by Camryn King
Also by Camryn King
Stiletto Justice
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
TRIPLE THREAT
CAMRYN KING
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
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Teaser chapter
PROLOGUE
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Camryn King
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0220-3
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0221-0
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0221-2
1
A year ago today, Mallory Knight’s world had changed. She found her best friend dead, sprawled on top of a comforter. The one Leigh had excitedly shown Mallory just days before, another extravagant gift from her friend’s secret, obviously rich lover, the cost of which, Mallory had pointed out, could have housed a thousand homeless for a week. Or fed them for two. Leigh had shrugged, laughed, lain back against the ultra-soft fabric. Her deep cocoa skin beautifully contrasted against golden raw silk.
That day, when the earth shifted on its axis, Leigh had lain there again. Putrid. Naked. Grotesquely displayed. Left uncovered to not disturb potential evidence, investigators told her. Contaminate the scene. With what, decency? She had ignored them, had wrenched a towel from the en suite bath and placed it over her friend and colleague’s private parts. Her glare at the four men in the room was an unspoken dare for them to remove it. That would happen only over her dead body.
She’d steeled herself. She looked again, at the bed and around the room. Whoever had killed Leigh had wanted her shamed. The way the body was positioned left no doubt about that. For Mallory, the cause of death wasn’t in doubt, either. Murder. Not suicide, as the coroner claimed. But his findings matched what the detectives believed, what the scant evidence showed so . . . case closed. Even though the half-empty bottle of high-dose opioids found on Leigh’s nightstand weren’t hers. Even though forensics found a second set of prints on one of two wineglasses next to the pills. Even though Mallory told investigators her friend preferred white wine to red and abhorred drugs of any kind. She suffered through headaches and saw an acupuncturist for menstrual cramps. Even though for Leigh Jackson image was everything. She’d never announce to the world she’d killed herself by leaving the pill bottle out on the table, get buck naked to do the deed, then drift into forever sleep with her legs gaping open. Details like those wouldn’t have gotten past a female detective. They didn’t get by Mallory, either. Beautiful women like Leigh tended to be self-conscious. What did Mallory see in that god-awful crime scene? Not even a porn star would have chosen that pose for their last close-up.
The adrenaline ran high that fateful morning, Mallory remembered. Early January. As bitterly cold as hell was hot. Back-to-back storms in the forecast. This time last year, New York had been in the grips of a record-breaking winter. Almost a foot of snow had been dumped on the city the night before. Mallory had bundled up in the usual multiple layers of cashmere and wool. She had pulled on knee-high, insulated riding boots and laughed out loud at the sound of Leigh’s voice in her head, a replay of the conversation after showing Leigh what she’d bought.
“Those are by far the ugliest boots I’ve ever seen.”
“Warm, though,” Mallory had retorted. “I’m going for substance, not style.”
“They’d be fine for Iceland. Or Antarctica. Or Alaska. Not Anchorage, though. Too many people. One of those outback places with more bears than humans. Reachable only by boat or plane.”
Mallory had offered a side-eye. “So what you’re saying is this was a great choice for a record cold winter.”
“Absolutely . . . if you lived in an igloo. You live in an apartment in Brooklyn, next door to Manhattan. The fucking fashion capitol of the world, hello?”
Mallory had laughed so hard she snorted, which caused Leigh’s lips to tremble until she couldn’t hold back and joined her friend in an all-out guffaw. Complete opposites, those ladies. One practicality and comfort, stretch jeans and tees. The other back-breaking stilettos and designer everything. They’d met at an IRE conference, an annual event for investigative reporters and editors, and bonded over the shared position of feeling like family outcasts who used work to fill the void. Leigh was the self-proclaimed heathen in a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses while second marriages and much younger siblings had made Mallory feel like a third wheel in both parents’ households. To Mallory, Leigh felt like the little sister she’d imagined having before her parents divorced.
That morning a year ago she’d stopped at the coffee shop for her usual extra-large with an espresso shot, two creams, and three sugars. She crossed the street and headed down into the subway to take the R from her roomy two-bed, two-bath walkup in Brooklyn to a cramped shared office in midtown Manhattan, a five-minute walk from Penn Station in a foot of snow that felt more like fifteen. She’d just grabbed a cab when her phone rang. An informant with a tip. Another single, successful, beautiful female found dead. One of many tips she’d received since beginning the series for which she’d just won a prestigious award. “Why They Disappear. Why They Die.” Why did they? Mysteriously. Suspiciously. Most cases remained unsolved. Heart racing, Mallory had redirected the cabbie away from her office down to Water Street and a tony building across from the South Street Seaport. The building where Leigh lived. Where they’d joked and laughed just days before. She’d shut down her thoughts then. Refused to believe it could be her best friend. There were nine other residences in that building. She’d go to any of the condominiums, all of them, except number 10. But that very apartment is where she’d been directed. The apartment teeming with police, marked with crime tape.
“Knight.”
