by Irene Hannon
But maybe he wouldn’t dig.
Maybe the story would just go away.
When the reporter finished, she leaned forward and closed the window.
“I didn’t know about the other two people.” Robert rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, linked his fingers, and locked gazes with her.
“I didn’t either, until the police visited yesterday. It’s very sad—and such a strange coincidence.”
“Yes. A very strange coincidence.” For the first time, a flicker of doubt clouded his eyes.
Her stomach knotted.
Play this smart, Jessica. You know his biggest concern is the reputation of the company. Acknowledge that—apologize—and alleviate it.
“I realize this isn’t the kind of press we like to generate—for ourselves or our clients.” She chose each word with care. “I’m very sorry such an old incident is causing problems. But you know how news stories are, especially ones that are more sensational than substantive—they die out very fast. This will be old news in a day or two.”
“I hope so. You know as well as I do that the majority of our clients would find this sort of thing off-putting. Any hint of scandal could send them running to a competitor. Plus, with us wooing Brendan Blake Ministries, the timing couldn’t be worse.”
Stay calm. Stay cool.
“They’re based in Nashville, though.” She kept her tone serious but reassuring. “I doubt local news like this will travel far. And since many of our larger clients are in other parts of the country, I don’t anticipate any problems. I got the impression yesterday from the police that they’re at an impasse and about ready to reclassify this as a cold case, so the story should fade very fast.”
“Perhaps . . . but the reporter inferred they’re still looking into the other two deaths.”
Yes, he had—unfortunately.
“I suppose they have to, given the timing and the connection to the original case.” Build your argument with logic and reason, Jessica. “I assume they want to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. But from what they said yesterday, both deaths appeared accidental.”
Wait.
Had the police chief or detective actually said that?
Maybe not.
Making that assumption was what had gotten her into trouble with them for a moment, in fact.
But it was true nonetheless—to the eyes of the world, anyway. She’d been careful. The only glitch had been that piece of label, thanks to Joe’s stupid dog. If they’d found a fingerprint, however, they’d have been back to visit her by now.
She was safe.
“Well . . . let’s hope that’s true. I had to do some hand-holding with Frank Nelson yesterday after we spotted the police in here. I don’t want to have to do that again.”
“Of course not. Averting problems is always better than damage control—although we’re certainly experts at that.” She gave him a smile.
He didn’t return it.
“I’ll see you in the Campbell meeting tomorrow morning.”
With that, he stood and walked out.
In her peripheral vision, Jessica caught Cathy watching her. She swiveled back to her computer, away from prying eyes in this glass house of an office, and pretended to work on her presentation for tomorrow’s meeting.
But while her fingers moved over the keys, her mind was fixed on personal matters.
Through the years, no matter what, Robert had always been solidly in her corner, deferring to her judgment over that of the other senior executives more times than she could count. She’d proven her worth to the company, and he’d rewarded that with steady advancement and trust.
Today was the first time she’d ever sensed a blip in his support.
Nevertheless, his doubt was manageable at this stage, assuming the scenario played out as she’d suggested and everything died down in a day or two.
If it didn’t . . .
A quiver ran through her fingers and they slipped on the keys, throwing off her typing.
That, too, was a first.
She was always cool and clear-thinking under pressure. Always in control.
That, however, was the problem with this situation. Now that the press was involved, her control was slipping. Who knew what tangent that reporter might go off on next, what other sorts of insinuations he might make? Those media types were always hungry, always trying to sensationalize stories that were—
Her phone rang, and she jerked toward it. The name on the digital readout was unfamiliar; Cathy could answer it.
She yanked a tissue from her desk drawer and dabbed at her forehead. Was the air-conditioning working in here? The temperature seemed to—
A knock sounded at her door. She looked over to find her secretary hovering on the threshold.
“Sorry to interrupt . . . but this is a reporter from the Post-Dispatch. She says it’s urgent. When I asked if I could take a message, she said it was personal.”
Jessica wadded the tissue into a tight ball in her fingers.
The vultures were descending.
“Tell her I’m tied up.” No way was she talking to a reporter about Alena or Erika or Joe. That’s what this had to be about. She’d sent no news releases to the Post recently on behalf of any clients.
As Cathy retreated to pass on the message, she watched the display on her phone. A few moments later, the name disappeared.
But she had a feeling this whole mess wasn’t going to disappear as quickly. Not if the print media was taking an interest too.
And if the story lingered, Robert’s trust level could crumble further. In light of his imminent retirement, the timing stunk. Someone else could worm his way into the man’s favor.
Like that tightwad Gary. Robert liked the man, with his fixation on controlling costs and nose-to-the-grindstone mentality.
Her eye twitched.
After all the groundwork she’d laid for this job, after working her butt off for years to reach the top, she wasn’t going to stand aside and let anyone steal the position she’d earned with her blood, sweat, and tears.
