by Janet Dailey
He looked at her impatiently. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt an important call,” he barked. “The tech director said you peeked into the control room. If you want to see me, come to my office.”
“Be right there,” she said to the wrinkled back of his shirt as Monroe strode away down the hall.
“Is that your boss?” Deke asked.
“How did you know? I have to go,” she told him quickly. “Call me when you can, okay?”
He said he would and said good-bye. Over and out. Kelly put the phone on her desk and gathered up the few pages she’d printed, slipping them into a folder.
Monroe threw a sour look at her as she entered, narrowing his eyes at the folder in her hand. “What’s that?”
“A little research.”
He groaned. “No.”
“Monroe, if you want to do a feature on the shootout, a few facts won’t kill us. And don’t forget we have tape from the scene. A WBRX exclusive.”
Monroe’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah. Keep reminding me.”
“But it runs less than a minute. It would be nice if we had something to say too.”
“I see your point. Yap all you want. For a feature, we can do cuts in advance.”
Kelly didn’t bother to reply. He wasn’t wrong, just annoying.
“By the way, the director wants to see the tape when he gets out of the control room. I assume you’ll want to be there.”
Kelly nodded, tapping the file folder against her thigh. There was no sense in taking out the papers or discussing the side topic of Gunther Bach with her boss. When Monroe was busy, he had the attention span of a gnat.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Then get outta here. I mean that in a nice way.”
“Sure you do,” she said. The finger he jabbed in the direction of the open door was Kelly’s cue to leave. “See you later.”
Summoned via phone intercom at the usual hour, Kelly walked from her office to the makeup room. Dave Maples was in the chair and wearing a smock over his suit.
June Fletcher had just stepped back and was studying his rock-jawed face, not pleased. “Yikes. There is such a thing as too tan.”
Kelly’s co-anchor turned to look at himself in the mirror, smoothing down the tissues protecting his snowy collar. “I would call that a healthy glow,” Dave said.
June didn’t bother arguing, just got busy. In another few minutes, Dave looked more natural. He got up and let her remove the smock, then made a gallant gesture in the direction of the chair. “Your turn, Kelly.”
“Thanks.”
She sat and closed her eyes, letting June do her magic. “So what’s the big story tonight?” the makeup artist asked.
“There isn’t one,” Kelly replied.
June clucked with disapproval. “You mean the world isn’t coming to an end?”
“Not anytime soon.”
Kelly could have done the broadcast in her sleep. Her mind was elsewhere. The routine stories had called for nothing more than the usual banter and an occasional concerned frown. She slid out from behind the slab top of the anchor desks, avoiding the tangle of wires hidden from the cameras.
Dave Maples had done the sign-off tonight and now was talking about the broadcast with the director, who was still in the control room. Actually, Dave was only listening, his gaze fixed on nothing. The director was talking to him through the clear IFB bud in Dave’s ear. There was nothing like feedback to make an anchor look like a lunatic.
Handing over her lav mic and bud, Kelly left the set. She went around several corners to reach the newsroom. The steady hum of the scanners reached her first. Then suddenly the chatter grew louder, voices overlapping.
Jumper. Male. Unidentified. From penthouse floor. There was a witness. Promenade sealed. Additional units requested to scene. Repeat, additional units requested.
The address was given. She knew the street and the promenade, part of Atlanta’s most expensive new condo complex. She heard the assignment editor at the scanner desk yelling for someone to get out there. Kelly almost bumped into Monroe by the time she turned the last corner.
“Did you hear that?” he asked her. “Poor bastard. But he might make the eleven o’clock news.”
“Deke. Did I hear you right? Gunther Bach was the suicide?” Kelly grabbed a pencil. She’d been working late at the office when his call came in. “The scanners didn’t ID the jumper. Who’s your source? Tell me how you know.”
“That thing you’re talking on? The telephone? They have them all over the country now. I got a call.”
