She looked at him sharply. “How the hell do you know about that?”
He shrugged, drank his whiskey. “I hear things. What, you think I don’t keep track of you? I probably know more about your life than you do. You know your station’s been talking to male news anchors?”
“What do you know about any of that?”
He smiled. “I know your ratings have been falling since your former coanchor retired. I know you prefer to keep the spotlight all to yourself. I know—”
“You just keep your nose out of my career, Harry. None of it has anything to do with you.”
He shook his head as if she were being ridiculous, then faced her squarely. “I need fifty thousand this time. Cash.”
Her throat tried to close, and she felt tears burn her eyes. Angry tears. Outraged tears. “You’re fucked, then, because I only brought twenty.” She yanked a fat wad of cash, bound in a rubber band, from the inside pocket of her coat, showed it to him.
“You’re fucked, then, ‘cause I can start the rag sheets’ bidding at seventy-five, and it’ll only go up from there. Come on, what happened to all that cash you stole from Mordecai?”
“It’s gone, Harry. I bought a house, a new identity, got an education. All I have now is what I earn at the station—”
“Which you’ll lose—if I share your secret with the world.”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
The look on his face told her that he would dare. God, she had to stop him. She held the cash out to him, silently pleading with him to take it and leave her alone. But he only looked at it as if it were something that smelled bad and then looked away. Julie stuffed the money back into her coat pocket and began to shake. She’d already paid him more than two hundred thousand dollars over the last six months. Her 401K was drained, and she’d had to sell stocks at a loss to get this additional twenty thousand for him.
“Well? Can you get another thirty or do I place a call to The Exposer?”
“I…don’t know. I…I don’t know how I can get another thirty. I don’t know.” She got up, paced back and forth. She was hot, sweating with it, so she peeled off her coat and hung it over a chair near the door. She needed to think, to clear her head. “I need to use the rest room,” she told him.
He shrugged. “It’s over there,” he said, nodding toward the door on the far side of the room. “Don’t be long. Time is money, babe.”
So she went into the bathroom….
“And when I came out, he was dead,” she whispered.
Blinking back to the present, she gave her head a firm shake. “The keys were on the coffee table. Dammit, why didn’t I see them when I was cleaning up?”
Because there were a dead man and a pool of blood in the room with you, some cynical voice inside her taunted. You may have been a little distracted.
“No. That’s not it. Maybe they got knocked off the table. Onto the floor. They must have. They were probably right there, on the floor, or maybe under the edge of a chair, or…” She shivered as her mind raced on. Maybe they were under that blood-soaked chair where she’d left Harry. Maybe they were on the blood-soaked carpet. “Oh God, oh Jesus.”
She had to go back.
The idea of walking back into that room sent her heart racing. Her knees felt weak, and she leaned on a support column to keep from falling over. This was idiotic. She didn’t hyperventilate, and she didn’t faint. It wasn’t in her to faint. But she felt goddamn close to it right now.
Just figure out what to do. Think, dammit!
Dawn. She could call Dawn. Have her bring the spare keys from the rack in the kitchen. She shouldn’t really be driving on her own. She only had her learner’s permit. But in an emergency…
Yeah, that’s the answer, Julie. Bring your daughter into this mess.
No. She couldn’t call Dawn. She didn’t want Dawn within a million miles of this nightmare. Dawn needed to be protected at all costs. Dawn was everything to her.
So think of something else, then.
But there was nothing else to think of. If the police found her keys in that room, that put her there. She had to go back. She wanted to argue with the calm, cool voice in her head. The news anchor voice. But she couldn’t. It was right.
She took a steadying breath, straightened her spine and took another. She’d been standing here, fighting panic and racking her brain, for twenty minutes. She could stand here all night, and it wouldn’t change the facts. She had to find a way to get back inside that room and get her keys before the police did. There wasn’t really a choice here. Turning, she walked firmly, steadily, to the elevator, stuffing the small garbage bag from Harry’s room into a large overfilled Dumpster on the way. Once again she used her coat sleeve to hit the elevator button.
The elevator went up, but not far. It stopped on the lobby level. The doors opened, and two men in police uniforms got on. “What floor did he say?” one was asking.
“Twelve. The manager who called it in is up there with the fellow who found him.”
Like a flash, Julie’s hand shot out to hit a button. Any button besides 12, because these two were cops, and they would damn well notice if 12 was the only button lit, and then they’d want to know why she was going there.
The doors slid closed, and one of the cops, a solid looking man with a face like a road map, hit the button marked 12, noticed it was already lit and glanced her way. The other one stood back. He was taller, leaner and younger. But if anything, he looked even meaner than his partner. Neither was familiar to her, and she considered that a lucky break. But the shorter one glanced at her briefly, then, with a frown, looked at her again.
The car stopped on the third floor, and the doors slid open. She left the elevator as if her feet were on fire, acting as if she were looking for her room key as she did.
When the doors closed again, she stopped, braced her hand on a wall and tried to stop shaking. The police were here already. Now what the hell was she going to do?