Yet that persistent police chief was undermining the foundation she’d built and setting it up for someone to do just that.
Why couldn’t the woman have let old secrets stay where they belonged—buried?
Jessica swung toward the window, fingers gripping the arms of her chair, and forced herself to face reality.
There could be serious negative consequences if this situation escalated.
But if it did, she wasn’t the only one who was going to pay a steep price.
22
Plastic-wrapped newspaper tucked under his arm, cup of java in his hand, Mac pushed through to the balcony of his apartment and took a slow, deep breath. A Fourth of July spent in relative peace and quiet instead of dodging bullets.
What a change from his SEAL years.
Best of all, Lance was on home turf too, looking forward to a barbecue at Mom and Dad’s. Too bad he hadn’t been able to join them instead of spending the day alone.
Better here than wherever Finn was, though.
Frowning, he sat and propped his bare feet on the railing. No doubt his youngest brother was in the thick of things.
If only worry could keep him safe.
But since it couldn’t, why not try to follow Lance’s advice and give his worry gene a rest for the holiday?
Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes, let the sun warm his face, and focused on the small pleasures of the day—the chirp of the birds, the laughter of the children who’d already invaded the pool, the unaccustomed luxury of sleeping late.
His respiration modulated.
Better.
As for being alone, maybe he wouldn’t be taking in his fireworks solo next Fourth of July. In fact, if a certain dark-haired, hazel-eyed police chief was in the picture, they might be sharing a whole different kind of fireworks.
Grinning, he took a sip of coffee. Interesting to be thinking long term about a woman. And a f
irst. The notion of making that kind of commitment had always been more than a little intimidating.
Yet the thought of long term with this particular lady didn’t scare him in the least.
Chalk another one up for Mom. She’d always said it just took the right woman to make a man grasp the joy of settling down.
Still smiling, he slid the paper out of the plastic sleeve, opened it to the front page—and blinked as the missing-person photo of Alena stared back at him.
The reporter from the Post had wrangled a cover spot for her story?
Even better than they’d expected.
He skimmed the lead, then flipped to the jump on page ten. The feature that took up two-thirds of the page included photos of Erika, Joe—and Jessica.
Yes!
He sped-read the article. The reporter had included a few quotes from Lisa, but mostly she seemed to have cobbled the piece together from various reference sources, including stories from the Columbia Missourian archives. She’d also tracked down Stan Breton at the retirement center and added a few insights from him. According to the story, Jessica had declined to comment.
No matter. Her name was out there now, smack in the middle of this mess.
If this didn’t add some pressure, he didn’t know what would.
He set down his coffee, pulled his phone off his belt, and tapped in Lisa’s speed dial number. She must not have seen this yet, or she’d have called.
Three rings in, she answered, her voice clipped and distracted.
“Sounds like I caught you at a bad time.” He pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them over his nose.
“You might say that. Hold a minute.”
Muffled words came over the line as she barked out orders in a tone he’d never heard her use. “See if Dave’s free. If he isn’t, pull in Scott. Deal with the ambulance. Start calling the parents. We’ll transport as soon as I get off this call.” There was a rustle, the sound of a siren in the background, then she was back. “Sorry.”
“We can talk later.”
“Is it important?”
“It can wait till you clear up whatever trouble you’ve got.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” The line went dead.
He set the phone on the side table next to him. She’d warned him there was a strong possibility she’d be called in today. No surprise, given the small size of her department and the fact that the Fourth of July was the second most deadly holiday of the year behind New Year’s Eve for drunk driving. Violent crime often spiked too—not to mention all the prankster stuff that went on.
He hoped she was dealing with the latter—though the ambulance would suggest a more serious incident.
While he waited, he read the article again. This reporter had done an even more thorough job than the TV guy—and left a lot more questions unanswered.
If Jessica had seen this, she had to be seriously concerned.
By the time Lisa called him back an hour later, he’d finished the paper, scrambled some eggs, and was back on the deck with his third cup of coffee.
“Sorry I had to hang up before.” She sounded winded.
“No problem. You okay?”
“Yeah. We had a scuffle with a group of teenage boys who started their day with three six-packs and then thought it would be hysterical to toss fireworks into the pavilion in the park where a senior group was having a picnic. One of the older women was so startled she tripped and broke her arm.”
He homed in on her first comment. “What do you mean by scuffle?”
“Let’s just say the boys did not react well to being rounded up and hauled in.”
His grip on the mug tightened. “Did one of those punks hit you?”
“I got clipped on the jaw. No big deal—for me, that is. For the kid . . . different story. Assaulting a police officer, even if beer has short-circuited your brain, is a big problem. The ice pack is helping, though. So what did you need?”
He tried to shift gears, but the notion of Lisa getting socked wasn’t sitting well. Yeah, she’d been injured a lot worse in Chicago. But this was Carson, Missouri—small-town America. That should be far lower on the danger scale.
