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

by LynDee Walker

  “Go to the lift there,” (she had the cutest lilting British accent) “and ride up to twelve, then turn left when you come off.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” Spinning for the elevator, my foot froze in midair when she called, “I hope you beat it.”

  I turned back. “Excuse me?”

  “Twelve-twenty-one is the oncology suite. You’re so young. But they’re doing great things.”

  I smiled. “I sure hope so.”

  She nodded, and I turned her words over in my head all the way upstairs. Something worried around the back of my thoughts, but I couldn’t pin it down, and the harder I tried, the vaguer it got.

  I pulled the office door open, and Tom Ellinger’s words came back: “The money’s in the medicine.”

  All evidence to support. The waiting room could have been lifted from a spread in House Beautiful, with soft cerulean walls and shining cherry floors, right down to the works of art that doubled as tissue boxes.

  I stepped to the desk and smiled my sweetest smile at the pretty young receptionist. She smiled back, but the inviting look faded when I asked to see Dr. Goetze without an appointment.

  “He’s extraordinarily busy.” She shook her head, dark curls bobbing attractively around her heart-shaped face.

  “I understand that.” I pulled out my press credentials and handed them to her. “But I really need to talk to him. The day is winding down, and I’m hoping he can squeeze me in.”

  Generally, any business owner who’s not afraid of an indictment is eager to talk to the media. Mentions in the editorial section are better than free advertising.

  Her brows went up and she offered a stiff smile. “I’m afraid Dr. Goetze is a busy man.”

  I blinked. So not the reply I expected, it left me speechless (not an easy task) for a full thirty seconds.

  “I’m hoping he can help me with my current story,” I said. “And maybe I can help him out too, mentioning his work in my piece.”

  “I don’t think so. But feel free to call for an appointment. We’re booking non-emergent cases into January.”

  I turned back for the door, dumbfounded. Of all the places I’d ever been asked to leave because I was a reporter, a doctor’s office wasn’t on the list.

  Why would the guy turn down free publicity?

  My inner Lois Lane whispered the most obvious answer: he had something to hide.

  I plopped into my desk chair just as my phone rang.

  “Crime Desk, this is Clarke. Can I help you?” I tilted my head and pinned the handset to my shoulder, reaching for a pen and still fuming over the dismissal from Goetze’s assistant.

  “Miss Clarke, this is Emma DeBell.” The high, reedy voice made my pulse gallop. How the hell did she figure out who I was? “I can’t quite believe I’m calling you, but there’s something about you I like. You have a few minutes to chat?”

  Closed door, opened window.

  “I always have time for a smart lady who can do her detective work, Miss Emma. What’s on your mind?” I fought to keep my voice even. If she’d gone to all the trouble to find me, surely she had something interesting to share.

  “I hung up yesterday not terribly sure why anyone would ask such a thing. Who would do a clinical trial and not register it? Then I looked up the number you called from and got curious. What does a newspaper reporter want with that information?”

  I jotted notes on the back of an old press release I pulled from the recycle bin, staying quiet. Best to let her say her piece before I started asking questions.

  “The law changed to require registration with us almost a decade ago. Without it, the results wouldn’t be verifiable, the drug wouldn’t get approved. Not to mention, the new laws say whoever was the principal interest in the trial could be fined or lose their federal funding. It makes no sense,” she continued, almost as if she were talking to herself.

  I scribbled faster, pinching my lips together to keep questions in.

  “Unless someone was testing a drug they didn’t want people to know about.” She paused, and I caught a sharp breath. Bingo.

  Play dumb, Nichelle. “Why would anyone do that?” I asked.

  Miss Emma was too smart. “I have a feeling you know more about that than you’re letting on. Isn’t that why you called?”

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, running my tongue across my front teeth. If I didn’t trust her enough to ask the questions, how could I expect her to trust me enough to answer them?

  But trust is a difficult thing to come by in the news business.

  “You still there, Miss Clarke?”

  I needed the lead. She was currently my best shot at it. “Have you ever heard of an oncologist named David Maynard?”

  “There aren’t many people in this building who haven’t. Brilliant man. It was a shame to see him retire so early.”

  “But he didn’t really retire. He went into private practice.”

  Her tongue clicked, and then I heard computer keys clicking in the background. “I think you must be mistaken.”

  “Pretty sure I’m not.”

  “Dr. Maynard was as devoted to his research as any decent man is to his wife,” Emma said. “For years, he ran multiple trials at a time, and made great strides in treating patients who were once considered terminal. But his last study was recorded nine and half years ago.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m asking these questions.”

  A small, gulpy grunt issued through the handset. “No.”

  I could practically picture her sitting at her desk shaking her head.

  “But, Miss Emma—” I began.

