Kill and Tell

by James Patterson

  “And I get no say in that?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s part of the game, the price you pay. Look, I was going to tell you all about Valentina. I found out plenty—mostly that she’s just as manipulative and loco as Tennet always said. But I wanted to have a nice evening with you before getting into all that. That’s why I canceled on her.”

  I didn’t know what to do or say. Why did I always end up feeling like a little girl around Logan? Everywhere else in my adult life I was doing fine, more than fine. But with him I seemed to regress ten years.

  “Since Breelyn Doyle is the key to this whole situation,” Logan said, “it makes sense that the only way to get to her is through Valentina. So our goal should be for you to interview one or, better yet, both of them.”

  “Are you crazy?” I cried. “Why would she ever agree to that? She’s probably out there revving her car up to run me down again!”

  “Leave it to me.”

  I gave him a long, lingering look. It was not a romantic one. “I’ve never met anyone so sure of themselves. You always get exactly what you want, don’t you?” I said, shaking my head. “Well, here’s the deal: I’ll help you with this story, Logan. Because it could help me, too. But you won’t get my trust. Not ever. That’s the price you pay.”

  Chapter 19

  Eric Logan

  Valentina had a wicked glint in her eye. It looked like she was trying to figure out a way to “accidentally” slip and knock the woman next to her off her StairMaster—right into the rack of weights behind them. If the fall didn’t break her neck, the massive dumbbells might easily open her skull.

  She and the woman—Ashton Reilly—were both breathing heavily through their workouts, but Ashton was grinning while Valentina was scowling. That’s because Ashton was looking up at the cardio room’s TV monitor. There she was, happily chatting away on a midday talk show. She had the female lead—supportive wife of one of the older action heroes—in a new blockbuster that had just opened. The two women were almost exactly the same age, but the difference in the state of their careers must have been brutal for Valentina.

  I watched them from the back of the room until Valentina got off the machine and gave Ashton a phony kiss-and-wave good-bye. I stepped right in front her as she was wiping the sweat off her face.

  “That should be you up there,” I said with a nod toward the screen.

  “Thanks. Your career advice means a lot,” she sneered. “Considering how well you handled my husband’s affairs. Not to mention your own.”

  She tried to brush by me but I grabbed her.

  “Don’t be such a drama queen,” I said with an equal sneer. Something told me groveling was not the way to get to her. “Yes, I’ve been out a few times with Kayla Ross. But I took her to dinner last night specifically to convince her to do an interview with you.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “That’s because you’re used to idiots advising you,” I said.

  She was open-mouthed in shock. She wasn’t accustomed to being talked to bluntly.

  “Your agent is a lightweight and your publicist must be in a coma,” I went on. “Your visibility should be through the roof right now, what with all that’s gone on. But here you are, working out six times a week because you don’t have anything else to do. When’s the last time you had an audition or even took a meeting?”

  It stung. I didn’t know if she was going to lash out or burst into tears. I didn’t give her time to decide.

  “Kayla Ross is just about the hottest news anchor right now,” I said, forcefully taking her over to an empty lounge area. “And she found Tennet’s body! If she interviewed you as the grieving but still angry and confused widow, it would be ratings gold. You’d have offers coming in before the first commercial break.”

  She narrowed her eyes and looked intently at me. “And what would be in it for you?”

  “I don’t plan to work for Paige & Schuster forever. I want my own firm. But I need a star client.”

  She didn’t agree then and there, but I could tell I had her. I walked her to the women’s locker room and promised to rebook the dinner date I had canceled.

  While I was getting dressed in the men’s locker room, I saw a buffed-out, familiar-looking guy saunter in: Gregg Doyle. I was surprised, to say the least. I wondered how he could afford to go to Equinox—the most exclusive gym in town—when according to his ex-wife he hadn’t had a photography gig in over a year. Apparently, he’d barely been getting by with the occasional construction job.

  I turned away so he wouldn’t see me. I dawdled dressing to watch him. Something shady was going on with this guy—and I had a gut feeling it involved Tennet.

  As Doyle started getting undressed, he began loudly yammering with one of those retired guys who seem to spend all their time hanging around the gym just talking, never working out. Then I heard Doyle say he had to take a piss. His pal walked with him as far as the bathroom, then headed out. I glanced over at Doyle’s locker. The door was open and his bag was sitting on the bench in front of it.

  I didn’t hesitate to move. There were only two other guys nearby and neither were facing Doyle’s locker. I picked up the bag and hurriedly shifted it around to see what was in it. Dirty tennis shoes and a bag of chalk powder for his power lifts.

  And, of course, his gun.

  I was just putting it back down when something else slid to the side: a cell phone. Jackpot. I grabbed it and turned to race back to my locker—and almost ran right into Doyle.

  Luckily, the doofus was messing around with his laces and looking down. I put his cell to my ear like I was listening to voice mail and turned my face away. He passed me without looking up.

  I dressed slowly to make it look like I had all the time in the world, but I knew I needed to get out ASAP. Doyle probably wouldn’t miss his phone till after his workout, so I had an hour, maybe two before he reported it. There’s no better window into someone’s life than a cell phone. And I had just the connection to open this sucker up.

