Devil in the Deadline

by Walker, LynDee

  He stared at me for half a second and smiled. “I’ve never known you to be a liar, Nichelle. Don’t prove me wrong today, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “She’s a quiet one.” He stood, turning for the door that led to dispatch. “Be right back.”

  “I just bet she is,” I mumbled to Shelby, mentally rehearsing what to say to Girl Friday.

  “What are we going to do?” Shelby asked.

  “Try to explain that she’s being irresponsible,” I said as Sam appeared in the doorway, a slight young woman with a soft brown bob on his heels.

  “Can I help you?” She stopped in the doorway. “I have important work to do.”

  “I was hoping we could take a walk,” I said, skipping an introduction because the look on her face said she knew good and well who I was. “I understand how important being near your desk is to four-one-one, but I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Her eyes widened a touch, then flew to Sam, who didn’t appear to be paying us any mind.

  “I can’t be away from nine-one-one long.” She stressed the numbers. “But okay.”

  Shelby and I led her outside and a half-block down before we turned on her.

  “How’s it going, Girl Friday?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nichelle.” She pursed her lips, folding her arms over her chest.

  “But you know who I am,” I said, my eyebrows going up.

  “You work at the newspaper.”

  “It’s not like my photo runs with my byline,” I told her. “And Shelby here has pretty good proof that you’re behind River City Four-one-one, so give it a rest. I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here to offer a few words of friendly advice.”

  “Let me guess,” she said, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “You want me to go easy on the cops. They have an innocent man in jail and you couldn’t care less. You don’t deserve to have a byline.”

  Shelby took a step forward and opened her mouth. Since I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her opinion on that topic, I raised one hand and turned back to Alexa.

  “You don’t have the first damned clue what I do or don’t care about,” I said. “So if I were you, I’d watch the accusatory tone. I care very much about that guy and about this story. And you seem dead-set on wrecking everything anyone is trying to do here. That’s not journalism, it’s muckraking. It’s irresponsible. Do you even understand the headlines you’re running could incite a panic if your following gets any bigger?”

  “The people deserve the truth,” she said, eyes flashing.

  I rolled mine. “Not at the expense of public safety.”

  “There’s a serial killer running around the city, and you think not warning people is in the interest of public safety?” She shook her head. “Unbelievable. How did you end up with a job when I didn’t?”

  I blinked.

  “First, I worked my ass off to get a job, and I work my ass off every day to keep it,” I said. “Second, nobody is sure this is a serial killer, except maybe the people you’ve managed to convince with your sensational reports.”

  “You’re just pissed because I beat you to the punch on the victim’s identity this morning.”

  She smirked, and my fingers itched to smack the look off her face. I folded them behind my back.

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t annoyed, but I got my information honestly, and you didn’t,” I said.

  “And Nichelle’s story was better,” Shelby piped up.

  “I—” I glanced around. No Rod Serling. “Thanks, Shelby.” I turned back to Alexa. “Look, you’re stealing confidential police department information and broadcasting it online. And you’re spinning it in a way that could cause big trouble. I get being young and passionate about the First Amendment, but you’re going about this all wrong.”

  “And I suppose your way—letting the cops get away with whatever the hell they want—that’s better?”

  I closed my eyes for a long second, and Shelby snorted. “I think someone missed a homework assignment,” she said.

  I grinned, meeting Alexa’s angry stare. “Look, I don’t know you, and to be honest, I don’t really give a damn why you’re so mad. I came to talk to you instead of turning your name over to Aaron, because he will fire you, and I don’t fancy being responsible for anyone being out of work. I saw you were a recent j-school grad and I thought I could give you some advice. Maybe even help you out. Clearly, my mistake.”

  She blinked. “You can’t get me fired.”

  “I have no authority over PD human resources, but if you think they won’t can you when they find out it’s you who’s caused so many headaches this week, you are not as smart as I thought you were.”

