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

by LynDee Walker

  Clinical trial. That I’d found on the NIH website.

  Because they catalog drug trials.

  I sat up straight and almost dropped my burger to the sawdust-covered floor.

  “What?” Joey paused mid-chew and covered his mouth with one hand.

  “I know where to look. The guy said he was trying to get his wife into a trial with Maynard. I know I can find information on the trial and its success rate online.”

  Joey’s lips tipped up in a resigned smile. “Do I get to finish my burger?”

  “Don’t dawdle. We’ll come back when you can fully appreciate the food and there are no dead people. Promise.”

  “The day we get to have a date with no dead people, I’ll wear a Carmen Miranda costume in a parade down Main Street.”

  I snorted iced tea at the mental picture, motioning for him to eat.

  Fingers itching for a keyboard, I wolfed down three-quarters of my food in five minutes. Finally. A lead. What was Maynard up to? And did it get him killed?

  13.

  Something bigger

  Joey followed me home and walked me to the door, peeking inside uncertainly when I opened it and watched Darcy dart for the lawn to pee.

  “Should I stay?”

  “You’re always welcome. I’m going to be buried in research for a while, but you can hang out if you want.”

  “How long?”

  “Until I find what I’m looking for. Fifteen minutes? An hour? Three hours?” I shrugged. “Some days, I wish I had a job that shut off at five.”

  “I wouldn’t know you if you did.” He brushed his fingertips over my cheekbone and chills rippled across my skin. “And you wouldn’t be happy. Or nearly as interesting.”

  “But it would be less dangerous.”

  “And less fun. Less you.”

  I nodded. I’d considered PR or advertising at intervals for five years. No dead people, no grieving family members. More money. Fewer hours.

  Less ability to do good in the world. Less exciting.

  I couldn’t do it. I loved not knowing what the day would bring when I walked into the newsroom.

  I smiled up at Joey, glad at least one thing was sailing smoothly in my typhoon of a week. “Stay,” I whispered. “I have to turn off the computer at some point.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re chasing a story, you know that? Just stop trying to get yourself killed, and we’re all set.”

  “You too.” I grabbed his tie and pulled him inside, kissing him for a long minute.

  His arms went around me and he swept his tongue between my lips, then softened the kiss and lifted his head. “Even with all the complications, you are the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” It was barely above a rough whisper, but I heard every word. My heart stuttered, then melted.

  I laid my head on his shoulder. “You. Too.”

  He squeezed, then let go and swatted my backside playfully. “Go on. I know your mind is half on your murder victims.”

  “Not half. Maybe a quarter.” I smiled an apology. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying every second of this.”

  “Crack the case. Then I’ll have your full attention. I promise I’ll need it tonight.”

  Damn.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Mean. You are a mean man.”

  “Let’s see if you’re still singing that tune in the morning.” He flashed a wicked grin and my insides liquefied.

  I kicked my Louboutins into a corner and ran for the kitchen table, opening my laptop before I sat down. Internet, don’t fail me now.

  I heard Joey talking to Darcy in the living room, and my pulse sped. I clicked the browser open and tried to focus. Maynard. Desperate grieving husband.

  Answers.

  I typed the web address for the National Institutes of Health and tapped a finger on the edge of the keyboard as the page loaded.

  The whole thing looked different than when I’d stared bleary-eyed at a screen, looking for hope for my mom almost seven years before. I clicked through nine pages before I found where to search the clinical trials.

  I typed Maynard’s name into the box and held my breath.

  Three hundred seventy-nine results.

  Holy Manolos. My inner Lois Lane bounced.

  While I wasn’t prepared to believe my depressed shooter just yet, I was more than thrilled to have found something—anything—on Maynard.

  Until I started scrolling.

  All the trials were dated from more than nine years ago.

  Every. Single. One.

  I clicked back to the search bar. Could he have listed it under another name? His clinic, maybe?

  Not sure I’d say likely. But thanks to the magical disappearance of everything else about the guy, I couldn’t search for the clinic name. Because I didn’t know it.

  Dammit.

  How else would they sort the results? I clicked a random trial profile.

  Drug, developer, doctors, protocol, timeframe, city, hospital.

  Bingo.

  I typed “Richmond” into the search field and narrowed the results to the current calendar year.

  Thirty trials. Thank God. I wasn’t losing it.

  I thought. Until I scrolled down.

  Maynard’s name wasn’t there.

  I tried the university hospital. Same result.

  “For the love of God!” I shoved the computer away, stomping my foot and turning for the wine rack.

  “Trouble, baby?” Joey was leaning against the doorjamb when I turned back with a bottle, a corkscrew, and a glass.

  “It’s not there. Who the hell was this guy and what was he into? He’s done a bazillion clinical trials in the past two decades, but not one in the past year, no matter how I search.”

  “Why are you so convinced he did?” Joey took the glass I handed him and sipped the summer red.

  “Because the guy said. Ellinger, the husband. He said he tried to get his wife in and Maynard said she didn’t fit the peer group.”

