Chasing the Story

by Shira Anthony

  “Zach Caldwell? I’ve heard a lot about you. My wife’n I’ve been reading the paper for years.” Ronny’s face flushed and he handed Zach a piece of paper. “You mind autographin’ that for me? She’s from New York…. She used to watch you on the news.”

  Zach smiled, but his shoulders tightened visibly, and he tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Of course. What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Moira.”

  “M-O-I-R-A?” Zach scribbled a short note and signed it.

  “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you for helping us, Mr. Vandevender.” Brand pulled out his notebook. A lot of the news team used tablets for notetaking, but using paper felt like a connection to the past. From what he’d seen, he guessed Zach felt the same.

  “So what can I do for y’all?” Ronny asked.

  “Brand suggested you might be able to give us a quick course in coastal construction,” Zach said.

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “What do you know about hurricane proofing?” Zach seemed to relax with the question.

  “Enough to know there ain’t no such animal,” Ronny said. “All a good builder can offer is hurricane resistance. But there are things you can do to make a house more likely to survive a storm.”

  “Like what?”

  “Start out with someone who knows what they’re doin’. Then make sure they build on a solid foundation. Usually you’re talkin’ ’bout an elevated foundation. Pilings are strongest, but if they ain’t set deep enough down, they’ll fail with floodin’. And if the pilings are too short, the house may float off of ’em.”

  “Got it.” Zach scribbled a few more notes.

  “Next you want to make sure your framin’—the bones of the house—are bolted into the foundation and not nailed. And you want to use bolts that’ll withstand corrosion from the ocean salt,” Ronny said with a roll of his eyes. “Not that y’all don’t see folks cuttin’ corners, but any decent builder’d do all those things.”

  “What other things would a coastal builder do?” Brand asked.

  Ronny shrugged. “Attach the sheetrock with screws instead of nails. Use metal or fiberglass for the roof and pitch it at the right angle. That’s all the basic stuff.”

  “What about the extra stuff to increase hurricane resistance?” Zach asked.

  “You start with the design, if you’re really smart. Make sure the architect knows what you’re lookin’ for. We’ve been seein’ more circular structures. Wind can’t build up enough pressure on any side to cause a structural failure like it can with traditional square construction. Also the shape and pitch of the roof can make a difference. You can also upgrade windows and use special lumber that makes it more difficult for debris to penetrate the structure.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work up front,” Brand put in.

  “It’s a balance. You might have to compromise between looks and storm resistance. And a lot of these features’ll cost you a pretty penny, if you know what I mean.”

  “What does North Carolina require?” Zach asked.

  Ronny shook his head. “Not all that much, to be honest. They loosened up some of them requirements recently. Hurricane shutters don’t do a lot of good unless they’re permanently anchored on the home, but it ain’t required no more. They used to update the buildin’ codes every three years, but now it’s every six. That means some of the standards for elevated construction like we been talkin’ about aren’t in effect here. So we’re always a few years behind the national recommendations.”

  “So let’s say you build a house and don’t drop the pilings deep enough, or you don’t bolt the frame to the foundation.” Zach tapped his phone and showed Ronny a photo of Tessa’s house. “Would the house look like this after a hurricane?”

  Ronny studied the photo and nodded. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Depends on the hurricane. If you’re talkin’ Florence, it was more about floodin’ than wind. But we’ve had storms where the wind was the worst part.” He zoomed in on the photo.

  “And if I were to tell you this damage was caused by Florence?” Zach asked.

  “Oceanfront?” Ronny countered.

  “Nope. Four blocks back. All the surrounding houses were fine, even the ones right on the water. Just a little damage.”

  “Without inspectin’ the damage, I can’t be 100 percent sure,” he answered. “But judgin’ from the damage I’ve seen in the area, I’d say this here was shoddy construction. It was a bad storm, but unless this was oceanfront property, the damage shouldn’t be this bad. Plus you’d expect to see similar damage to at least some of the other homes in the area. But again, I’d have to see it to be sure.”

  “Of course.” Brand looked at Zach, who smiled and nodded.

  “EASY PICKINS,” Zach said as he and Brand sat down for coffee an hour later. Zach seemed much better than before. Brand guessed focusing on work had done the trick. “Most people trust the contractors to do what they promise. Building a house is complicated enough—it’d be easy to cut corners.”

  “What’s next?”

  Zach shrugged. “I need to make a few sales calls.” He made a face and added, “I hate sales calls with a passion, but if we don’t make our targets, BeaconCorp gives me hell.”

  “Is advertising down?” He’d heard of so many small papers closing down, he figured Zach must be struggling as well.

  “It’s about the same. The guys in New York are tightening the screws. Every so often they talk about shutting us down. I’ve got a few ideas I’ve been wanting to try out. Running some numbers.”

  “Sounds like you’re still thinking about buying the paper.”

  “After we talked about it the other day, I started going through my finances,” Zach confirmed. “I’ve got a little pot of money I inherited from my dad. Add to that the extra money I netted for my half of the condo in Manhattan, and I might be able to make it work.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a plan.” Brand decided not to ask about the condo. Something about the dark circles under Zach’s eyes and how out of sorts he seemed had Brand trusting his instincts.

