Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  I sat down at the table and listened as Chase told me his story. Much of it I already knew based on my research. What I didn’t know was how Chase’s life and Riley’s had intersected.

  Chase explained how he had gotten himself into trouble after he returned from Afghanistan. His reentry, he said, had been anything but smooth. A brain injury had required an operation and follow-up treatments. He married, hoping the woman might help him get his life back on track, and then went back to school. But things went south, and both the marriage and his attempt to finish school ended unsuccessfully.

  “I started drinking, and that’s when I got myself arrested. I was pulling out of a bar where Detective Riley and a bunch of buddies had been doing some after-hours partying. They saw me leave and pulled me over. Seems the cops can get away with things we civilians can’t, and unfortunately, I told him so.”

  “I’m sure that didn’t go over well,” I said.

  “No, it didn’t. In fact, I took a swing at him and ended up in jail. If it weren’t for the fact one of my college professors was a lawyer and also a former Army Ranger, I probably would have gone down for a DUI and assaulting a police officer. After that, I started to get my life together. I got my PI’s license, and a couple months ago, I started back to night school. The medical marijuana’s the only drug I allow myself. It helps with the headaches and concentration.”

  “So this thing between you and Riley, it’s personal?”

  “It was. He thought I had it in for him. I showed up on a case he’d been working a couple years back. Victim’s family hired me to do some digging around, and I found evidence Riley and his detectives had missed. Riley accused me of planting evidence, which was a joke. Far as our relationship went, I’d say it was pretty much downhill from there. He considered me a drunk, and I thought he was a lazy cop who didn’t give a damn anymore.”

  “Did Riley know you were investigating Bruno’s death, as well?”

  “I doubt you were the first person to tell him so, Carol. And I’m certain it didn’t have anything to do with his taking his own life. He made that decision a long time ago. The guy had a string of ex-wives, kids who wouldn’t talk him, alimony payments he couldn’t make, and he was being forced into retirement. The man wasn’t happy, Carol. It had nothing to do with you.”

  I looked up at the stars. From the sound of things, both Riley and Chase had a rough past.

  “But, I’m not here to talk about me. I needed you to see this.” Chase sat back and reached into his pocket, then handed me a small red ball. “It’s a clown’s rubber nose. And if I’m not wrong, it’s exactly like the one Bruno was wearing the day he was murdered.”

  “Where did you get this?” I stared down at the ball and rolled it around in my hand.

  “From the family of one of the vic’s whose death I’ve been investigating. I’m sure the cases are tied now that I have this.”

  “Tell me this isn’t connected to one of those bizarre deaths in the tabloids.”

  “If you’re referring to the story about the UFO sighting. Yes, it is. Aaron Morris. The man the tabloids reported was abducted by a UFO. And who the cops said died from a hit-and-run. But I don’t believe any of it, and neither does his family.”

  “And just what is it you think did happen to Mr. Morris?”

  “He was returning from a UFO Convention in Vegas. He’d left his car at LAX, and when he flew back, he disappeared. Vanished. The tabloids had a heyday with it. Started publishing stories that he’d been abducted by aliens. Type of stuff that made all the conventioneers happy. That was until his body showed up. The coroner said Morris’ clothes reeked of alcohol. It was as though he’d gone on a bender. Thing is, Morris didn’t drink. He was in AA. Family said he hadn’t touched alcohol in years. Yet when the cops found his car, they also found a half dozen little airline whiskey bottles open on the front seat. Detectives figured he took a wrong turn out of LAX, ended up in the Inglewood Oil Fields, then decided to go for a walk. Big mistake. Morris ended up getting himself hit by a car. The remote site where the cops found his body may explain why he wasn’t found for several days.”

  “That explains Morris, but not how you found the nose.”

  “After you mentioned seeing a red nose on Bruno, I began to wonder if maybe the nose might be some type of sign. I went back to the family. Looking for some kind of connection. I asked if they had gone through Morris’ personal effects and found anything out of the ordinary. At first, they weren’t certain what I meant. Morris’ briefcase was full of trinkets from the UFO show. But then they found the nose, along with his wallet, in a brown paper bag the coroner provided after he released the body.”

  “So, according to you, somebody, maybe Mustang Sally and her buddies, met Morris at the airport, got him liquored up, drove him out to the oil fields, and then, for reasons I can’t begin to understand, put a clown’s nose on his face and ran him over? And the police are covering it up?”

  I handed the red nose back to Chase. With everything Chase had just told me about his injury in Afghanistan, I wasn’t sure if maybe he was having trouble deciphering the truth. I wasn’t about to chase down a lot of rabbit holes.

  “What if I told you the lead detective on that case and the other case I’ve been investigating was Riley’s ex-partner?”

  I paused. There were a couple hundred LAPD detectives on the force, all of them juggling too many cases. The idea that Riley’s ex-partner had investigated a death Chase thought was related didn’t sound all that usual.

  “I’m sorry, Chase, but I’m going to need more than a rubber ball you could have bought in some toy store and a story about Riley’s ex-partner working a homicide case, you and you alone seem to think is related. For all I know you could have killed Bruno.”

