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

by LynDee Walker

  “Can you take them a photo?”

  His cup hit the table with a thunk and fell over. The last of his coffee trickled across the teak and I grabbed a napkin and blotted at it.

  “A what?”

  I pulled out my BlackBerry and opened the picture, pushing it across the table.

  “Larry’s trying to sharpen it, because I know the quality is beyond shitty. But that’s a man with a rifle. In the empty room straight across from that meds closet.”

  He put the screen a centimeter from the end of his nose and squinted at the picture for at least a commercial break before he looked back up at me.

  “How long have you had this?” He laid the phone on the table.

  “About fourteen hours.”

  “Fourteen hours could make a difference here, Nichelle.” His voice was tight, and I heard mine get defensive when I opened my mouth.

  “What if whoever wants Ellinger to hang for this gets ahold of it and it disappears? Someone made Maynard disappear off the freaking internet, Aaron.” I pulled the photo and note from my bag and pushed them across the table. “And I found this in my mailbox last night. These people are smart, and they’re not playing.”

  He picked it up and studied it, then dropped it back to the table, shaking his head. “Your mom?”

  I nodded.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” He held up the note.

  “That my mystery tipster call was a decoy so I wouldn’t see whoever dropped this off?” Joey and I had gotten there about eleven thirty last night, and the look on Aaron’s face said he agreed.

  “I ran the number. Prepaid cell, no name registered. Watch yourself.” Aaron touched the ghost image of the second shooter on my phone screen and ran one hand over his face. “As for this…Even if you don’t trust me,” the words were muffled by his fingers, resting across his lips, “I would think you’d trust Miller.”

  “How? Why the hell is he even working on this? Has anyone told you? Because if they’ve told him, he’s not telling me. You’ve all been clammed up tighter than Uncle Scrooge’s checkbook for two weeks. Why should I run to bring you evidence when you won’t talk to me?”

  “Because you want this to go toward what’s right. We’re getting pointed to what’s easy.” He raised one hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “Let’s not. Us jumping at each other won’t get us what we want.”

  “Which is?”

  “The truth.” He glanced around, tapping a finger on his chin. “I might have found something interesting myself in the wee hours, but even I’m getting paranoid. Want to take a walk and talk it through? Tell me what your famous inner Lois Lane has to say about this?”

  I stood. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “Historically, that’s when you’re right.” His lips disappeared into a grim line. “Let’s finish this.”

  He held the door open as I stepped out into the October sunshine.

  I turned back to ask about his late-night epiphany and screamed as my favorite detective crumpled to the ground, a black-red stain spreading across his green shirtfront.

  33.

  Officer down

  The air thickened, the blood pounding in my ears blocking the neighborhood bustle and traffic sounds of the morning.

  I grabbed Aaron and threw myself back through the door, dragging him with me. From far away, I heard a shrill voice, saying “help us,” over and over. Pretty sure it was me.

  Clattering commotion as chairs overturned and people rushed forward. A million shouted variations of “What happened?”

  I groped for my phone, punching 911 and trying to catch my breath and corral my thoughts enough to be useful.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “RPD officer down,” I said, holding the panic out of my voice so she could understand me. I wriggled out from under Aaron and turned, snatching the towel the barista was offering and pressing it over his chest. It was soaked in about two and a half seconds. Shit. I kept talking.

  “This is Nichelle Clarke. I’m at Thompson’s Coffee Shop on West Cary with Detective Aaron White, and he’s been shot. He’s losing a lot of blood.”

  Stunned silence for half a second. But dispatchers are used to processing quickly and moving on. Her tone was all business, keys already clicking in the background. “I’ll have an ambulance there in a blink, Miss Clarke.”

  She disappeared for a few seconds and then was back, her voice soothing as she asked me about his condition. “Is he responding?”

  I pinched the phone between my cheekbone and my shoulder and slapped Aaron’s face. “Aaron! Answer me!” I shouted, getting up on my knees and leaning on the towel I was pressing over the wound.

  His eyelids fluttered as he mumbled, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

  “He’s about half-conscious,” I said into the phone. I laid two fingers over his carotid artery. “His pulse is thready, breathing shallow, but they’re there.”

  “Where is the wound?”

  “His ribcage.” I pressed harder, blocking thoughts of all the vital organs under those bones. He would be fine. He had to be.

  “What happened?”

  “I...” A wave of panic crashed over me and I swallowed tears, turning to scan the street outside the window. “I don’t know. We walked outside. He was holding the door. And he just fell. Bleeding.” I choked the last word out and hauled in a deep breath. Losing my shit was not an option. Plenty of time for that when Aaron was safely at the hospital.

  “You didn’t hear a shot?”

  “No. But I wasn’t listening for one. We were going for a walk.”

  “It’s okay, Miss Clarke.” Same soothing voice. Like you’d talk to a frightened child.

  Like hell it was okay. My friend was bleeding out under my hands.

  “Where is the ambulance?” I said through gritted teeth, pressing harder on Aaron’s chest.

