“I don’t think so. Either we go inside or I take you down to the police station.” Lou reached out and grabbed the smaller man by the collar. “You choose.”
“All right! Stop it!”
Lou let go, but Adrian still glared at him.
“Make him nervous. See what you can get from him,” suggested Showalter.
So Lou crowded Adrian’s personal space. His ploy worked. It took Adrian several tries to line his key up with the outside door mechanism. The man’s hands were trembling at his sides as he walked into the building.
Office spaces branched off of a common tiled hallway. Adrian led the way to a suite at the end. As Lou had hoped, they were the first to arrive. Four desks set parallel to the door and at right angles to a half wall of fabric. Each cubicle held a computer and chair. Most occupants had chosen to use the fabric barrier as a bulletin board. A sign hung over the area: Advertising.
Behind the advertising cubicles stood another wall, this one floor to ceiling, and four more cubicles with computers, chairs, and shelving. The items on the desks and pinned to the walls suggested that these spaces belonged to reporters.
“You have your own office?” Lou asked.
Adrian led him to a space with its own door. This he unlocked and entered. At first glance, Lou thought it held a nice walnut desk. But on closer inspection, the piece was made of cheap particle board, as were the bookshelves on the opposite wall.
“Appearing successful means everything to this twerp,” said Showalter. “Give me a battered desk of real wood any day over this cheap claptrap.”
Adrian shrugged off his jacket, hung it neatly on a wooden hanger with HILTON branded on the side. Taking his chair behind the desk, he squared his shoulders, as though the chintzy setting had somehow bestowed an authority on him that he didn’t have.
“Do I need an attorney?” asked Adrian.
“We’re just having a friendly chat,” Lou replied, as he pulled up one of two chairs facing the man’s desk. “Where were you last Wednesday night?”
“New York City.”
“Can anyone verify this?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll need names and numbers. I want you to account for all of your time from when you left town to now. Why is it that you didn’t answer your cell phone?”
Green kept his expression neutral. “There was no reason for anyone from here to contact me. I was on my own time, transacting business that didn’t concern the Shoreline News.”
“Is that why you ignored my messages?”
“I didn’t get the chance to return your calls. My time was completely taken up with important meetings. Besides, there was nothing I could do for the girl, and since she was already dead, the matter could wait. I hate to sound cold, but as I said earlier, Kathy lived in a rough part of town. She ran with the sort of crowd that often runs into a spot of bother. Actually, I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that she met an early end.”
“You sure don’t sound very sorry she’s gone.”
“I was taught to keep a stiff upper lip and all that rot,” said Adrian. “Look. Of course, I am sorry she’s dead. She was a part of our team, but she was only a minor player and a freelancer. I had very limited contact with her, other than assigning and approving her work.”
“None of your staff were concerned when they found out that Kathy was dead?”
“Yes, of course they were. But what could I do about it? Nothing. I was on my own time and my own dime up in New York. I purely and simply didn’t need to be distracted by her…by the bad news. I assured the staff that we’d talk upon my return.”
“What a crock,” said Showalter. “Doesn’t he have one drop of human compassion?”
Lou forced himself to stay focused. “When was the last time you saw Kathy?”
“Monday night after the event at that store, The Treasure Chest. We both attended. I came back early because I had a lot to do before leaving for New York. She showed up later, nearly missing her deadline, but she did manage to file her story. I found a few holes that needed plugging. I decided to call Ms. Delgatto myself rather than allow Kathy to waste more of my precious time. She probably would have gotten it wrong anyway.”
“Are you always so dissatisfied with your employees’ work?”
“Kathy isn’t—wasn’t—an employee. She was a stringer. A freelance journalist. She wasn’t good enough for us to hire as a regular employee. So the answer is yes. In her case at least. I didn’t always trust her to get things right. She tended to be sloppy.” Green’s voice gained power as he got over his initial surprise. His nervousness had given way to what Lou assumed was his natural demeanor, one of arrogance.