Jolted back into the present, Mallory sucked in a breath, turned her eyes away from the memory, and looked at her boss. “Hey, Charlie.”
“What are you doing here? It’s Friday. I thought I told you to take the rest of the day off and start your weekend early.”
“I am.”
“Yeah, I see how off you are.” He walked over to her corner of the office, moved a stack of books and papers off a chair, and plopped down. He shuffled an ever-present electronic cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. “That wasn’t a suggesti
on. It was an order. Get out of here.”
He sounded brusque, but Charlie’s frown was worse than his fist. It had taken her almost three years to figure that out. When she started working at New York News just over four years ago he was intimidating, forceful, and Mallory didn’t shrink easily. Six foot five with a shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair and a paunch that suggested too many hoagies, not enough salad, and no exercise, he’d pushed Mallory to her limit more than once. She’d pushed back. Worked harder. Won his respect.
“I know it’s a hard day for you.” His voice was softer, gentler now.
“Yep.” One she didn’t want to talk about. She powered down her laptop, reached for the bag.
“She’d have been proud of you for that.”
“What?” He nodded toward her inbox. “Oh, that.”
“‘Oh, that,’” he mimicked. “That, Knight, is what investigative journalists work all of their lives for and hope to achieve. Helluva lot of work you put in to get the Prober’s Pen. Great work. Exceptional work. Congrats again.”
It was true. In this specialized circle of journalism, the Prober’s Pen, most often simply called the Pen, was right up there with the Pulitzer for distinctive honor.
“Thanks, Charlie. A lot of work, but not enough. We still don’t know who killed her.” A lump, sudden and unexpected, clogged her throat. Eyes burned. Mallory yanked the power cord from the wall, stood and shoved it into the computer bag along with her laptop. She reached for her purse. No way would she cry around Charlie. Investigative reporters had no time for tears.
She was two seconds from a clean escape before his big paw clamped her shoulder and halted her gait. She looked back, not at him, in his direction, but not in his eyes. One look at those compassion-filled baby blues and she’d be toast.
“What, Callahan?” Terse. Impatient. A tone you could get away with in New York. Even with your boss. Especially one like Charlie.
“Your column helped solve several cases. You deserved that award. Appreciate it. Appreciate life . . . for Leigh.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Out of my way, softie.” Mallory pushed past him the way she wished she could push past the pain.
“Got a new assignment when you come back, Knight!”
She waved without turning around.
Later that evening Mallory went for counseling. Her therapists? Friends and colleagues Ava and Sam. The prescription? Alcohol. Lots of it. And laughter. No tears. At first, she’d declined, but they insisted. Had they remembered the anniversary, too? One drink was all she’d promised them. Then home she’d go to mourn her friend and lament her failed attempts to get at the truth. After that she’d go to visit her bestie. Take flowers. Maybe even shed a tear or two. If she dared.
Mallory left her apartment, tightened her scarf against the late-January chill, and walked three short blocks to Newsroom, an aptly named bar and restaurant in Brooklyn, opened by the daughter of a famous national news anchor, frequented by journalists and other creative types. Stiff drinks. Good food. Reasonable prices. Not everyone made six figures like Mallory Knight. In America’s priciest city, even a hundred thousand dollars was no guarantee of champagne kisses and caviar dreams.
Bowing her head against the wind, she hurried toward the restaurant door. One yank and a blast of heat greeted her, followed by the drone of conversation and the smell of grilled onions. Her mouth watered. An intestinal growl followed, the clear reminder she hadn’t had lunch. She unwrapped the scarf from around her head and neck, tightened the band struggling to hold back a mop of unruly curls, and looked for her friends.
“In the back.” The hostess smiled and pointed toward the dining room.
“Thanks.”
“Heard you won the Pen. Way to go.”
“Gosh, word gets around.”
“It’s one of the highest honors a reporter can receive, Mallory so, yeah, a few people know.”
She turned into the dining room and was met by applause. Those knowing people the hostess described were all standing and cheering. After picking her jaw off the floor, Mallory’s narrowed eyes searched the room for her partners in crime. A shock of red hair ducked behind . . . Gary? Special correspondent for NBC? Indeed. And other familiar faces, too. The Post, Times, Daily News, the Brooklyn Eagle, Amsterdam News, and other local and national news outlets were represented. Highly embarrassed and deeply moved, Mallory made her way across the room, through good-natured barbs, hugs, and high fives, over to Gary, who gave her a hug, inches from the dynamic duo who’d undoubtedly planned the surprise.
“You two.” Mallory jabbed an accusatory finger into a still shrinking Sam’s shoulder while eyeing Ava, who smiled broadly. “When did you guys have time to do all this?”
“Calm down, girl.” Ava shooed the question away. “Group text. Took five seconds.”
Ava. Her girl. Keep-it-real Holyfield. “Thanks for making me feel special.”
“You’re welcome.” Ava munched on a fry. “Always happy to help.”