A door opened somewhere further down the hall, so she moved in the opposite direction, spotted the stair door ahead of her and headed toward it as if it were a haven.
It was cool and dark in the stairwell. Every breath echoed. But at least she was alone. She could think. She had to get back into that room before the cops found her keys. But how?
* * *
Sean MacKenzie didn’t like looking at dead people. You never really got used to it, he supposed. According to his police scanner, there was one waiting for him at the Armory Square Hotel. He’d been up. Lately, sleep was not an option. And trying to sleep when he couldn’t was sheer hell. So he spent a lot of time cruising the city, scanner on, looking for stories.
He had no idea how much it had paid off until he stood outside the door to room 1207, staring in at the body in the chair. His throat was slashed, and there was blood everywhere, and it was goddamn creepy the way the eyes stayed open and seemed to stare right at him. And then he recognized the stiff, and his heart skipped a beat.
“Jesus Christ, isn’t that Harry Blackwood?” he whispered to himself.
“My God, I think it is.”
He damn near jumped right out of his skin when that answering whisper came from so close beside him. He jerked his gaze to the side and saw his nemesis standing right beside him. Julie Jones.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Getting a story, just like you,” she told him.
“You don’t get stories. You read them.”
The two police officers had moved from the main room into the bathroom, checking it out. Other cops, homicide detectives, would be arriving any second to help secure the crime scene, and the two journalists would be tossed out on their asses.
“Have they found anything?” she asked him.
“You think I’d tell you if they had?”
She shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to scoop me on the hard facts, MacKenzie. We both know you make them up as you go along.”
“
At least I got my job based on my talent and not on my cleavage.”
She shot him a hate-filled glance. He mirrored it back at her. Then he yanked his camera out of the case that hung from his shoulder and snapped several photos of the dead man. The camera was the quietest one he owned, and he didn’t use the flash. It was a tacky and cheap thing to do, and he would probably be barred from selling the photos, Harry being who he had been, black sheep of a political family that rivaled royalty in New York State. But the photos would be worth some nice cash if he could get away with it.
She said, “You’re a ghoul, MacKenzie.” Then she shouldered him aside. “I’m going in there.” And she walked right into the room.
He reached out to grab her arm, to stop her, but his reaction wasn’t fast enough. She walked right into the crime scene. Granted, there was no yellow tape across the door just yet, but she still knew better. What the hell was she thinking?
She stood near the glass-topped coffee table, her back to him, a notebook in her hand, scribbling rapidly. Only it was odd, because she wasn’t really looking at the notepad as she wrote on it. She was scanning the room, craning her neck, looking at the floor, peering underneath the table. Sean didn’t see all that much of interest besides the body. What was she looking for?
The two cops came from the bathroom, one of them carrying a small zippered plastic evidence bag in his hand. Mac shoved the camera back into the case and backed off just a little, out of the line of fire, but still close enough to see. He was going to relish watching Julie Jones get her ass toasted for this temporary bout of idiocy or whatever had made her walk into that room. He didn’t really think she’d been sitting at the anchor desk long enough to have forgotten the procedure for crime scene reporting. The press did not trample crime scenes. Even he knew that much.
The cops froze in their tracks at the sight of her.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing in here? This is a crime scene!”
She jerked her head up sharply, and Sean saw the moment the cop recognized her. The most famous news anchor in Central NY. “I’m reporting. That’s what I do,” she said. She tucked the pencil behind her ear and started to open the little handbag she carried. “I have ID, if you—”
“Get your fucking ass out of here before I haul you in on an unlawful entry charge!”
It must have startled her, because she dropped the bag. Several items spilled out of it when it hit the floor.
“Jesus, you’re contaminating the hell out of my crime scene,” the second cop said, pushing past the first one toward her. He dropped to his knees on the floor, scooping up her items and shoving them back into her bag, then rising and pushing it into her hands even while shoving her bodily out the door. “You saw her drop that shit, didn’t you, Klein?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. There was nothing on the floor when we came in. It’s fine, just get her the fuck out before we end up explaining to the lieutenant how she got by us, all right? Jax will have us doing paperwork for a freaking month if she hears about this.”
Julie was pawing through the open bag as the cop shoved her out into the hallway. He caught sight of Sean. “You with her?”
“I’m just waiting for a statement.” Sean held up both hands, backing off.
“Stay out here.” The cop glanced at the camera bag. “And no photos.”
“Yes, sir.”
Julie was still digging through the purse. “Hey, hey, wait a minute. Where are my keys?”
Both cops turned. They did not look amused. Probably had visions of that paperwork mountain and an unpleasant session with their superiors dancing in their heads, Sean thought. He knew Lieutenant Jackson, and they were right. She would have them buried in paperwork for this.
Jones went through the items in the purse, taking them out one by one. A cell phone, a pack of gum, a business card case, an earring. “I can’t find my keys,” she said again.
“Jesus, lady, are you saying you lost ‘em in here?”
She searched all of her pockets. Made a big production about it, Sean thought. “I had them. And now I don’t. That’s all I know.”
