Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery)

by Walker, LynDee

  “I doubt that. I know Kyle’s convinced he’s got his man. I’m not so sure.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Aaron raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

  “A hunch, mostly. I don’t have anything concrete.”

  “Always go with the gut. Mine has rarely steered me wrong. But I’m not in much of a position to help you. Not unless I want a pissing contest with the new special agent at the ATF, which I really, really don’t. Good luck, though. Don’t get shot at any more.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Aaron. Sorry I ambushed you.”

  “You brought coffee. We’re good.”

  Sitting in my parked car in front of police headquarters, I dialed Joyce Wright, certain she wasn’t home, but hoping I could leave her a message. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Joyce!” I said, so startled at her soft “hello” I almost dropped the phone. “Good morning! I thought you’d be at work. It’s Nichelle Clarke from the Telegraph. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  “I got all day for you.” Her voice caught. “That story that was in the newspaper yesterday about my boy—there’s no way I can ever repay you for that.”

  A warm flush flowed from the pit of my stomach, putting a smile on my face. Eunice had done a beautiful job with the pages, starting the story on the front of the “Richmond Lives” section with a collage of the photos Joyce had loaned me and running several more with the jump copy. I didn’t often write stories that touched people the way Joyce’s voice told me this one had touched her.

  “I’m so glad you liked it.” I had obsessed over it to the point of irritating the hell out of Eunice, who assured me it was lovely and the woman wouldn’t be able to help being happy with it. I was glad she was right.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “That sports reporter came by here early and picked Troy up to take him to the baseball stadium. He was more excited than I’ve seen him since the Christmas he got his first bike. You’re good people, Miss Clarke, as my grandmomma would have said.”

  “Nichelle,” I corrected. “And thank you. I have a question for you: you said the other day that you work in the Fan. Do you work in Senator Grayson’s home, by any chance?”

  She chuckled. “I do,” she said. “I read your story about that break-in. Did the police tell you that nonsense? Because it wasn’t in the middle of the night. It was after seven in the morning, and I had just gotten there. They said me coming downstairs scared the damned thief away.”

  “So I have learned, though not on the record,” I said, thinking that an exclusive with Joyce would be a coup, but might get her into trouble if Grayson didn’t want the real story in the press. And with what Aaron had said about wanting to keep the fact that it wasn’t the cat burglar under wraps, it could muck up the PD’s investigation and get me on their shit list as a bonus. That wasn’t a good place for the newspaper’s crime reporter to be.

  “Joyce, do you have time for a cup of coffee?” I asked, checking the clock. I’d already missed three-quarters of the morning news budget meeting by going to see Aaron, which meant I’d have some explaining to do when I got to the office if I didn’t want to end up in trouble with Bob. But as long as I didn’t tell him everything, the idea of an exclusive might keep me out of hot water, and just because she told me what happened didn’t mean I had to run it. She might know something about Grayson that would help me figure out what he was up to.

  “I have to have the decaf these days on account of my blood pressure,” she said. “It’s hell, getting old. But why not? I been suspended from work. They say I can’t come back until they know for sure I didn’t break that window at the Grayson house and call the police to cover it up.”

  I almost dropped my phone for the second time in five minutes.

  “Are you serious?” My thoughts ran to the aging furniture in the tiny living room and the boy with the electric smile who wanted to go to college. It wasn’t a good time for his single mom to be out of work. “What is this, 1955?”

  She laughed.

  “I guess things don’t change as much as people like to think, Miss Clarke. I got family and some savings. As long as they don’t take too long about figuring out who did do it, we’ll get along.”

  I asked her to meet me at Thompson’s on Cary Street in half an hour as I pulled into the office garage. I stepped off the elevator and headed straight to Bob’s open door, mostly because I knew he’d only get more pissed off if I tried to avoid him.

  He glared when I tapped on his door frame, rolling his chair away from his computer and waving me into his office. Thunder rumbled through a wall of low, gray clouds outside the window, Mother Nature chiming in with her annoyance. I dropped into my usual orange-velour-upholstered wing chair and met the glare head on. Crossing my legs, I bounced my dangling left foot so much that my pink slingback Jimmy Choo slipped right off my heel and dropped to the floor.

  “I wouldn’t get too comfortable, Nicey,” Bob practically growled. I grimaced. He didn’t get mad at me very often. “You missed the news budget meeting for the second time in as many weeks, and this time I didn’t even get the courtesy of a warning phone call.

  “You’re a good reporter, kid, and you know I’ve got a soft spot for you, but Les is angling to give Shelby half your job already. You really don’t need to force me into his corner. What the hell is going on with you lately?”

  “I’m working on a story,” I began then halted, still not sure how to tell him enough to get me out of this jam, but not tell him so much as to get me into another one.

  There were two people on our reporting staff Bob held in higher regard than me: Grant Parker and Trudy Montgomery. And I was desperate to avoid the appearance of pulling a Shelby with Trudy’s beat.

  I really didn’t think that was what I was doing, but I was terrified Bob would see it that way. I took a deep breath. Just the facts, Nichelle.

