by Hy Conrad
“As in ‘you and me’?” She smiled. “You want to work on this?”
“Well, you can’t do a story this big alone. And I won’t bring any other staffers in, not at this point. You know, I began as a crime reporter.” He winced. “Not my favorite assignment.”
“Well, I appreciate not being out on that limb alone.” Not quite true. She had mixed feelings about letting Oliver get too close to whatever family shitstorm was about to break. But she knew she had to move the case forward, which included letting Oliver get some skin in the game. Callie reached out across the desk and they shook. A solemn bargain. “Thanks. Again. I’ll probably be saying that a lot.”
“No problem. And don’t worry. Your name will be first on the byline.”
“I may not want it there at all.”
“We’ll see.” Oliver wrinkled his nose and rubbed his three-day stubble. “Keagan Blackburn. I don’t think we should approach the man, not until we know more about his alibi, which could be genuine.”
“He was dragging a body through a field, with a shovel.” She remembered the thin walls and lowered her voice. “At the very least that’s failure to report a crime, withholding evidence, being an accessory after the fact. A prosecutor could probably think up more.”
“If we can verify any of this. Otherwise, we’re looking at a hell of a lawsuit.”
“We’ll talk to the state trooper. See if we can get him to say the magic words ‘Keagan Blackburn’. Then we can print it.”
Oliver didn’t agree. “Two things wrong with that. One.” He raised a finger. “I’m sure Blackburn and his people have already gotten to him.”
“So? We’ll get to him, too. Appeal to his sense of justice.”
“Maybe. But these people have already appealed to his sense of keeping his career and not having his life ruined.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Oliver raised a second finger. “Two. If we approach the trooper, then he’ll tell his superiors and Blackburn will know we’re onto him. I don’t know what he can do to shut us down, but I’d like to have a little more ammo before we get to that point. Let’s not poke the bear. Not yet.” He scooted his chair out from behind his desk so that they were sitting almost knee to knee. “Why don’t we follow the sugaring angle. If we can find Briana’s sugar daddy and it turns out to be Keagan Blackburn…”
Callie saw his logic. “That would give us a motive – and some leverage in asking him a few questions. I’m sure he wouldn’t want his social life going public.” She got to her feet. “I can start with Briana’s roommate.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Her parents told me.”
“Yes, of course. And I’ll try to clear your workload without raising any suspicions. How’s the charter school piece coming?”
She tried not to make a face. “You should have something by tomorrow morning. Jennie may need a little hand-holding.”
“Got it.” Oliver watched her turn and waited until she was almost at the door. “Callie? Is there any chance your father is involved?”
She turned, poker face intact. “I wouldn’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… Well, it has all the earmarks – money, influence, well-kept secrets. All very professionally done.”
“Are you saying my father would manufacture an alibi for murder?” Callie couldn’t honestly tell how much of her outrage was feigned. Probably most of it.
“Not at all. I didn’t mean…” Oliver held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry. But if I were Keagan Blackburn, I have to tell you, Buddy McFee would be the first person I’d turn to.”
“Makes sense,” she said, dialing back her outrage a notch. “But Dad would never do this.”
“I know you feel that way.” Oliver kept his hands raised. “But if you found out he was involved… Would you be honest with me? It could be off the record, not for publication. I get that.”
“You would actually keep his name out of it?”
“If I could, yes.”
“Why?”
“I can understand you not wanting to hurt him again. But I need your word. If we’re going to work together, I need to be able to trust you.”
Okay, this was a bad idea, Callie thought. I should be staying a mile away from whatever my addled father is up to. He’s not my responsibility. I should throw away the graduation photo. Briana Crawley is not my responsibility. I can live with not knowing the truth. I can live with a rapist and killer running free. It happens all the time. These were the lies she said to herself.
“Oliver, you can trust me.” This was the lie she said out loud.