“Don’t be snotty. From who?”
“Someone who shall be nameless. He also e-mailed a couple of photos from the scene. Not pretty, but it was Bach all right. I’m being called back from Dallas.”
As usual, Deke seemed to possess the ability to walk through walls and talk to everyone. Right now, it aggravated her.
“On whose authority? Your handler or lion tamer or parole officer or what?”
“I like lion tamer. I should be in Atlanta by midnight.”
“I assume you’re going to the scene. Is the medical examiner there yet?”
“Yeah. He got dragged out of some fancy party. I hear there’s quite a crowd on the sidewalk,” Deke replied. “Detectives, EMTs, undercovers, beat cops, you name it. And the techs are going over his apartment, dusting for fingerprints and looking under the bed.”
“Not for missing socks, I take it.”
“No.”
“With that much official attention, I’m guessing they suspect murder rather than suicide,” Kelly said.
“That’s conjecture,” Deke pointed out.
“Us newshounds do a lot of that. Anything else I don’t know and won’t be allowed to say on the air?”
“I’m glad you know where the line is drawn,” Deke said.
“You’re drawing it. Not me. Is it possible it could have been something other than suicide? Interrupted robbery, followed by homicide?”
“Nothing seemed to be taken. Apparently there was an insurance inventory of the penthouse art and valuables in his desk. There was no sign of forced entry.”
“So he could have been killed by someone he knew,” Kelly said.
“It’s a likely scenario. But it’s not the only one. The scene hasn’t been processed. They still have to search for a note or some other indication that he wanted to take his life—that’s routine. Then there are fingerprints. Or no fingerprints.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If there aren’t any, that’s suspicious. Surfaces don’t get wiped down at suicide scenes. If there isn’t some trace of him on the balcony railing—smeared palm prints, fingerprints—you can draw your own conclusions. But keep them to yourself.”
Kelly fell silent. She had disliked Bach, had even been afraid of him, but she wouldn’t wish a death like that on anyone.
“You still there?” Deke asked. “Don’t get mad at me just because I can’t give you a day pass to the penthouse.”
“I’m not mad. I’m just dying of curiosity. So what exactly will you be doing when you get there?”
“I’m meeting Lieutenant Dwight from the Atlanta PD. He called me in for a consult on some other evidence.”
The name didn’t register at first. Then Kelly remembered—he was the taciturn lieutenant who’d interviewed her the day after the shooting. “Give him my regards.”
“I will.”
“Is there any way I could be useful?”
Deke didn’t answer for a moment. “Actually, there is something you can do that I can’t. When the autopsy is over, go to Gunther’s funeral.”
“And why do you want me to go?”
“They’ll expect some news presence, and you knew him slightly. Look sad but stay alert. Find out who shows up.”
“Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”
“My guess is that a lot of people would have been happy to see him dead. We know hi
s US operation was headed for a fast meltdown and that his hedge fund was on the verge of collapse.”
“That’s not news.”
“Let me bring you up to date. Gunther Bach was blowing through money to the tune of a million dollars a day. He borrowed a hundred million not that long ago to keep his fraud going—a personal loan from an unidentified ‘friend.’ With the stipulation that it be repaid promptly.”
Kelly was scribbling madly. “Go on.”
“Bach defaulted on the loan this afternoon. Now he’s dead.”
Lieutenant Dwight pretended not to notice when Deke finally ended his second call to Kelly around two A.M. The crime scene techs had cleared out of the penthouse, taking large paper bags and boxes filled with anything that could be evidence.
Tall and rangy, Dwight paced the luxurious apartment once more, his long stride carrying him swiftly through the rooms.
He returned to see that Deke was standing, taking a final look around himself. “Ready to go?” the lieutenant asked him.
Deke seemed reluctant. “Yeah. But I feel like there’s something we overlooked,” he said.
“I always feel like that. Sometimes I’m right and we find something. But we turned this place upside down and inside out.”
