by Josh Lanyon
And at the farthest table from the parking lot, there was a man in a baseball cap with a fish on the front, wearing a polo shirt and jeans. Justin approached tentatively. “Mr. Shaw?”
The man looked up, and Justin tried not to react.
It was Preston Brickman, the president of Ideodax.
Justin thanked the gods that Brickman hadn’t attended the pre-launch press conference. He obviously hadn’t considered that Justin might have been there and would therefore recognize Shaw.
So Brickman wasn’t thinking very clearly. That could work in Justin’s favor.
Or not.
Brickman said, “Yes. Have a seat, Mr. Harris.”
Justin sat. “I didn’t appreciate being stood up in the middle of the night on Saturday.”
“I know, and I apologize again. My conflict was truly unavoidable.”
Justin removed the notepad and pen from his pocket. “Better late than never, I guess. What is this story you have for me?”
“Thanks to the explosion, there is no story. That’s what I wanted to tell you this time. There’s no point in you or any of your colleagues pursuing information about the payload on this rocket anymore. The explosion made all that moot.”
“Made all of what moot? What were you going to tell me on Saturday morning?”
Brickman sighed. “Mr. Harris. You’ll have to trust me on this. It’s in everyone’s best interests, including yours, to forget about this.”
“In my best interests? That sounds kind of threatening, Mr. Shaw.”
Brickman held his hands up, placating. “It’s not meant to be. But I’m certain your employers wouldn’t long support any efforts by you, or Ms. Holt in Las Cruces, to pursue a story that doesn’t exist. There’s plenty of fascinating space stuff to write about. You should move on.”
He knows that Gretchen has been asking questions. Justin said, “Honestly, Mr. Shaw, I’d like to believe you. But your insistence, and all this cloak-and-dagger business, makes me curious. Give me a solid reason to drop my investigation, and I’ll comply.”
Brickman stared at Justin. Justin returned his gaze, pressing his heels into the ground beneath the table in order to keep his knees from shaking. Finally Brickman said, “Your solid reason is that you will never uncover anything. You will be wasting your time.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Brickman’s eyes narrowed. “Continue to pursue this line of questioning, and it may be the last investigative reporting you ever do.”
Justin saw movement out of the corner of his eye. “Mr. Shaw, I don’t take well to—”
The young couple dropped their cell phones and pulled guns from beneath their T-shirts. The chess players grabbed Brickman’s arms, one on each side, and lifted him out of his seat. Brickman yelped, “Hey! What the hell!”
The older of the chess players snapped handcuffs on Brickman. The younger one said, “Special Agent Tom Santos, Air Force Office of Special Investigations. You’re under arrest for the murder of Roy Shaw.”
The older chess player patted Brickman down and pulled a gun from his waistband, then handed it to the male Frisbee player, who, with his partner, had jogged up to them. The woman Frisbee player said, “Justin Harris?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m Special Agent Mindy Leonard, Greg Marcotte’s partner. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m…” Justin sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah. Can I stand up?”
“Sure. Can you identify this guy?”
“Preston Brickman. He’s the president of Ideodax.”
Brickman spat. “Son of a bitch. You played me.”
Justin opened his mouth, but Mindy held up a finger, and he closed it. The other agents hauled Brickman away. Mindy said, “Sorry. Best if you don’t say anything to the suspect.”
“Of course.” Justin hugged himself. Now that the experience was over, he was shaking even more violently. “Sorry. Where’s Gr—er—Agent Marcotte?”
Mindy pointed in the direction of the sand dunes. “Hiding over there with his sniper rifle. He’ll be along in a moment. Then you can ride back to base with me, and we’ll take your statement.”
Justin turned to see Greg on the boardwalk from the dunes, jogging toward them, carrying a truly impressive rifle. His knees sagged in relief, and Mindy touched his elbow to steady him. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Justin tried to control his facial expressions. If he outed Greg to his coworkers, even by a glance, he’d never forgive himself.
***
Justin had never been on the grounds of Patrick AFB, although he’d driven past it on A1A plenty of times. As Air Force bases went, Patrick was small, but it made Canaveral look positively dinky.
Mindy entered the base through the East Gate. She pulled into a parking lot behind a nondescript building, swiped an ID card, and pressed her thumb to a pad, then held the door for him. “Come on in.”
This is Greg’s workplace, Justin thought, trying not to gawk, but also trying to take in as much detail as possible as he passed open doors. Mindy led him to a conference room. “Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a soda?”
“Um, sure. Coke, if you have it.”
“You bet.” Mindy disappeared.
Justin took in the room. Just another boring conference room, with a computer, projector, and whiteboard. Nothing to distinguish it in any way as belonging to law enforcement. He was mildly disappointed.
Mindy returned and set a bottle of Coke in front of him. “There you go. We’ll record your interview, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
She nodded, and spoke into the air. Justin figured the recording equipment was probably being monitored in a separate room. “Special Agent Melinda Leonard interviewing Mr. Justin Harris in the Roy Shaw case.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Please tell me what happened today, beginning with the phone call.”