Just when Mallory thought she couldn’t be shocked further, a voice caused her to whip her head clean around.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
There stood Charlie, red-faced and grinning, holding up a shot glass as two tray-carrying waiters gave a glass to everyone in the room. Her boss, was in on it, too? All that insistence that she get out of the office? Damn, he was trying hard to make her cry.
“She doesn’t like the spotlight, so next week I’ll pay for this. But I was thrilled to learn that a celebration was being planned for one of the best reporters I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, Mallory Knight.” He paused for claps and cheers. “Most of you know this, though some may not. The hard work done on the Why series has resulted in three women being found and reunited with their families and two arrests, one of which a cold case that had remained unsolved for fifteen years. Good job, kiddo.”
Mallory accepted his hug. “Thanks, Charlie.”
“Speech! Speech!” echoed around the room.
“As most of you know, I’m a much better writer than I am a speaker. At least without a lot more of these, so . . .” Mallory held up a shot glass holding pricey liquor. “Hear, hear.”
She downed the drink, swallowed the liquid along with the burn that accompanied its journey down the hatch. Holding up a hand quieted the crowd.
“Okay, I . . . um . . . thank you guys for coming. The Pen means a lot. But your support means a lot more. Um . . . that first toast was for me. Let’s do one more for another IR, Leigh Jackson. Everybody here who knew her knew she was . . . pretty amazing.”
Mallory blinked back tears. “She was the inspiration behind the series and why I have this award. She held up a second shot glass. “To Leigh!”
For the next half hour Mallory accepted congrats and well wishes from her colleagues, accompanied by a medium-rare steak dinner and more vodka. The crowd thinned. Mallory grew quieter.
Sam squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”
Seconds passed as she pondered the question. A slow nod followed. “As of a few seconds ago, I feel a lot better.”
“Why?” Ava asked.
“I just made a decision.” Mallory looked from Ava to Sam. “I know I said I’d let it go. But I can’t. Whoever killed Leigh is not going to get away with it. I’m going to find out who did it, and make sure they pay for her murder.”
Sam’s expression morphed into one of true concern. “Oh, no, Mal. Not that again.”
“You think a cold-blooded murderer should walk around free?”
“You know what she means.” Ava’s response was unbowed by Mallory’s clear displeasure. “Or have you forgotten those first couple months after she died, when you were so bent on proving Leigh’s suicide was murder that you almost worked yourself into a grave?”
“But I didn’t die, did I? Instead, I got the Pen.” Mallory’s voice calmed as she slumped against her chair. “I’d much rather get Leigh’s killer.”
“I know you
loved Leigh,” Ava said, her voice now as soft as the look in her eyes. “And while Sam and I didn’t know her as well as you did, we both liked her a lot and respected the hell out of her work as a journalist. You did everything you could right after it happened. Let the police continue to handle it from here on out.”
“That’s just it. They think it’s already handled. The death was ruled a suicide. Case closed.”
There wasn’t a comeback for that harsh truth. Mallory held up a finger for another shot. Ava’s brow arched in amazement.
“How many of those can you hold, Mal? You’re taller than me, but I’ve got you by at least thirty pounds.”
Mallory looked up to see Charlie wave and head to the door. Ignoring Ava, she called out to him. “Charlie!”
He waited by the hostess stand, the area now cold and crowded from the rush of dinner guests and a constantly opening door.
“What is it, kiddo?”
“Can’t believe you knew about this and didn’t tell me.”
“Had you known, you wouldn’t have shown up.”
“That’s probably true. I appreciate what you said up there. Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta run. See you next week.”
“One more thing. The new assignment you mentioned earlier. What’s it about?”
Charlie hesitated.
Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “Charlie . . .”
“Change of pace. You’re going to love it.”
“What’s the topic?”
“Basketball.”
“You want me to cover sports?” Incredulity raised Mallory’s voice an octave.
“Told you that you’d love it,” Charlie threw over his shoulder as he caught the door a customer just opened and hurried out.
“Charlie!”
Mallory frowned as she watched her boss’s hurried steps, his head bowed against the wind and swirling snow. His answer to her question only raised several more. Why would Charlie want an investigative reporter on a sports story? Why wasn’t the sports editor handling it? Freelance writers clamored for free tickets to sports events. Why couldn’t he give the assignment to one of them? She wanted to continue doing stories that mattered, like those on missing women and unsolved murders that had won her the Pen. And Charlie wanted her to write about grown men playing games? Her mood darkening and shivering at the blast of cold wind accompanying the next customer through the front door, Mallory walked back to the table, hugged her friends goodbye, and began the short walk home. She lived less than ten minutes from the restaurant, and, although the temperature had dropped and snow was falling, she barely noticed. Mallory’s thoughts were on her dead best friend, the botched closed case, and how to regenerate interest in catching a killer. Because whether officially or not, for work or not, Mallory would never stop trying to find out who killed Leigh Jackson. Never. Ever. No fucking way.
