Who, what, where, when, die (An Avery Shaw Mystery)

by Amanda M. Lee

  Who, What, Where, When, Die

  By Amanda M. Lee

  Text copyright © 2011 Amanda M. Lee

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Sneak Peek of If It Bleeds, it Leads

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  One

  I was shot at by a guy in lederhosen when I was a teenager. True story.

  My friends and I were playing basketball after dark in the high school parking lot -- a regular occurrence to cut down on the perpetual boredom that accompanies growing up in the world's smallest town -- when he arrived.

  At first, we didn't think much of him. Yeah, he was wearing lederhosen, but this was the backwoods of Michigan, not New York, and fashion isn't a big thing in Michigan so we just kind of accepted it. Big mistake.

  Our Michigan yodeler -- who was only wearing lederhosen mind you, no shirt, no shoes, no underwear (yeah, they were that short) -- was apparently also tanked and decided the only thing better than his buzz would be our basketball and a buzz.

  He circled us silently, while watching us as carefully as someone who couldn't walk a straight line possibly could. He was close enough for us to smell the intoxicating combination of Old Spice and Milwaukee's Best when it happened.

  He darted in, stole our ball as it rimmed off after an errant shot, and immediately sprinted away into the encompassing darkness.

  We all stood there for a minute in surprised silence when one of the guys with me suddenly yelled, "Get him!"

  So, in our infinite teenage wisdom, we all decided it was a great idea to chase an almost naked, grimy guy who smelled like the world's worst hangover and follow him off the court and into the foliage-laden darkness that surrounded the school.

  Now, as the only girl playing with the boys I wasn't quite as fast, so I was a few steps behind. I was momentarily scared out of my wits when a dark figure came running back from the direction everyone had just fled and barreled into me -- knocking me on my ass.

  "He's got a gun. Run!"

  Now, I'm not one for being bossed around by boys (or anyone for that matter), but I decided to swallow my women's lib and listen for a change when a loud shot rang out. Apparently, the hills weren't alive with the sound of music -- but gunfire.

  I didn't need any further encouragement. I ran. Not for my car -- which was out in the open and under a bright streetlight -- but for downtown and safety. I ran the three blocks to the police station and, much to my chagrin, the only cop on duty in our three-cop town was also the town's biggest jerk.

  "Let me get this straight," he said, while brushing down the porn mustache he'd been grooming since the 1970s and taking in our red-rimmed eyes and the faint smell of pot in the air that mingled with our fear. "You're saying a guy in lederhosen stole your basketball and shot at you?"

  I'm telling you, the guy was a loser.

  "Why would we make that up?"

  "Maybe you're just . . . confused," he countered, as he tried to lecherously look down my tank top. "That's what happens when you smoke pot, you know."

  Of course we knew. The funny thing was, so did he since he sold to half the town, but that probably wasn't the argument to make at the time.

  Luckily for us, no argument was necessary. It seems our lederhosen-clad drunk had decided to make a cameo downtown -- sans our basketball but with his shotgun.

  We all decided on the spot to chalk the basketball up as a loss we probably didn't want back given that lederhosen guy was doubly armed. He had his gun in one hand and his own personal pistol in the other and both were fully pumped, if you know what I mean.

  So it was no surprise that now, a full ten years later, I wasn't awed by the similar sight in front of me as a 300-pound bearded wonder danced in the second story window of an apartment complex with a hand gun in one hand and his own small pistol in the other. He too was naked and, um, double fisting it.

  Despite being safely entrenched behind police barricades, unfortunately my eyes were being assailed by the hairy beast -- and his little bald friend.

  I turned to the cop standing next to the barricade to lodge my complaint.

  "Can't you guys make him put on some shorts or something?"

  The cop gave me a dirty and pointed look. "Everyone needs to move across the street -- including media."

  I debated pushing the subject, but given my disdain of law enforcement, I merely shrugged and moved to the other side of the road, where I proceeded to plop down in the shade to watch the unfolding show.

  My name is Avery Shaw, and for the past five years I'd been working as a local news reporter for the Macomb Monitor in Michigan. I was fully aware that a barricaded gunman on a hot summer day had the potential to last hours -- until the cops either broke down the door and shot the guy with rubber bullets or he passed out from his own alcohol consumption. They very rarely ended with actual shots fired by the gunman.

  The Monitor is the county paper in Macomb, a northern suburb of Detroit, which boasts a large redneck community, and a nice view of Canada when looking across Lake St. Clair.

  I sighed, wishing I'd thought to bring a magazine to amuse myself with while I waited for the show to play out. I had only been sitting there for a few minutes when I noticed a car pull up to the curb next to me, and a distraught looking woman get out.

  I figured right away that this must be a family member -- his mother I guessed -- since I doubted that anyone would want to actually climb into bed with Grizzly Adams on a regular basis.

  I got to my feet and made my way over to the woman, pasting my best fake "you can trust me" smile on my face.

