole in his forehead and bodies being moved, but something kept pecking at her conscience.

  Coincidental or a connection?

  Damn Cecelia and her get-this-behind-us attitude.

  Kirsten had a duty to all citizens, no matter where they fell on the socio-economic totem pole. “I won’t know about funds until I ask.”

  “Fat chance of getting an extra nickel for lab work.” Turner’s wry smile turned the sarcasm into a friendly taunt. He tapped his closed notebook against the palm of his hand in a silent rhythm.

  She didn’t blame him. “I know you and your men do miracles with a shoestring budget. I’m not making promises, but I’ll do what I can.” She’d have to go through Cecelia, but anything was possible. Was this the time to pick a battle? “I’d like your honest opinion on something.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m more than willing to go to bat for the money, but I don’t want to do it unless you agree that we should investigate further on this case.”

  He didn’t answer at first, allowing his gaze to travel past her shoulder before it returned to her. “What’s your honest opinion?”

  Her answer could be the difference between gaining his respect or being dismissed as clueless, but she would only give him the truth. “First of all, I think everyone deserves our best on solving a crime, but I know there are so many you have to prioritize. Second, I can see how a welfare mother’s death wouldn’t rank high on most people’s lists.”

  He stopped tapping his notebook, but didn’t comment.

  “To be perfectly honest with you, Detective, I don’t think Sally Stanton was a victim of domestic violence though I don’t have anything solid to offer as evidence. And I can’t in good conscience let this get brushed off as DV when it feels like more.”