Front Page Fatality

by Walker, LynDee

  “Of course I do.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I am shocked you want to. That kid must’ve made quite an impression. I don’t see why not, though you might not want to start until you finish this. You can only do so much at once.”

  I agreed and told him goodnight as the sun faded into half-light outside his window. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. Have to make sure you don’t, you know, die.” I stretched my face into my best exaggeration of Parker’s wide smile, and Bob did the chuckle/wince thing again.

  “Dammit, Nichelle, that’s three.” His smile didn’t fade. “Knock it off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go find your story,” he said. “And don’t get too crossways with Les, either. They say I’m on house arrest for a while, and I don’t want you on his shit list when I get back. He never forgets anything, and he’s a pain in my ass when there’s someone in the newsroom he doesn’t like.”

  “I’ll do my best to fly under his radar.”

  “You’ll have to fly under Shelby’s, too,” he said. “He’s suddenly become her biggest fan the last few weeks, which makes me think I don’t want to know exactly what’s going on there.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I rolled my eyes, thinking of her sniffling into Les’ chest in Bob’s office earlier. From Parker to a snappish, balding bean counter? There was no figuring Shelby out on any front. “No pun intended. And ick.”

  “It’s none of my business, so long as it doesn’t affect my newspaper. But just watch it. I know you two ladies don’t get along, and I know why.” His words began to slur sleepily. “She’s not as good as you are, kid, but she could get there. She’s a hell of a writer. She just lacks your personality and experience. But if she’s got Les’ ear, you might have a rough stretch coming. So don’t screw up.”

  “You got it.” I backed out of the room as he drifted off.

  A bike with a red helmet was in the space next to my car, but it was a Honda, not a BMW like Parker’s. I considered our resident jock for half a second, a little ashamed of myself for stereotyping him as a talentless, shallow ass. He seemed like a decent guy, really. The kind I wouldn’t mind having as a friend. When I had time for friends again, anyway. I hadn’t even spoken to Jenna since Friday.

  I rolled the windows down and turned the music up as I tried to make sense of what might be going on at the PD. What if it was a cop? What if it was the lawyer, and he took off because he didn’t want to share with the drug pusher? What if said drug pusher had someone on the inside?

  I tried to ignore Bob’s allusion to “investigative reporting,” but the words pulsed through my head in time to the music. It was what I’d always wanted. And it might be right in front of me, if I could just figure out how to get to the answer first. And who I could trust to help me.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Aaron’s cell number. Everyone might be a suspect to Mike, but Aaron couldn’t be in on this. I’d heard enough of his war stories to know he’d been a damned fine detective, back when he’d worked in homicide.

  “Nichelle?” he said when he picked up after the third ring. “What’d I miss now?”

  “Don’t get me started,” I said. I gave him the short version of Bob’s medical situation and continued into how I’d met Troy and what he’d told me about his brother and Noah.

  “Look, Aaron, there’s something really bizarre here. Something that could be huge. I want this story more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and I need to know what you know. On the record, off the record, whatever. No bullshit. I’m calling in my favor.”

  He let out a short, sharp breath.

  “How do I get myself into this shit?” He paused, and I waited. Finally, he said, “off the record, you promise? You cannot put my name on this. Internal affairs hauled in everyone and their brother for questioning today. They’ve got this case locked down tighter than a nun’s panties, and even I don’t know everything. I can tell you where to look, but that’s about it.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Someone really wants the lawyer to go up for the stolen evidence,” he said. “His wife reported him missing, and she and his buddies at the CA’s office suspect foul play. But I’m getting a lot of pressure to put out a story listing him as our prime suspect in the robbery. They know you’re going to have that in the morning anyway, so they’re throwing this guy under the bus solely on the strength of a signature on the log, best I can tell.”

  “But you don’t think he did it?”

  “I don’t know what I think. This is all really fucked up, if I’m being honest. And I don’t like being asked to put my name on something that’s trumped up. Especially when all accounts paint this guy as a decent one, as lawyers go.”

  “What if the kid’s right, and the drug pusher is your murderer?”

  “You’re thinking he left his stuff at the scenes to throw us off because he was going to steal it back?” Aaron sounded doubtful. “Except this wasn’t a breaking and entering situation. They’ve searched every inch of that locker. There’s no sign of anything wrong. Except the shit that’s gone, that is.” He paused, them asked, “You think this kid will talk to me?”

  “I told him you guys might have a few questions for him. He seemed fine with it.”

  “This might be the break we need. Jerry’s gotten little or nothing out of anyone he’s talked to. I suppose it’s too much for me to hope the kid knows who his brother worked for?”

  “If he did, he didn’t tell me. But I didn’t get the idea he knew.” I fished the receipt out of my bag and read Troy’s phone number aloud.

  “Thanks. And off the record, remember?” Aaron said.

  “All access, remember?” I countered. “If you come up with anything, you call me. You promised.”

  “I suppose I did,” he said. “All for keeping a vigilante out of the paper. I think I’m getting screwed on this one. Just don’t get me fired.”

  “I wouldn’t have anyone to call for information if I did,” I said, my mind already chasing Bob’s rabbit down the next hole. “Hey, Aaron? Did you happen to hear anything new on the boat crash? I didn’t get around to calling Jones.”