One cop closed his eyes, sighing and shaking his head.
The other one was talking fast. “What do they look like?”
“The key ring is silver, in the shape of my initials. J. J. It’s got several keys on it. House, office, garage, file cabinet, my car, my daughter’s Jeep.”
As she kept talking, the other cop got back on the floor, looking underneath the chairs, shaking his head in disgust when he found nothing.
The other one said, “Look, if we find your keys, we’ll get ‘em to you, okay? That’s the best we can do for you, lady, and lemme tell you right now, if you breathe a word to anyone about this, I’ll see to it you never get any kind of cooperation from our department again. No tips, no exclusives, no press releases, and we’ll keep you so far away from crime scenes from now on that you’ll have watch someone else’s news show to get the details.” He glanced at Sean. “That goes for both of you. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I do,” Julie said quickly. “Thank you, Officer. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry.” She yanked the card case from her purse again, took out a card and handed it to him. “When you find the keys, just call me, all right?”
He muttered something unintelligible.
The other cop came forward. “Look, go wait in the lobby. Homicide and Forensics are on the way. I want you two out of here.”
“Can’t we at least get a statement?” Sean asked. And he couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t asked it first. Was she that rusty when it came to actual reporting? The elevator pinged and opened, and several plainclothes cops got out, including the one Sean thought of as the sexiest cop on the force—and maybe also the scariest—blond-haired, blue-eyed Lieutenant Cassandra Jackson.
“You want a statement?” she asked, honing in on the conversation as she strode toward the room. “Here’s your statement. ‘An unidentified man was found dead in the Armory Hotel. Police suspect foul play and an investigation is underway.’”
Sean had started to write, then lifted his head. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Oh, come on, Jax. It’s Senator Blackwood’s lowlife brother, and his throat’s been cut!”
“That’s Lieutenant Jackson to you.” She took his camera bag from his hand, took out the camera and easily popped open the back. A second later his film was hanging from her hands like crepe paper. She stuffed it into the deep pockets of her olive drab trench coat. “Cause of death will be determined at the autopsy. The identity is unofficial until next of kin are notified and come in to verify it.”
“We won’t release his name until we get the okay,” Julie Jones offered. “Just so long as you give us the okay before you tell anyone else.”
“Uh—both of us, that is. Not just her,” Sean put in, sensing that Jones was trying to scoop him, as usual. He had to admit, though, he was a little relieved that she was finally acting like the professional he reluctantly knew her to be. He tugged a card from a pocket. “My beeper number is on that.”
Jax took it and nodded. “As if I don’t have ten of these?”
“Yeah, but you never call.” He gave her his most charming smile.
She returned a wink. “I’m way more than you could handle, MacKenzie.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine, you two get the scoop. But only if you get out of here right now and let my people do their job.”
“Deal.” Sean turned to head to the elevator, surprised when the normally aggressive Julie Jones turned around and followed him. Something was up with her. He wanted to know what.
He got into the elevator; she got in beside him. The doors slid closed. She sighed audibly, and he swore her body sagged.
“Do you have another set of keys?” he asked.
“Not on me.”
“So then…you need a ride home?”
“I can get a cab.”
He shrugged. “I could drive you.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Why?”
“Why not?”
Frowning as if she trusted him about as far as she could throw him—a sentiment he understood well, since he felt the same way about her—she finally shrugged. “What the hell. Okay, fine. Drive me home.”
CHAPTER TWO
Sean walked Julie Jones out of the hotel to his Porsche Carerra GT, which he figured would have impressed the socks off most women. With her, though, he wasn’t expecting a hell of a lot.
She looked at the shiny black car, then at him. “Midlife crisis?”
Ignoring her, he depressed the button on his electronic key ring. The door locks popped open, the headlights came on, and the engine started. He opened her door for her.
“Am I supposed to take off my shoes or just sprinkle myself with holy water first?”
“Just get in, would you?”
She did. He closed the door and went around to his side. She was making with the sarcasm, yes, but not in her usual way. It was almost automatic. Almost as if she were speaking with her mouth while her mind was somewhere else. The zings were hardly worthy of her and nowhere near up to her usual standards. She’d been zinging him for so long, she could probably do it in a coma.
He shifted into gear and pulled the car away from the curb. “So what was with the little crime-scene-trampling demonstration back there?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What, do you think I’m as gullible as those cops are? I know you, Jones. You’re a pro. You knew better than to walk in there like that.”
Her eyes were huge and dark, and she blinked them now, using them to their full potential as proof of innocence. “I was just so stunned at seeing a New York State Senator’s brother like that.”
“Bullshit.” He shifted, told himself to keep his eyes on the road. It wasn’t easy, because she was wearing a skirt, and her legs were a longtime weakness of his. She had this skin…It was the first thing he’d noticed about her. Her skin. Smooth, almost luminous, bronze satin. The color didn’t fade, even in the winter months. He had often wondered about her ethnic background, but how did you ask someone a question like that in the age of political correctness?
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