  “Dr. Maynard was committed to finding a cure for cancer. It was his mission for over twenty years. He wouldn’t run an unregulated medical study. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  “I can’t say I know for sure, but my mom is a survivor, so I have a pretty good idea. But like you said, it was his mission. If he thought he was doing it for the greater good, wouldn’t he do whatever he had to? It’s not like he had forever to crack it.” I paused. Aaron’s silence on the name was a huge bonus in some ways and damned frustrating in others. “Do you think you know anyone who might be able to tell you what Dr. Maynard has been working on?”

  She was quiet for a minute, her computer keys clicking again. “Maybe. John Phelps is a good friend of his. He works in our infectious disease lab. I can ask. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Perfect.” Bob’s words floated through my head. “Where would I look for information on an experimental treatment Dr. Maynard used several years ago?”

  More clicking.

  “What kind?”

  “Something to do with a virus?”

  “Let me see what I can find out.”

  I thanked her and started to hang up before something else occurred to me.

  “Miss Emma?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you might be able to get me a list of trials or studies a Dr. Wesley Goetze is currently working on? I know only those open for patients or completed are searchable online, but I’m curious about what might not show up there. He’s affiliated with the RAU hospital and med school.”

  “Finding both could take a bit of time, but I can poke around. You think he’s running undercover studies, too?”

  Probably not. But he was hiding something more valuable to him than free publicity.

  Out loud, I said, “He was once Dr. Maynard’s RA. And he seems a little camera shy. I’d just like to know what he’s up to.”

  “Well then, so would I.” She giggled. “This is fun. Should we have code names?”

  I grinned. “I’ll be Lois.”

  “And I’ll be Nancy. The Eagle flies at night when the watchtower is dark. Or something.” More gigg
ling.

  “Have fun snooping, Nancy. And thank you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  A teensy bit of research on the latest treatments later, I was ready to set Maynard aside for a bit.

  Nervous as a June bug at a toad convention. But ready.

  “Your chance at something bigger,” Bob had said.

  Something bigger.

  Something better? Something helpful?

  I hauled in a deep breath, opened a fresh document, and hoped I could do the story justice.

  Tom Ellinger is a communications specialist for Virginia Telcom. His wife, Amy, is a stay-at-home mom who used to teach preschool.

  They were married seventeen years ago next month, after meeting on a blind date only three months prior.

  “I’ve always loved her,” he said Friday, sitting next to her bed in the Oncology ICU at St. Vincent’s, cradling her frail hand between both of his. “Since the first time I laid eyes on her. She’s my everything.”

  The Ellingers bought a house, built careers, had three little girls, and lived their everyday happily ever after. Until Amy’s doctor told her she had cancer.

  “We did all the gene mapping—a whole summer in Houston. Seventy-five thousand dollars,” Tom said Wednesday evening. “No insurance accepted. No brainer. I cashed out my 401k, and we got on a plane…It was worth every penny to give my babies their mother back.”

  When Amy’s cancer returned several months later, Tom sat in front of his computer for months, searching for hope.

  Every time he thought he’d found some, it was dashed as quickly as it flared. He’s spent the past few weeks keeping vigil at the hospital, watching his beloved slip away courtesy of stage IV ovarian cancer.

  Wednesday evening, he walked into the hospital with a rifle, intending to publicly demand treatment for Amy from one of the nation’s top oncologists.

  I leaned back in the chair and stretched, reading over the words in front of me five times before I started typing again. Nobody needed to know the name of that particular oncologist yet. I added more from Tom, as well as a comment from Aaron about the quasi house arrest and the case being under investigation.

  I mentioned the sentry outside Amy’s door twice to pull some of the heat off Aaron for not hauling Tom in immediately, and quoted Tom’s inquiry about the victim and his claim that his only intent was to frighten people.

  Checking the Virginia code for possible penalties for what I’d seen Tom do, I listed them in order of severity. The hostages topped the likelihood list from where I sat, as a class three felony. That’s five to twenty, plus a fine of up to a hundred grand. Simple discharge of a firearm is a class one misdemeanor, but if anyone is hurt unintentionally, that’s upped to a class six felony, which carries one to five years in prison and a twenty-five hundred dollar fine. Stacked on top of each other, those two would guarantee he missed his daughters’ childhoods. And murder? Depending on how hard-assed the prosecution wanted to get, Tom Ellinger could go to prison for a long time. Or worse.

  I finished up with Tom and Amy laughing together as I left the room that afternoon.

  Though the painkillers keep Amy sedated most of the time these days, Tom woke her Thursday afternoon. By laughing.

  “You laughed, in my dream,” Amy said, her blue eyes struggling to open through the narcotic fog. “I miss you laughing.”

  Tom obliged with more laughter, and Amy joined in.

  “She’s been my whole life since I was nineteen,” Tom said. “Making her happy makes me happy.”

  I read the piece again, goosebumps popping up on my arms in all the right places, then attached it to an email to Bob.

  I stared at the screen for a few beats before I stood, wondering if my boss was really as okay as he’d seemed at the morning meeting.