Deke slipped his phone into an inside pocket of his leather jacket.
The lieutenant gave a dry chuckle. “Keeping Kelly close, are you?”
Deke nodded. “As close as I can. It’s not like she follows instructions.”
“You’re good at working the media, Bannon. It’s a necessary evil.”
Deke knew the lieutenant was only half-joking. “Don’t ever let her hear you say that,” he replied. “I prefer to think of it as working with the media.”
“Spin it any way you like. You know what I’m talking about. Best to say things straight. If you can’t, I will. I have nothing to lose.” He gave Deke a considering look. “She’s not my girl.”
Deke didn’t answer.
“If you don’t mind my asking, is she yours?” A wry smile altered the expression on Dwight’s lined face.
Deke shot him a wary look. “Kelly and I are a team. Can I leave it at that?”
The lieutenant folded his lean arms across his chest. “Bannon, I don’t want this investigation compromised. If you say too much, it will be.”
“She’s helping us, Dwight. She is seriously good at this game.”
CHAPTER 13
“Come on, Kelly. How often do I ask you for favors?”
“Every day? Once a week? I can’t remember,” Kelly said. “You keep right on doing it.”
She had him there. Monroe Capp had the grace to look a little ashamed. “I hate funerals,” he said. “And I barely knew Gunther Bach.”
“But you got an invitation.” Unlike Deke, who’d already asked her to go.
“I have another commitment.” Her boss wasn’t giving up. “Come on. Help me out. You can take an extra personal day this month.”
“I hardly knew him myself,” Kelly protested. “We had lunch in Atlanta. Once. We had a creepy conversation in Dallas after that.”
“How about this? Skip the funeral.” Monroe switched to negotiation mode. “I heard it’s supposed to be on the small side anyway. The memorial service invitation is for me and a guest, so that could be you.”
“I wonder if any of the people he cheated are going to be there,” Kelly mused. “Talk about real tears.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Neither was he.”
Monroe Capp looked almost defeated. Almost.
“Why do I get the feeling you haven’t told me everything?” Kelly asked after a beat.
“Because I haven’t,” Monroe shot back. “Okay, here goes. Natalie Conrad is flying in the same day. Her social secretary left me a message, so it’s not like it was a personal request, but Natalie wants me to sit next to her at the memorial service.”
“Oh. Now I understand.”
“Kelly, I just don’t need the aggravation. She was a problem when we both lived in Buckhead.”
“Why?” Kelly was interested.
“Natalie—ah—came over now and then when Maya wasn’t around. She wasn’t looking to borrow a cup of sugar, put it that way. And when I got divorced and she was widowed, I think she expected me to, you know, take care of her.”
Kelly just looked at him. Monroe met her gaze and read her mind. “Go ahead and say it. I’m not a sex god. But I’m single and under sixty and trustworthy.”
She suppressed a smile, not too successfully.
“Compared to some,” Monroe amended. “She knew I didn’t need her money. Anyway, I was really relieved when she moved on. But I don’t want to renew our acquaintance. Please, Kelly. Help me out.”
There were no relatives at the memorial service, as far as Kelly knew. Gunther Bach didn’t seem to have any.
A man at the lectern gave a discreet cough as mourners faced forward. No white clerical collar, no black. Just an ordinary suit and neutral tie. There was something generic about him.
“Good afternoon. As we gather to remember a colleague and friend of many here today . . . excuse me. Is this on?” The man turned to someone at the side to ask about the microphone. Judging by his opening line, he seemed not to have met the man he was eulogizing.
The problem was fixed and he droned on.
Kelly could have done better on the details. Gunther Bach had never married and had no children. Kelly had found not one mention of family online. Women, yes. Lots of those. Par for the course for a womanizer. He had wealthy friends, not that many, and innumerable business acquaintances.
“It is well to remember that death comes for us all in time. It is my understanding that Gunther Bach lived life to the fullest . . .”