  “You thought I was smart?” Something that looked like a smile touched her lips for half a blink.

  “Anyone who can keep up with me and Charlie on a story this big isn’t stupid,” I said. “But you have an awful lot to learn about ethics.”

  “Get me fired.” She lifted her head, glaring at me. “I’m not going away. Blogging is the next evolution of journalism. Newspapers will continue their slow death, and someone has to fill that void.”

  “And you’re going to make a living at this…how?”

  “Ad sales,” she said, glancing at her watch. “My break is over. Are you finished lecturing me now?”

  Twelve years and a hundred thousand subscribers in, the Telegraph’s website only made a paltry amount from ads.

  I glanced at Shelby. “We’re done here,” I said, flashing a smile at Alexa. “Good luck with your ad sales, Friday. You’ll need it.”

  We walked further down Grace toward the car as she turned back to the PD.

  “You’re not going to see your detective friend?” Shelby asked.

  I unlocked the car. “I’m going to think about it,” I said. “She is causing trouble, but I want to make sure I’m ratting her out for the right reason—not because I’m tired of her constantly hanging over my head.”

  Shelby nodded. “You’re a decent person, Nichelle.”

  I started the engine. “You’re not so bad yourself, Shelby.”

  “When I’m not trying to get you killed,” she muttered.

  “I wasn’t going to say it.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I deserve it.”

  I spent the drive back to the office wondering if my epic war with Shelby Taylor had reached a peace accord.

  I let Shelby out and sped to the courthouse, standing through the morning arguments thanks to the packed gallery in DonnaJo’s courtroom. I wrote the first half of the day two when we broke for lunch, emailing Bob a request for fifteen inches in Metro for the trial. I ran back early to snag a seat, then opened a text to Kyle.

  “Wondering if you’ve had a chance to read background on your new assignment.”

  I tapped one finger on the edge of the screen, hoping he’d reply.

  “Working on that now. Anything I should look for?”

  “Edwin Wolterhall might have an interesting file,” I said. “If you can lay your hands on a court transcript from his trial in California, I’ll kiss you.”

  “Tempting. FOI?”

  “Case is years old. Records sealed bc it involved a minor.”

  “Won’t be easy. Let me work on it.”

  I grinned as the gallery started to refill, and DonnaJo winked at me from the Commonwealth’s table. “Anything good?” she mouthed.

  “Could be,” I replied.

  She nodded and turned as the judge called the court back to order.

  I spent the next three hours trying to focus, but mostly taking notes on autopilot.

  Speeding back to the office, I guessed it would take less than an hour to finish and file my story, which meant I could call Aaron about Girl Friday before I was supposed to meet Kyle. If I wanted to. Which I still hadn’t decided.

  Until I got to my desk and found a box sitting on top of the pile of press releases and messages in the
center.

  A camera. One of those little flat HD video ones. With a note from Andrews on Telegraph letterhead.

  Our editor isn’t interested in moving the paper forward, but perhaps his favorite reporter might be. Just try it. For Bob’s sake.

  I plopped into my chair, wadding up the note and tossing it in the recycle before I snatched the camera from the box and plugged it in, cursing Alexa Reading and her video.

  Damn Rick Andrews. He wasn’t getting rid of Bob if I could help it.

  I texted Aaron. “Girl Friday works in dispatch on your first floor. Day shift. Alexa Reading.”

  Three seconds went by. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I talked to her,” I tapped. “I feel a little stoogey, but thought you deserved to know.”

  “She signed a confidentiality agreement. Not your fault she violated it.”

  “Thanks.” I added a smiley face.

  Aaron did, too. “You just made my day.”

  I flipped open my laptop and banged out the rest of the trial day two, which included a lot of expert testimony on bullet trajectories and ballistics reports. This kid would spend the best years of his life behind bars before DonnaJo was through with him.

  I sent the story to Bob as my BlackBerry burst into Disney classics. Unknown number. I frowned.