A cop job was never risk-free, though, no matter the location.
He had a feeling his worry gene better gear up for a serious, long-term workout.
“Mac?”
He picked up the newspaper. “Yeah, I’m here. I take it you haven’t seen the Post today.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been on the run since six this morning. Did our reporter come through with a story?”
“I’ll say. A front-page feature that includes photos of all the victims—plus Jessica.”
“Whoa! That’s way more than I expected.”
“I’d say we’ve rattled her cage big time.”
“Your idea was inspired.”
“I have my moments. Shall we put her on our agenda for next week?”
“Absolutely. I’d like to let this percolate, allow for some fallout on her end. How does Wednesday sound?”
“Works for me.” He took a sip of coffee. “You on duty all day?”
“It’s looking that way. I’m just hoping I get to my mom’s in time to sample her barbecue and watch a few fireworks. What’s your day like?”
“I’m almost ashamed to say I’m free as a bird. As we speak, I’m sitting on my deck and deciding whether to join the kids in the pool or go to a movie.”
“Both options sound great.”
“I can think of an even better one—a drive to the country, a picnic for two, fireworks.”
A beat of silence ticked by. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Yep. But I mean every word.”
She sighed. “It sounds like the perfect Fourth.”
“Maybe next year.” Why not clue her in to his long-term plans?
“Be careful. I may hold you to that.”
“You may.”
Somewhere in the background a door opened, and her words grew indistinct as she spoke with someone else.
“Sorry. I need to go. The parents are beginning to descend. Let’s regroup next week and set up a time to drop in on Jessica.”
“I’ll be at your disposal. Don’t work too hard—and be careful.”
“The boys have been subdued. I’m safe. Talk to you soon.”
As the line went dead, he slowly slid the cell back onto his belt. She might be safe at the moment, but that could change in an hour . . . or tomorrow . . . or next week . . . or anytime.
It was tough enough having brothers in the line of fire.
Could he handle falling for someone who would activate his worry gene as easily as they did?
He took a sip of coffee and admitted the truth.
Based on the way his protective instincts had kicked in after hearing she’d been hurt, the question was rhetorical.
He was already falling for Lisa Grant.
Hard.
So he’d have to figure out how to make peace with her profession. To be protective without being smothering. To give her the space to do the job she loved while keeping his blood pressure under control.
All challenges he’d need to address soon.
Because their bag of tricks on the Alena Komisky case was empty, and this case was about to wrap.
If anything was going to break, it was going to break soon.
No!
Jessica reread the front-page headline in the Post, scanned the story, and flipped to the jump.
No! No! No!
The photo they’d sent to the business editor with her last promotion announcement stared back at her.
Robert was going to have a stroke.
She grabbed her latte, rolled up the paper, and wove through her favorite Starbucks, past the good-humored holiday crowd.
They might be in a festive mood, but her Fourth of July had just gone down the tubes.
Once on the sidewalk, she slipped on her dark sunglasses and continued toward her cond
o half a block away, trying to sort through the turmoil in her mind.
“Ms. Lee?”
At the summons from a male voice, she stopped a few yards from the entrance to her high-rise.
A man with a microphone stepped out of the shadow of a bush. The guy from the news report. Another man appeared beside him, a mini-cam propped on his shoulder.
It was aimed at her.
The reporter rattled off his name and station. “I understand you’ve been talking with the police about the deaths of Erika Butler and Joe Andrews. Would you like to comment on that, or on the mysterious disappearance of Alena Komisky twenty-four years ago?”
Instead of responding, she turned her back and stalked toward the lobby. Once inside, she punched the button beside the double doors and forced herself to keep breathing as the elevator whisked her to the eighteenth floor.
Only after she was safely ensconced in her private domain did she let herself absorb the impact of the front-page story and the reporter lying in wait.
No question about it—this was getting dangerously out of hand.
On the plus side, Robert was out of town for the holiday weekend. That would buy her some time to develop a strategy.
But what could she do to contain the damage? The local press was all over the story, like vultures swooping in at the smell of death.
She threw her glasses on the kitchen counter, tossed the paper beside them, and began to pace, forcing the left side of her brain to engage.
First, she would not talk to the press. That would just add to their feeding frenzy.
Second, if no additional information came forward—and it wouldn’t—neither the Post reporter nor the TV guy would have anything new to relate. Nothing new equaled no news coverage. The story would die.
Third, these people were making a whole lot of noise about nothing.
She snatched up the paper again and reread the article with more care. Lots of insinuations, none of them provable, and one new piece of information.
The police hadn’t found Alena’s ring. They’d found a stone from her ring.
That, she could buy. The thing had been a bear to get off, and it had been covered with blood. A stone could have fallen out, and the empty spot could have been camouflaged by blood.
One mystery solved, anyway.