CHAPTER 8
Callie had never lived in university housing. For better or worse, she’d spent her four years at U.T. living at the ranch, doing homework at the alcove desk off the second living room, the less formal one. She regretted not having developed the friendships that campus living might have provided – or the independence, or being part of a culturally diverse world. But with State already out of the house, she hadn’t felt able to abandon their father, not so soon after their mother’s death. Those four extra years had been important. And, if she was being perfectly honest, the idea of tiny, noisy, overcrowded student housing had never appealed. Although… Callie locked her car and glanced up at the clean lines of the six-story complex, with its limestone exterior and spacious balconies nestled among the trendy coffee shops and bustling bookstores. If she’d known that it could be this nice, she just might have made the other choice.
Sherry Ann Cooper was waiting in the hallway, halfway between the elevators and the open door to the apartment. She was in pre-torn capri jeans and a T-shirt, her golden hair falling to her shoulders. On her face was the sad half-smile of a mourner meeting a fellow mourner. “Callie?” She extended her arms and they hugged. “I don’t know what I can tell you, but Mrs. Crawley said you wanted to talk. This has been so hard for them. I swear, they look ten years older.” Callie hadn’t realized that Helen and Frank were so well acquainted with Sherry Ann, but of course they would be. It was Briana’s apartment, too. “C’mon in.” And she ushered Callie inside.
“There’s something you need to know,” Sherry Ann finally said in a soft, confidential purr. They were sitting at either end of a roomy, well-cushioned window seat, overlooking a leafy central courtyard. Sherry Ann, a Texas belle, had made tea and they had exhausted the usual small talk. “Not that I’m being all judgey here.” Sherry Ann blew across the top of her cup. “And you shouldn’t print any of this, not that I’m telling you what to do.”
“I already know. Briana had…” How to put this. “An older boyfriend who paid her bills.” Sherry Ann delivered one of those mildly condescending looks, the kind you give your grandparents when they ask about the World Wide Web. “Okay,” Callie added, “she was into sugaring. I know.”
“You know about sugaring?” Sherry Ann relaxed a little and leaned in. “Maybe a third of the girls I know do it. A sugar daddy is this sort of status symbol. It can be anything from a couple of dinners that wind up in a classy shoe store to a full-out mistress arrangement with an apartment and an allowance. The websites have these big disclaimers reminding you that prostitution is illegal. As if anybody cares.”
“So they’re like dating sites…” Again the condescending look. “Okay, not dating. For rich guys and hot girls who know what they’re getting into.”
“Right. There’s also rich women seeking younger guys. Sugar Mommas. And gay stuff. Half of my gay friends are into it. I guess there are enough people out there who want to spoil you rotten. The alternative is grungy college bros who still want sex but want to split the check at the Burger Bar. That gets old.” Sherry Ann must have sensed where Callie’s mind was going because she shook her golden halo. “No, no. Not me. And not just because my parents are generous. Plenty of rich girls do it. They show off their new shoes and jewelry on Instagram, like a competition. And they invent little code names for their daddies. Bri didn’t
use a code name. She just called him ‘my gentleman.’”
“And where was she on the sugar spectrum? Did she do it for shoes?”
“Bri?” The roommate waved a manicured hand around the apartment. “Does this look like the place a scholarship student can afford? As soon as Bri moved in, she made it clear that this ‘gentleman’ was paying the bills.”
“The police should be able to find him,” Callie said. “If he’s paying her rent and her bills…”
“She gave me the rent in cash every month. As for the other things, I’m sure the cops are trying. She never mentioned his name or showed me any pictures.”
“He probably told her not to.”
Sherry Ann nodded. “He was older, of course, she mentioned that, but not grossly old.”
“Was he white or African American? Or Asian or something else?”
“She didn’t say. I think it made her uncomfortable, you know, talking about him, since I know her folks and all.”
“Do you know what website she used to make contact?”
“That I do. It was MySugar.com.” Sherry’s cheeks reddened. “I checked it out once or twice, just being curious. Just curious.”