The mourners filling the somber hall for the memorial service sat in rows, mostly expressionless. Their attire was just as somber, running to severe, tailored suits for both sexes.
Kelly told herself not to think like a tabloid reporter. There was no reason to expect a veiled beauty overcome with grief-stricken sobs, or the appearance of a long-lost relative. Gunther Bach’s inner circle evidently didn’t go in for drama. But she had to wonder what they did go in for.
The speaker wrapped up the eulogy and stepped down. No one came forward to offer something more personal.
“Sir. Madam. Sir.” With muted voices and gestures, the dark-suited ushers directed the guests to rise.
Slowly, everyone filed out to a smaller hall, where a cold buffet was laid out on a banquet table draped in white damask. It didn’t look particularly fresh.
There was ice water in pitchers, with coffee and tea provided by catering-company servers. Gunther Bach’s funeral was definitely not the kind of send-off where people drowned their sorrows or got emotional.
People moved discreetly away from Kelly, seeming to know who she was, as if no one wanted publicity. She didn’t care one way or another. Not having to engage in conversation allowed her to study the guests and commit a few faces to memory for later research.
There was a subdued commotion at the entrance and murmurs ran through the scattered group. Kelly set her glass of water aside by the cold buffet and straightened her clothes. That had to be Natalie Conrad.
“Hello, everyone.”
Her voice was low but she entered like a queen, quietly acknowledging her subjects with a nod here and there.
“Natalie.” A well-dressed woman lingered over the name, following up with a double air-kiss and a pat from a gloved hand. “I’m so sorry you missed the funeral and the eulogy. But it is good to see you.”
Both comments held a touch of acid, Kelly noticed. Just enough.
“A sad day.” A courtly older gentleman bowed slightly to Natalie. “Yet how lovely you look, Mrs. Conrad.”
“Ah, you are here at last.” A heavy man with an accent spoke to her in a gruff voice. “It is good of you to come.”
It was almost as if Natalie Conrad had been widowed a se
cond time, Kelly thought absently. But as far as she knew, Natalie and Gunther had never meant that much to each other. The guests seemed to think otherwise.
Observing them all, she went back to making mental notes. She’d type them up when this charade was over and get them to Deke.
In an aside, he’d told her that she might be surprised by who showed up at funerals for victims of violent crimes. She knew what he meant, but she didn’t see anyone she thought was capable of murder.
They all seemed to be rich people with reserved manners. There were no celebrities, though Kelly had half expected to spot one or two.
No one had been charged with any crime. Leaks to the media had been controlled. Gunther Bach’s death had been officially tagged as suspicious, nothing more, pending further investigation.
Natalie made her way across the hall, exchanging nods of recognition with a guest or two. She wore a light coat over a matching dress, subdued in color but closely fitted and trimmed with black velvet. She was heading for Kelly, but not obviously. There was a brief moment of eye contact that widened Natalie’s beautiful eyes.
She reached Kelly at last and took her arm, drawing her aside. “Monroe told me you would attend in his place,” she murmured. “So kind of you. You look a bit forlorn.”
“I really don’t know anyone here,” Kelly said tactfully.
“Some of Gunther’s friends are unpleasant. I do hope they aren’t ignoring you.” Natalie reached out to take Kelly’s hands and clasp them warmly in her own.
Kelly couldn’t pull away. But something about the older woman’s intensity made her nervous.
“No. I’m a stranger, that’s all.”
Natalie sighed. “They could be more welcoming. Gunther would have insisted on it. He was such a gregarious man—with an eye for the ladies, of course. I would guess he was charmed by you.”
The older woman’s gaze fastened on her with a hard sparkle. Kelly thought it was possible that Natalie had been drinking. But there was no whiff of liquor on her breath. She exuded costly perfume, nothing more.
“I couldn’t say,” Kelly answered. “To be honest, I hardly knew him. But I understand that you two were close.”