by Janet Dailey
She pulled it and read the message on the front. Professionally printed. Unsigned.
Thank you for joining us at the Billionaires’ Ball! We look forward to seeing you again.
Maybe the assistant in charge of the guest list was making amends for his rudeness—for a second she couldn’t think of his name. Atwood, that was it. Or possibly Natalie Conrad had insisted that he follow up with a thank-you note, just because she and Kelly had spoken, even though Kelly hadn’t donated a dime.
Why take the trouble to get an unnecessary thank-you note here before her arrival? Her plane had touched down in Atlanta only an hour and a half ago.
She opened the card and unfolded the paper that protected the photos. Several different snapshots of her were enclosed. None with Deke. Just her. Sitting at one table or another. She was walking toward the camera in one. The photos were identical in one respect.
Her face had been shot out of all of them.
A message was scrawled on the inside of the card. Bullets for a bombshell.
CHAPTER 11
Kelly pushed the card and photos away. A sick feeling of dread washed over her. The night-shrouded view of Atlanta from the nearby window seemed menacing, as if someone was out there who could see her now.
It wasn’t possible. Her building was taller than all the others nearby, her apartment high above the darkly glittering city. But she rose and pulled the cord to close the drapes.
It didn’t make her feel safer. She searched in her purse for her cell, wanting only to talk to Deke. The call went straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message. Maybe he was in the air right now, on his way back. He hadn’t said.
Kelly drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. Everything had changed. This wasn’t a game. A story she had to get was turning into a story that might kill her. Asking for information on the card from the building’s staff wasn’t the way to go. If someone had been paid to look the other way, they wouldn’t be talking.
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and paced the carpeted floor. Soft as her footsteps were, they still echoed faintly in the sparely furnished apartment. Kelly moved from the living room to the bedroom.
Maybe the man who’d slipped the envelope halfway under her door had wanted her to think he hadn’t come in. Her apartment hadn’t been ransacked, but it might have been bugged. Hanging around with Deke for a day and a night had changed how she thought about things like that.
Kelly walked around her bed, looking intently at the walls, running a hand over the window frames and doorjamb. Anger replaced fear. She pulled open the folding closet door and banged it back.
Clothes. Shoes. What had she been expecting to see?
She yanked up the bedskirt and used it to drag all the bedding to the center of the mattress. Then she grabbed a mirror to look underneath the frame, seeing nothing but a few dust bunnies and a lost sock.
Kelly wasn’t going to kneel and make sure there were no monsters under the bed. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay here. WBRX had run a dozen stories on women who’d been stalked. Seven of them were no longer alive. Stalkers came back.
Returning to the living room, she found her laptop and located a luxury hotel that catered to business people temporarily based in Atlanta. The site downloaded quickly. A video tour was available. Kelly concentrated on the fine print. Discretion assured. Twenty-four-hour security guaranteed.
Not cheap, even at monthly rates. But worth it.
In less than an hour, she was checking in.
Kelly was heading to her office by ten, brushing past reporters and other employees. Monday mornings were always hectic around WBRX. Weekends were when murders, fires, and assaults spiked, a fact of life that newspeople and hospital ER staff knew all too well. Loyal viewers would be waiting for their fix of Saturday-night mayhem in tonight’s evening broadcast.
Fred Chiswick popped his head up over his cubicle before she could duck.
“Kelly!”
She didn’t stop. The senior newswriter was a little too happy to see her. No doubt he wanted her opinion on his segment for tonight’s broadcast. Kelly waved and kept moving.
“Fred! Sorry. Can’t chat—later, maybe.”
Later as in never. Or at least not today. Looking disappointed, Fred sank back down into his cubicle. Kelly felt only a little guilty. It wasn’t possible to be nice all the time. She hadn’t slept. The card and photos were on her kitchen table. Deke could take them to forensics.