  "Ma'am, do you know him?" I asked, gesturing to the figure in the second story apartment that was now jamming to "Baby Got Back" while flopping around. Ugh, it was worse when he gyrated, if that was possible. It was like there were a thousand little bugs trying to jump out of his fat rolls.

  The woman, who looked to be in her late 60s, narrowed her eyes as she took in my denim Capris and "I did it all for the Wookie" tank top. "Who are you?"

  I introduced myself and handed her a card to prove who I was. She still looked dubious. "They let you dress like that for work?"

  I tucked my shoulder length blonde hair behind my ear and debated how to answer the question. Truth was, I wasn't supposed to be dressed like this but the editors at the paper pretty much let me do whatever I wanted to do rather than argue with me. I can get shrill when the situation demands it.

  I opted to ignore her statement, especially given that fashion advice from a woman wearing a pink Hawaiian muumuu wasn't on the top of my "to do" list for the day.

  "Does he do this often?" It seemed like a legitimate question and, when in doubt, it doesn’t hurt to distract the person you’re trying to squeeze information from.

  The woman shifted her eyes off me and took in her rotund son. Her expression didn't betray whatever was going on in her mind. For a second I found it ridiculous that she would dare veto my outfit when her own son couldn't even bother to put on his dirty tighty whities, but I decided to kee
p those thoughts to myself. I'm nothing if not professional.

  "He's just upset," she said. "Bart's not hurting anyone. He would never hurt anyone. He's the kindest man in the world." Except for the visual assault on my eyes. "He lost his job recently. He worked for the DPW. This is really the county's fault."

  Like most communities in Michigan, Macomb was suffering under severe financial deficits and had to make deep cuts in manpower in recent years. It was no surprise to me that someone would be upset about losing a cushy county job at the public works department. His way of coping seemed dubious to me, though.

  "I understand the drinking, but why does he have to do it naked . . . and with a gun?"

  His mother glared at me. "He's just upset. This isn't a big deal. The gun is registered and people are allowed to be naked in their own home."

  I thought about it a second. "So why didn't he just shut the curtains?"

  His mother sighed deeply -- one of those long suffering gestures that every mother seems hardwired with once they hit the age of forty -- and looked down at her shoes and then at mine. I doubted my blue toenails and cutesy flip-flops with little martinis all over them were doing much to prove to this lady that I was trustworthy.

  "Don't you have anything better to do than ruin my son's life? You reporters are like rats. You're no better than rats." Her hands were shaking around the handle of her too large paisley purse. For a second, I was worried she would try to hit me with it.

  "Well, I guess I'm in the right neighborhood," I responded, as I took in the rundown cul de sac in Eastpointe. Years ago, Eastpointe was better known as East Detroit, but in an effort to distance themselves from the city, they tried to rebrand themselves. Now they were known as a community that had a severe rat problem because there were so many abandoned houses. The rats in the local government were just as rampant.

  I'd actually meant it as an offhand comment but the naked rapper's mother didn't seem to see it that way.

  "You just see yourself so much better than us don't you little miss high and mighty," she spat. Then she dumped the cup of coffee she was carrying on my very cute little flip-flops.

  Now, I'll put up with a lot, but no one messes with my shoes. I've got a shoe fetish to match Carrie Bradshaw's on Sex and the City, only I like cute and practical shoes that I can actually wear in public and don't make me look like a streetwalker.

  Before I could respond to the old woman who'd ruined my shoes, I felt a strong presence move in to the rear of me and put an arm around my chest to restrain me back against a ridiculously solid chest.

  "Mrs. Harrison, I'm Sheriff Farrell," a gravelly voice said from behind me. "Won't you please move over to the barricades? There's an officer there that wants to set it up so you can try and talk to your son."

  The woman nodded curtly at the sheriff, flashing him a thankful look before shooting one more glare at me, and moved away. Looked like my world famous personal skills had hit another home run.

  "You just can't behave yourself, can you?"

  I removed the leanly muscled arm from around my neck, turned around and came face to face with Jake Farrell, the sheriff of Macomb County. He was also my high school boyfriend.

  "Jake," I said stiffly as I took in his dark black hair, which was pushed high on his forehead in a messy bird's nest. His lean features -- highlighted by ludicrously rich brown eyes that resembled a yummy chocolate bar -- regarded me with a mixture of amusement and anger. "She started it," I offered lamely.

  "Yeah, and I'm sure you had no hand in it whatsoever."

  I pursed my lips as I debated how to respond. Jake and I had a tortured past. In high school I thought I loved him -- of course I thought I loved Zima about that time too, so there's no accounting for taste. He was two years older than me and had a knack for showing me a good time -- including talking me out of my panties on a regular basis. We got in a lot of trouble with one another over our teen years, the highlight of which resulted in his arrest for urinating on a 9-foot fiberglass fish -- and the cop who tried to stop him -- in an adjacent town.