  “As far as I know, they’re still trying to figure out what Freeman and Roberts were doing on the river, and they haven’t had much luck. Your story was good. What’d you make of Roberts’ wife? I saw that she told you her husband absolutely would not have been out there without orders. You think she’s telling the truth?”

  “I think she believes that, at the very least.”

  Aaron murmured something I didn’t catch and then he was quiet for a minute.

  “What?” My inner Lois perked up.

  “I don’t know,” Aaron said. “I have a hunch. I used to be good at following them. Let’s see what I can manage to stir up if I poke this hornet’s nest.”

  “Don’t stir up more than you can handle. I recently got a lecture about these particular hornets being nasty business.”

  “Could be,” he said. “I’ll call you if there’s anything here. If I’m right, I may need your help as much as you need mine.”

  “If you’re right, you’re going to need a week out on your boat when this is over. You going on vacation this summer?”

  “I’m good.” He laughed. “I’ll have two kids in college come September. No vacations for a while. I’ll take the extra paycheck for my time off. I can always go out to the boat on the weekends, when I don’t have a media shitstorm at work.”

  Passing the Telegraph office as I hung up, I glanced at the trucks lined up to transport the papers coming off the presses in the basement, resisting the urge to hop out and grab an early copy to see what Les did to my story. But it’d be there waiting to stress me out in the morning. I wanted a hot bath, a decent meal, maybe a glass of wine—and my bed. And to not ever have another day like this one.

  I shoved the kitchen door open and bent to greet Darcy out of habit, but she wasn’t there. And she wasn’t barking.

&
nbsp; I turned and looked over the low wooden fence, but she wasn’t in the backyard, either.

  “Darcy?” I dropped my keys on the counter and walked through the kitchen into the living room. The last of the evening light was just enough to illuminate the shadowy shape that didn’t belong. I froze, wondering if I should scream as my heart rate shot into the stratosphere.

  “Is that her name?” the broad-shouldered man who was sitting on my sofa holding my shedding, long-haired dog with complete disregard for the Armani suit he wore asked in an Italian-by-way-of-Jersey accent. “Nice dog you got here, Miss Clarke.”

  9.

  Interview

  “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?” I started to step forward and thought better of it, trying to remember if I had anything handy to use as a weapon. Save for a tennis racquet in the back of my little SUV, I didn’t think I did. I made a mental note to remedy that situation immediately.

  I trained my eyes on the dog, swallowing a wave of nausea and trying to control my breathing. Darcy wasn’t barking. She wasn’t even whimpering. She was licking his hands. Darcy didn’t lick anyone. Ever. Either he had cheddar-flavored fingers, or he wasn’t a terrible threat—my dog was an excellent judge of character.

  I raised my eyes slowly to his face.

  Mr. Breaking and Entering smiled at me and held his hands up, letting go of Darcy. She flopped over on his knee. I shot her a you-little-traitor look. Throwing a sad glance back at her new friend, she hopped down, scurried to my feet, and laid across the right one. Her belly was smooth and warm on my toes, which peeked out of the Manolos I hadn’t had time to kick off.

  “Please, sit down,” Mystery Man said, gesturing to my tufted red chaise as though I were the guest. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m good.” I folded my arms over my chest, hoping I looked braver than I felt. “Easier to get back to the door from here.”

  Knowing my Blackberry was in the car, I slid a hand into my pocket anyway. No dice. Damn. I scooted the foot Darcy hadn’t occupied back into a punching stance slowly, trying to make it look like I was getting comfortable in the doorway.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he repeated.

  Because large men break into the homes of single women with benign intentions so often. I was scared. In my own house. And that pissed me off.

  “Then why don’t we get to why you are here.” My hands clenched at my sides and my breathing sped again, from anger instead of fear. “And why the hell are you sitting on my couch when the house was empty and the doors were locked?”

  He stared for a long minute.

  “You’re not afraid of me.” It was more a statement than a question. A statement that was a hundred and eighty degrees wrong, but maybe my bravado was working. A glint of what looked like appreciation shone in his amused brown eyes. “You got some guts, Miss Clarke. I respect that. And I like people I respect. That spirit of yours will come in handy.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from telling him it was about to come in handy kicking his ass out of my house, returning his silent stare instead. I wondered just how afraid I should be.

  He met my gaze head-on, and I could read nothing menacing in his eyes or on his face. In another setting, I’d call that face attractive, all dark eyes and strong jaw, and the cut of the suit showed off a nice physique. But there was definitely something about him that put my asshole radar—perfected by years of regular exposure to murderers, rapists, and assorted other lowlifes—on a low hum. His body language was relaxed and open, though. He didn’t appear to be an immediate threat. My pulse slowed to near-normal and I relaxed into the doorjamb.

  He flashed a sardonic little grin. “We okay?”

  “Look, I’ve had one hell of a day, so could we just get on with this, Mr.…?”

  “Call me Joey.” Again with the grin. He cleared his throat and continued. “I know something. A few things, really, that I think you’d like to know, but I need your help finding out more.”

