Killer Headline

by Debby Giusti

  Backing her way to the door, she grabbed the knob, and when Stu waved her off, she slipped out of his office, feeling as if she’d just missed a head-on collision with a tractor trailer on Interstate 90.

  Her heels clipped across the tiled floor. Quinn Smith looked up from his computer as she passed his cubicle and gave her a thumbs-up. “Keep the faith, Violet.”

  She tried to smile back at one of the Missoula Daily News’s lead reporters. Medium height but athletic for a midfifties guy with a receding hairline, Quinn seemed to understand how she ticked.

  Violet threaded her way across the length of the newsroom to her small desk, tucked along the far wall. One of the realities of her position was her distance from the editor’s office.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Stu would see her in a more favorable light after she turned in the completed story that tied the Chicago crime family with the two women who had died in Montana.

  A story he had just rejected, her voice of reason cautioned. Advice she chose to ignore.

  She slipped behind her desk, into the swivel chair that had lost its swivel probably last century, kicked off her shoes and logged on to a Web site she’d created in college.

  A lone partition separated her desk from the main hallway leading to the elevators where Jimmy Baker now stood, peering down at her. Gangly tall with a school-boy smile, the junior reporter was a friend from her University-of-Montana days.

  “Sounded bad.” He smiled with encouragement as he rounded the partition and sidled up behind her desk.

  She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “FYI, I’m on to something big.”

  “Ah, Violet, you’re gonna get into trouble. I can feel it coming.”

  “Not if the story increases subscriptions and establishes the Daily News as the number-one rag in Montana.”

  “Before success goes to your head, check your voice mail. Your phone rang off the hook while you were in with Stu.”

  Violet pulled the receiver to her ear and punched the message button.

  He had her at hello.

  No mistaking Clay West’s voice or the ripple of excitement that tingled down her neck. Something about the way he enunciated each syllable clearly and distinctly sent a mental five-by-seven glossy to hang in the recesses of her brain. Tall, dark and dangerous was the image that came to mind.

  Now, here he was on her answering machine, saying they needed to talk. Not once, but three times. If the man had any fault, likely it was impatience.

  Jimmy peeked over her shoulder at her computer screen. “Good grief, Violet, is that the same Web site from our college days?”

  She minimized the page, but that didn’t stop Jimmy.

  “After all this time, do you seriously think someone will come forward with information about your Aunt Lettie’s murder? Weren’t you six when she died?”

  “I was seven,” Violet corrected. So young, yet she still felt responsible for her aunt’s death. If only she’d had the courage to run after her that night, Lettie might still be alive. Instead, fear had overpowered Violet. She’d returned to the security of her home and had never seen her aunt alive again.

  “The cops couldn’t find the killer. Doubtful you’ll have better luck.” Tenacious to a fault, he did the math on his fingers. “It’s been what? Eighteen years?”

  “Jimmy, let it go.”

  He leaned close to her ear. “I will if you stop with the Mafia story. I heard what Stu said. You’re doing it again, Vi. Stepping on toes. Going against authority. It could cost you your job.”

  “Would you please back off?” Even friendship had boundaries and recently Jimmy was stepping a little too close to the line.

  Her phone rang. She pulled the receiver to her ear. “Kramer.”

  “Violet, it’s Clay West. I was wondering if we could talk, perhaps this evening. I’m not sure you understood the urgency of what I told you the other night when you called. You’re getting involved in something you shouldn’t be. We could discuss it over—”

  Violet looked up at Jimmy, who failed to get the message to back off. As much as she wanted to talk to Clay, she didn’t need to listen to a third lecture in one day. Especially with Jimmy hovering close by.

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Violet disconnected and glared up at the guy who refused to take a hint. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”

  “Later.” Turning on his heel, he sauntered back to his desk that sat five rows closer to Stu’s office.

  Violet groaned. Because of Jimmy, she’d hung up on the very person who could provide information about the Martino family.

  She made a mental note to call Clay as soon as she got home from work. Maybe they could smooth out the rough edges of their rather tenuous relationship. She’d enjoy being on firmer footing with the handsome and mysterious cop.

  Violet transferred data for the revised article Stu wanted on the local police department on to her flash drive, as well as the information she’d compiled on the murdered women in Witness Protection.

  Pulling her coat tight, Violet left the Plaza Complex hours later and made her way to the now-empty parking deck, her breath hanging in the frosty February air. Her car sat in the last row, farthest from the door, another sign of her standing at the Daily News.

  She slid behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper, exited on to the main thoroughfare and snaked her way across town to the older neighborhood where she lived.

  A crescent moon hung in the night sky, casting a band of light over the mountains that wrapped around the city. The stark beauty of God’s creation wasn’t lost on her this night despite the lousy day she’d had at the paper. Violet loved Montana’s fertile valleys and snow-covered mountaintops. Perhaps God had known what she’d needed two years ago when she failed to land the job at the Gazette. Undoubtedly, He was guiding her path even now. Hopefully, something good would come from all her hard work.

  Please, God, make it happen.

