“Mrs. Kochanski?” I asked.
“Yes, can I help you?” Her voice was warm with a note of polite removal.
“My name is Nichelle Clarke. I’m the crime reporter at the Richmond Telegraph,” I said.
Silence.
I waited, knowing full well she might hang up.
“There’s something I haven’t heard in a while.” I heard a deep breath go in. “What’s going on at the Telegraph these days?”
“Same thing that goes on at every other paper in the country. Trying to keep our heads above water.” I kept my tone light.
“How’s Bob?” she asked softly.
“He’s good.”
“I was so sorry to hear about Grace.” Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “She was the sister I never had, but I was afraid having us show up at the service…Well. Bob had a falling out with my husband. I’m not sure how much he talks about it.”
“He doesn’t. I heard a version of events from Larry,” I said.
“Larry is a good man.” Her voice brightened. “And a damned fine photographer.”
“He spoke highly of you.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve often wondered if they all hated me for making Herman leave the paper.” Her voice caught—only a small hitch, but I didn’t miss it. I felt like a jackass for bopping her with painful memories out of nowhere on a random Friday.
Asking uncomfortable questions (of people lacking a badge or an indictment) has never been my favorite part of my job, but it’s often necessary. I find it best to just blurt them out when the opportunity presents itself. There’s no such thing as tact when you’re asking about something that might make the person on the other side of the conversation cry.
“If anyone hates anybody, it’s not you, ma’am. That’s why I called. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about Elizabeth Herrington?”
A sharp breath in, followed by a gurgle that sounded halfway between a cough and a hard laugh. “There’s a name I could go forever without hearing again.” Every degree of warmth vacated her tone.
“I’m sorry to bring this up, truly, but I need to know what kind of person she is. Can you help me?”
She was quiet for so long I thought she’d hung up.
“Mrs. Kochanski?”
A deep breath, followed by a sigh. “I read the papers. I keep up with industry gossip. Bob loves you. He trusts you. But this is a very personal thing you’re asking me about. I’m not comfortable talking about it on the record. I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about it at all.”
“I would never quote you,” I said, the words running together they popped out so fast. “I’m stuck. Grasping at anything I think might turn up a lead. I’m working on a story about an unsolved murder. Maybe two.”
She barked a short laugh. “No, really.”
“That’s the truth.”
“She’s a murder suspect?” The flat tone gave way to glee. “Do they still fry people in Virginia?” She caught a sharp breath. “Heavens. Don’t answer that. I’m sorry.”
I bit down on a laugh. So much for time healing all wounds.
“I think I can safely say I get it, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I probably am that old, but I don’t like to think about it. I’m Sophia. Tell me what kind of background you need on…that woman. I can safely say I’ve never thought she had any morals. Or conscience.”
“And I guess you don’t live with Herman Kochanski for decades without picking up a feel for reading personalities.”
“You do not. My Herman is…special. We’re happy. But I still think about her. She’s a good reminder to pay attention to our marriage. We’ve never slipped again, since that almost destroyed our family. And my kids were too young to remember most of the bad years, thank God.”
“How was she with other people?”
“She was excellent at seducing my husband.”
I snorted. Touché. “She married a local businessman several years ago and left the paper. Larry said it was one of the happiest days of Bob’s career.”
“Bob is loyal to a fault. He never forgave Herman, but still.”
“Her husband was pretty wealthy,” I said.
“Was? Is it him you think she killed? The more you talk the better I like this. I mean, except for the poor schmuck she married.”
“His death was ruled an accident,” I said. “But the murder of another man she knew—a doctor—makes me wonder. I just want to get a feel for what you remember.”
“She was a scheming, devious little trollop.”
“Interested in helping other people?”
“Not a whit. She didn’t care about anyone but herself. We had four children—little children—and she took my husband up to a hotel room without a thought for anything but what she wanted.” She spat the words, then cleared her throat and offered a shaky laugh. “Listen to me. So emotional after all this time.”
“That’s exactly what I needed to know.”
“Cold. Calculating. Self-serving. Grace told me she heard her comment at a party once about how she just wanted to marry some rich old bastard and inherit all his money, and the society beat was the fastest way to that. Better than politics, she said, because those guys never leave their wives and run background checks on their mistresses.” I jotted her comments down, starring “inherit all his money.” It seemed from what DonnaJo said, this plan backfired. Maybe Maynard was insurance?
“Thank you for talking to me.”
“I hope I helped. With your story.”
“And maybe the PD’s investigation?”
“Maybe.” I smiled, wondering if this would’ve been what it was like to talk to Bob’s wife. I’d always been sorry I hadn’t gotten to know her.
“Looking forward to reading it,” Sophia said.
I thanked her, wished her a nice day, and hung up.
Checking the clock, I flipped my laptop open.