  “And you trust him because?” Joey’s eyebrows went up.

  “Why would he lie? He’s likely going to prison for what he did today, even if he didn’t kill that woman, and leaving his daughters with no parents at all. If he didn’t truly believe Maynard could help him, why the hell would he do that?”

  Joey nodded slowly. “Good point.”

  “But I know my way around drug trials. The one I found on this very website,” I sat down and gulped my wine, waving toward my laptop screen, “saved my mom. If he was running a trial, it should be here.”

  Joey tapped a finger on the stem of his glass.

  “Should it?”

  “Huh?”

  “It seems the first question is just that: should it be there? Is it required that they report them, or do they just do it so they can have the findings published and maybe find participants?”

  Another gulp. “Excellent question. I don’t know, really. I assumed.”

  He walked toward me and laid both hands on my shoulders, massaging gently. “Tense much?”

  I nodded and let my chin drop to my chest. “That feels…”

  His hands shifted slightly and I felt his breath, and then his lips, on my neck. “Not nearly as good as you will in a little while.”

  I shivered, then smiled. “You don’t say.”

  He dropped a kiss on the nape of my neck and patted my shoulder. “Get your work done.”

  “Nothing like an extra dollop of motivation.” I picked up my BlackBerry and smiled at him. “Let me make a couple of calls.”

  He retreated to the living room and I stared at my phone. I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to get yelled at. But I also couldn’t continue to
ignore a source that was literally at my fingertips with so much hanging in the balance.

  I clicked the speed dial and steeled myself.

  “Just exactly what part of ‘don’t get yourself killed’ is unclear to you?” Bob barked in place of hello.

  “But I didn’t, Chief,” I chirped. “Right as rain, and I got the exclusive to boot.” I couldn’t have him mad at me and depressed. The guilt would last for days.

  “You went into a building with a shooter who had taken people hostage. I’m not sure who’s crazier: the gunman or my favorite reporter. Dammit, Nichelle.”

  Yep. Still mad. I softened my voice. “You know what this is like, Bob. I had a chance to help. To get in there before it turned into a massacre. How could I say no to that?”

  He sighed. “I know.” The edge faded. “But it doesn’t make me worry any less.”

  “I appreciate it. Truly. But I’m good.”

  “Your piece was outstanding.” There was more than a tinge of pride in the words.

  “Thank you.” I paused. “Hey, listen, I need to ask you something. I’m kind of afraid to ask, and I’m so sorry to bring it up, but what can you tell me about David Maynard and his research?”

  Silence, followed by a shaky breath. “Why do you need to know?”

  “Something the shooter said.” I tapped a finger on the table. “I’m not going with it until I have it dead to rights, but the guy was in there—all this happened because he wanted Maynard to treat his wife. He’s convinced the doc had discovered a cure, Bob.”

  I could practically see the hand go to his temple. “Jesus.”

  “I know how crazy it sounds. But I’m going to chase it down, because…” I swallowed hard, fear sticking the words in my throat. Because of my mom. What if she needed it?

  “I know,” he said softly.

  I coughed. “What was special about Maynard when he treated Grace?”

  Heavy sigh. “He was brilliant. And he was a good man. Everyone we knew said if anyone could save her, David could. By the time she was diagnosed, it had spread to four different places.” He paused, and my eyes filled. Sorrow dripped from the speaker. “Never did like going to the doctor, my Grace. She blew it off until she started having fainting spells.”

  Oh, hell. It was in her brain? I didn’t want to say it out loud, but damn.

  “David said it would be risky, but he’d do his best to put it into remission. And for a while, he did. The day he told us her tumor was shrinking was one of the happiest of my life.”

  I felt a but coming. Of the worst variety.

  “But then it came back, and it was everywhere. It spread faster than they could find it. Two months, and she was just…” He took a hitching breath. “She was just gone.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My brain clicked through what he’d said.

  Fact: Maynard couldn’t cure Grace Jeffers.

  Also a fact: it was years ago, and he managed to beat back a brain tumor other doctors said would be fatal and give Bob and Grace extra time. Was he on the verge of discovering something Earth-shaking that long ago?

  It certainly sounded that way.

  “Do you remember anything about the treatment protocol he used?” I asked gently.

  “Not really. Highly experimental, he said. Something about a virus.” He sounded drained.

  I scribbled VIRUS? in my notes. It was a starting point, anyway.

  “Thanks, Chief. I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t tell me anything else, and no matter how much I want the story, people always come first.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s okay. Did I help?”

  “Always.” I wished him a good night and clicked off the call, tapping my computer screen back to life. All those trials.

  Wait.

  The NIH would definitely show up in search results, and Maynard’s name was all over this stuff.

  I snatched the phone up again and opened a text to Chad.

  This just keeps getting stranger. There are trials with his name on them all over the NIH site. But a search returns nothing. How is that possible?