As for her job, Kelly intended to go through the motions, thankful for her status as an anchor, which allowed her to hide out in her office until afternoon and her call for hair and makeup. A station page would deliver final copy before that, and the TelePrompTer meant she could deliver the news without thinking about it.
She turned the corner and bumped into Gordon.
“Hey,” he said. “I meant to call over the weekend.”
“But you didn’t.” Kelly wasn’t inclined to swap small talk with the cameraman.
“Sorry. The playoffs were on.”
She smiled thinly. “Missed ’em. I was out of town.”
He matched his steps to hers. “Yeah? Where?”
“Texas.”
“Big state. Want to narrow that down?”
“Dallas.”
That seemed to satisfy him for some reason. Gordon slowed down, digging in the pocket of his chinos. “Wait a sec. I have something for you from Laura.”
Kelly hesitated. It seemed like a very long time that they had all been together at the building site, but the shootout had happened only a few days ago. “How is she?”
“I guess you know she’s quitting,” Gordon informed her.
“Of course. Didn’t you?”
“No one tells me anything,” he grumbled. “Not right away, anyway. She left me a message and said something about going into organic vegetables. Quieter. Safer.”
“It’s her decision,” Kelly replied. She looked at Gordon’s outstretched palm. “And those are—?”
“The keys to the building gates. She said to tell you to give them back to the guy.”
Kelly plucked them from his hand. “Tell me his name and where I can find him.”
“Uh—Laura told me, but I forgot.”
They had reached the editing rooms. “Call her back, Gordon.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’ll tell her good luck with the carrots.”
“Just get the information.” Kelly continued down the hall without looking back at the cameraman.
There seemed to be no end to the flow of staffers. Fortunately, most of them didn’t speak to her. Kelly kept her gaze trained on an invisible point on the far wall, pretending to be a very important person with too much to do.
She was almost at her office when Coral Reese, the new reporter who seemed to always be at the station, came toward her, waving a memo to get her attention. Kelly had asked her to look up a few things and Coral had jumped on it, eager to make herself useful.
“Hey, Kelly. Monroe Capp sent me to find you. Says it’s urgent.”
“What else is new?” Kelly asked wearily. “I just have to take care of a few things in my office before I enter the inner sanctum.”
Coral laughed. No one seemed to notice. It wasn’t as if the WBRX news director was popular. “I’ll tell him you’re here. Oh, and I found a lot of documentation on that abandoned building in city records. It is soo complicated, but I can give you the basics later if you want.”
“Sure. And thanks.” Kelly was beginning to like Coral. The young reporter didn’t seem overly impressed by Monroe Capp’s posturing, for one thing.
Coral did a one-eighty turn and went back the way she’d come, her blond bob swinging. Kelly scooted into her office, closing the door behind her. Outside of Emperor Monroe, she wasn’t required to talk to anyone else. She settled herself in her swivel chair and touched a key to open the WBRX home page for staffers.
Kelly knew the drill. Stare into the screen, act busy, keep fin
gers clickety-clicking on the keyboard. She breathed deeply, willing herself to calm down. Out of habit, she scanned the WBRX home page. There was no breaking news to get excited about. Fractionally relaxed, she leaned back in her chair.
The desk phone rang. The jangly noise seemed too loud in a room with a shut door. Kelly looked at the caller ID screen, noticing the Dallas area code. She hesitated before picking it up. But on the off chance it was Deke, who still hadn’t returned her call to his cell, she picked up the receiver.
“Kelly Johns, WBRX.”
The cultured female voice that responded was the last thing she expected to hear.
“Hello. This is Natalie Conrad.”
“Oh.” Kelly couldn’t quite hide her surprise. “Good morning, Mrs. Conrad.”
“I believe I told you to call me Natalie.” The reminder was crisp.
“Right. Yes, you did. How are you? The Billionaires’ Ball was quite an event—and by the way, I want to thank you again for taking the time to talk to me.”