After three. I owed Bob a story, and Charlie’s early report would be on TV in about half an hour. I sent him a message that I’d have his copy ready by five and got up to hunt for caffeine, wondering what Charlie knew. And, as much as I hated to admit it, what Alexa thought she knew. Her blog had been a pain in my ass for months, and with a big story in the works, I should probably keep an eye on it.
What Alexa actually had? Not much.
But you couldn’t tell it from her homepage.
I managed to refrain from spitting soda all over my computer by nearly choking myself, scrolling and reading as I coughed.
Girl Friday had been a busy little bee, her new career slinging hospital food notwithstanding. She had two posts already on the conspiracy between the Telegraph and the RPD to keep a murderer out of jail.
“I try to be a good person. But I really hate you,” I said, my eyes on her little notebook and pen avatar.
“It appears the feeling is mutual. And Andrews is pissed,” Shelby’s voice came from behind me, and I turned in my chair.
“Andrews saw this?”
My former nemesis just nodded, not a trace of the old animosity on her face. “Fair warning: he’s yelling about the paper being used to barter with the cops and how it hurts credibility.”
“Yelling. At who?”
“Bob.”
“Damn him. Thanks, Shelby.”
I bolted out of my chair and charged for Bob’s office, Andrews’ nasally twang reaching my ears from several feet away.
“Dammit, Jeffers, this blogger is making us look like amateurs. What do you have to say for yourself?” he bellowed as I shoved the door open and stepped into the room.
They both whirled on me. “That was closed for a reason,” Andrews snapped.
“Nichelle, it’s a bad time.”
Bob’s face looked a little haggard and a lot resigned, and the combination pissed me right the hell off. I ignored him and turned to Andrews with a tight smile.
“I gather you’re chewing Bob’s ass for a decision I made.” I maintained control of my temper only because the little ferret in front of me was Bob’s boss—and mine, technically—though I didn’t like to think about that. “I thought maybe I should be present for this conversation.”
“You have final approval over what goes on our front page now? I must’ve missed an email.”
Deep breath. Count to five. “I made a decision, in the middle of a crime scene, and made a deal with Aaron White. And I stand by that decision.”
“This Alexis whoever, this blogger, is using a poor decision on your part to call this newspaper’s credibility into question. I’m disappointed, Miss Clarke. You usually show better judgement.”
I flicked a glance at Bob, whose face portrayed a conflict that made my heart twist. He wanted to defend me, but didn’t really want to step into the line of fire again.
I’d been working my ass off for months to keep Andrews at bay, and now here sat my boss, in trouble with a jerk whose entire knowledge of the news business would fit in Bob’s pinky fingernail. Because of me.
Dammit, Nichelle.
Bob opened his mouth and I shook my head slightly.
I got this one, Chief.
“Then we’re even, Mr. Andrews.” The words held a layer of frost even Andrews couldn’t miss—and his head is generally so far up his own ass, that’s saying something. His eyes widened and I waited a few beats before I continued. “I’m disappointed that my publisher is leaping to judgement, siding with an actual amateur, when I’ve proven myself more than capable of doing my job well and landing this newspaper exclusives that increase revenue. Why do you have that little confidence in your staff?”
Bob leaned back in his chair, throwing me a quick wink before he turned an interested gaze on a sputtering Andrews.
“Of course I have confidence in our staff.” Andrews waved a hand at the Pulitzer on Bob’s office wall. “Your portfolio certainly speaks for itself, but…” He paused, looking around for an answer to pop out of the air and rescue him. His face lit with a smug smile and he focused on me again. “I’m concerned that you’ve gotten too close to your sources.”
Alexa’s words, lifted straight from her blog. At least our publisher was reading something.
“The story is always first for Nichelle,” Bob said. “I’ve never been surer of that.”
I smiled. Thanks, boss. But hush up.
“Actually, if you want to know the truth, the people edge the story by a hair, sir.” The word tasted funny as it slipped out directed at someone I had so little respect for, but I needed Andrews to calm down and leave Bob alone. “I think that’s what makes me good at what I do. And no one is sure exactly what happened at St. Vincent’s.”
“I understand from Charlie Lewis, Alexis what’s-her-name, and your own report that there was a woman with a bullet in her head and a guy with a rifle. Is two and two seventeen now?”
I kept my face arranged in a carefully neutral expression—not easy when the top of my head was ready to blow off. Andrews had about seven years and a million-fold brown-nosing chops on me, making him the youngest publisher in the paper’s history. He’d come from the advertising side of the great journalism divide, which meant the bottom line was his only real concern. Everyone in the room was well aware of that. While I was thankful to still have a newspaper to write for in an age where they were shuttering all across the country, Andrews putting on like he cared about integrity would’ve been laughable—if it hadn’t been so infuriating.
“I appreciate you keeping up with my competition, but I feel it necessary to point out that I was the only reporter inside the hospital,” I said. “That was a huge exclusive for this newspaper, and I’m interested to see what it meant for our rack sales yesterday. And our advertising sales today.”