  Chase exhaled and leaned forward with his elbows in his lap and dropped his head. For a moment, he appeared almost defeated. Then he looked up at me, his hands clasped and shaking like he was praying.

  “I’m not that man, Carol. Like I told you, I saw enough murder and mayhem in Afghanistan for a lifetime. I’m one of the lucky ones. I came home. I got better. And I vowed I’d make a difference. There’s enough pain in the world, I’m not about to be adding to it.”

  Maybe it was the moonlight, the soft tenor of Chase’s voice, his cologne, or the fact I hadn’t sat alone in the dark with a man in so long, but my mind started to wander. Misty would say it was the blending of our auras. Like a teenage girl, I caught myself daydreaming, then swept the thought from my mind and stood up.

  Chase grabbed my wrist and held it gently. “Carol, wait. You know Detective Riley was covering something up. Something he couldn’t live with any longer. And maybe you can walk away from this, but the families of these men can’t. They want answers. And right now, you’re the only one I know who can help me find them. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  How could I not think about it? With everything that had happened today—Riley’s suicide, Chase’s confession—and sitting here alone with him in the dark, what else could I think about? I shook my wrist loose from his hand and walked to the door. I wasn’t ready to give him an answer.

  “Goodnight, Chase.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Wednesday was a nightmare. It started with a yellow sticky note on my computer screen. I didn’t have to read it to know who it was from. Tyler had already called me twice on my cell and texted me as I was on the way in. My office phone had a flashing red light on it. No doubt another important message from Tyler.

  I dumped my things on my desk, grabbed the note, and headed down the hall to Tyler’s office. In my rush, I nearly bumped into an LAPD officer and a plainclothes detective in the hallway. I nodded as I passed. It was early for them to be at the station, but not unusual, particularly if there was a breaking story. Trouble was I hadn’t heard anything on the news, and the fact they appeared to have just left Tyler’s of
fice signaled trouble.

  Tyler was standing behind his desk when I came in the door.

  “Sit down.”

  I crunched the yellow sticky note in my hand and sat.

  “What’s wrong?” Tyler was pale. His red hair was spiked and chunky from running his fingers through it. “You look awful.”

  “We have a situation, and we need to get ahead of it.”

  I pointed my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the doorway. “This have anything to do with the LAPD cop and detective in the hallway?”

  Tyler raised his eyes to the ceiling, exhaled, then sat down. “Silva’s wife had an accident last night. I need you to include something in the next update before anyone else in town gets hold of the news and reports it.”

  Ben Silva, a.k.a. Saint Silva, was the station’s host for The Righteous Way. On his evenings, he engaged his audience in talk about everything from the Bible to politics and was never shy about including his own moral interpretation of things.

  “What kind of accident?” I asked. “Is she okay?”

  “She is, but he may not be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He called me last night, right before he went on air. Said his wife was driving him to work in his car about nine o’clock and he thinks she may have hit something.”

  “Like what?”

  “A girl on a bike. But he wasn’t sure.”

  “Not sure? Was there a girl? Is she okay?”

  “She’s dead. But that’s not the worst of it.” Tyler took out a roll of antacids from his desk and popped one in his mouth, chewing it as he spoke. “Ben said he panicked. He said he couldn’t see anything in the dark, and when he realized he’d be late for work, he told his wife to drive him home. He then took her car and drove himself to work.” Tyler took a swig from a water bottle on the desk.

  “He left the scene?”

  “Worse. He told his wife to go back to the scene and meet with the police by herself.”

  “And he never mentioned anything?”

  “Other than to me, no. Not a word. And when he didn’t call me back, I assumed it was nothing. Which is why the police were here. They arrested her, and she’s out on bail. But they wanted to know what I knew and when.”

  It was no wonder Tyler was stressed. The story sounded kind of fishy. But if Tyler knew Silva had been involved in an accident and didn’t report it, it wasn’t going to be good news for the station.

  “And where’s his wife now?” I asked.

  “Home. The police have spoken to her, but they were here because they’re not buying her story, and they wanted to talk to me. They think maybe Silva was driving, and she’s covering for him.”

  I had met Silva’s wife, Martha, a couple of times when I filled in during the week for one of the other staff reporters on the night shift. I didn’t know much about her. She was a small woman, dark hair, middle-aged, and the few times I’d seen her at the station she kept to herself. Usually sitting quietly in the corner of the studio while her husband did his show. I didn’t think I’d ever heard the woman utter much more than a hello, and I doubted she would do well in any kind of interrogation.

  “You think he’d do that? Get her to take the blame?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that we need to get something on the air and fast.”

  I bit my tongue. With both Silva’s reputation, and possibly Tyler’s, on the line, I knew better than to ask questions or risk a showdown.