  His father, the county sheriff, didn't take our youthful enthusiasm the same way my parents did. I was merely grounded for two weeks, warned about the risks of talking to a cop without a lawyer present and lectured on the finer points of private urination. He was strongly encouraged to join the Army.

  We kept in touch a couple times a month for the next few years. After all, I still had two years of high school left and my popularity was now cemented thanks to the fish incident. However, once I went to college the letters dwindled, mostly on my side, and I was introduced to a whole smorgasbord of new men. I enjoyed the expansive buffet.

  Given the riffraff I spent my time with in college, sometimes I wondered if it was a mistake to lose touch with Jake. At times like this, though, I knew it was the best decision I'd ever made.

  After his military stint -- where I'd heard he'd excelled in elite operations -- Jake came home to be a cop about an hour south of where his father now served as sheriff. When his father died a few years ago, he became the youngest sheriff Macomb County ever had -- running on his father's name, which was well known across the state. For all intents and purposes, however, Jake was something of a rare thing in my book -- a good cop.

  I went on to be the bane of existence to cops -- good or bad -- a nosy reporter. While I knew, in my heart, Jake had good intentions and really wanted to do something to help the community, that didn't change my overall impression of cops in general. My philosophy, when dealing with law enforcement, is that they're all control freaks and egomaniacs. These are men that need to control everything around them -- and I don't like being controlled.

  "What are you doing here anyway?" I asked, opting to divert rather than engage in some petty bickering match that would result in me losing my temper and possibly being locked in the back of a police cruiser for the umpteenth time. "Isn't this a local issue? Why is the sheriff's department even here?"

  "They needed the SWAT team," he simply said.

  "That doesn't explain why you're here."

  "I'm here to make sure everything goes smoothly," he replied. Jake had a knack for looking through you, even while talking to you.

  I smirked in response. "I think you're here because you know that the television crews will show up for the noon report and you want your TV time."

  Jake just smiled benignly. "Are you insinuating I'm a media whore?"

  I harrumphed as his dimples came out to play. They were my weak point. "I think you like press -- whether it's good or bad."

  "I guess you're just my enabler then, huh?"

  "Well, on the record Sheriff Farrell, how long do you expect this to go on? Are you going to wait him out or go in guns blazing? You could try peeing on him. I hear that's a real crowd pleaser." Sometimes I speak before I think. It's a gift.

  Jake narrowed his eyes as he regarded me. I couldn't tell if he was amused or aggravated by my comment.

  "Well, Ms. Shaw, it's not the sheriff's department's job to inform the media of tactics. When the situation has resolved itself, we'll be more than happy to fax you a press release." Yep, he was aggravated.

  With those words, he brusquely turned from me and walked across the street to rejoin his uniform clad brethren.

  I guess I'd just been dismissed. At least I'd gotten off better than the trout.

  Two

  After waiting it out in the stifling heat for more than an hour, I gave up waiting for hairy Bart Harrison to come out and decided to return to the office. I wasn't sure if a suburban yeti existed, but I was starting to wonder. If it did, apparently, it danced to bad nineties rap music with a gun and a small wang. It also couldn't hold a beat.

  I'd already talked to neighbors, who gave the standard "he was a quiet guy. I never would have expected it." And, despite his attitude, I had Jake's cell phone number, which he always answered, whatever the time. He was the rare breed of an accessible politician -- something than was considered an urban myth
by most constituents.

  The Monitor is located in Mount Clemens, the county seat of Macomb. It's actually a nice location within spitting distance of the sometimes beautiful and sometimes polluted Clinton River, within driving distance of the courthouse and sheriff's department and within walking distance of good coffee.

  Now most people think that being a reporter is some glamorous job. They think it's all important people and important stories. If you've ever had to write boring millage stories while handling eight obits and three glorified rewrites of press releases you'd quickly realize it's not. Everything is relative.

  I parked at the building, which was conveniently located next to the closest thing Mount Clemens had to a ghetto -- an area that at one time had been open and beautiful but was now frequented by drug dealers and prostitutes. Ironically, years before, the building had been erected on a dumpsite. Nice huh?

  I entered the building, greeting the plump and pleasing secretary Rosa as I went and key fobbed my way through the security doors. The security wasn't really necessary, but I guess someone felt the need to pretend it was. It was implemented a couple of years before when some moron started flying the Iraqi flag right after the two towers fell and started writing all of us individual letters spouting on about the tyranny of the American government and how the media was responsible for all the deaths in Iraq. Personally, I didn't think the nut jobs trying to get into the building were any worse than the nut jobs that already worked there -- but that was just me.

  The building isn't overly large, but it is segregated. Classified advertising, retail advertising, editorial, photo, circulation and the back shop all had their own areas. Ironically, being in a gossipy business, we all remained pretty closed off from one another. I didn't know the names of more than half of the advertising staff -- and I liked it that way. The last thing I need to hear about is what their kid did last night and how their husbands hadn't satisfied them since the first Bush had been in office. If I wanted to know what kids did -- and what husbands didn't do -- I'd partake in both.