  “I went by Ted Grayson’s house the other night, and the break-in there was not the work of the cat burglar,” I said. “The PD is keeping that all hush-hush because they don’t want to piss off the senator—at least not while he still is the senator—but there’s something fishy going on there, Bob. I can feel it. I just need a little time to figure out what it is.”

  He sat back in the chair and heaved a heavy sigh.

  “Ted Grayson, huh? Have you talked to Trudy?”

  “No,” I said, and his eyebrows went up. “So far, what I’m dealing with is clearly a crime story. I didn’t see the need to bother her during election season. She’s already up to her neck in deadlines right now.”

  Bob studied me carefully for a long minute, then finally shook his head at me.

  “What else have you got? You were unusually productive last week, but I need copy from you for today. Since you missed the meeting, I have no idea what you have coming in.”

  “I may have something on this robbery, actually,” I said. “Aaron couldn’t give me anything on the record, but the Graysons’ maid was the one who called the cops, and she’s meeting me for coffee in a little while.”

  “Nice.” He nodded. “Not to turn you away from a good lead, but I know you, Nicey. It hasn’t occurred to you that the maid could get fired for talking to you?”

  “I don’t have to print what I get from her,” I said. “Besides, they already suspended her. They say she can’t come back to work until the break-in is solved. It’s ridiculous. If someone doesn’t figure this out soon, she’ll be looking for a new job anyway, and that’s unfair. She might be able to point me to something I can get on the record, though.”

  “I see. So you have to find out who broke into the senator’s house so she can go back to work?”

  “Something like that. The more noble the cause, the more determined I am.”

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Bob leaned
forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, wait; because the last time you decided to play Woodward and Bernstein, you almost got yourself killed.”

  “I remember. But I’m not investigating anything this time.” I hoped the lie was convincing as it slid through my teeth. “I’m taking a source on a robbery story for coffee because she’s a nice woman and I like her. That’s all. If I can make more of a story than a day two out of it without getting her in trouble, I will.”

  “You’re a lousy liar and you know it,” he said. “But I trust you enough to let you go with it. I also need a follow on the thing with the jewelry store today. Les tells me that story went viral on Facebook—thirty thousand shares in one day—so the number crunchers want you to stay on top of it.”

  “I suppose it’s not every day there’s a pickup buried in the side of a building. I’m glad I had one that shut him up for a day.”

  “You didn’t shut him up,” he said. “Les is like a dog with a bone when he wants something. And he thinks putting Shelby on the courthouse would be the best thing to happen to journalism since moveable type. All your Facebook popularity did was strengthen his case that you’re the best cops reporter in town and we should let you focus on the PD.”

  He looked up. “You want to think about it?” Bob’s voice softened. “It would give you more free time and it would get Les off your ass.”

  “No. I wouldn’t know what to do with free time if I had it, anyway.” I didn’t want to give up the courthouse because the trial stories were often juicier and wider-read than the initial crime reports. Which was exactly why Shelby wanted it. “And before you ask, no, I’m not handing the PD over to Shelby, either. I have sources there who skate dangerously close to being friends, and I don’t want to give that up.”

  “I respect the hell out of your ambition, kid. Just take some advice from an old man: don’t put one shiny heel out of line,” He said. “Also, don’t piss Ted Grayson off. He has some friends upstairs, and they would not hesitate to can you if he asked them to.”

  Great.

  “Yes, sir.” I stood and smoothed my skirt. “Anything else?”

  “Other than don’t get yourself killed, which should be obvious, but in your case seems to bear repeating?” Bob asked with a wry smile. “Just one thing: if your gut tells you to ask Trudy about the Grayson thing, do it. I don’t need you ladies in some sort of standoff because she thinks you’re bigfooting her territory. And, don’t miss the meeting tomorrow.”

  “You got it, chief,” I said, flashing a grin and turning for the door.

  I just barely beat Joyce to the coffee shop, and when I’d ordered myself a skinny white mocha and her a decaf caramel macchiato, we settled into overstuffed armchairs in the corner.

  “It took me fifteen minutes to get over here,” she said, staring at the line of brake lights on West Cary. “Silly little storm pops up and folks around here drive like they ain’t never seen a raindrop.”

  I grinned. “That they do. But I’m guilty of holing up in my house like the zombie apocalypse is coming when there are more than three flakes of snow on the ground, so I can’t say too much. Except that in my defense, I’m from Texas. Everything shuts down when it snows.”

  I studied Joyce’s kind face and soft, honest eyes. I didn’t think she’d done anything wrong, and my inner Lois Lane screamed that I was right.

  If I was right about this, was I right about Billings? Kyle clearly thought he had his man, and while Billings might not be a stand-up guy, there was a difference between being a greedy asshole in business and being a murderer. Like, a life in prison sentence.

  “Joyce, did you see anyone at the Graysons’ house on Friday morning?” I asked.

  She met my eyes straight on and shook her head slowly.