  Turning on to her street, Violet angled into the alleyway and parked in the freestanding garage situated at the rear of her property.

  Leaving the warmth of the car, she tugged the coat collar up around her neck and hastened along the cement walk to the mailbox out front.

  Glancing up and down the empty street, Violet grabbed the stack of bills and shivered, not from the cold but from an immediate sense of foreboding. Usually she had nerves of steel. Tonight her steel had turned to rubber.

  She clutched the mail tightly in her hand, mildly comforted by the rhythm of her footfalls along the sidewalk, as if the sound could spook away the unwelcome and unwanted sliver of concern that shimmied down her spine.

  Moonlight spilled over the rear of the house, but the front remained cloaked in darkness. Stopping short at the bottom of the porch steps, Violet noticed for the first time how the windowpanes, huge squares of opaque blackness, stared back at her like faceless gargoyles, taunting her for her foolish fear.

  She should have left on a light.

  A stiff wind blew at Violet’s back, causing her hair to billow around her face. She yanked the flyaway strands into submission and climbed the stairs.

  The sound of a car engine broke the silence. Headlights turned on to her street. Violet’s neck tingled a warning.

  She jammed her key into the lock then glanced back as the car slowed. The driver’s face, hidden in shadow, stared in her direction.

  Violet turned the key, seeking the protection of her home. The door inched open, and she slipped into the dark interior.

  A floorboard creaked. She glanced toward the kitchen.

  A hooded, bulky form stood backlit in moonlight.

  Violet screamed.

  The man opened the back door and disappeared into the night.

  Heart pounding like a snare drum, Violet dug for the cell phone in her purse. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the cold metal. Before she tapped in 911, a rustl
ing sounded on the porch behind her.

  Warm breath fanned her neck and a hand touched her shoulder.

  Violet pivoted, ready to strike, and screamed once again.

  TWO

  “Violet, it’s Clay West.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide, limbs shaking.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She gasped for air. “A man. In my kitchen. He ran out the back door.”

  “Call the cops. Stay inside. Lock your doors.”

  Clay raced through the house and out the kitchen door. A dog barked.

  Searching the darkness, he saw movement in the distance and raced into the alleyway. A fleeing figure turned on to the main road.

  Clay ran to the corner. The guy climbed into a late-model SUV, dark paint job, parked along the side of the road and drove away. Clay stood for a long moment watching the vehicle disappear then, hurrying back to Violet’s house, he tapped on the kitchen door.

  “It’s Clay. Open up, Violet.”

  She inched the door open and peered out at him from the shadows. Eyes wary, face drawn. His heart went out to her. For all her bravado, she looked scared to death.

  “I called 911,” she said. “The police are on their way.” As if in response, a siren sounded in the distance.

  “Did you see the guy?” Clay stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

  “Not his face.”

  Clay glanced around the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place. Moving into the living room, he flipped on the overhead light.

  The home was an eclectic assortment of mix-and-match furnishings. Comfy and cozy. Bright colors, soft pillows and knock-off artwork blended into a warm and inviting atmosphere he instantly liked. A desk in the far corner held a laptop, table lamp, phone and an assortment of papers.

  Violet wrapped her arms around her waist. The color had drained from her pretty face. She raised a hand to her throat, her breath ragged.

  “What…what are you doing here?” she asked.

  As much as he wanted to reassure her, she needed the truth. “The FBI in Chicago feel you’re in danger. Special Agent-in-Charge Jackson McGraw asked me to pay you a visit. You’ve been digging into Mafia business, Violet. The mob silences anyone who comes too close.”

  Her brows rose. “This wasn’t the mob. A bad element’s moved into the city. This was local, Clay.”

  “And you came to that conclusion because—?”

  “Because the intruder fled. The mob would have killed me.”

  A visual flashed through Clay’s mind. He envisioned her bound and gagged with a gun to her head. Swallowing the bile that instantly filled his throat, Clay blinked twice, relieved to find a flesh-and-blood and very much unharmed Violet standing in front of him.

  “You can’t be sure it wasn’t the mob.” Clay noted her drawn drapes, needing to turn his focus back to security issues instead of the way his pulse quickened whenever he was near her. “Are all your windows and doors locked?”

  “Of course.” Then she hesitated. “Except in the laundry room.”

  Violet stepped into the hallway and opened the door to a small room containing a washer and dryer. “I keep the window open to let out the hot air from the dryer.”

  Just as she’d said, the window was open and the screen unattached. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll let the cops check it out. That might be the way the guy broke in.”

  The siren neared. Clay and Violet returned to the living area. He opened the door. A beefy cop, short hair, wearing a bulletproof vest and named O’Reilly shook his hand and then Violet’s.

  Clay explained he worked for Chicago P.D. and quickly detailed what had happened. After O’Reilly checked the house, he and Clay walked outside. Shining a flashlight around the laundry-room window and ground below, they found no evidence to prove or disprove the window was the point of entry.

  Following the cop’s suggestion, Violet did a quick search of her valuables. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

  The officer took Violet’s statement while Clay stood to the side, his attention focused on the pretty reporter. Everything he remembered about Violet had been true. She was fresh and young and beautiful and full of life and unaware of the effect she had on him.