Justin repeated the events of the day, ending with the moment of Brickman’s arrest. Mindy asked for clarification on a couple of points. “You have a memory for detail.”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”
“I suppose so. Anything else you want to add?”
“No, I think that’s it.”
“All right. End interview.” She slapped the table in front of her and stood. “I’ll find Greg, and he can take you back to your car.”
“Oh. Okay.” With trepidation, Justin watched her leave the room. Did she know? How could she?
A few seconds later, Greg popped his head into the room. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.” Justin scrambled to his feet.
Once they were safely out of the building and in Greg’s truck, Justin blurted, “I think she knows.”
“Who, Mindy? Knows what?”
“About us.”
“Nah. She might suspect, but she doesn’t know anything. At least not yet.”
“Does she know…”
“That I’m gay? Yeah. Everyone else doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.”
Justin frowned. “I thought those days were behind us.”
“Not entirely.” Greg pulled through the main gate and turned left onto A1A. “I suppose the others have a pretty good idea about me, but we don’t discuss it.”
“Are you and Mindy friends away from work?”
“Yeah.” Greg’s expression was fond. “She’s like my little sister.”
“She seems nice. But feisty.”
“Ha! That’s a perfect description.” Greg glanced at him. “Are you really okay?”
“Yeah. I think so, anyway. But I still need a drink.”
They arrived at the Tables Beach parking lot, and Greg pulled up next to Justin’s car. “Are you going home?”
“I guess.” Justin stopped, his hand on the door handle. “You’ll have to work late, huh?”
Greg grimaced. “It’s hard to say how long it’ll take to process Brickman.”
Justin smiled ruefully. “I’ll have to get used t
o late evenings.”
“Like I’ll have to get used to middle-of-the-night launches, huh?”
Justin’s smile widened into a grin. “I can handle it if you can.”
“Oh yeah. I can handle it. See you later tonight.”
Justin opened the door. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Buoyed by the warmth of that, Justin drove home.
***
It was close to nine in the evening by the time Greg pulled into Justin’s driveway. Justin met him at the door and nearly dragged him inside. “Did he confess?”
Greg laughed tiredly. “Hello to you too.”
“Sorry.” Justin kissed Greg. “Want a beer?”
“God, yes.”
They went to the kitchen and perched on barstools. Greg took a long drink, then said, “No confession. Brickman lawyered up. But if the ballistics on that gun he was carrying match, we’ve got him.”
“Even without witnesses?”
“I think so. We also collected Brickman’s clothing, which didn’t appear to have been laundered. We may be able to get gunshot residue from some of it. And we’ll get Shaw’s phone records eventually, which should reveal contact between him and Brickman on the morning of the murder. And Cabo Barnes and Lyle Briggs will testify against him.”
“You found Briggs?”
“Yeah. He was searching for Brickman, as it turned out. I’m not sure what he was gonna do if he’d found him, but Briggs told us that Brickman spoke to him about shutting Shaw up.”
“Do you think the other Ideodax guys knew what Brickman was up to? Boone and Pietras?”
Greg sighed. “I don’t know. My guess would be yes. We have agents from Travis Air Force Base questioning them and the CEO.”
“Has Shaw’s family been notified?”
“Yeah.” That unfortunate job had fallen to Russell McCarthy from Holloman, accompanied by an officer from the Las Cruces Police Department. Greg had called Mrs. Shaw to apologize for deceiving her; she’d hung up on him.
“Can I write my story now?”
Greg spluttered. “Now? I was hoping you’d rather do something else first.”
Justin laughed. “I would rather, but this will just take a sec. Except for the ending, the story is written. I’ve referred to you as ‘a source close to the investigation.’ Do you want to read it?”
“I suppose I’d better.”
Justin retrieved his laptop, added the final details to the story, and turned the screen toward Greg. “For your approval.”
Greg read, nodding a couple of times, then handed the laptop back. “The truth and nothing but. My boss can’t object to that.”
“Perfect. Just let me do this…” Justin sent the story to his editor, then texted him—Exclusive on Roy Shaw’s murder at Canaveral, check your email—to ensure he would read it. “Done. Now. What were you saying? You had some other activity in mind?”
Greg grinned and reached for him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Six weeks later
Greg pulled the F-150 up to the gate at Jetty Park and leaned out his window. “Hey, Arnie.”
Arnie, rumpled and dozy, grunted. “Hey, Agent Marcotte.” He pushed a button in the guardhouse, which raised the striped arm. “You can let yourself out.”
“You bet. Thanks, Arnie.”
“No problem.” Arnie waved Greg onward. The park was closed at this hour—three in the morning—but Greg had called in a favor to gain admittance. SpaceX was launching a Falcon 9 in about an hour, and Jetty Park was an ideal spot from which to watch. Greg wanted to provide Justin with an exclusive show.
As they jostled over a speed bump, Justin mumbled. He’d fallen asleep against the passenger door almost as soon as Greg had picked him up.
Greg grinned as he pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine, then nudged Justin. “Wake up, sleepy. It’s showtime.”
“Mmph.” Justin rubbed his eyes. “We’re there?”
“Yup.” Greg opened the truck door and climbed out, then lowered the tailgate. “Come on.”