True enough, as far as it went. What Kelly really wanted to know was the names of the photographers who’d chronicled the grand occasion. She had to start somewhere to find her stalker. But Natalie Conrad wasn’t likely to know such a minor detail. Atwood might.
“My pleasure.”
“What can I do for you, Natalie?”
“Are you busy?” The inquiry seemed pointed.
“Mondays are always busy around here—but I’m not.” Kelly paused. Listen and learn. Natalie Conrad had said just that.
“I’ll get to the point. The money we raised didn’t match our expectations,” the other woman began.
“Oh.”
“The costs were extraordinary.” Natalie’s silvery laugh seemed at odds with her concern. “You can’t penny-pinch in Dallas.”
Kelly wondered what the other woman was getting at.
“I do think we might need to broaden our efforts,” Natalie continued. “Especially since we haven’t purchased a site for the museum as yet.”
That was something Kelly had noticed on her own. But she didn’t have the nerve to ask tough questions at the moment. And she didn’t share the older woman’s obsession with memorializing her late husband.
Vision, Kelly silently corrected herself. Natalie Conrad had a vision. The glamorous widow wouldn’t use any other word for her pet project.
“Kelly? Are you there?”
“Yes,” Kelly answered hastily. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about—what you just mentioned.”
“Were you.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “My dear, I should apologize for calling you at work. Perhaps this isn’t the best time.”
Despite her elaborate courtesy, there was no mistaking the frosty edge in Natalie’s voice.
Too bad, honey, Kelly thought, irked by the dismissive way the billionaire’s widow said the word work. Without a doubt, Natalie Conrad was accustomed to people hanging on her every word and doing her bidding and being honored when she called. But Kelly just couldn’t fake it right now.
“I’d love to hear what you’re up to, Natalie. In detail. But I do have a meeting with our news director in five minutes.”
Natalie was silent. “Oh. I see. Do give Monroe my best.”
Ouch. Kelly would have to. This call was proof enough that Mrs. Conrad followed up on things. “I certainly will. And I hope we can talk again soon, Natalie.”
“In person?” The older woman’s voice was warm again. “Why not? I may be in Atlanta as soon as next week. Au revoir, Kelly.”
Kelly said good-bye and hung up, shaking her head. She really couldn’t peg Natalie Conrad. She suddenly wondered how Natalie had obtained her direct number. The receptionist didn’t usually put unknown callers through to the anchors. Kelly got more than her share of unwanted attention as the WBRX blonde.
The desk phone buzzed with an internal message. Monroe was waiting.
The balding news director was leaning back in his swivel chair, his tassel-loafer-clad feet up on his desk. Kelly didn’t sit down, annoyed to have to wait when he’d summoned her. The conversation—his half of it, anyway—seemed fairly trivial.
Affably, Monroe wrapped it up and brought his chair down. “Howdy.”
Kelly had never heard him say howdy before. One eyebrow went up in a quizzical arch.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He chuckled. “I knew you were going to Dallas over the weekend even before you left.”
Did Monroe Capp like to read his employees’ e-mail? She wouldn’t put it past him. She had looked up the ball online.
“An old acquaintance of mine enjoyed meeting you again. I understand it was quite a shindig. Did you have fun?”
Shindig wasn’t a Monroe word either. But at least she knew how Natalie Conrad had gotten her number.
“Yes.”
“Natalie was impressed by you.”
“I don’t know why. Although she did pull me out of the crowd to talk to her.”
“Well, a little while ago she took the trouble to call me up and congratulate me on my good judgment for keeping you front and center at WBRX.”
Kelly shrugged. She couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and it wasn’t exactly a compliment.
“Natalie and her late husband used to live near me and my exwife in Buckhead, in this great big mansion. Sometimes they used it for entertaining. On a grand scale. Other than that, they weren’t there much.”
That piqued Kelly’s interest. “I didn’t know that.”