  Chapter 20

  Eric Logan

  Looking up from her computer, Romy raised her triple-pierced eyebrow almost to the edge of her sky-blue dyed hair. She’d definitely gone through some changes since our brief but intense college fling.

  “You get that this is a criminal offense, right?” she warned. “We could both do time.”

  I chewed a thumbnail for a beat. I’d already committed theft; how much worse was it to read a few e-mails?

  “Got it. But I think this guy might have had something to do with the death of someone I knew.”

  “That’s what the police are for, bro.”

  I gave her my own raised eyebrow. Romy hadn’t gone from smiley Delta Gamma sorority girl to punked-out underground computer hacker without racking up a few black marks along the way. I’d helped her out of a jam or two—and not always by strictly legal means.

  “All right, all right,” she sighed. “I just want to be clear about what we’re doing. And by the way, this wipes out all my debts, Eric.”

  “Check. But I’m always here for ya, babe. For anything,” I said with a meaningful wink. Romy had been known to give me a booty call every once in a while after a night of partying, though she always seemed to hate both herself and me the next morning.

  With a roll of her eyes, she turned and went to work. She plugged Doyle’s phone into her computer and started doing the magic. She leapt right over the password barrier; it wasn’t even a challenge. Meanwhile, I texted Valentina a time and place for our dinner that night. And I left Kayla a message telling her that I was close to sealing the deal on the interview.

  “Damn, that’s weird.”

  I looked over at Romy, who was frowning. “What’s up?”

  “His e-mail is scrubbed clean. Just a few random ones about construction gigs. And all his texts beyond the last few weeks have been deleted. Every single one.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.


  “Covering his tracks. Looks like he’s got something to hide,” she said with a shrug.

  “Shit, I can’t believe that Neanderthal had brains enough to do that!” I said bitterly, though if nothing else, this did confirm my suspicions that Doyle was shady. “Well, thanks anyway for trying, Ro.”

  She gave me a thoughtful look, then threw up her hands. “I know I should just walk away from this but…I might be able to recover them.”

  “How, if they’ve been deleted?”

  She gave a wry shake of her head.

  “Yeah, everyone thinks they ‘destroy the evidence’ just by deleting. But it doesn’t always work that way. Especially when people use work-related computers and phones—those things are all hooked up to a main server. They’re almost always traceable. Personal phones are a little trickier…unless, of course, you’re lucky enough to have someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  I gave the top of her head a big loud smacking kiss. She pushed me away and started in again on Doyle’s phone. It took a while, but she eventually uncovered a few heavily coded text chains. Looking over her shoulder I almost leapt at her screen when I saw a conversation between Doyle and Valentina.

  “Those! Open ’em up!” I shouted.

  “Dude, chill out.” She elbowed me out of her way.

  Doyle’s messages were usually limited to just a few predictably misspelled words. Valentina’s were longer and alternated between suggestive teases and bullying commands. A few of hers stood out as though they were in a blood-red bolded font.

  “U say u still love me. Prove it.”

  “He molested our daughter. Don’t u care?!!”

  “guess I’m lucky hes at least a better lover”

  “Man up. Is that gun just a prop???”

  “Do it. Tonight. Or we’re done”

  Romy looked up at me. “Holy shit…”

  Yeah. I didn’t know exactly what I had been hoping to find, but this was beyond anything I could have dreamt up.

  Because, as if Valentina’s sentences themselves weren’t incriminating enough, every single one ended with the same order, over and over:

  “Delete this!”

  Chapter 21

  Kayla Ross

  Raising her jaw to imply steely determination, Valentina turned directly toward the camera. “I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Strangle him. Tear him apart. Only one thing stopped me.”

  I let the moment sink in. She hadn’t needed much prompting so far, so I let her take her time.

  “He was halfway around the world. Otherwise, I’d probably be in jail for manslaughter right now,” she said proudly. “And I wouldn’t have regretted it for a moment.”

  I caught sight of Eddie. He gave me two enthusiastic thumbs-up, then a “cut to commercial” signal. I turned to the camera and asked viewers to stay tuned for more of our exclusive interview with Valentina Doyle.

  Eddie rushed over. “We’re smokin’, ladies. Kayla, you’re doin’ great, maybe just lean in a little more. And maybe take her hand at some point during the next segment, huh? You doin’ okay there, Miss Doyle?”

  Valentina was getting her makeup refreshed but gave Eddie a cool nod. I took a huge gulp of water from the bottle hidden behind my chair. My heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since we’d gone on-air. Eddie and the network brass had decided a live interview would guarantee an explosion of tweets during the broadcast—which meant big ratings when they aired it again and again throughout the week. Considering how much pressure live interviews involved, I’d been surprised Valentina had agreed. But Logan had sold her on it, somehow. No surprise there.

  Back on the air, I took a deep breath…and took charge.

  “Now, Valentina,” I said, furrowing my brow just a little, “before his death, your husband stated in a number of interviews that you often exhibit erratic behavior. Mood swings, screaming, making scenes. At home and at times in public, such as…in restaurants.”