“I’ll take a look.” Callie wrote down the name. “Do you know what kind of security they use to keep the site safe?”
“I don’t think they have security, just photos and self-written descriptions of the daddies, same for the babies.” Sherry Ann’s gaze lifted from her teacup to Callie’s face. “By the way, one of the detectives who came over had red hair just like yours and these adorable blue eyes.” She squinted into Callie’s. “Just like yours.” She frowned. “What are the odds?”
“The odds are genetic. He’s my brother, State. I know, stupid name. He’s also happily married and twenty-eight years old.” Callie’s sly little grin faded. “He didn’t come onto you, did he? I’ll kill him.”
“No, no,” Sherry Ann stammered. “I mean, he was very sweet. But, no. Plus there was a pregnant cop with him, so the subject didn’t come up. He’s really your brother?”
“Detective third grade, State McFee. I’d ask him all the questions I’m asking you, but he’s not allowed to discuss an ongoing investigation even with me, except for press releases and press conferences.”
“Am I not supposed to be talking to you?”
“Did he say you weren’t supposed to?”
“No.”
“Then you’re okay. What else did my brother ask?”
Sherry Ann paused to think, setting her porcelain cup on a side table. “He asked when I last saw Bri. I told him she left the apartment a few minutes to seven.”
“Was she dressed for a date?”
“No. She was barely wearing make-up and looked pretty casual. Nothing date-worthy. She may have just gone out for a bite to eat.”
“On her own?”
“She often did that. A slice of pizza or a salad. Do you think I was the last person to see her alive – other than, you know… ?”
“Probably not.”
Sherry Ann sighed. “I’d hate to think I was. I know someone had to be the last, but it’s still pretty creepy.”
“Did Briana have a car?”
“She didn’t. A lot of kids get around without cars.”
“Then other people must have seen her.”
“Good. I’m glad. Oh, he also asked if there had been any change in Bri’s behavior or mood in the days just before… you know…”
“Of course.” Callie mentally kicked herself. She hadn’t even thought of this most basic of detective questions. “And was there any change?”
“There was,” Sherry Ann confirmed. “She’d been depressed for about week, maybe longer. To be honest, I didn’t always pay attention. At least a week. Toward the end, it kind of changed from depressed to something else. I don’t know. Kind of desperate maybe. Angry?”
“Angry at her sugar daddy?”
“I didn’t ask. She didn’t go out much for the last week or so. And she borrowed two hundred dollars from me the day before she died. Some kind of cash flow thing. Please don’t mention that to the Crawleys. They have enough on their minds.”
“It sounds like the sugar daddy may have dumped her.”
“That’s what your brother said.”
“Of course.” Callie rolled her eyes. “What else did my brother say?”
“He asked about her other friends and her social media. He also wanted a list of her professors, which I didn’t have.”
Callie suddenly felt out of her depth. Was this how investigative reporters did their jobs, trying to second-guess the police but with less access and fewer resources? “Is there any question my brother didn’t ask? Something maybe he should have asked but didn’t?”
Sherry Ann tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway, more of a snort than a laugh. “He asked me that, too. ‘Is there any question I didn’t ask that you think might be relevant.’ I’ve been thinking, and I honestly can’t think of one. Sorry. Sorry about laughing. It was inappropriate.”
“No problem.”
Callie stayed on her side of the window seat as their tea cooled, politely listening as Sherry Ann free-associated on the concept of roommates and friendships and how easy it is to feel you know someone and yet not really know much about them.
“Are you Facebook friends with Briana?” Callie asked. “I’m sure my brother already checked it out.”
“I’m sure he has.” Sherry Ann eased herself out of the window seat. “He took her laptop. Do you want to see her Facebook page?”
“I’d love to see it.”
