by Joyce Lamb
His face split into a huge grin when he saw her. “Oh, I do hope you’re Charlie Trudeau.”
She couldn’t help but return his welcoming smile. “Hi. Simon Walker?”
“One and only,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his big, soft mitts and pumping it up and down before she had a chance to brace herself. When nothing more than a feeling of warmth and well-being infused her, she relaxed.
He was only a few inches taller than her five-five, and judging from his wrinkles, she put him in the ballpark of sixty. His kind, blue eyes were the color of well-worn denim and crinkled at the corners as though he’d spent his entire life smiling. A feeling of familiarity nudged her, as though she’d known him forever.
He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Oh, you are absolutely lovely.” Then he gave her a fatherly pat on the arm and handed her his briefcase. “Why don’t you take this and get us a table outside while I place our order? What would you like?”
“Uh.” She couldn’t think. The most powerful man in the newspaper industry was beaming at her, and she couldn’t think. Real professional. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Now the pressure is on,” Simon said with a wink. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Feeling dazed, she walked out into the cooling dusk, found an empty table set back from the street, set Simon Walker’s briefcase next to a black wrought-iron chair then sat down in the one next to it with her back to the building. Sitting out in the open like this, knowing someone wanted her dead, was probably at the top of her list of stupid things she’d done this week. But she wasn’t going to be sitting here alone for long, and if anyone tried to kill her now, there’d be plenty of witnesses.
When Simon Walker elbowed his way through the door of the Bean, his arms were laden with bagels, muffins, cookies and two Big Gulp-sized cups. She rose to help him distribute the goodies on the table and wondered whether he’d left anything in the display cases. Then she spotted her favorite—chocolate-filled croissants—and didn’t care.
“Everything looked so good I couldn’t decide,” he said, chuckling. “I hope you’ve got an appetite.”
“I’m starved, actually,” she said, sitting back down as he handed her a tall stack of napkins. “And it looks like I can be messy, too.”
His chuckle turned to a belly laugh. As he sat across from her, he reached for one of the huge cups. “Iced mocha cappuccino,” he said, before clamping his mouth around the fat straw.
Charlie caught herself smiling as she watched his weathered cheeks go concave while he tried to suck the thick slush through the straw. Oh, to be that enthusiastic about something as simple as a frozen coffee drink.
Finally getting a mouthful, he swirled it around as though tasting a fine wine, then swallowed and smiled his approval. “Ah, that’s refreshing. I would never have dreamed of having an iced cappuccino in March, but here we are. Sitting outside even. What’s the temperature, do you suppose? Seventy? Oh, wait, I remember, the pilot said it was seventy-two.” He drew in a big breath, leaned back in his springy chair and took in their surroundings. “It’s a beautiful, beautiful evening.”
“It is,” Charlie said, tearing into a chocolate croissant. She was certain her companion would approve of her lack of shyness.
“Such a wonderful town, Lake Avalon. All these art deco buildings are breathtaking, are they not? You can just feel the history.” He leaned forward. “I bet you’re wondering why I’ve swept into your life this evening, Charlie Trudeau.”
Her mouth too full to speak, she nodded.
“My career in newspapers started many, many years ago. Think His Girl Friday, though I was far more debonair than Cary Grant and wore a much better hat. And my Rosalind, well, she didn’t speak nearly as fast and while she didn’t have the legs of a Rockette, I loved her just the same. But I digress. My point is that when I started I was fresh out of college and ready to change the world.”
“I know that feeling,” Charlie said.
Simon grinned. “I thought you would.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have to admit that I’m not pleased with how the business has evolved. What about you?”
“Uh . . .”
“My sentiments exactly. Every damn newspaper across this great nation is chock-full of news supported by information taken from press releases and Web sites like it’s the word of God. Reporters are quoting experts right and left and no one is saying a good goddamn thing. When someone, a politician perhaps, tells a bald-faced lie to the American public, do our nation’s journalists call him or her on it? No. Oh, sure, there might be some bitching and moaning on the editorial pages, but who reads those editorial pages anyway? Meanwhile, there on page one, the page everyone sees all day long in the newspaper racks on every street corner, sits the lie in all its glory with nary a counterpoint. I ask you: What good does that do the American people?”
Before Charlie could form a response, he plunged ahead. “The industry has become about selling cornflakes.”
She nodded helplessly. Cornflakes? Huh?
He thudded an index finger against the latticed tabletop. “It doesn’t matter what’s in the newspaper. What’s important is what it looks like. The theory is that if it looks good, readers will buy it. And, I’ll admit, there is some truth to that. But it’s not just about the packaging. It’s about what’s being packaged. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of all of my newspapers and their Web sites. Some of them do a decent job of balancing the cornflakes with the heavy-duty fiber, if you know what I mean. But the smallest ones, the ones at the community level . . . well, you know all about what happens at the community level, don’t you, Charlie Trudeau.”
She did, but she didn’t say anything, figuring he didn’t plan to pause long enough to allow her to anyway.