  “I was upstairs cleaning the bathroom, and I heard a noise downstairs. I thought it was Mrs. Grayson, coming in early from her trip. She goes to New York to shop all the time now, and I wanted to ask her if she was ready for me to change out the linens to the winter sets, so I went down the back stairs, calling to her. I heard footsteps, and when I got down there, the door was standing open. I peeked into the senator’s office and saw the broken window, but I didn’t go in there because he’s very particular about no one being in that room but him. I closed the door, called the police and Mrs. Grayson, and then waited for someone to show up.”

  “What kind of footsteps did you hear?” I asked.

  She furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Were they light, sharp, loud?” I asked. “If you think about what different kinds of shoes sound like on wood flooring, what do you think the person was wearing, and do you see them as large or small?”

  She tipped her head to one side and twisted her mouth, considering that for a second before her lips popped into a perfect O.

  “I know who it was,” she whispered, her left hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Jesus, Miss Clarke, I think I know who it was.”

  “Who?” I leaned forward in my seat.

  “I don’t know the man’s name, but I’ve seen him,” Joyce said. “He’s come to talk to the senator a handful of times lately. He dresses like a western movie and drives a big pickup truck, and the boots he wears clomp on that floor in the back hall something terrible. That’s why I heard him from the other corner of the house. But why would he break in? He’d been invited over plenty of times.”

  She lost me at “big pickup truck” and “boots.” I stared at her, my brain reeling quickly through different pieces of my week. I dug in my bag for my Blackberry and pulled up the Telegraph’s mobile site, searching for my story on the jewelry store.

  “This pickup truck?” I said, flipping the screen around.

  She studied the photo on the screen for what seemed like a long time. “I think so, yes, though I can’t see the front of this one, and I never paid attention to his plates,” she said, handing the phone back. “Did he hurt himself?”

  “No.” I laid the phone on the table and stared at the photo. “He hurt some other people, though. How sure are you that his boots are what you heard?”

  “As sure as I can be, given that I didn’t see him.”

  “Did you tell the police about this man?”

  “I didn’t even think to,” she said. “It hadn’t occurred to me, about how the shoes sounded, until you asked me that question. They didn’t ask me that. Do you know who drives this pickup, Miss Clarke? Maybe I can go back to work soon, after all.”’

  “I sure hope so, Joyce,” I said, locking the phone and tucking it back into my bag. “I would love to visit with you more, but I have to get back to the office and see what I can find out about this. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “Of course, Miss Clarke?”

  I stopped mid-stride and turned back to her.

  “The detective I spoke to gave me a card. Should I tell him about this? What you asked me about the shoes?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure they’d run down a lead based on faraway footfalls, but it couldn’t hurt for her to call and tell them.

  I darted to the car without bothering to open my umbrella, my brain running a hundred miles an hour through what I knew about this story. It got sexier—and more convoluted—by the minute.

  Driving back to my office as fast as traffic would allow, I shivered a little in the chill that had come with the storm and cranked up the heat, wishing I’d thought to check the weather and grab a jacket on my way out to accost Aaron. I ticked off what I knew in time to the swishing of the windshield wipers as I waited for the light to turn green.

  The girl at the jewelry store said the guy who ran into the building was a tobacco farmer. Kyle was probably looking for this farmer. James Billings, the VP at Raymond Garfield, and Amesworth, the dead lobbyist, were funneling money to Senator Grayson through the tobacco l
obby to pay for his secret sexual escapades. And Joyce seemed pretty sure the farmer had broken into Grayson’s private study. Which meant there was something in there he wanted, and if she spooked him, he might not have gotten it.

  Parking in the garage, I glimpsed Trudy Montgomery’s shiny convertible a few slots down. The nagging feeling I needed to talk to her was too strong to ignore.

  I glanced at the clock. Just past noon. I had four hours to get Bob his stories. Plenty of time to have a heart-to-heart with the Telegraph’s resident political insider.

  13.

  Explosive news

  “I’ve always admired your knowledge of the inner workings of D.C.” I smiled at Trudy from her office doorway, sipping plain coffee because the last of my white chocolate syrup had disappeared. “Bob is right. You know more about the players up there than anyone this side of the beltway.”

  Trudy cocked her head to one side, turning her chair toward me. “Thank you. I think. Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming on here, Nichelle?”

  I took a deep breath. I liked Trudy. I respected her work. I needed her to tell me what she knew about Grayson, but more than that, I really hoped she didn’t know what I knew.

  It’s easy to get close to sources when you work a beat for a long time, and I didn’t want to think Trudy might be looking past Senator Grayson’s transgressions because she liked him. But it wasn’t impossible.

  “Not a ‘but.’ A ‘so.’ ” I said. “So—how is it that you don’t know Ted Grayson is taking bribes?”

  “What in the pea-picking hell are you talking about? Ted Grayson’s one of the straightest arrows on Capitol Hill. He wouldn’t take a bribe if his life depended on it.”

  “Only if his sex life depended on it,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Nothing.” I waved a hand. “You really don’t know anything about this? No one in the opposing campaign has anything on it?”