“So she filed this story, you talked to Cara Mia Delgatto, and then what?”
“It was raining hard by then. Kathy offered me a ride to my apartment. I said I’d spring for dinner as a gesture of thanks. We got our food, and she asked me to drive. Said she hated driving in the rain. In fact, she would whinge about it all the time.”
“Whinge?”
“You call it whining, we call it whinging. As one might imagine, since I’m from the UK, I’m accustomed to driving in the rain. So I agreed to take over the driving. We exchanged spots at Wendy’s, I headed the car toward my place, and then she asked for yet another favor.”
“What was it?”
“She wanted a fag.”
Lou nearly fell off his chair. “A what?”
“Fag. Cigarette. Kathy was a secret smoker. Didn’t want her roommate to know.”
Lou recovered his composure, just barely. “So you stopped to buy cigarettes?”
“Yes, but she was so paranoid about her roommate finding out about her habit that she refused to buy them here in Stuart. Instead, she asked me to drive us to Hobe Sound. To the Winn-Dixie.”
“Why?”
“They would give her points toward discounts on fuel.”
“You’re telling me you drove fourteen miles out of your way—seven there and seven back—so she could get a discount on her gas?”
“Silly, wasn’t it? I agree. But she insisted. You know how capricious women can be.”
“What happened next?”
“By then it was coming down hard, so I ran inside the Winn-Dixie and bought the cigarettes for her. Then I drove us to my place. I thanked her for the ride. She drove away,” Green said, putting a finger to his mouth so he could chew on a hangnail. “The next thing I know, her roommate is calling incessantly asking if I’d seen Kathy. Of course, I hadn’t. In the event, she missed several meetings she was scheduled to attend. Rather irritating. I tried calling her, to no avail. Early Wednesday I flew up to New York. Took the six-thirty flight from West Palm Beach. Got back around ten last night. I can show you my Jet Blue boarding pass.”
“Interesting,” said Showalter. “The crime scene techs didn’t find any cigarettes in the car. No signs of anyone smoking in it.”
“You have no idea what happened to Kathy Simmons,” said Lou.
“I can't help you. I don't know who killed her. When I left Kathy on Monday night, she was perfectly fine."
"Yeah, well, now she's not."
38
~Lou~
“You didn’t happen to see an old black and white photo that Kathy Simmons had, did you? Three people in it? A young man and two boys?” Lou asked.
Adrian Green sat slack-jawed at his desk. All the color drained from his face. “N-n-n-no.”
“He’s lying,” said Showalter.
“If it shows up, let me know. Meanwhile, I’m going to let Detective Anderson in. While I’m gone, you’re going to make a list of employees and their contact information for me.”
Adrian nodded.
“I also want a list of all the assignments you made to Kathy Simmons. Ever.”
“I don’t know that I should give you that,” said Adrian, stiffly.
“Somebody killed your reporter. What if this is about a story she wrote and they come after you n
ext? You’re the editor? Your name is on the masthead.”
Adrian turned white. “Since you insist.”
“I do insist,” said Lou.
Ollie was waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the newspaper. He was holding a big black umbrella over his head. The rain that had threatened was now coming down hard. Lou motioned Ollie into the small vestibule between the outside doors and the inside ones. After sharing what little Adrian Green had told him thus far.
When they returned, Adrian Green was shuffling papers. No sign of the lists that Lou had requested.
"Mr. Green, this is Detective Anderson. He will need access to the computer and the files that Kathy used."
“B-b-but we're protected by the First Amendment," said Adrian. “You can search her desk, but I can't let you see any of our computers. We have customer information and background on stories."
"Solicitations to commit crimes and incitement to imminent lawless action are not covered by the First Amendment," said Lou, who'd learned the fine art of spouting nonsense from Showalter. The trick was to throw in enough jargon to convince the listener that you had legal expertise. Lou had even seen it work on attorneys. Of course, an unflinching delivery helped.