  Peeking around the corner, I found Bob hunched over his keyboard, grumbling about lack of talent.

  “Present company excluded, right, Chief?” I asked, putting one foot across the threshold.

  “Always. What’s going on with you?”

  “I got an interview with the gunman—and his wife—today.” I plopped into my usual orange-velour covered chair. “You want inside the healthcare crisis? There won’t be a dry eye in the city by breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Did he do it?” Bob swiveled his chair toward me and leaned back.

  The question of the day. Tom’s insistence that he’d only fired once was interesting, but certainly not concrete. Once was all it took, after all.

  “I don’t know. Hell, today I couldn’t even tell if he knows. He’s half out of his mind with grief.”

  Bob’s face fell a touch, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

  “That bad, huh?”

  I leaned forward and patted his hand. “I know you get it.”

  “He really thinks David had found it? A cure?” Bob’s eyes were misty when he raised them to mine. I could practically see the what-ifs running through his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stay on it, kiddo.” He nodded, clearing his throat and turning back to the screen.

  “No reminders necessary. I have a Saint-Bernard-size dog in this one, Chief.” I stood and turned for the door, the phone call I’d been dreading all day not put-offable much longer. I needed a next of kin for Stephanie Whitmire, and an update on that investigation, if Aaron would give me anything.

  I called his cell first, and he clicked it on after the fourth ring. “If you say anything about ‘slow news,’ I’ll arrest you.”

  I laughed. “Never again, I swear on my favorite Manolos.”

  “What do you need from me today? Sorry I’ve been out of pocket.”

  “No worries. I got most of my stuff without you. But I need a follow on Stephanie Whitmire. Contact information for next of kin?”

  “That would be her parents.” I heard papers rustling. “Ron and Candy.” He reeled off a phone number.

  I scribbled it down. “Thanks.”

  “They were pretty torn up,” he said. “She was an only child. Not sure they’ll be up to talking to you.”

  I sighed. “This is the sucky part of the job. Why should they talk to me? I wouldn’t talk to me, in their shoes. But they pay me to ask.”

  “I know the feeling.” Aaron’s tone went from resigned to faux-nonchalant in the space of a breath. “Your day going okay?”

  “Just fine,” I said breezily. “Yours?”

  “About the same.”

  “You have anything new on David Maynard’s death today?” I tapped the pen on my notepad.

  “Not that I can—” Aaron bit off the word in mid-sentence and fell quiet, then sighed. “Damn. Did you know that already, or am I going to get in trouble again for being overtired and having a big mouth?”

  “I knew it,” I said. “Tax records plus a little snooping equals a name. I haven’t run it because the longer Charlie’s chasing an ID, the more of a lead I have on her when you release it. And because I don’t want to get you in trouble, of course.”

  “Of course.” He chuckled. “My hands are tied, Nichelle. I can’t comment on the record.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Where else would you get specifics? Nowhere anyone above me would buy, at any rate. Girl Friday would blast the PD playing favorites and trading favors with the Telegraph all over the internet.”

  “What you get in this business is at least a third who you know and how much they like you, and your bosses know that as well as mine do. It’s part of what makes me good at what I do.”

  “I don’t want the extra attention in the middle of this investigation.” A frustrated note left me wondering what the heck was going on, but I left it. I was more interested in what he wasn’t telling me than why, for the moment.

  “Fine.
I can find it on my own.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “Just do me a favor and cite your sources in your copy?”

  “If you’ll do me one and give me a twelve-hour heads up when you’re going to release Maynard’s name.”

  “Deal.”

  “Any idea when that’s coming?”

  “My gut says whenever drop-dead on the report is.”

  A whole week? “Who the hell is sitting on this lid, Aaron?”

  “No comment.”

  I rolled my eyes and hung up, dialing the Whitmires. Answering machine. I left a message, half-hoping they wouldn’t even listen to it. I hate bothering grieving family members, and I didn’t think these folks could shed any light on anything. Wrong place, wrong time, sad story, but no mystery about it.

  My BlackBerry buzzed a text arrival.

  Aaron’s private cell number. I clicked the message up on my screen.

  Who’s sitting on the lid might help you figure out what’s under it.

  Aaron didn’t want to stonewall me. And if he was feeding me tips, it was because he thought whoever was giving his marching orders was wrong.

  I clicked open a glowing story approval from Bob and wrote the follow on the Whitmire case, then closed my computer and packed up for the night.

  As I turned for the door, I ran through my leads on fast-forward. Which puzzle piece could I turn to make the picture clearer?

  Maynard’s right hand.

  I’d struck out with Goetze’s receptionist, but he couldn’t hide behind her forever.

  I checked the clock. Six forty. Probably too late to catch up with him tonight.

  I strolled to the elevator, liking the idea more as I thought it over. Could I eyeball Goetze from his staff directory photo?

  My inner Lois Lane thought that was an excellent possibility. And who eats lunch in the office on Friday?