Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  She followed me down the hall where we waited for the lift. Once inside, doors closed, I pressed the Stop button for privacy, so we could speak somewhere other than her glass-walled news director office.

  “What do you mean throwing me to the GM like that with no warning?” I didn’t push her up against the elevator wall, but I stood close enough to breathe heavy in her face. “You’re my boss, you’re supposed to protect me.”

  “What do you think I was doing in that office? I could have let you fend for yourself. But I argued him out of firing you.”

  “You were in there protecting your own job. You didn’t want me alone with him or I’d rat you out.”

  “Then we’d both be out of work. Here you’re just off a day. If you want, come in anyway, we’ll just keep you off the air and I’ll tell him you were gone.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I need a day off.”

  Then I let the elevator go and we dropped one whole floor to the ground level. Door open.

  “Does this mean you’re not going to watch my animals this weekend?” Now she was the one whispering. A full house menagerie like hers would make it hard to find a sitter. She might have to cancel her trip.

  “No, I’ll watch them, Noreen.”

  A promise is a promise. As a journalist I pride myself on keeping my word, even to people who might not deserve that courtesy.

  The elevator door shut behind us. Noreen walked toward her office; I walked toward the building exit. When I got to the door I turned to look back at her in case she had turned to look at me. Somehow I thought if we exchanged an understanding glance just then, that would be a sign that things were okay. But she never looked back.

  CHAPTER 49

  I went home in a funk, forgetting I wouldn’t be alone. Laura was thrilled to see me. I didn’t mention anything about being suspended, just that I was taking a day off.

  It didn’t occur to her that kind of flexibility might be unusual in the news business because she had something else on her mind.

  “I’m sorry to even bring this up,” my old college pal said, “but I sort of need another favor.”

  “What’s wrong, Laura?” She was becoming a high-maintenance friend, but I continued to cut her slack because of her murdered sister. I wondered what more I could do for her besides putting a roof over her head.

  “Kate’s editor just called. There’s a problem, Riley.”

  “There sure is. Her author is dead. But I don’t think there’s anything you or I or he can do to change that. It’s sort of like that dragon tattoo writer from Sweden.”

  “Well, apparently Kate was contracted to turn in another book and Mary Kay Berarducci says if she doesn’t get it, Lascivious Press is going to sue the estate to get the advance back.”

  My first reaction was that a deal was a deal and the publisher was probably entitled to either the manuscript or the money. But I didn’t see what any of this had to do with me.

  “The deadline is in two days,” she said. “The book must be finished. I just have to find it.”

  Days earlier, Laura was horrified by her sister’s covert occupation. Now she was taking a business approach. I’d seen this before, money helps shift the focus away from grief.

  “Well, the most likely place is on her computer,” I said.

  So we headed over to the murder house to look for the manuscript. On the way I asked Laura how her sister ended up owning their parents’ home.

  “She bought it from them when they decided to downsize. I never wanted to move back to Minnesota, so that was fine with me. I’ve enjoyed calling different cities home.”

  “Where have you lived?” I asked.

  “Omaha, Phoenix, Houston, Des Moines, Chicago.” She rattled off a list of cities.

  “You’re kind of a vagabond,” I observed.

  “I don’t like being tied down,” she responded.

  One thing I noticed from my recent conversations with Laura was that she never inquired about me. How was I doing? Was I seeing anyone? How were my parents? And she never volunteered much about herself, except what I pried out of her.

  I decided not to dwell on that because if her pattern held, she’d be on the road soon enough. And frankly, I wasn’t sure she’d bother keeping in touch. So hearing the story of her life post-college might be a waste of time.

  Kate’s laptop computer was in her home office. I opened it and tried logging in, but found myself locked out.

  “Any idea what her password would be?” I asked her sister.

  Laura shrugged. No clue.

  I tried the obvious ones. Birthday. Address. Incorrect Password flashed across the screen each time. “I think we should take it to the station and let my computer expert see if he can crack it.” Then I remembered I was banned from the station until tomorrow.

  On a sudden hunch, I typed in D-e-s-i-r-e-e-F-l-e-u-r.

  A few seconds later, I was inside. Xiong would be proud.

  I saw a row of files. “Anything look promising?” I asked Laura.

  She shrugged. So I opened the first one and found a steamy book cover with the earth surrounded by naked bodies. It was titled Sexpocalypse. Kate’s novels were still strewn across the floor from the rant the other day. “Laura, do any of those books match this cover?”

  She looked distastefully through the stack, and shook her head. Seemed to me a good chance Sexpocalypse might be the work in progress. I used the finder feature on Kate’s computer to search for the title and pulled up a file with that name and clicked to open.

  I skimmed the first several pages.

  The opening scene, England, boy meets girl. Almost immediately Kate, or rather, Desiree, had the couple coupled in a university broom closet. A similar scene unfolded in Australia where two characters ended up between the sheets one page after meeting in a Laundromat. Then cut to a subway train in Japan where passengers started making out with their seat mates until a hint of orgy at the end of the scene.