"We have a duty to protect our sources," said Adrian. Lou stared at the man and frowned. Adrian’ss carefully gelled spikes of hair might have been fashionable, but to Lou, they looked like dead trees in the Jonathan Dickinson State Park after a controlled burn.
“Protect away, but if you deny me access, and we have to drag this out, how can I help you if the killer hunts you down? Let’s be honest,” said Lou. "The Shoreline News is not exactly a hard-hitting news gathering organization."
Adrian pouted. "I don’t care what you think of our paper or our standards. I am a professional journalist.”
“How would you like to become a dead professional journalism with high standards?”
“All right,” said Adrian, wiping his brow. “I see your point.”
39
~Lou~
“Which one of these computers did Kathy use?” Lou asked the editor.
“Third from the right,” said Adrian. “That’s the one and only machine she had access to. Not that you’ll find much. She took notes by hand and typed up her assignments there.”
While Ollie started up the computer, Lou told Adrian, “I still need that list of your employees and their contact details. Also the list of assignments you made to Kathy.”
“But I would be violating my employees’ privacy if I gave out their phone numbers,” said Adrian.
He pronounced “privacy” as “privv-a-cee” in a hoity-toity manner that ticked Lou off.
“What if one of them is our killer?” asked Lou.
“Oh, my!” said Adrian. “Hang on.”
He leaned over a computer and booted it up. In short order, the printer hummed to life, dropping papers into the tray. First came the roster of employees. Next the machine spit out a list of meetings.
Not much to go on. In fact, it was bupkis.
“Kathy begged to be put on the chicken dinner circuit,” said Adrian. “That’s journalistic jargon for any event where they served food. She was having a difficult time making ends meet. I gave her assignments where she could also get a decent meal. Did it out of the kindness of my heart.”
Lou sincerely doubted that Adrian’s heart had room for kindness.
"Can’t you see where this is going, mate?” the editor asked. “Kathy Simmons was pitiful. A total loser. I got a call last week from a women's club. The president saw Kathy scooping extra food into her purse. How humiliating! And yet, she was always yammering on about story ideas. Inflated ideas. Frankly, I quit listening. That's all she ever talked about. This idea and that one. Stupid cow. She thought she could play in the big leagues, as you Yanks say. She was convinced she knew everything there was to know about journalism!”
Adrian’s ego was his Achilles heel.
“Not up to your standards, huh?”
“Not by a long shot,” said the editor, giving a sharp jerk on his colorful jersey. In his spandex biking outfit, Adrian looked ridiculously out of place as he stood next to a row of cubicles. “For the sake of comparison, I have an extensive background in journalism, and a classical education. My real interest is writing books. This was,” Adrian used his index finger to make a circular motion that indicated his surroundings, “a stop-gap measure. A way to secure health insurance while I worked on my magnum opus.”
“Okay,” said Lou, “let’s go back to your office. So we can talk.”
Actually, Lou wanted another look around. While Adrian sank down in his oversized office chair, Lou went over to the editor’s bookcases. The shelves were filled with titles on Florida history, politicians, and local lore. Three ring binders were neatly labeled, "W.I.P."
Lou pulled one off the shelf.
"That's confidential!" squealed Adrian.
The pages proved a disappointing mishmash about state politics, political figures, and the Senator. Lou asked, "What does W.I.P. mean?"
"Work In Progress. It's a term we professional authors use."
"So you’re telling me that you're an author?"
"I recently turned in a manuscript for a book."
"About what?"
"It’s the biography of a local politician."
"Really?"
"Yes." The young man's lips curled into a smarmy smile. "That’s why I was in the Big Apple, if you must know. I have a New York publisher."
"Is your New York publisher aware that you had a little problem in the UK? Illegal phone hacking? Escaped going to jail by the skin of your teeth, didn’t you?” Lou mentally thanked Ollie for pulling up the dirt on Adrian Green.