  Computer keys clicked. “Two blocks.”

  Okay. “Hang in there, Aaron. When was the last time you took the girls fishing? Think about that.”

  “Good. Keep talking to him.”

  Sirens. My breath came easier, and I pressed harder still, my arms shaking.

  The front door slammed open.

  “Nichelle!”

  I turned from murmuring to Aaron to see Landers and Kyle rushing forward, paramedics on their heels.

  Kyle’s hand closed over my shoulder as a broad-chested medic dropped to his knees next to me, putting his gloved fingers over my bloody ones and motioning with his head for me to move. I pulled away and fell into Kyle’s legs. The medics went to work on Aaron, the guy holding his chest sporting arms twice the size of my thighs. They had him on a stretcher and out the door in less than a minute.

  I turned my face into Kyle’s khakis and sobbed. Kyle’s hand went to my hair. Landers said something about going with Aaron and disappeared.

  Kyle put his arms under mine and hauled me to my feet. “You in there?” His voice was gentle, his head tipped to meet my eyes.

  “What the actual fuck, Kyle?” Tears followed in another wave.

  His arms went around me, pulling me close. “I don’t know, honey. But I will find out. And I will keep you safe.”

  “I was having coffee with a cop.” The words hitched out between sobs. “How much safer can you get?”

  He grabbed a towel for my hands, pulling me to a table and waving to the barista, who appeared with two full cups a nanosecond later. Her pale face and big eyes said she’d seen more than she wanted to this shift. Me too, sister.

  Kyle pushed my cup toward me and picked up his own. “Tell me what happened.”

  Whoever was trying to frame Tom Ellinger wasn’t screwing around, that’s what happened. I knew good and well the bullet could�
�ve been meant for me, but either way…I raised my eyes to Kyle’s and shook my head.

  I told Aaron, and somebody shot him twelve seconds later. My eyes drifted to the shoulder of Kyle’s red polo, where I knew a scar was still fading underneath.

  “I don’t know,” I said, standing. “I have to go wash my hands.”

  Every word true. And I couldn’t put anyone else in danger.

  Thirty minutes of SuperCop interrogation should be enough to break anyone, but I was more determined to keep Kyle safe than he was to make me talk—and he liked Aaron, so that was saying something.

  He asked me the same questions seventy-six thousand different ways, and I came to admire his technique. He was good. If I wasn’t still half-panicked, I could’ve paid enough attention to learn a trick or two.

  “We stepped outside. I was facing away. I turned, and he fell. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anything,” I repeated calmly.

  “Dammit, Nichelle, why are you stonewalling me?” Kyle bit out.

  I looked around. We were still at the same table I’d been sitting at with Aaron. The rest of the place had been cleared by the RPD, the detectives taking statements from the customers and staff and the forensics team studying the scene.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, bringing my gaze back to Kyle’s. “I’m answering the questions you’re asking me.”

  “You are?” He leaned forward. “Tell me why you were here. What were y’all talking about?”

  “Nothing really.” Okay, that was a lie. But while I knew it wasn’t logical that anyone could have heard me and Aaron, what if? This whole damned thing was so crazy. Bugs. Teamwork. I could think of several scenarios, and none of them made me want to share anything more than the law required with my friendly ex.

  “Bullshit. He was up all night. I know, because I was too. He didn’t come meet you to shoot the breeze.”

  I raised cool eyes to Kyle’s. “Prove it.”

  “Talk to me.” His tone flipped from annoyed to pleading. “I can help. I can’t let you get hurt.”

  “Back at you,” I mumbled.

  He tipped his head to one side. “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  I ran scenarios on fast-forward. If whoever shot Aaron did in fact know what we’d been talking about, I was in very real danger. The kind that made my stomach feel heavy and my skin clammy. But what good would it do anyone to pull Kyle into it? The smartest thing would be to keep my head down and focus. Digging until I found the answer—and the mystery gunman.

  “Can I go back to work now?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. “I’m pretty sure I’m leading the front page tomorrow.”

  He shoved his chair back from the table. “You are so damned stubborn.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I know how frustrating it is to ask people questions and not get the answers you want.” I stood.

  “Does this have something to do with getting even with me for shutting you out of this case?” Kyle looked like someone had slapped him. “White is your friend, for Chrissake.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing of the sort.” I couldn’t stand that disappointed puppy look on his face. I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Trust me, Kyle. You asked that of me last week. Your turn to give it back.”

  He locked eyes with me. I didn’t blink.

  He returned the pressure on my fingers. “I do trust you. Take it down. It might be the one and only time I ever say those words to a reporter. But you have to trust me too.”

  I had to give him something. “Aaron said he found something interesting last night. But he didn’t get a chance to tell me what.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go have a look around his office.”

  My head ducked involuntarily when he pushed open the back door of the restaurant to walk me to my car. Every other reporter in fifty miles was on the front walk, and I didn’t want to be today’s top story, nor was I telling Charlie one damned thing.