“Before your time. I don’t live in Buckhead anymore. When we were talking, she mentioned that she’d met you at benefit galas in Atlanta now and then.”
“Yes. That’s what the Dallas thing was—a massive fund-raiser to build a new art museum.”
Monroe nodded. “Natalie loved to collect, and Harry liked to indulge her. They didn’t have any children. He was a lot older than she was.” He thought for a few seconds. “He met her in Russia, I think.”
“When was that?”
“Years ago. Maybe before you were born. He was in Moscow on business, buying up refineries, mines, oil fields. Not totally on the up-and-up.”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, Natalie needed to feather her twenty-bedroom nest, and she and Maya used to hit the galleries together. Natalie liked to encourage young artists, if you get my drift. Some of them are making millions now. I can’t say I understand modern art, but to each his own.”
Kelly cleared her throat. This couldn’t be why he’d wanted to see her. Her gaze moved around the office, stopping on the pile of DVD auditions from her potential competition.
Monroe fiddled with a pencil. “That’s ancient history. Am I boring you?”
“No. Thanks for sharing.”
He laughed and leaned back again. “Listen, I called you in to tell you that the news blackout on that building shootout got lifted.”
“Why?”
“My guess is that the cops are stumped. They need leads. Are you still hot to do some reporting?”
The question startled her. Monroe Capp was known for changing his mind on a whim, but that was a serious leap.
He moved aside the stack of DVDs and lifted a binder marked with a consultant logo she recognized. “My boss—and I do have one—hired Rivers and Oxford to analyze our ratings and poll viewers. Seems that the folks out there in TV land want more Kelly Johns.”
“Really.”
“Yes. And we’re going to give them what they want. Which means more on-air face time for you. Not bad, huh?”
“That’s an interesting development,” she said cautiously. He had to be telling the truth, at least in part. But Kelly guessed he hadn’t found an SYSC who was capable of replacing her. The acronym stood for Someone Younger Sexier Cheaper, and everyone around the station knew what it meant. His offer didn’t mean she was going to stop looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was gaining on her.
“The shootout seems like a good, gory story. The corruption thing yo
u were working on with Laura, forget it. That stays spiked. No one wants to see visuals of tax returns and listen to a lot of complicated explanations.”
Kelly didn’t want to seem eager, and she wasn’t. Receiving what amounted to a death threat had dampened her enthusiasm a little. Deke had hinted at a link between the Dallas ball and the Atlanta investigation. That card was one hell of a link.
“Let me think about it. I’m not sure what our angle should be.”
“Dead gangsters, what else,” Monroe said. “Cars riddled with bullet holes. I guess they mopped up the blood, but maybe you could sweet-talk some cop and score forensics photos. Put it all together and get the sound editor to add some bang-bang and screaming sirens. Special Report, with Kelly Johns,” he intoned in an announcer’s voice. “How does that grab you?”
News didn’t just happen, it was made and remade in the studio. Business as usual. She still wasn’t sure.
“Hey, one more thing. That redhead. What happened to her? Gordon showed me the tape.”
“She disappeared.” Kelly was relieved that Monroe wasn’t taking her to task for not being first in line to see it.
Her boss pointed the pencil at her. “That’s our angle. Cherchez la femme. Look for the woman. Hype it to the max.”
“I can’t find her if the cops can’t.”
Monroe rolled his eyes and groaned. “Do I care? I have a seven-day schedule to fill up. If the shootout story fizzles out, we move on to something else. Atlanta is a big, wicked city. I see a lot of Special Reports starring you in the future.”
Kelly made up her mind. He was offering her something she had wanted, badly. Finding out who’d sent the card or what someone thought she had to do with Deke’s investigation would take weeks or months. She might never find out who’d delivered the damn thing. “Give me a day or two to get started.”
“Not a problem. Just make sure that we know where you are at all times. And, Kelly”—he pointed the pencil at her—“don’t work alone. That’s an order.”