“Nothing was proven,” Adrian replied hastily.
“Proves something to me. You think you’re above the law, and you don’t mind lying.”
40
~Cara~
8:30 a.m. on Saturday
The Treasure Chest
“Back to the world of high finance,” I told Jack. “Or low finance, if you want to be more accurate.”
There was only one sure way to see what we’d sold, what we’d had left, and what had been shoplifted. That was to do a physical inventory.
Once Sid finished our point of purchase system, it would be much easier to keep track of things. For now, I had no choice but to print out a list and manually check it against my stock. I worked a little, adjusting the list we already had, and listened to the storm pick up speed outside.
A tapping on the front door interrupted me. I could hear it over the soft plop-plop-plop of the raindrops.
“What now?” I asked Jack. “Busy morning, huh, pup?”
Since we weren’t due to open for another hour and a half, I decided to ignore the noise. But the bang-bang-bang persisted, grew louder, and seemed insistent, so I got up and walked through the sales floor to our front door.
Huddled in the alcove stood a young woman with wet hair and a pinched face. One arm was wrapped around her torso, in an attempt to keep her lightweight jacket from billowing. The wind had picked up, each gust drenched her, but she seemed determined to stay put.
“Sorry, but the store isn’t open until ten,” I said, opening the door a crack. “You could go over to Pumpernickel’s and wait.”
“I need to talk to Cara Mia Delgatto.” She pushed her way inside and shook the way a dog does. To my shock, a furry head poked its way out of her jacket. Before I could say a word, a cat jumped out and landed on my floor.
“Uh, your pet—”
“Not mine,” said the girl. “It’s Kathy’s.”
“Kathy's? But you need to grab her. Him. Whatever.”
The cat scuttled under a small end table and began licking its fur.
“Her. That's Luna and she’s yours now.” My visitor reached up and squeezed water out of her hair, revealing a faded blue tattoo on her forearm. The young woman was shockingly thin. My Italian compulsion to feed people
kicked in.
“Come on into our back room. Let me get you a towel, a hot drink, and some food.”
“I’m Darcy,” she said, as I handed her a towel warm from the dryer. Wet, she smelled vaguely of cooking oil. Visions of French fries danced in my head. “We might have talked on the phone. I’ve been calling about Kathy Simmons. She was my roommate.”
“Yes, of course. I am so sorry about Kathy! Can I get you some tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please.” She sniffed the air. “Something smells good.”
"I was heating up quiches."
"Quiches? What’s a quiche?" Darcy ran the towel over herself.
"Egg dishes with onions, bacon and cheese in them." I popped more of the tiny pies into the microwave.
Wringing out her clothes didn't do much good. Darcy was still sopping wet.
“Why don't you step into the bathroom and hand me your things. If I toss them into the dryer, they’ll be done in no time. Here’s a towel for you to wear.”
She did as I suggested. When she passed me her clothes, I noticed how worn the fabric was. The elastic on her underwear was ready to give out. Everything went into the dryer with a sheet of scented fabric softener purported to smell like an ocean breeze. It missed the mark, but still, the fragrance was pleasant.
I tossed Darcy another towel to wrap around her legs before she settled on the folding chair. The timer dinged on the microwave. Although the quiches were steaming hot, Darcy fell on the food as if she were starving. Meanwhile, Luna wandered in and stared at Darcy, me, and the quiches, but ignored Jack. The poor animal looked like one of those feral cats you see at rest stops.
I opened a can of tuna and set it on the floor. Jack’s tail wagged excitedly, thumping against the crate, as he caught the stink of oily fish. The cat made a beeline for the food.
“Kathy told me you would help,” Darcy said between mouthfuls.
“Help how?”
“She told me to give you this.” From a pocket inside her jacket, she withdrew the black and white photo that I’d sold to Kathy. Without the frame and the mat, it didn’t take up much space. It had been tucked inside a plastic baggy for protection.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 104