  “I’ll call you,” he said as he shut the car door.

  I nodded, starting the engine.

  When Kyle disappeared inside, I fished my BlackBerry out of my bag and pulled up a text to Joey. You still in Richmond?

  Just heading out now, came the instant reply. I smiled. He liked getting texts from me.

  Can you stick around today? I need a safe place to crash tonight.

  The phone started buzzing before I could say “Manolo.”

  “Don’t go flipping out on me,” I said, putting it to my ear.

  “Why would I have cause to do that? Should I turn on the TV?”

  “Aaron’s been shot.”

  “Aaron who you were meeting for coffee?”

  Calm, cool, and matter-of-fact. “We were leaving the shop. He wanted to go for a walk while we finished talking.”

  Didn’t work.

  “Someone shot a cop while you were STANDING NEXT TO HIM?” I pulled the phone away from my head as Joey roared in my ear. I put it back in time to catch a string of swearwords so impressive I didn’t fully recognize a couple of them.

  “Where are you?”

  His voice was so tight, I could see his stoic, unreadable expression though he was more than a mile away.

  “Leaving Thompson’s for my office.”

  “Like hell you are. I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay put.”

  “Don’t give me orders,” I snapped. “I have a huge story to write. And a nutcase on the loose. No way anyone’s going to try to pin this on poor Tom Ellinger, which means my exclusive is going to disappear if I don’t figure something out fast. I’m going to work.” I glanced down at my shirt, the blood drying on the front sending my eyes to my hands, which I had scrubbed raw in the coffeehouse bathroom.

  Fabulous. I couldn’t go to the office like that unless I wanted to give Bob another heart attack.

  I couldn’t go home to change—Joey’s tone said he’d lock me in my own house and not think twice about it.

  I couldn’t exactly go into a store dressed like a slasher flick extra, either.

  Gym bag. A stinky t-shirt was better than bloody silk.

  One problem solved, I put the car in gear and sped out of the lot before Joey could get in his car and drive the seven blocks to the coffee shop. I knew him well enough to know that’s what he was doing even before I heard the soft thunk of the door closing in the background. But he wouldn’t dare try to drag me out of the newsroom. I just had to beat him to my office.

  Which, on one hand—I’m a big girl, and my office is full of people. He was being slightly absurd. On the other, his heart was in the right place.

  “Listen, Captain Overprotective, I’m not stupid, and I have less desire to end up in a body bag chasing this story than I do to wear clogs for the rest of my days. I appreciate the offer to play bodyguard, and I will take you up on it. When my story is done. Let me go to the office. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave. I promise.”

  Heavy, Nichelle-is-driving-me-nuts sigh, followed by silence.

  I knew this game. I waited.

  Crickets.

  “If I wasn’t being careful, I wouldn’t have called you,” I said softly.

  Four beats, and another sigh. “Fine.”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  I turned into the garage and parked next to the elevator, checking the clock. Coming up on eight thirty. Bob would be out of the staff meeting in a few minutes, and I had nine hours and change before drop dead on the front page.

  Time for a miracle.

  34.

  Winning at losing

  No matter what happened in the rest of my day, nobody saw me changing my shirt in the front seat of my car.

  Thankful for small favors, I stuffed my Donna Karan blouse i
nto the garbage can outside the elevator and tapped one tangerine Kate Spade mule on the sticky floor as the elevator climbed toward the newsroom.

  I needed to talk to Bob. And light a candle before I went to talk to Larry. I knew the photo was a longshot for anything other than what it had already provided, but it was all I had. With Aaron on an operating table at St. Vincent’s, it was only a matter of time before Charlie caught up. For all I knew she might not be that far behind to begin with.

  I shook off the competitive itch and refocused. Tom Ellinger. Benny Shabani.

  And now Aaron.

  Beating Charlie was a distant fourth. Even Rick Andrews could take a flying leap today.

  I dug my phone out and shot Landers a text begging for updates as the doors opened.

  Bolting off the elevator, I waved hello to three people between it and Bob’s office, but I couldn’t have put faces to any one of them. The story was all I could see, because it was the only way to help anyone.

  “Chief, I know I missed the meeting but I—”

  I stopped when I rounded the corner into Bob’s office, Andrews and two other suits just taking seats. I got blank stares from the ones I didn’t know and a sneer from Andrews.

  “Bob has another appointment just now.”

  “I have an exclusive for tomorrow’s front page I need to talk to him about.” I hovered in the doorway, a heaviness in the air giving me pause.

  “On what? Every TV station in town has a live feed right now about the shooting of an RPD detective this morning. Our website has nothing. How are we supposed to compete for advertising money when we missed the biggest breaking story of the year?”

  “I was—”

  Andrews raised a hand. “I’m not interested in excuses, Miss Clarke. And we have business to discuss. I’ll deal with you when I’m done here.”

  My eyes flew to Bob, whose lips had vanished into a thin white line, his posture ramrod straight, his hands white-knuckling the arms of his chair.