“What happens at the community level, my dear girl, is reporters like yourself get hamstrung. You’re forced to stay away from certain stories, because certain stories might anger certain revenue-generating customers and losing those revenue-generating customers would be very bad for business. Am I right?”
When he peered at her, apparently expecting a response this time, she gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yes.”
“Yes!” He slapped an open palm on the table, making bagels and muffins and croissants jump. “Yes, I’m right. I love being right. But, then, who doesn’t?”
She laughed, a bit overwhelmed by his exuberance.
He picked up his iced cappuccino and tapped the plastic rim against her cup. “I like you, Charlie Trudeau. I especially like saying your name, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s a good reporter’s name. Charlie Trudeau. I’m impressed that you don’t use your full name, like some reporters. You might know a man as Dave Brown, but his byline is David Michael Edwin Brown III. It’s downright odd, if you ask me. But tell me, what is your full name, Charlie Trudeau?”
“Charlotte Meredith.”
“Ah, a lovely name for sure. But Charlotte Meredith Trudeau just doesn’t have the same dog-with-a-bone journalistic cachet as Charlie Trudeau. Don’t you agree?”
“Wholeheartedly.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “I suppose I should get to why I’ve come to see you.” He scooted back his chair, propped his briefcase on his lap and popped it open. When he pulled out Tuesday’s Lake Avalon Gazette with the damning auto dealer headline, her heart thumped harder. Oh, no.
“I have a friend who retired here to Lake Avalon,” he said. “My best lifelong friend, you might say. Avid newspaper reader. Sharp as a fox and just as cagey. He called me the other morning and read your crooked auto dealer story to me over the phone.” He spread out the paper and tapped his finger on her byline. “This is good work, Charlie Trudeau.”
Pride swelled through her for a change. “Thank you.”
“I’ve heard it cost you.”
Surprise lifted her brows.
“I tried to call you at the Gazette yesterday,” he said, “but was curtly told you were no longer emp
loyed there.”
Her cheeks started to burn. Good-bye, pride. Hello, shame. “Yes, that’s true.”
“You were fired?”
“I planned to quit anyway.”
“Why?”
He fired the question at her so sharply that she stuttered at first. “Well, I—I—” She stopped, took a breath. “Like you, I’m disappointed in the direction of the news business today.”
His grin returned full blown. “You’re an idealist.”
“I suppose I am.”
“I am, too. Which is precisely why I’m here. I want you to work for me.”
That set her back. “In New York?”
“Anywhere. You pick the newspaper. I have them all over, you know. California, Colorado, Illinois, Pennsylvania, even here in Florida. You name a state, I’ll give you a list.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know—”
“Yes, yes, I know it’s sudden. I’m prepared to give you time to think about it, of course.”
Reality quickly followed the first rush of excitement. Any other newspaper would have the same issues as the LAG. Advertisers ruled, period. “I’ve pretty much decided to leave the news business.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Because there is nothing else. You’re a journalist to the bone, and you’ve got something that many journalists today lack. Do you know what that is?”
“An unrealistic idea of what my job should be?”
He threw back his head and guffawed. “I like that, but it’s not what I was getting at. You’ve got guts, Charlie Trudeau. And balls. Pardon my French, which is a silly saying, because what I said was not French at all. It was English, but perhaps also French because the French also have balls. But I’m off track once again. What I’m trying to say is that you saw a good story and you went after it. Your boss told you no and his or her boss probably also told you no, and what did you do? You wrote it anyway and then you conspired to get it onto the front page. And what happened?”
“I lost my job.”
“What else?”
“I pissed off my father.”
“Oh, dear. Daddy owns the newspaper here?”
“Yes.”
“Hot damn, my dear, you’ve got even more balls than I thought. What else happened?”
“My co-workers are going to want to kill me when they find out the newspaper could collapse financially.”
He nodded, still grinning. “What else?”
She looked back at him, out of ideas.
He turned the newspaper on the table so she could clearly see the headline. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost reverent: “You made a difference.”
Her gaze swept up to meet his.
He nodded, arching one dark, silver-streaked brow, his smile never wavering. “You let a community of thousands know that Dick’s Auto Sales can’t be trusted. That, young lady, is what newspapering is supposed to be about.”
“Except that’s not what it is about.”
“Come to work for me, and we’ll change that. Together. One newspaper at a time.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want to change the world. Just like you. And we can do it.”
“You don’t need me to do that.”
“Of course, I don’t. But it would be so much more fun to have you on my side. You’re Charlie Trudeau, the journalist who spat in the eye of powerful advertisers to print the truth. Imagine that. The truth. We could spread it everywhere. Politicians, crooked businessmen and bad guys across the nation beware.”
“But if you don’t cater to your advertisers, how will you make money?”
“Not all advertisers are crooked.”
“Of course not. But many are loyal to each other. They band together like unions.”