  “Clarke,” I said.

  “Miss Clarke,” the man whispered, and I covered my free ear and strained to hear him. “My name is Richard Galloway. I just wanted to—” His breath hitched in. “I don’t know. You called about my little girl, and I had to call back. Thank you for caring about her.”

  My tongue was super-glued to the roof of my mouth. Landers said the mom was a nutcase.

  “Hello?” he whisper-shouted.

  “I’m here,” I managed. “I’m surprised to hear from you. The detective I saw this morning said your wife was…” I trailed off, no clue how to finish inoffensively.

  “She is.” His hushed tone took on a hard edge. “I’m not. She holds her money over everyone like a noose. But I will see my baby have a Christian burial.”

  “I can let the police know that,” I said. “Would you like to tell me a little about your daughter?”

  I got only a muffled sob in response. “I loved her,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.”

  A clatter in the background was followed by a shout and the line went dead.

  I dropped the phone and grabbed a pen, scribbling.

  He certainly sounded sincere. And didn’t seem fond of his wife. But Landers was sure a man had killed Ruth and Cecilia both, and I was inclined to agree. Unless Wanda Galloway was unusually buff, she’d have had a hard time inflicting that kind of damage. I typed the Galloways into Google and found photos from the local paper in Wallingford. Wanda’s flat scowl could wilt a whole garden, but neither of them looked like they’d been inside a gym in at least a decade. As I stared at the woman, my BlackBerry binged again.

  Kyle: “I earned that kiss today. Check your email. And meet me at your place to get the dog in an hour.”

  I grabbed my bag and went to fill Bob in on Girl Friday before I headed out. Between Wolterhall’s court transcript and Elise’s plan to get me into Way of Life the next morning, my weekend was looking good.

  26.

  Showdown

  I saw the car first.

  It took half a second for cold to spread from my free-falling stomach to my fingers and toes. No. Nononononono.

  Joey.

  Who was invited for the weekend.

  Joey.

  Who I’d forgotten was coming.

  He paced the length of my front porch with long, agitated strides, his shoulders coiled under his tailored navy jacket.

  I slowed the car, still out of his sight line, my brain racing for what I could tell him. Certainly not that I was spending the weekend at Kyle’s—even if I did intend (really) to sleep on the couch. Hello there, disaster waiting to happen.

  Joey raised his phone to his ear, and my BlackBerry commenced buzzing in my bag.

  I kept my foot on the brake, any semblance of a plan failing me.

  The phone went silent and he pulled out a key and opened my front door, disappearing inside. To where the bullet holes were. I sped into the driveway.

  Bolting for the porch and through the open door, I stopped short when he stepped into the foyer, Darcy snuggled under his left arm. “Nice shotgun scatter patterns someone left on your wall.” His tone sounded almost conversational, but I caught the undercurrent of fury.

  “It was an interesting Thursday.” I leaned against the wall and tried for nonchalance, folding my arms across my chest.

  “Dammit, Nichelle!” Beach glass trembled on the shelf behind me, and I flinched. I’d never heard Joey yell. He reached for me and froze, pulling in a deep breath before he set the dog deliberately on the floor and stood, his voice under tight rein, muscles standing out all around his collar. “You can’t keep dismissing this like it’s a game. When the other team has guns and knows where you live, you stop playing.”

  “I’m not playing at anything,” I snapped. “And I’m more than a little offended at the insinuation. This is important.”

  “Why? Why is it so important you figure it out? No headline is worth this.” Again with the yelling. Darcy scooted behind the coat rack. I kept flashing eyes on Joey, annoyed because I was excited to see him even with him treating me like I was five.

  “I have several reasons, none of which I’m inclined to describe in detail for you right now,” I said. “But the top of my list is that scatter pattern on the wall. I’m not backing off the story because they shot at me. If you don’t already know that, you don’t know me at all.” I blinked, the telltale pricking in the backs of my eyes that went with tears just making me madder. Damn PMS.