  “Ben’s family. What happens to Ben reflects on the station. For the time being, we’re going with the story he’s told us. I need you to put together a report that mirrors exactly what Ben shared with me last night. Keep it simple. You know the drill. Martha Silva, wife of KNST personality Ben Silva, was involved in a tragic accident last night that resulted in the death of a young woman. Add the entire staff at KNST is deeply disturbed over the circumstances, and that we offer our condolences to the woman’s family and friends. Nothing more. Meanwhile, I’ll issue a statement to the staff. No one is to talk with anyone concerning the events of last night. If they do, it will result in their immediate dismissal. You got that?” Tyler turned his head back to his computer screen.

  “Yeah, I got it.” I nodded. I felt numb. I didn’t believe a word of what I had just heard, but I wasn’t about to say anything. Tyler had made it very clear what the company policy was going to be, and without any facts, there was no point in arguing. I started to get up.

  “Oh, and Carol, I’m afraid that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Unfortunately, this next story couldn’t come at a worse time, but it’s news, and we’re going to need to include it in the morning report.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That young college coed, the victim of the hit-and-run in Westwood two weeks ago.”

  “Caty Beardsley?” I remembered the name because she reminded me of Cate, my own college-aged daughter who was away at school. Caty had been hit by a car at night as she crossed the street on the way to class.

  Nobody remembered anything about the car or the driver. Witnesses said it seemed to come out of nowhere and disappear. The police suspected a drunk driver. A lot of good it did. Caty had been rushed to Cedar Sinai Hospital in critical condition and had spent the last couple of weeks in a coma. The accident had created a flurry of calls about unmarked crosswalks and the city’s need to do more to protect pedestrians.

  “She died this morning. You’re going to have to include the story with our own news about Ben. I’m not asking you to bury it, but in light of the circumstances, you might also include something about the City Council investigating the increasing number of hit-and-run accidents. How LA’s becoming one of the leading cities for the pedestrian accidents...something like that.”

  I felt like I’d just been hit in the gut. But this time, I did get up. I wanted to get out of the office before Tyler thought of anything else he wanted to add to the morning report.

  I made it as far as the door when he said, “Carol, one last thing. Your show Sunday night? I’m going to need a synopsis before you leave today. Plus, I want a dozen promos as well. They have to be on the air first thing tomorrow morning. Got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  Ordinarily, when I worked the morning show, Kit and Carson, our morning team, found a way to include me in their program. It was usually just a couple words, a casual remark about what I was wearing or if I looked like I hadn’t gotten enough sleep lately. There was little sanctity when it came to the on-air staff. Political correctness went out the door. They’d even been known to make remarks about my being a single woman of a certain age, which was usually followed by the sound effects of roaring cougar. Radio was not for the faint of heart. If I were thin-skinned, I would have a problem, but the banter made us all sound like family, and for whatever reason, it worked.

  The news about Martha Silva’s arrest and the accident was especially difficult. Not just because I knew Ben, but because I didn’t believe a word of it and suspected most of KNST’s news staff didn’t either. Many show hosts were egomaniacs, and Ben was no different. He enjoyed the limelight—thought he was always right—and seldom allowed anyone else to get a word in edgewise. I was certain he had bullied his wife into taking the rap, and Martha had rolled over and agreed to do whatever Silva told her. The woman didn’t strike me as much of a fighter.

  But after I delivered the news about Ben’s wife, there were no casual remarks between the morning team and myself. Instead, their producer cut me off and went straight to a station break. Not that Kit or Carson had anything to do with it. But Tyler’s strict warning that any mention of the accident, on air or otherwise, would result in the immediate termination of the employee had everybody on edge. And sensing I had falsely reported on the accident had me feeling like a Judas. I had betrayed my own sen
se of justice. Not to mention Martha, who I felt was the ultimate victim. I left the news booth feeling like the messenger everyone wanted to kill.

  My cell phone buzzed as I headed back to the office. I glanced down at the caller ID. Chase. I answered it, annoyed by the interruption. “What’s up?”

  “Well, good morning to you too, Sunshine.”

  “I’m not in the mood, Chase. This isn’t the time—”

  “Hey, I called to apologize. I know I surprised you last night. You didn’t expect to see me, and then there I was on your porch with Misty. Smoking a joint. I wanted you to know I appreciate your listening to me, and I respect your need to keep your personal life separate from your work. I get it. I just want you to know, it won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

  I sat down at my desk. I was still undecided about Chase, but after listening to his story last night, the least I could do was recognize his apology.

  “I appreciate your understanding,” I said.

  “And I’m sorry about what you went through yesterday. Riley wasn’t a well man, and it’s too bad you had to see that. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t.” I exhaled. The pressures of Riley’s suicide and Silva’s accident were straining my patience.

  “We’re good then?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  “’Cause I was thinking about your show again and I—”

  “Don’t push it, Chase.” In an instant, Chase’s apology went from sincere to opportunistic, and I found myself on the defense. “Look, I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time. I told you, I’ll let you know.”

  I hung up the phone. I knew Chase hoped his apology would lead into a longer conversation concerning my show and how we might work together. That wasn’t going to happen. Instead, I opened up a file on my computer marked Sunday Night Show and started working on a series of promos for Tyler sans anything Chase could possibly be involved in.