Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5)

by LynDee Walker

  Solid plan.

  I started the engine and checked the clock: eleven thirty. Four hours until Bob would want to know how much space I needed.

  Thank God for the internet.

  6.

  Dead end

  Journalism in the age of the Internet 104: the World Wide Web knows all. The trick is where to look. I found a photo of Dr. David Maynard in thirteen seconds.

  Then hit a cinderblock wall trying to find out anything else about him.

  My inner Lois Lane found that fascinating. The rest of me found it damned frustrating.

  I tapped my fingers on the edge of the keyboard. No yellow pages listing for a practice. No white pages listing for a home or a business. No results in the galleries of physicians on the local hospital pages.

  After an hour of spelling his name nineteen different ways (yes, the image result came up on the first try, but there are at least nine ways to spell Smith), I was no closer to anything resembling a bio.

  No Facebook.

  No Twitter.

  I clicked back to the photo. Maybe this wasn’t the same guy Mrs. Eason was mourning. Twisting a lock of hair around my index finger, I stared at the screen.

  An attractive, if a little plain, gentleman stared back, his round face comfortable in its smile. It was a headshot, so I had no point of reference for height or size except average shoulders and full cheeks. The age was maybe a little off too. My chin dropped to my chest.

  “So who are you? Where did it pull this from?” I muttered, clicking to the source page.

  Holy Manolos.

  From us. The photo was in the Telegraph database, on the local server. I logged in and searched the offline archives.

  Fifty-nine hits. I clicked into the most recent article, which turned out to be no kind of recent at all.

  Nine years ago, Maynard retired from the RAU Medical School. And from the hospital, where he was the chief of oncology. His career change had warranted a feature on the society page because of the gala the hospital’s board threw for him. No one could say enough good things about him. Brilliant, caring, patient. A true loss to the local medical community.

  The man himself was quoted as saying he’d miss the bustle of the hospital, but looked forward to pursuing his true passion.

  “Which is?” I scrolled down, but that was it. Either the reporter didn’t ask, or they didn’t print it.

  So I still had a big fat question mark over where he’d disappeared to. Almost a decade later, his doorman said he’d been in private practice, but not for how long or where. And the internet, usually my best friend when researching a story, had nothing for me. Why?

  I tapped more. The furrow in Jeff’s brow when I bolted told me asking him more questions about the doc would blow my dog trainer cover wide open. But someone had to know.

  I scrolled back to the top of the article and checked the byline.

  Elizabeth Herrington.

  Didn’t ring a bell, and the story ran nine months before my first day at work. I clicked through a few more articles, but the dates were positively ancient, the reporters’ names unfamiliar. Not much in the way of content, either—mostly side mentions in pieces on the medical school, though there was one headline about a drug breakthrough a dozen years ago. Maynard’s name popped up in that one thirteen times. Brilliant doctor. But I already knew that.

  Strike one.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  I hopped to my feet and strolled to Bob’s office, tapping on the open door.

  “Hey, Chief?” I poked my head around the corner. He waved me in, keeping his eyes fixed on his screen. I plopped into the Virginia Tech orange armchair in the corner near his desk. A glance at his borderline-obnoxious Hokies wall clock, hanging just above and to the left of his Pulitzer on the opposite wall, told me I was running out of time.

  “What’s up, kiddo?” His chair squealed as he turned toward me, and I smiled at the affection in his voice. Bob was doubtless the closest thing I’d ever had to a father, and as such, I didn’t smack him for calling me kiddo.

  “Elizabeth Herrington.” I paused when his face took on the distinct expression of a man who had, in fact, been smacked.

  He closed his eyes for a long blink and tried for a smile. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while,” he said. “What brings her up?”

  Yeah, no story there. Curiosity bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed hard and breezed into my next question. No time for reminiscing today.

  “She did a feature story a while back—”

  “Have to be a long while back,” he interrupted.

  “It was.” Focus, Nichelle.

  He nodded, raising his bushy white brows expectantly.

  “About my murder vic. Turns out he was a doctor. Bigshot over at the RAU Medical campus.”

  Bob sat straight up, the color vanishing from his face in a blink.

  “Not David Maynard.” The words sounded choked, and I flinched. It had never once occurred to me I’d be the bearer of bad news when pitching Bob a story.

  I scrunched my face and leaned forward, softening my tone. “I’m afraid it sounds that way,” I said. “Aaron hasn’t released anything yet, but I went back to the building this morning and had a chat with the doorman. Did a little eavesdropping. That’s the name I got.”

  He slumped into his chair. “Damn.”

  I pinched my lips together and looked out the window for a long minute. I hated the thought of upsetting Bob, but I needed to stay on top of the story to keep Charlie at bay and make sure his job was safe. Some days, ambition sucks.