  I put the phone down and opened the RAU Med School page. A search of their site returned three hits on professor emeritus Dr. David Maynard. One story on a plaque unveiling in the medical school lobby, one bio page, and one farewell letter written by the dean. Since I couldn’t interview people who knew him on account of no one knowing he was dead yet, I bookmarked the bio. Having his backstory ready to go when Aaron released his name would be handy.

  My phone bleeped a text arrival. Chad. This is pissing me off, Nichelle.

  Join the club. Any ideas?

  Bing. There are about a half-dozen ways I can think of to pull something like this off, and I’m sure I’m not thinking of all of them. I asked a couple of friends for help. The only thing I can tell you right now is whoever did this is a smart SOB. Search engines are supremely difficult to hack. The nerdiest of computer nerds run the damned things.

  I stared at the words. How many people can do something like that?

  Bing. In the U.S.? A small handful, and most of them are in one of the big political dissension groups. I have to figure out what was done before I can get who did it. But I will.

  Thanks, Chad. I owe you. Hug Jenna for me.

  Bing. You bet. She says to tell you don’t get shot.

  Deal.

  I dropped the phone back to the table and scribbled a three-mile list of questions for the morning. First up: a call to the NIH offices to get the hows and whos of drug trial registration. I shut the computer and stood, wandering to the living room. Joey leaned over the coffee table, looking for a place to fit a puzzle piece. I cleared my throat from the doorway and he smiled.

  “All done?”

  “No. But I hit a stopping place for this evening.”

  He crossed the room and pulled me to him, his kiss chasing the story from my thoughts as my hands wandered up over his shoulders, pushing his jacket back.

  “Have I said how glad I am that you didn’t get shot?” He turned and walked backwards down the hall, pulling me along as he kissed my neck.

  “I thought it was implied,” I whispered as we crossed the bedroom threshold.

  “I suppose it’s more show than tell.” He eased me back onto the pillows.

  “Show me.”

  He did.

  Daylight slanted through the windows way too early and way too late at the same time. I blinked, stretching my legs and smiling when Joey stirred next to me.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Me too.”

  I trailed my fingers across his chest, looking at the ruby red of the Japanese maple in my flower bed through the roman shades.

  In the sun.

  In October.

  “Shit!” I bolted up and grabbed for my BlackBerry, but it wasn’t on the night table. Bedtime had been disorganized the night before—enough that I worried Darcy might have eaten my gorgeous new Louboutins.

  “What?”

  Joey folded one arm behind his head, looking mildly amused as I leapt from the bed and ran for my closet.

  “The sun is up. The sun doesn’t come up until ridiculously late this time of year. What time is it? I have work to do.” I pulled on cream linen pants and buttoned them, then grabbed a silk tank and a grey sweater. “Bob’s going to kill me.”

  “In general, I think he’d have to get in line.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t push his way to the front. He’s used to being first. He’s been the boss since forever.” I crammed my feet into a pair of charcoal and cream leather Kate Spade ankle boots, then paused.

  Wait.

  Since his old boss left.


  What did Larry say? San Francisco.

  I’d bet that guy’s wife knew a fair bit about Mrs. Eason. A smart woman with an internet connection can dig up enough to write a biography on a husband’s paramour, and I wanted intel on our former society maven.

  I dropped a kiss on Joey’s head and told him to make himself at home, then ran to scrub my face, grab a coffee, and fly out the door. My eyes lit on the clock when I started the car. Seven forty-five. Dammit.

  I kept a heavy foot on the gas the whole way to the office, thankful the Fan (the historic part of Richmond named for the way it spreads from the city center like the lace and silk confections that served as the old south equivalent of Louis Vuitton handbags) isn’t far from downtown.

  My backside touched my customary orange velour-covered armchair just as Bob nodded to Spence to close the door.

  “Hell of a story this morning, Nichelle,” Eunice said. I beamed. Eunice was a fantastic writer. And a former hot zone war correspondent. Any praise was high praise from her.

  Bob nodded. “You kicked the crap out of everyone else in town. Not that I approve of your method,” he shot me a warning glare, “but the story had a great human aspect nobody else even touched on. I didn’t sleep five minutes last night, thinking on this. I want a series. What are the chances you’ll be able to get White to let you talk to this guy again?”

  What? I was so ready for Bob to be depressed after my call the night before, his obvious excitement was downright unsettling.

  I furrowed my brow and shook my head.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had enough caffeine to follow that yet,” I said. “I’m sure Aaron won’t care how much I talk to the guy, if the guy will talk to me.”

  “Didn’t he ask to talk to you yesterday?”

  “Yeah, how’d that all come about?” That was Eunice, who leaned forward, laser-focused on my reply. All she needed was popcorn.

  “He wanted to tell me something.” I chose words carefully. “But I’m not sure that’s still the case today.”

  “You saved him from suicide and kept him out of jail,” Bob said, waving a dismissive hand when I opened my mouth to object. “Don’t think I don’t know you traded the cops that advertorial chunk about how wonderful they are for leaving that guy with his wife. I’ve been around this track a few times, and I know you, kiddo. He’ll talk to you.”