  The action shifted to a laboratory where scientists concluded that a world pandemic was in play leaving its victims addicted to sex. The best global medical minds were trying to develop a vaccine, but a terrorist country was working to thwart them because a world preoccupied with sex would be easy prey.

  The manuscript ran just over sixty-five thousand words. I hooked up the laptop to the printer to make a copy. As the pages printed, I emailed myself the file as an attachment. I asked Laura to keep the paper tray filled and the printer unclogged.

  While we waited for last page, I noticed Kate hadn’t logged out of her email account. I loaded her account and scanned her files. I first checked messages she’d sent, starting with the most recent, and found one telling Chuck how safe he made her feel. That seemed an unusual compliment for a boyfriend, but Kate, I was learning, led an uncommon life and might have had good reason to feel unsafe.

  She had also sent a note to her editor at Lascivious Press, promising to make her deadline, but bemoaning she had yet to lock in on a stunning conclusion.

  Berarducci, eager to see the manuscript, reassured her, “Keep writing, this idea of yours has potential to be a Big Book.”

  Most of the mail Kate received seemed to be fan letters, from men and women, appreciative of such passionate writing. Some raves had even arrived after her murder, the aficionados unaware their erotic idol had fallen. As I searched for clues on her computer, I learned more than I wanted to about what turns readers on in sex scenes.

  One thing I noted, Kate had not sent any messages to Laura, nor vice versa. “Hey, Laura, I don’t see any sisterly chat here. Were the two of you not speaking?”

  She seemed miffed by my question. “I prefer talking on the phone than with computers.”

  “Fair enough.” But it occurred to me that perhaps the two of them might not have been on the best terms. Laura might be carrying some guilt.

  I was at day three before Kate’s death when I found what I was looking for, though I didn’t actually know I was looking for it
until I found it.

  I opened an email, expecting to read another compliment about Kate’s vivid imagination or a question on where she gets such sensual ideas . . . instead I read, “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”

  Just then the last manuscript page printed, Laura straightened the stack of paper, and stood to leave.

  “Before we go, try and find something that has your sister’s handwriting on it,” I asked.

  “Like a diary?”

  “That would be too good to be true, Laura. I’d settle for a shopping list.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll explain later, I think there’s a chance we might need it.”

  While she searched drawers, I focused my attention on the computer screen. This email address was different from the one that posted the “Taunting Teresa” comment on the Channel 3 website. I forwarded the message to myself, and to Xiong, with a note asking him if he could determine where the original email was sent from.

  “Does this line mean anything to you?” I asked Laura.

  “No, who’s Teresa?” she asked.

  “I can’t be sure.”

  But I couldn’t shake the name Teresa Dolezal Feldevert from my mind.

  CHAPTER 50

  We took the laptop, the manuscript, and the entire set of Desiree Fleur books back to my house. Laura asked me to email Sexpocalypse to Kate’s attorney so he could send it to Mary Kay Berarducci at Lascivious Press.

  “That will make it seem professional,” she said.

  “Do you want to read it first?” I asked.

  “Heaven’s no. I just want to hand it in and be done with it.”

  So I forwarded the attachment, and then curled up with the pages on the couch to see what all the fuss was about.

  “You’re not going to read it, Riley, are you?”

  She looked so horrified, I told her I was looking for clues to Kate’s killer. “Maybe your sister was trying to tell us something.”

  Laura looked unconvinced. I owned an extensive home library of fiction—bestsellers from yesteryear—but had never read a book before it was published and thought it might be fun to form my own opinions before any official reviews. Reporters also like being first, and I saw this as another way to capture that feeling.

  Now I found myself wishing my roommate would go for a walk.

  “Don’t you find reading all those sex details embarrassing?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, my cell phone sounded with an email from Xiong telling me the latest “Taunting Teresa” message was also sent from the Minneapolis downtown branch of the Hennepin County Library System.

  The timing and location of the comments came days before and days after Kate’s murder, suggesting that unlike the police theory that the serial killer had moved on, perhaps Minnesota was home.

  The date and time sent were on the email. If surveillance video at the library computers showed the same person online during both times, that could yield a picture of the killer.

  “I think I might need to go back to work, Laura.”

  “You’re suspended.” Noreen’s greeting as I walked into her office lacked any twinge of delight at seeing me, or regret at dismissing me. “Don’t make things worse, Riley, just leave.”

  “I thought you said I could hang out and just pretend to be blackballed.”

  “Since you left, I’ve rethought my position.”

  While the rest of the newsroom couldn’t hear our exchange, they had been informed of my transgression and the meted discipline. They kept glancing in our direction.

  “I think we might need to take a rain check on that suspension,” I said, briefing her on what I’d found.

  “You’ve put me in a difficult position,” she said. “And I don’t appreciate it. Either I wait until tomorrow to air this story, or assign it to someone else.”

  “I’m not handing over the details to anyone else, Noreen. See how far you get without me.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I don’t like either of my options, but I don’t have much choice.”

  “You could stand up to the GM and tell him this suspension thing isn’t working out.”