“And to them, I say, pshaw. I’m a billionaire. In the beginning, we need only enough revenue to break even. Once we’ve changed the industry, the sky is the limit. What do you say? You and me against the world.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Pshaw? You and me against the world? This guy was a hoot. Or crazy as a loon. And she wanted to say yes. Desperately wanted to say yes. But that would be foolish, and she was tired of being foolish. “I’ll think about it.”
He beamed at her. “Brilliant.”
He shoved open his car door and got out to pace, unable to sit still another stupid fucking second and stare at Charlie Trudeau’s stupid fucking house.
Where the fuck was she? How the fuck was he supposed to kill her when she didn’t fucking come home? It’s like she’d disappeared off the face of the fucking planet.
He curled his fingers into fists at his sides, wished they were wrapped around her stupid fucking neck. Imagined choking her almost unconscious then letting up, letting her catch her breath, only to choke her almost unconscious all over again. He was in the mood for some hard-core torture now. Long, drawn-out, scream-inducing torture.
Because of her, he’d been racing around this godforsaken shithole of a town like a chicken with his nuts cut off. Trying to find Charlie Trudeau, to kill Charlie Trudeau. Stupid fucking bitch was killing him instead.
Hearing his cell phone, he ducked his head through the driver’s side window and snatched it up. Time to get his head chewed off for the millionth time this week for fucking up.
“Yeah.”
“They found Louisa.”
He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Yeah, I heard.”
“They haven’t released her name to the public yet. We still have some time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I have good news for you.”
He opened his eyes. “What is it?”
“I know where Charlie Trudeau is, and I know how you can kill her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Charlie hung up the phone, frustrated. She’d tried all of Lucy’s numbers again and gotten no answer. No voice mail, either, which meant she couldn’t even leave a message. Maddening.
She’d also gone online to check the address of the house on Tarpon Bay Street against directory assistance to try to get a name. She’d found a listing for L. Alvarez, but the name meant nothing to her.
She lay back on the bed and groaned aloud. By now, the police had to know that the woman with curly black hair hadn’t been killed where her body was found. But would they know the crime scene they sought had been freshly painted? Could she somehow let them know that without raising a bunch of questions about how she knew? Perhaps an anonymous tip. Except with technology these days, tips were rarely anonymous anymore.
Closing her eyes, she thought about Simon Walker and his too-good-to-be-true offer. Fresh starts didn’t get much fresher. She could have what she’d always wanted, be what she’d always wanted—an investigative journalist with no restraints. So tempting. But could she abandon Lake Avalon, her father, after making such a mess? Shouldn’t she do something to clean that up first?
A soft knock on the door had her sitting up and looking at her watch. Must be Alex.
When she opened the door, Alex looked Charlie up and down, her auburn curls bouncing. “Holy crap. You had sex.”
Charlie’s laugh sounded breathless to her own ears. Oh, yeah, that. And it wasn’t just sex, but something much, much better. “Don’t say stuff like that out in the hall. Get in here.”
Alex walked in and turned, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Who did you have sex with?”
Charlie laughed again, embarrassed. Alex wasn’t going to let her avoid her questions, but she stalled for more time by standing in front of the mirror and pulling her hair back from her face to secure it in a ponytail. Despite the puffiness of her bruised cheek, it didn’t take a genius to know by looking at her what she’d been up to. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks and neck slightly red from whisker burn. Her eyes seemed to shine. The glimmer of life.
“Who were you with?” Alex asked again.
Charlie drew in a steadying breath,
her gaze fixed on her own eyes in the mirror. “Noah.”
“The detective from the other day? The one who got shot at today? You slept with him?” Alex asked, incredulous.
Charlie smiled, still holding her own gaze. She felt different. Confident. She’d turned a man on so intensely he’d thought her name not once, but twice, while his world had exploded. Her insides fluttered low in her belly, and she smoothed a hand over her lower abdomen, remembering what it was like to experience his release, so different, so—
“Charlie?”
She focused on the reflection of Alex’s baffled expression. “We didn’t sleep,” she said.
Alex’s mouth dropped open. “What the fuck, Chuck?”
Charlie turned away from the mirror. “I think I need to figure some stuff out before we go there.”
“Oh my God, you’re going to deny your sister details?”
“Looks like. Sorry.”
“You are such a bitch.” But Alex was smiling. “He was good for you. You’re actually glowing. So is it too much to tell me how you left things? I mean, you’re going to see him again, aren’t you?”
Charlie shrugged, feeling her cheeks heat all over again. “I kind of slipped out while he was sleeping.”
“What?” Alex nearly shouted it.
“I guess I wigged out a little and bolted.”
“Go back.” Alex lunged at her, turned her by the shoulders toward the door and gave her a hard nudge. “He’s probably still snoring. He’ll never know you left.”
Laughing, Charlie sat at the foot of the double bed closest to the door and toed off her shoes. Her muscles felt limber, as though well-lubricated by Noah’s attention.
She felt Alex silently watching her, assessing, and didn’t mind. She’d be scrutinizing, too, if their roles had been switched.