  “Not sure the plan’ll hold up, but hell, if it all falls apart?” Zach shrugged. “I’ll reinvent myself again. Maybe open a bar.”

  “You serious?”

  “Nope. I don’t know the first thing about running a bar. But it sounds like something an ex-newscaster, where-is-he-now celebrity might do.”

  Brand laughed and finished the last sip of his coffee, but again he passed up the opening to ask Zach more about his past. The time just didn’t feel right. “You up for some dinner tonight? My place?”

  Zach smiled. “Can’t. I’m thinking I’ll be working pretty late. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure.” Brand did his best to hide his disappointment. Whatever was bothering Zach, he needed to be patient.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ZACH MADE it home around eight. The two-hour project he’d been working on morphed into five, and not because it was difficult. He’d struggled to focus and nearly fallen asleep on top of his keyboard. Over the years he’d pulled a few all-nighters to make sure the paper got out on time. Tonight he’d barely been able to finish reviewing the ad copy and set up the formatting.

  What the fuck is wrong with you?

  After Arlo finished his food, Zach spent a few minutes absentmindedly petting him. It wasn’t until his stomach growled in protest that he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He fished around in the fridge and settled on a stale piece of pizza. The beer he downed it with made it taste slightly better than cardboard.

  He sat on the couch and clicked on the TV, skipping from channel to channel until he found a channel playing eighties indie movies. He watched the last half of Making Mr. Right. He drifted off sometime in the middle of Repo Man.

  “I’ve heard what he does to men like you.” Greg’s voice echoed with anger and grief. “You expect me to believe you got the jo
b because of your fucking writing?”

  “I expect you to trust me. To trust us.” They’d been together four years. Greg knew him. Loved him. They’d talked about getting married. And now—

  For the first time since he’d stepped inside the apartment, Zach saw the flowers on the counter. Red roses. Expensive. Two, maybe three dozen. Crystal vase and a card. Opened.

  Looking forward to more. Congratulations on your promotion.—Rick

  “I told you this was a mistake. You know what he wants, and it isn’t your talent.”

  “You opened the card?” Fear like ice seeped through Zach’s veins, causing his stomach to roil.

  “Why not? You have nothing to hide, right?”

  Rick’s voice echoed in his mind. “Have it your way. You get what you want, and so do I.” Zach shivered at the memory of Rick’s hand on his pantleg as he moved upward to grab his cock.

  Zach shot up in bed, body thrumming with tension. Shame and self-loathing roiled in his gut as he gulped deep breaths of air.

  Zach woke again at nearly ten, having slept through his alarm. Arlo hopped off the bed and stretched, then meowed loudly.

  “I know. I slept through breakfast, didn’t I?” He slipped out of bed, used the bathroom, and threw on a sweatshirt before wobbling over to the kitchen to feed the cat. He felt like he’d walked into a truck.

  His phone beeped. Brand letting him know he was still waiting to hear back from Sue Blankenship, his attorney contact, but he had a few ideas he wanted to talk through. Zach texted him back and agreed to meet up at noon at Martha’s, the little sandwich shop a few blocks from the apartment that made a really good turkey club.

  Zach showered and tried to ignore the pulsing behind his eyes. He tried to shave, but the buzz of the electric razor made his head ache, and his hand shook too much to manage a disposable. He made it to the restaurant about ten minutes late. He hated being late, but everything he did that morning felt like slow motion.

  When he arrived, Brand was already seated at a table, waiting. He flashed his million-dollar smile, but his eyes registered concern. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Zach lied. “Got caught up working on something last night and didn’t get a lot of sleep.” He forced a laugh, but it came out tight and high. “I probably look like death warmed over.”

  “You still look pretty good to me.” Brand scanned the menu. “What do you recommend?”

  “Turkey club. Tuna’s pretty good too.” Zach started to get up—Martha’s was an order-at-the-counter place—but Brand waved him off.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.” Zach rubbed his eyes.

  “Tuna or turkey for you?”

  “Turkey, please.”

  Brand walked over the counter, and Zach closed his eyes, grateful for the moment of silence. Everyone sounded as though they were yelling.

  “Zach?”

  “Huh?” He’d fallen asleep. “Sorry.” He fished around in his pants pocket and handed Brand a twenty. “Here.”

  Brand gently closed Zach’s hand over the bill. “My treat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re shaking. You sure you’re okay?”

  He hated when people fussed over him. “I’m fine. I just need a little rest and something to eat.”

  Brand pushed one of the sodas closer to Zach. “Have a sip. The caffeine’ll do you good.”

  “Thanks.” Zach sipped the drink in silence. A couple of minutes later, the woman behind the counter brought their sandwiches.

  “I’m hoping to have something for you this afternoon. The connection you were looking for.”

  “That’d be great.” Zach rallied a bit with the food and caffeine. “I’m pretty much at a dead end with the investigation. I can’t trace any of the corporations.”

  “How about taking tomorrow off and doing something with me? You look like you could use a break.”