  “I’m so sorry to have to tell you like this, Chief,” I said softly. “The thing is, I was wondering if you knew how to get ahold of Ms. Herrington, because I’m hoping she remembers the story. I’ve looked and looked for some background on the victim—” Bob’s head snapped up and I stammered “—on, um, Dr. Maynard—and I can’t find anything.” Something clicked in my head. “Even her story.”

  He braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing came up in the search results. Nothing. Not even the story I read about his retirement.”

  “Then how did you read it?” Bob raised his head slowly, a divot between his eyebrows.

  “Rabbit trails. I found a photo.” I bounced my foot, puzzle pieces taking shape in my brain. “There was an image result for a picture of him from the article. But the article itself never came up. Nothing did. No matter how I tried spelling his name.”

  “Maynard. M-A-Y-N-A-R-D.” Bob shook his head. “How is that possible? He was brilliant. Surely there’s stuff about his research all over the web.”

  “Not a single hit.” I bit my lip.

  “That’s odd.”

  “No, it’s so far past odd, it can’t see odd in the rearview.” I jumped up. “Hold me a spot on one for an exclusive on possible cause of death. The coroner hasn’t released anything, but I have a solid ‘unnamed source close to the investigation’ that cited marks on the victim’s neck. Charlie’s head is going to burst into flames just at that. And I’ll see what else I can find. Andrews won’t know what hit him.”

  “I appreciate the effort, Nicey,” Bob said. “But handle this with care for me? David was beloved—it’s going to hit a lot of important people pretty hard that he’s gone. Especially if the PD suspects foul play.”

  “You got it.” I paused in the door and turned back. On one hand, I wanted to ask Bob how he knew the doctor, and how well. Maybe he had information that could help me. On the other, I didn’t want to make him sadder if I could talk to other people first. “I’m not using his name yet, but maybe I can get the inside scoop from our old society editor. Can you send me Ms. Herrington’s contact info, if you have it?”


  “I don’t know—or give the slightest shit—how to get in touch with that…” Bob’s eyes fell shut and he took a slow, deep breath, “…woman. Nor do I have any interest in you pulling her into anything to do with this newspaper. Find another source.”

  I sighed.

  Nothing’s ever easy.

  Thirty minutes of cursing at my laptop later, I stirred my third latte of the day and smiled across the table at my best friend’s husband. Chad was a computer geek through and through, head of network security at one of the banks that occupied a tower a few blocks from my office.

  “Thanks for coming to meet me,” I said.

  He raised his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Kids doing okay?”

  “They’re great. But you could ask Jenna that.” The hazel eyes behind his square glasses were curious. “What’s up?”

  “Ever direct.” I smiled. “That’s okay. I like direct. I have a computer problem.”

  “You have to update your antivirus stuff, Nichelle.” Chad groaned. “How many times have we been through this? Do. Not. Dismiss. The little box. That’s going to cost you more than a cup of coffee.”

  “I didn’t,” I protested. “Well, I did, but I swear I’ll stop, and that’s not why I’m here.”

  He tipped his head to one side.

  “How could someone get erased off the internet?” I asked. “Like, no results. Nothing, not one. And on a guy who should have plenty of hits.”

  “You spelled it right?”

  “Double and triple checked. There’s nothing there.”

  He pulled out his laptop. “Spell the name for me.”

  I obliged. “Doctor. Shining star of the RAU Medical faculty and Richmond’s best oncologist.”

  Oncologist.

  Bob’s wife died of cancer. Shit.

  “Spell it again,” Chad said.

  I did. “Nothing there, right? Except one photo in the image results.”

  “That’s not possible.” He tugged at his left earlobe. I knew him well enough to know that meant he was annoyed. “My grandmother has five hits, for Christ’s sake. Everyone has a search history.”

  “Everyone but this dude,” I said. “What I need to know is how.”

  “Not a clue,” Chad said, typing furiously. “But I’ll find out. If someone wiped him off the web, it’s the greatest hack in history. I want to know how they did it.”

  Me too. But more than that, I wanted to know why.

  Besides Bob, who had been at the Telegraph longer than me?

  Eunice and Larry topped the list. And while Eunice was the current queen of Features, nine years ago she would’ve had more chance of knowing a Saudi insurgent leader than the society editor. Her days as a war correspondent were cut short by a helicopter crash in Iraq that earned her a dozen pins in her hip and parked her at a desk.

  Larry wasn’t in the photo cave, but his monitor was on, so he hadn’t gone far. When I didn’t find him in the break room, I went to the elevators to wait. He was likely outside smoking.

  The smell that preceded him off the car three minutes later confirmed it.

  “Those things will kill you,” I said, falling into step beside him.

  “I’m too stubborn—” Pause. Cough cough cough. “—to die.”

  I snorted. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “What’s up? Need another photo enhancement for one of your crazy stories?” Larry raised his eyebrows, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

  “Careful, I’ll stop buying you beer if I get the notion you like helping me,” I said.

  He scowled. “Hate it. You’re a pain in the ass, you know it?”

  I grinned. “You love me anyway.”

  “What do you need this time?”