  “Then my job is on the line.”

  I could see from the tilt of her chin that debating the issue would be unproductive. “Then I guess we’ll have to resume this conversation tomorrow.”

  My boss didn’t express any qualms or reassurances. She kept her eyes glued to her paperwork and her mouth glued shut as I left the newsroom.

  A voice mail message flashed on my phone. I could see from my missed calls that it was from Laura.

  If I don’t answer my cell, I wish people would just hang up, and simply wait for me to call them back. Then I wouldn’t have to go through the mechanics of pressing extra buttons just to hear them ask me to return their call.

  “Riley, I’ve got another problem,” her message said. “This is a biggie. When are you going to be home?”

  Even though I suspected I would regret it, I hit redial. I was prepared to tell her I was working late and not to wait up until I realized that, banned from the station, I had nowhere else to go. And neither did Laura.

  When she answered, she sounded almost hysterical.

  “Kate’s editor says the book isn’t finished, Riley. There’s no ending.”

  I didn’t know what to say. All books need endings. The author can’t just stop writing and call it done. Except for some literary fiction, and no one could accuse Kate of crafting that kind of novel.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Riley? Here’s the worst part. Mary Kay expects me to finish it. A sex book.”

  I wished her luck, especially given the tight deadline looming.

  “What are talking about, Riley? You know I’m no writer.”

  “Well, somehow you must have given her editor the impression you could do the job.”

  “I had no choice,” Laura admitted. “She was going to bring in a ghostwriter and pay them the rest of the advance.”

  Somehow, that bit of news didn’t surprise me. But her next words did.

  “I can’t write the ending,” Laura persisted. “I don’t even know the story. At least you’ve read the book, Riley. And you’re good at writing fast. I think you should complete it.”

  I pointed out to Laura that I never actually finished Sexpocalypse. “That part about the handcuffs brought back some bad memories about me and the local jail.”

  “But you read fast, Riley. You could catch up. You could be a ghostwriter.”

  The idea of ghostwriting had a certain panache. And all journalists believe they have novels hidden deep inside them. Maybe this would be a way to find out if I had a flair for fiction. I told Laura we’d talk when I got home.

  I took my laptop and a sandwich into my bedroom, locking the door for privacy as I tried to brainstorm an ending.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Laura said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I told her to stop bothering me, although I phrased it a little more diplomatically.

  I spent the next hour skimming through one intimate scene after another and saw what the Lascivious Press editor meant about the lack of closure. While Sexpocalypse explored an intriguing theme about society’s obsession with sex, the manuscript had no real conclusion. I searched Kate’s computer, but found no outline or hint of how she wanted the book to end.

  She and Mary Kay Berarducci had exchanged emails about what types of food create an appetite for sex, but I hadn’t seen that worked into the plot and wondered if it might just be girl talk.

  Often while cranking out news stories, I found myself wishing I didn’t have to stick to facts . . . thinking what a tale I could spin if I wasn’t bound by reality. But rules are rules. Now as I tried to write fiction, I found myself craving facts because after a career in journalism, making stuff up felt like cheating.

  “Hey, Riley, do you want any coffee?” Laura must have wanted to give me a caffeine boost so
I wouldn’t fall asleep before completing the job.

  “Stop interrupting me,” I told her.

  To get me in the mood to write erotica, I decided to seek a male point of view. So I dialed my beau. I started off telling Garnett about the “Taunting Teresa” messages, which he found riveting.

  “You must be crashing to make air tonight, Riley. I’m surprised you even had time to call me.”

  That’s when I told him about my suspension. And my ghostwriting plan to finish Desiree Fleur’s latest book.

  “So you’re writing pornography instead of news?” he asked.

  “No, erotica,” I said. “There’s a difference. Porn is just sex. Erotica is emotion and art.” At least that’s what I told myself. “Listen, Nick.” Then I read one of the hot manuscript pages to him.

  “Well, maybe you should fly out here to DC and let me help you with your research.” Garnett’s voice had a husky tone that I recognized from our close encounters.

  “You know how much I hate flying.” It was probably unfair, but most of the travel in our long-distance relationship fell on Garnett because it was easier for him to find a business reason to come to Minneapolis than for me to fly out to our nation’s capital. “Maybe you should come here to collaborate, Nick.” I tried uttering the invitation with a come-hither tone.

  “As much as I’m tempted, Riley, I have a security meeting dealing with all the controversy over the new full-body airport scanners. Hey, that might be an interesting segment for your novel. The X-rays are quite explicit.”

  Those naked images would certainly make the book topical. I told Garnett I’d consider that idea. I summarized Sexpocalypse for him, how global economies, politics, and military powers stalled because of the sexual chaos. Garnett made some intriguing suggestions for the terrorist characters, and I took down notes.

  “Something big and unexpected has to happen next in the plot,” I said. “I think the ending needs a burst of spontaneity.”

  “If you were more spontaneous, Riley, you’d be on your way to the airport now, counting the minutes until we, well, you know what I’m alluding to.”