  Normally he’d have dismissed the idea, but a day off might help him refocus. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Bald Head Island? Picnic, walk on the beach, round of golf if you’d prefer—”

  “I don’t golf.”

  “—or not.” Brand chuckled. “We can take the ferry over and relax. I make a mean picnic lunch.”

  “I… sure.” Zach didn’t mean to sound so uninterested, but his head was throbbing again.

  “Listen, if you’re not up for it—”

  “I think it’s a great idea.” Zach offered Brand what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Great. I’ll stop by your place around nine.”

  “Thanks.” Zach pushed his plate away. He’d barely made a dent in one half of his sandwich, and he felt sick. “I’d better get to the office. I’m waiting on a proof from the printer.”

  “Sure.” Brand still looked worried.

  “I’m fine. Really. No need to worry.” He forced another smile. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” But first he needed to get through today. That is, if the dreams would leave him alone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BRAND WATCHED Zach leave. Something was definitely up. A few days ago, Zach had seemed fine. But he hadn’t been at the paper when Brand stopped by first thing that morning. Zach was always at the paper by nine, even earlier.

  If he wanted to blow me off, why say yes to a day at the beach?

  Maybe Zach was experiencing some delayed reaction to the mugging. But he hadn’t seemed worried for his personal safety then. If anything, he’d seemed confident.

  Back at his office a few minutes later, Brand sat in front of his computer, staring at the screen. “What’s going on with you, Zach?” So much of the man was a mystery, not the least of which was what had made him leave New York.

  Brand ran a few web searches on Zach. Not much came up that he didn’t already know—Zach literally vanished within weeks of rumors that he’d been tapped for a national anchor spot with BeaconCorp. Other than the story that ran in one of the New York tabloids claiming Zach was gay, there was nothing to find in the public domain about Zach other than his life until that time and his life in Wilmington. Brand would need a source to figure it out—someone who’d worked with Zach.

  Finding possible contacts was relatively easy. Several names popped up, including Zach’s last producer, Kevin McCartney, and the news director in charge at the time, Karen Lester. Given the stories of Zach having been outed, Brand decided to start by contacting Karen, since he wasn’t sure whether Zach had been romantically involved with Kevin. He’d expected finding her would take a while, but he was surprised to find that Karen had left BeaconCorp around the same time Zach did and was working as a news writer for CBN, the parent company of his own employer, at their New Jersey affiliate. Locating her phone number took him all of ten seconds.

  “Karen Lester.”

  Brand gently kicked the door to his office closed. He hadn’t expected she’d be so easy to reach. “Ms. Lester? My name’s Brand Josephson. I’m a reporter at a local CBN affiliate in North Carolina. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. What’s this about?”

  He’d expected she’d cut to the chase. “I’m not calling about business. I’m calling because I need some information about a friend. This won’t become a story.”

  She laughed. “I’ve heard that one more than a few times. I’ve even used the line myself.”

  “I’m sure you have. But hear me out. And if afterward you think I’m full of crap, you can hang up on me, okay?” He’d debated coming up with an explanation that sounded work-related, but in the end he figured honesty might serve him better.

  “Okay.”

  Brand drew a long breath. “I’m calling about Zach Caldwell. He’s a friend of mine.” Sometimes getting information meant giving some first and putting yourself out there. Not that his being gay would tank his career, but he wasn’t so naïve as to think it never factored into the equation.

  “Zach? I heard he moved to North Carolina.”

  “Right. We both
work here in Wilmington.”

  “How is he?” Her voice was suddenly softer.

  His throat constricted to hear the concern in her voice. “He’s fine. He’s running the local paper here in Wilmington.”

  “I heard he’d gone back to print media. Our loss.”

  “The paper’s doing well. I think he really enjoys the work,” Brand said.

  “I’m glad.” She paused for a long moment, then said, “So how can I help you, Mr. Josephson?”

  “Brand, please.”

  “Brand.”

  “What do you know about why Zach left New York?” he asked.

  She sighed. “I had a feeling that was what you were going to ask.”

  “He’s told me that it was his fault. That he ‘did it to himself.’”

  She said nothing.

  “I take it you don’t buy that either,” Brand pressed.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You left New York around the same time he did, didn’t you?” He tried to be gentle, to hold himself back, but the need to understand won out over his self-control.

  “Mr. Josephson… Brand. I can’t….”

  “He was a good friend, wasn’t he?”

  “Zach was like a younger brother to me.” She coughed and inhaled sharply. He guessed she was holding back tears. “Kevin McCartney—that’s Zach’s producer—he and I were so happy for him when he got the call to meet with the CEO about the national news spot.”

  “The CEO?”

  “Rick Greenburg.” The way she said the name spoke volumes. She clearly despised the man.

  “So Greenburg gave him the job?” Brand asked.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that a day later, Zach was gone. We were so afraid something happened to him, we even talked about hiring someone to track him down.” She sighed again. “In the end he left us a note and asked us to let it go. Let him go, really. At least that’s what it felt like. After he left, I gave up the fast track. I couldn’t stomach it anymore.”

  “So you never learned why he left?”

  “No. But I have my theory.”