  Two years ago, he’d picked her out in the crowd at the Chicago bar and grill and known immediately the low-rent dive wasn’t the place for her dimples and curls and curves and the angora sweater that had hugged her body and made him want to wrap her protectively in his arms.

  He still wanted to protect her. That’s why he’d been on the road for the last forty-eight hours on special assignment from the Chicago FBI.

  Pay Violet Kramer a personal visit so she gets the message to back off, Jackson McGraw had told him. Violet had made too many inquiries into the Chicago mob’s activities. Bottom line, according to Jackson, she needed to stop investigating the Martino crime family and allow law enforcement to do their jobs.

  Clay had tried to make that perfectly clear three nights ago when he’d received her unexpected phone call requesting information about the murdered women in Witness Protection.

  Somehow, Violet had pieced together bits of information about two seemingly random crimes in Montana and deduced the Mafia’s involvement.

  She had beeped a warning on the FBI’s radar, and if they knew about her inquiries, the Mafia did, as well. Wouldn’t take long for organized crime to put a strangle hold on Violet Kramer—literally.

  Clay’s job was to get to her first.

  Finished with his paperwork, Officer O’Reilly handed a business card to Violet. “Keep that laundry-room window locked, and if you remember anything else, give me a call. You heard cars driving up and down the street. Someone’s been casing the neighborhood, but the intruder never expected you to walk in on him tonight.”

  O’Reilly nodded to Clay. “Having you in pursuit probably scared him, as well. Doubtful he’ll hit this house again.”

  Violet and Clay thanked the officer and walked him to the door. Once he drove off in his patrol car, Clay checked his watch. He still had a job to do.

  “I know it’s late, Violet, but we need to go over some security measures you can take to protect yourself.” He pointed to the table lamps. “Leave a light on so you don’t come home from work to a dark house. Install dead bolts on your front and back doors. Lock all windows, even the one in the laundry room.”

  She nodded, her mouth pursed. “I won’t leave it open again.”

  He glanced at the phone on her desk. “Call home before you pull into the garage. If someone’s inside, the sound of the phone might encourage them to flee.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I can take care of myself, Clay.”

  He smiled at her flair of independence. “Seems to me you weren’t quite so confident about an hour ago when the guy was standing in your kitchen. Just as I mentioned earlier, it could have been the mob.”

  “Could have, but wasn’t. The officer agreed with me. It was local riffraff.”

  “In either case, don’t leave your notes on organized crime where someone can read them.” He pointed to the desk where her laptop sat, along with a stack of papers. The notes on top chronicled some of the Martino family’s most recent exploits, which he’d noticed when Violet was occupied with the cop.

  She dropped her hands to her hips. “You have no right to rifle through my papers.”

  Seems she was feeling a bit more confident now.

  Violet cocked her hip. “Don’t tell me you drove over twelve hundred miles just to give me a security briefing.”

  “I had a few days off and planned to take you out to dinner so we could discuss your security face-to-face.” He kept his voice calm. She had been through a lot this evening. He needed to cut her some slack.

  “You’re probably hungry,” Clay said. “We can discuss how you’re going to stop gathering information on the mob over Chinese or Mexican. Maybe Thai?”

  Anger flashed from her eyes. “You can’t tell me wh
at to do, Clay.”

  “For your own safety.”

  “The mob isn’t the problem right now. You are.” Her voice was razor sharp.

  “You’re upset,” he said. “Surely once you’ve eaten—”

  “Leave now or I’ll call Officer O’Reilly and tell him I have another problem.”

  “Violet, you’re acting irrational.”

  He should have weighed his words.

  She pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Clay.”

  Things had certainly taken a turn for the worse. As much as he regretted upsetting her, Violet needed to realize her own vulnerability.

  If a local punk could break and enter, the mob could, as well. Only they would have ensured she got the message to back off loud and clear, and their way of handling problems was usually fatal.

  Hopefully, once Violet had time to process everything that had happened, she’d realize Clay’s advice was sound. He had made his point. One she’d remember. Better to leave while he was ahead.

  “I’ll let myself out.” Clay headed for the kitchen door. The cold night air swirled around him when he stepped outside. A scrap of paper blew along the walkway. Clay bent to retrieve the note he hadn’t noticed earlier.

  He unfolded the paper and read the typed message. Back off!

  Had the man who’d broken into Violet’s house intended to leave the warning? Violet’s scream had frightened him, and the paper had probably fallen from his hand as he ran away.

  The Mafia didn’t usually warn its victims, yet someone in Missoula knew Violet’s curiosity was taking her in a dangerous direction.

  Was the mob using someone local to put the heat on Violet? If so, they wouldn’t let up until she was quieted once and for all.

  Clay glanced at her home. The light from her kitchen window spilled into the darkness. He wouldn’t disturb her again tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  His first duty was to convince Violet to stop digging around in Mafia business. The second was to learn where and how she got her information. The third was to ensure her safety. If the mob showed up in Missoula, he’d add a fourth bullet to the list.