Sherry Ann led the way into her bedroom, another bright and airy space, this one with a tiny balcony. Callie brought out her notebook and pen and waited until Briana’s roommate had called up the blue-bordered site, tapped Briana’s name into the search window and offered the use of her French provincial chair at her French provincial desk. “Here you go.”
Callie was disappointed at how ordinary Briana’s page was. Scrolling back over six months, she could find little more than inspirational sayings, the usual reposting of social and political articles and only a handful of images from the victim’s life, all smiling selfies and party photos with half a dozen girls posing with pouty duck mouths and hand signs. A click on the “Friends” icon revealed 283 tiny portraits, including those of Helen Crawley and a few other young to middle-aged Crawleys. Neither one of them heard the door open or the sound of footsteps.
Sherry Ann got up to greet the new arrival. “Hi, there!” She plastered on a fresh smile and walked into the living room.
“Hello. Oh, Callie. Good to see you.” It was Helen Crawley, carrying a pair of Whole Foods bags. “I noticed you were a little low on essentials. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Nooo,” Sherry Ann drawled. “How absolutely sweet of you.”
Callie had no idea why Briana’s mother had a key or why she was taking an interest in essentials. She followed them into the kitchen. “Where is Frank?”
“Frank?” Helen pulled a milk carton out of the refrigerator and poured the contents into the sink. “Your milk is about to turn, so I got a new one. I know it’s wasteful but…” She took a deep breath. “Frank went home to Phoenix. This morning. They would have given him more time off, but I think it was better for him to go. It’s good for one of us to go back and deal with family.”
“Mrs. Crawley…” Sherry Ann corrected herself. “Helen. Helen is taking Briana’s room. The rent is paid up through the month and it’s ridiculous for her to keep paying for a hotel.”
“Sherry Ann is very kind. I don’t know how long I’ll stay or what use I can be, but at least I’m here.”
“The police will catch him,” Sherry Ann said. It was a statement based on nothing but optimism, but still it felt comforting. “Oh, Helen, about the necklace. I looked all over. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Helen said, but according to her frown, it wasn’t. “Maybe she lost it or threw it out.”
“What necklace?” Callie asked.
Helen reached for her phone and, after several swipes, brought up the image. It was a close shot of Briana, smiling full-blown into the camera, one hand reaching up to touch a braided leather necklace with a strand of gold woven throughout. It was elegant in an earthy way and looked vaguely African. “I gave it to her on her last birthday. She said she loved it.”
“She loved it,” Sherry Ann insisted. “She wore it all the time.”
Callie thought back to medical examiner’s report and the abrasion across the front of Briana’s neck. “Was she wearing it the night… on that last night?”
Sherry Ann shrugged and frowned. “I think so. I’m not sure.”
“You think he took it?” Helen asked, her hand going to her throat. “You think he stole her necklace?” It seemed like the last, most perverse indignity, stealing a dead girl’s birthday gift.
“I’ll mention it to my brother,” Callie said. “Can you email me that? Here. May I?” She borrowed Helen’s phone and, in a few seconds, had sent the photo to her own phone. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” Helen displayed a half-smile. “Callie, can I talk to you?”
Helen led the young reporter into the second bedroom, a slightly smaller version of the first, complete with balcony. Helen gently closed the door then spent a moment looking around the room, at the jewelry box lying open on the bureau, at the closet brimming with clothes and the rows of shoes lined neatly against the closet’s inner wall. “You know about Briana, don’t you?”
“Know what?” As soon as the words came out, she felt like a coward.
Helen pointed to the closet. “Prada. Hermes. Jimmy Choo. There’s a Cartier watch and some tiny bottles of French cosmetics I never heard of in the bathroom. Frank doesn’t notice those things. Even if he did… That’s why I talked him into going home. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. His little angel. I appreciate them trying to keep it from us, but if you’ve done any investigating at all…”
“Briana had a sugar daddy,” Callie admitted. “My brother told me. He says a lot of college girls do it. It’s not like prostitution.”