  I cocked my head to one side. Come again, Captain Cryptic?

  “Let me lay it out for you,” he said. “You’ve had quite a weekend, even for someone in your line of work. First, a second drug dealer complicates an open-and-shut murder case, then a boat blows up and kills a handful of people, two of them cops. Now you have a conspicuous vacancy in the police department’s evidence room and a missing attorney. What I came to tell you is that all of those things are related. The evidence was on the boat. And the lawyer is in on it, but I’m not sure which side.”

  Well, then. While I wasn’t sure of much of anything right then, that was pretty far down the list of things I’d suspected Mr. Hair Gel might want with me. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and waited for me to answer him.

  “I guess it’s possible,” I said slowly. “The last time anyone knew the evidence was in the locker was Friday afternoon. So if someone took it after that, and before the boat went out…”

  I trailed off, shaking my head. “I saw the logs from the evidence room. Roberts and Freeman were nowhere on the list. Patrolmen have to sign in. So they couldn’t have taken it.”

  “Unless someone else loaded the boat and sent them out on it.”

  Well, hell. I opened my mouth to ask him another question when it dawned on me we were talking about the missing evidence. Shit.

  “Wait, how do you know about the evidence and the lawyer? That’s in tomorrow’s newspaper.” Suddenly way more interested in whether or not someone else had my story than in the man who’d broken into my house, I stood up straight. “Did one of the TV stations have that at six?” I had checked Charlie’s stuff, but what if someone else had gotten wind of it somehow?

  He shook his head and smiled. “Your scoop is safe, Miss Clarke. And it’s a good one, too. But I’m offering you a chance at something so much better. I have friends everywhere. They tell me things. I came here to ask you for a favor, in return for this information.”

  I raised one eyebrow and waited for him to get on with it.

  “I know what’s going on, or most of it, anyway. What I don’t know is who’s doing it. I’m working on finding out, but I’ve been following your stories closely, and you can help me. You have access to people I might not be comfortable talking with. Interested?”

  “I’m interested in everything. It’s an occupational hazard.” Holy shit.

  His gaze was level, his expression unguarded. I’d interviewed so many criminals I could spot a lie at twenty paces. And this guy was not lying. The puzzles in my head shifted and melded together as I studied my uninvited guest. Who the hell was he?

  The suit was Italian. And expensive. I was pretty sure it was authentic Armani. The men’s department at Saks was adjacent to women’s shoes, where I tried on things I couldn’t afford, making a list for eBay. He had big rings on three of the long fingers of each hand, and a chunky gold watch on his wrist. His nails were neat and shiny, probably recently manicured; his black hair slicked back from his oval face. The features and accent smacked of an Italian heritage. He wasn’t much older than me, and exuded a throwback debonair quality that belonged in a black and white movie. Sort of like DeNiro’s portrayal of Monroe Stahr from Fitzgerald’s The Last Tycoon. But taller, with a better smile.

  “Are you a cop?” He was too well dressed, really, but I wouldn’t know most of the internal affairs or undercover guys if I tripped over them, and I couldn’t figure out how he’d come by his information.

  He shook his head and laughed, a deep, rich sound I found pleasant in spite of myself.

  “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked that.” He winked.

  Bob’s comments about Washington popped into my head and I tried to match his face with one from C-SPAN. I had a nagging feeling I’d seen him somewhere. “A politician?”

  “Not the kind you mean.”

  “There’s more than one kind?”

  “Politics
is making people think what you think,” he said and leaned back, casually draping one arm over the sofa cushion. “It wouldn’t be unreasonable to say that’s one of the things I do.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me who you are, or what it is you actually do?”

  “It’s not important.”

  The hell it wasn’t.

  “Why should I believe anything you say if you won’t tell me how you know it?”

  He sat up and adjusted his suit jacket, holding my gaze without blinking. “Because I’m right,” he said. “And when you have time to think about it, you’ll know it. Tell me something, what happens to evidence after a trial ends?”

  I shrugged. “They destroy most of it. Once they’re pretty sure the case won’t go to appeal.”

  He nodded. “Anything noteworthy they should have destroyed recently?”

  Noteworthy? There was a ridiculous variety of stuff in the police evidence lock up on any given day. People could turn some crazy things into weapons when they were mad enough or drunk enough or any combination of the two.

  Evidence was destroyed depending on the court calendar. The drugs and the money from the two dealer murders shouldn’t have gone anywhere for at least a year. There hadn’t even been an arrest made in the case.

  So what had cleared the courtrooms by enough to be trashed lately? If he was right and everything was connected, Neal’s cases made the most sense. I ran mentally through the list DonnaJo sent me, trying to tie the missing lawyer to whatever Joey was talking about.

  “Oh, shit.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “The guns. That trucker from New York.” I could picture it, Gavin Neal waving a gun over his head during his closing argument and dropping it back into a sizable trough of semi-automatic and automatic weapons seized off of a truck on its way from New York to North Carolina over a year before.

  Neal got the truck driver convicted of transporting the stolen weapons across state lines with intent to sell. There had been a lot of guns in that box in the courtroom that day, and I’d watched the bailiffs carry them out to a police van after the verdict came back.