  He stepped toward me, his voice softening, and ran his index finger lightly over the bandages Kyle had put on my face. “Let the cops do their job.” He tried to smile, catching me by the shoulders and pulling me to his chest.

  I held my whole torso stiff.

  “Why must you be so stubborn?” His arms tightened around me, his face buried in my hair. “I just want you to be safe.”

  I sighed, tension leaking from my body as I let the solid wall of his shoulders take the weight I’d been carrying all day. My arms looped around his waist. “My mother was here,” I said into the butter-soft fabric of his jacket.

  “What?” His chin thumped into the top of my head.

  “She was here. She came to talk to me about…” I paused, his happy family story from Sunday rolling around my thoughts. “Something. And she just left this morning.”

  “After this happened? She didn’t take you with her because why?”

  “She was sleeping. Pills and earplugs block out drive-bys, it appears.”

  “Drive-by. That’s what the cops think?”

  “That’s what it was. I was on the couch. The window exploded, there were a few more shots, and a car sped off. RPD found a couple of guys a few blocks down who gave them a good description of the vehicle.”

  “You know anything else?” His voice sharpened again. I raised my head and pulled back. Guns, money, and the Mafia danced on the edges of my thoughts.

  “I think the sheriff out in Fauquier is in Golightly’s pocket.”

  “You’re not wrong.” The safe circle of his arms dropped, and he resumed prowling my little wood-floored foyer like a caged panther, one hand raking through his hair on repeat.

  “I went by there when I got the ID on the victim yesterday, looking for a missing person’s report. They were pretty uncooperative. I didn’t flash my press credentials or anything, but the deputy followed me out and looked a little too long at my plates. This happened a few hours later.”

  He paused midstep, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on a clenched fist.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” The last one carried rock-concert decibels. He straightened and slammed his fist into the wall. A hai
rline crack ran up the plaster from just above his hand to the ceiling.

  I took a deep breath, trying to keep my adrenaline levels down. Joey never lost his cool. Twice in five minutes was enough to rattle me.

  “This would all be a lot easier if you’d just tell me who killed—” The rest of the sentence stuck in my throat when Darcy darted out onto the porch, bouncing and yipping.

  At Kyle.

  He grinned and bent to scratch her ears. “You ladies ready to go?”

  “Go where?” Joey threw me a questioning glance, and Kyle’s grin vanished quicker than Eunice’s armadillo eggs at the sports desk, his blue eyes settling on the scene before him.

  I watched them both step closer to me, questions flashing in neon across their faces.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Everything moved through Jell-O.

  Kyle’s eyes hit on the leather overnight case at Joey’s feet before they flew to mine. “I see.”

  Crap. I’d been perfectly honest about wanting to be friends, but that didn’t stop the hurt in his blue eyes from stabbing me in the gut. “Kyle, it’s…complicated.”

  “Looks pretty self-explanatory to me.” He set his jaw, one foot edging back toward the door.

  “But… I don’t think…it’s not…” I fumbled for words and found none, so I laid one hand on his arm. “Please don’t go away mad.”

  Joey stayed in the doorway to the living room, keeping his mouth shut. Thank God.

  I tossed him a please-don’t-leave glance and ushered Kyle out onto the porch.

  “The last thing in the world I want is for you to be hurt, Kyle.”

  “That’s the same guy. The one who was here wanting to go for a walk last fall.” The ice in his voice could’ve frozen the ninth ring of Hell. Which was currently located on my front porch. “He’s the reason you’re not ‘feeling it’ with me?”

  “No!” It came out too fast, with too much force. He shook his head and I threw up my hands. “Not entirely. I’m at least sure of that. I came to pick up Darcy and you weren’t here yet, but he was. The window and the shotgun holes freaked him out. We had plans I forgot about in all the trigger-happy bumpkin insanity.”