  “To know if you remember a society editor named Elizabeth—”

  “Herrington,” he said flatly. “No one who’s been around for long enough could forget her.”

  “Why not?”

  He waved me into the photo cave, dropping into his chair and glancing around the empty room before he whispered so low I had to lean in to hear. “Why are you asking about her?”

  “She wrote a story I’m having an issue with, and I’m hoping to find…”

  I broke off. What was I looking for? No one she’d told about Maynard’s sendoff would remember anything a decade later, right?

  Right.

  There had to be something, even if I wasn’t sure what the something was.

  Larry shook his head, his mouth popping open like he was going to speak, then snapping shut again.

  “What is the story with this woman?” I threw up my hands. “Bob won’t sa—”

  “You asked Bob? Don’t ask Bob!” Larry barked.

  Good Lord. “Why?”

  “Nothing good will come of it.” Larry sat up, his eyes solemn. “Leave him out of it, you understand?”

  “What the hell did she do?” I had to start the sentence twice to keep my volume down.

  “She destroyed his hero. Bob was so idealistic back then, it damn near killed him.”

  7.

  Kisses and lies

  “I. Am. So. Lost.” I stared at Larry.

  He nodded. “Of course. The Telegraph has always been your happy place, right?”

  “Except for Shelby. Well. Old Shelby. I’m reserving judgement on New Shelby.”

  He chuckled, then stood when Lindsay strolled in with a memory stick in her hand and took a seat at the next table. “You feel like coffee?”

  “If I have any more caffeine today I’m going to see noises.” And I was no coffee lightweight. “How about a walk?”

  He waved a hand. “After you.”

  Larry didn’t say another word until we were outside and halfway down the block. I just knew I was about to hear the secret of life by the time he finally opened his mouth.

  “The paper was Bob’s whole life. Always was. Still is. Always will be.”

  Um. “I hate to break it to you, Larry, but me and Lindsay and the guy who puts postage on out of town subs—we all know that.”

  He rolled his eyes, pulling his faded Richmond Generals cap down over his forehead and leaning into the brisk wind that reminded me winter was on its way. “Don’t get ahead of the story.”

  I slowed my gait and watched his profile expectantly.

  “Back when Bob was the city editor, the guy who ran the Telegraph was a bit of a legend in the business.”

  “Herman Kochanski. He covered the Kennedy assassination for the Morning Telegram in Dallas.”

  “And the March on Washington for the Post.” Larry nodded. “You know how you feel about Bob? That was how Bob felt about Herman.”

  I nodded. “That guy was a whole week of one of my college classes. Witnessing History, it was called.”

  “He did a fair amount of that.” Larry turned onto Grace Street and I followed. “He knew Bob was special five minutes after he walked into the newsroom looking for a job. Not unlike you.” Larry winked.

  “Thanks. Keep going.”

  “Herman wasn’t that much older than Bob. He was just so damn good, and always in the right place at the right time. They were a lot alike, those two. They were friends, but Bob looked up to Herman. Hero worship situation. Their wives got to be fast friends. Sophia sat with Bob’s wife through every miscarriage, and stayed with her sometimes if Bob was working late.”

  I nodded slowly, my brain running ahead to Elizabeth Herrington, a slow ache starting in the pit of my stomach.

  “Oh, no.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  Larry shot me a sideways glance. “You’re smart, too. Elizabeth started working for us about three years after Bob did. She was young. Not pretty when you looked ha
rd, but no one could tell her that, so people didn’t notice.”

  “You mean men didn’t notice.”

  “Some men. I like my faces pretty. Symmetrical. Maybe it’s a photog thing. The nose on that woman—looked like the Good Lord flipped a light bulb over and plopped it in the middle of her face.”

  I snorted. “If she wasn’t pretty, why would Herman sleep with her? That’s where you’re going, right?”

  “There you go, jumping ahead again.”

  “Sue me.”

  “Herman and Sophia were a great couple. Everybody loved them. They loved each other. But marriage is hard work.” He cut his eyes sideways and laid a finger over his lips. “Shhh. That’s a thing they don’t tell you until after you’re hooked. Hell, nobody tells most people. Why do you think so many folks get divorced?”

  I nodded, waving for him to go on with the story.

  “Sophia had three kids in five years. Little munchkins are cute, Nicey, but don’t let them fool you. Being a parent is as frustrating and demanding as it is wonderful. Being a working mom who wants to have it all is pretty near impossible. Sophia was the kind of woman who wanted to be everything for everyone. She nursed Grace through depression. She ran a successful CPA firm. She hovered over her babies. All of which left her exhausted.”

  “Too exhausted to be everything for her husband?” I was surer where the story was going with every word.

  “I’m spilling all the old people secrets today, so listen up: men aren’t really big babies in every sense, but we do get a little childish about feeling ignored by the women we love. Just keep that on file in case you need it someday. Because when men who make their living communicating don’t talk to their wives, bad shit happens.”