They carried lawn chairs and a mini-cooler to the end of the pier and settled in. Greg opened the cooler and popped the top of a can of Coke. “What’s the payload on this rocket?”
“It’s a Dragon capsule with cargo for the International Space Station.”
“No VW Beetles this time? Or wheels of cheese?”
“Ha! Not as far as I know.”
Justin checked his email and got the dial-in information for the launch director’s loop. Over the feed, the voice said, “Launch auto has started.”
They chatted about odds and ends. Justin verbally sketched out the story he’d submit for this launch. Thanks to Greg, he’d just published an exclusive on the preliminary report from the SkyCatcher rocket explosion; it appeared that a valve in a fuel line had failed. There was no evidence so far for sabotage.
Greg asked, “Are your pals over on the ITL Causeway?”
“Yup.”
“Do they know where you are?”
“Kind of.”
“They’re not gonna request special treatment, are they?”
“Nah. After Skyose, they’re still kinda shy about getting too close to a launch.”
“We’re farther away than they are. No worries.”
“Oh, I know. But this feels closer. And frankly, it’s delightful not to have everyone else yammering at each other the whole time we’re down there.”
They waited quietly. The sound of the LVO’s voice on the loop and the waves lapping at the sand were soothing. Greg almost fell asleep himself.
Then the countdown began. “Ten, nine, eight…”
Greg reached over and took Justin’s hand. Justin smiled and entwined his fingers with Greg’s.
“Liftoff of the Falcon 9.”
The rocket soared into the sky on its column of flame.
The LVO’s voice intoned, “Falcon 9 is pitching downrange.”
Greg found himself counting. When he reached twelve, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Beside him, Justin chuckled. “We’re past twelve seconds.”
“I guess we’ll all be holding our breaths until twelve seconds for a while.”
“Yeah. Sorta like after Challenger. When the shuttle started flying again, when Discovery got to ‘go with throttle up,’ the entire Space Coast was holding its breath.”
They continued to watch as the Falcon 9 flew, then as the first and second stages separated; the second stage ignited to take the Dragon to orbit and to the International Space Station, and the first stage flipped around and performed its boostback, entry, and landing burns. The sonic boom reverberated through their bodies, and then twelve seconds later the first stage settled gracefully onto its landing pad.
Justin laughed with delight. “This is so awesome. Thank you. I could get used to this.”
Greg squeezed his hand. “That’s the idea.” He leaned over and kissed Justin, and Justin kissed him back.
“How about we make this a tradition?”
Greg grinned. “Works for me.”
THE END
Reality Bites by S.C. Wynne
Detective Cabot Decker is called to the set of hotshot TV producer Jax Thornburn’s reality-TV show after a contestant is mauled to death by a tiger. Is someone trying to ax Jax’s career—or Jax himself?
Chapter One
The first things that struck me were the pungent smell of urine and the enormous tiger pacing back and forth in a steel enclosure. I’d never seen a tiger up close, and this animal was easily three hundred pounds. Its black stripes glistened against its sleek orange fur as the agitated animal chuffed and growled, its giant head hung low. My stomach clenched when my gaze settled on the tarp-covered body lying outside the enclosure.
My cell buzzed, and when I answered, my lieutenant’s annoyed voice came over the line. “Are you there yet, Decker?”
I must have squeezed my paper cup of coffee too hard because the lid popped
off, and it spilled down the front of my shirt. “Shit,” I hissed, wincing as the hot liquid soaked through the material down to my skin.
“Did I get you at a bad time?”
“Not at all,” I said through gritted teeth while wiping at the spreading stain to no avail. “I was just taking a bath in my coffee.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Are you at the studio yet?”
“I’m here.” I glanced uneasily toward the body. “Who’s the dead guy?”
“Dale Larson. He was a contestant on Don’t Die.”
“Don’t Die?” I grimaced.
“You’ve never seen it?”
“I don’t have a lot of time to watch TV.”
“The show is huge. The producer, Jax Thornburn, is a big deal at Zecker Studios right now. I want you to hold his hand and treat him nice.”
“I’m still not clear about why I’m here. Shouldn’t this be handled by Animal Control? What am I supposed to do, arrest the tiger?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m partly serious. I don’t get how an animal attack is Robbery-Homicide’s problem.”
“Mr. Thornburn thinks there might have been foul play.”
Foul play?
I gave a short laugh. “Did he seriously use that term?”
“Decker, don’t be a dick. Keep an open mind and talk to Thornburn. See if his suspicions have any merit.” There were muffled voices in the background. “Look, I have to go. Treat the guy with respect.”
“Of course,” I said wryly. “What else would I do?” I hung up.
“He’s a magnificent beast, isn’t he?” A woman with a large felt hat approached. “He’s very intelligent. He knows he’s in trouble.”
I showed her my badge. “I’m Hollywood Homicide Detective Cabot Decker.” I studied her as I tucked away my ID. She was a cross between a librarian and the Mad Hatter. Her hat was wide and crooked, and strands of auburn hair hung messily around her shoulders. “Mind if I ask who you are?”