  I had to do it. I had to let her know that she wasn’t running this show. Her eyes widened at me ever so slightly—she was on her guard now.

  “Every marriage has times of strain,” she said carefully. “Especially when the marriage involves creative people. But Wayne was the one with the temper issues—as you and everyone else are well aware.”

  “Yes, but the allegations against your husband basically came down to ‘he said, she said’ charges and—”

  “Are you questioning my daughter’s integrity?” she demanded, back up.

  “No, but you—”

  “So you’re questioning my integrity?”

  She was angry now and had that same going-in-for-the-kill look that I’d seen outside of Breelyn’s school and at the restaurant. I knew this was my moment.

  “My job is to ask difficult questions, Miss Doyle,” I said, amazed at how calmly I could confront her. “Mr. Tennet can no longer defend himself. And in light of his death, some of your actions are troubling.”

  “Such as?” she seethed.

  “Your ongoing relationship with your ex-husband, Gregg Doyle, for one.”

  She seemed completely taken aback.

  “I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she said in an icy voice. “The few times I see Gregg are when he picks up Breelyn for—”

  “So, you don’t converse with him regularly, almost daily, through e-mails and texts?”

  She looked around the studio, then over at Eddie. “What is this? Am I being interviewed or prosecuted?”

  I gave Eddie a nod. He in turn gave the signal to the broadcast crew to post images on the giant screen behind where Valentina and I were seated.

  “Do you recognize these as texts you sent to Gregg Doyle?”

  She whipped around to look at the screen behind us. The text messages scrolled up like the credits after a film:

  “U say u still love me. Prove it.”

  “He molested our daughter. Don’t u care?!!”

  “Do it. Tonight. Or we’re done.”

  A range of emotions flew across her face—shock, outrage, fury. She then turned back around to face me. I’ve never seen such an intense look of hatred. She silently stared at me for so long I was about to cut to commercial, when she squared her shoulders and spoke.

  “This is libel, invasion of privacy, and, apparently, theft,” she said, using every ounce of self-control she had. “Since you and this station are so intent upon scoring big ratings, maybe you can televise the trial that will result from the lawsuit I will be filing.”

  With great poise, she unhooked her microphone and dropped it as if it were a dead bug. She then stood up and strode across the studio. All heads turned to follow her. She definitely knew how to make an exit. I gave a kind of desperate “We’ll be right back!” as Eddie cut to commercial.

  He ran over and gave me a spontaneous hug. “HOLLA! That was fantastic, Kay-Kay!”

  “Enough with the ‘Kay-Kay!’” I said, happy if a little shaken. “How serious do you think that threat was?”

  “Oh, man, we can only hope she follows through.” He made a silent prayer. “That’d keep this story alive all through next sweeps. Don’t worry—the lawyers okayed showing the texts. It’s legal, mostly. The e-mail came in through our general info tip line, so as long as we can honestly say we don’t know how the texts were captured…”

  That did not make me feel better about using the texts. It seemed so wrong to reveal someone’s personal messaging, even if they did suggest a possible crime.

  “The messages don’t really prove anything, though,” I said. “Just that Valentina hated her current husband and liked provoking her ex. If I could only get an interview with Breelyn, I’d feel like I had a handle on this whole thing. But that’s never going to happen now—her mother won’t let me get within a mile of her.”

  Eddie stroked his massive goatee and gave me a devilish grin.

  “Never say never, darlin’,” he said. “Guess who’s waitin’ in your office.”

  Chapter 2
2

  Eric Logan

  Romy smacked me across the face, hard.

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to literally broadcast my phone hack!” she said with another half-playful whack across the face.

  I frowned up at her. After the bout we’d just had, I was surprised she still had so much energy in her—or that she’d waited so long to bring up the texts appearing on television.

  “You didn’t ask,” I said as I rolled out from under her. I was annoyed. Not with her exactly, but something about this hookup wasn’t really working for me. I kept finding myself thinking about Kayla—and what she’d said.

  “Dude, you are the least trustworthy person I’ve ever met,” Romy said, as if reading my mind. “Why any woman would get involved with you is—”

  “Oh, shit!” I cried out. “What time is it?”

  I reached across the bed for my remote and fumbled with it until I hit the right channel. Kayla’s highly promoted “explosive” interview with Breelyn had already begun.

  “—but my mother didn’t know anything about it,” Breelyn was saying haltingly onscreen. “It’s not her fault…I was just so afraid to say anything.”

  “Who’s that?” Romy asked.

  “Quiet!” I barked. “This is important.”

  The camera cut to Kayla’s concerned face. I immediately realized that in her short time working on-air she had already taken on a more mature, thoughtful manner. She looked like a true professional. The camera cut back to an extreme close-up of Breelyn.

  “And then…after what happened…after my stepfather…died,” Breelyn continued. “That they say he killed himself because…because of this. I can’t believe it…I wish I hadn’t said anything. Ever. I feel like it’s my fault, my fault that he’s dead.”

  Breelyn was obviously having a difficult time keeping composed. Her hair was pulled back and she was dressed in a simple white sweater. She couldn’t have looked more beautiful—the camera loved her.