He didn’t miss the disdain in the words, blinking for a second before he replied.
“I’m sure sales are up all around.”
Like he doesn’t check them more often than Perez Hilton checks his Twitter.
“Then why are you upset?”
More blinking. For so long I had to join in before my eyes shriveled into raisins.
“I—well, I saw that article and I was concerned,” he said. “The newspaper isn’t supposed to be a PR sheet for the police. Everyone knows that.”
“I think I’ve proven that I’m willing and able to call the PD on the carpet when it’s necessary, have I not?” I raised a brow and Bob erupted into a coughing fit that poorly disguised his laughter.
Andrews dropped his eyes to his shiny brown wingtips, folding his hands behind his back. “I suppose that’s true.”
“I’d like to think I’ve earned some credibility and respect. I’ve been at this for a long time to have my bosses doubt my abilities.”
“Also…true,” Andrews grunted.
“So there’s no reason for you to be concerned,” I said, touching his elbow with one finger and steering him toward the door.
He looked like he wanted to stay but didn’t really have a viable reason to when I walked him across the threshold and closed the door behind me.
“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his eyes not meeting mine.
“I do. And I know what you’re doing, too. Leave Bob alone. If you have a problem with the way I’m handling a story, come talk to me.”
He stiffened. “The editorial content of the newspaper is Bob’s responsibility. Beyond that, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I bent my knees and caught his eye. “I believe you do. And there are enough people here who won’t stand for you forcing him out the door to make your life downright hellish. Try explaining the loss of every one of your top reporters and columnists to the board.”
He took a step backward. “I don’t care for ultimatums.”
“I’m not giving you one. Just helping you see the situation more clearly.” I smiled. “The news staff is a family. We squabble, we eat, we gossip—and we stick together. I haven’t figured out why you’re so hot to get rid of Bob, but do everyone a favor and lay off.”
He gave me a measured once-over and turned on his heel, striding to the elevator without another word.
His abrupt exit made me uneasy, and I walked back to my chair mulling over the last thing I’d said to him.
It was true: I didn’t know why he had it out for Bob. I assumed it was simply that my editor was getting older, but people work into their seventies all the time.
Maybe I assumed wrong.
20.
Hard questions
Orange tinged the crimson leaves on the sprawling maple in my front yard, the backlight from the sinking sun giving the illusion the branches were on fire. Gorgeous. And somehow soothing.
I sat in my car in the driveway and stared at it, my week running through my head on fast-forward.
Two hours of computer research had gotten me basics on Goetze and Andrews both, but there were still roughly a thousand places to look for details—and a million things I didn’t know. Probably two million things I didn’t know I didn’t know.
I was no closer to any meaningful history on Elizabeth Eason (née Herrington), and beginning to think I’d just have to suck it up and go talk to her. Telling someone she wanted to marry rich and inherit a fortune was interesting, yes. But proof of anything? No.
Then there was Kyle. Him helping the PD with the Maynard case was the weirdest thing I’d seen in months—and in my line of work, that’s pretty out there.
I searched what I knew about ATF jurisdiction for a reason they’d be interested in the random murder of a b
rilliant oncologist and came up with jack squat. The FDA, the NIH, even the DEA—sure. But Maynard didn’t have anything to do with guns or tobacco. Or booze. Did he?
“Hell if I know.” I shoved the kitchen door open and bent to scratch Darcy’s ears. “From what little I’ve been able to turn up, the doc might have been into any number of things.”
“Any idea what sort of things?” Kyle’s voice came from the foot of the steps, nearly sending me out of my skin.
I shook my head as I filled Darcy’s bowl. “I didn’t get to spend the day searching the man’s home and his private files. Unlike some people I know.”
“Lord knows what you’d come away with if we let you loose in there.” Kyle took a seat at my little bistro table, watching me rinse the dog food can and toss it in the recycle bin. When I turned to face him, he smiled. “Maybe we should give it a shot.”
“Name the time, Agent.”
“This is a weird case,” he said, nodding when I opened the fridge and waved a Dr Pepper can at him.
I poured two over ice, taking the seat across from Kyle and tapping a finger on the tile of the tabletop. Did he know about the Google thing? I’d give it even odds. So either I could ask and see if one of the government’s computer geniuses had figured it out, or I could trust the private sector skills of my BFF’s professional hacker husband and keep my hand to myself for a while.
“More twists than a water spigot at a bath house,” I said, raising my eyes to meet his blue lasers.
“You’re not going to tell me what you know.”
“Not unless you’re going to tell me what you do.”
“The hush order on this came from higher up than I can see.” He spread his hands in an I-can’t-help-it gesture. “They’ll have my ass. And my badge.”
I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “Last time I checked, no one had me under surveillance.”
“Funny thing about that: you don’t know when someone does. That’s sort of the point.”
I blanched. “You need to tell me something, Agent Miller?”
Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) Page 17
