by Camryn King
Along with the book there were a couple other items inside, including a gold object shaped like a jigsaw puzzle piece. It was solid, heavy. A paperweight perhaps? Mallory turned the piece over. It was the size of her hand, beautifully sculpted and smooth on both sides. She thought of her friend and loved it at once—a fitting memento. Not only as a gift from one journalist to another, but a nod to the puzzle that Leigh left behind. Mallory walked over to the fireplace mantel and set the piece next to a favorite picture of her and Leigh, taken just weeks before her death. Leigh’s pretty brown eyes stared back at her, twinkling with joy and a hint of mischief. Still viewing the picture, Mallory again picked up the gleaming puzzle piece.
“This is cool, Leigh, and different,” she whispered into the room, as if hesitant to disturb the quiet. “Is it real gold? If so, then . . . thanks.”
Mallory glanced from the gold piece over to the gold appointment book and finally once again at the picture of her and Leigh. With purpose, she strode into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Once done, she returned to the living room, picked up the appointment book or journal or whatever it was and got comfy on her leather couch beneath a fleece throw. For a moment, she simply held the book.
Do I have a right to read what’s in here?
More questions followed. Was she about to unveil secrets Leigh thought to take to the grave? Was it a coincidence that a year after Leigh’s death Barbara had found a duffel bag of her things? Or that she’d called on the day Mallory sat at Leigh’s gravesite, asking for help? Mallory didn’t think so. At the gravesite Mallory had asked Leigh to help her. She hadn’t really thought it possible. But her former best friend and colleague just might help her after all.
Mallory took a deep, fortifying breath and began to read. With each word, she heard Leigh’s lilting voice. Saw her smile.
January 1. Across the squares marking the month’s first week, Leigh wrote of their friend, Sam.
Samantha says writing down wishes make them come true faster. True? We’ll see. Here goes.
Mallory didn’t remember the conversation but had no doubt it happened. Sam had been a mantra-chanting, visualizing, meditator since Mallory and Leigh met her and Ava while participating in the Tunnel to Towers 5K Run and Walk. Mallory mostly ignored her ramblings and Ava flat out called her cuckoo. Sam was undeterred. Considering she now freelanced from home as the wife of a computer analyst and the mother of an adorable two-year old, she also seemed to have been right.
Mallory studied the page. There were doodles of stars, hearts surrounding a declaration. Today is the first day of the rest of my life! She could imagine Leigh’s squared shoulders as she wrote the words, could almost hear the passion with which she underscored the word today. Written confidently, with sure, clean strokes, with no clue that the rest of her life wouldn’t last that long.
New job. Mallory knew she’d been looking.
True love. A never-ending search.
Can only go UP from here. Mallory took a sip of tea and pondered the sentence written after “true love.” That New Year’s Eve had seen both she and Leigh complaining about their love lives. Pretty much rock bottom, as Mallory remembered. Up was the only way to go.
Get fit. Really, girl? From a totally objective perspective, Leigh’s body was flawless. Her face was like that of an angel. She didn’t need it, but Mallory never observed Leigh in public without makeup. Leigh Jackson was one of the most beautiful women Mallory had ever seen, in person or in print. That she was even more beautiful on the inside was how she and Mallory became best friends.
The last week of January.
Penned in yoga classes. The title of an album by Leigh’s favorite neo soul artist. A comment in the fourth Saturday box.
Invited to a Navs game. Another chance to see Christian . . . Heck yeah!
In February, there were more personal notes about New York’s basketball team, the Navigators, and hooking up. With who? Not the attorney-turned-politician whom Leigh had dated for about six months before he’d abruptly ended the relationship. Mallory remembered meeting him once and not being impressed. When they broke up and she’d asked what happened Leigh had simply answered, “I didn’t like his politics.”
Mallory continued through the planner. The next few weeks seemed to focus on appointments for work, dinners and events and messages about “getting up,” “moving up,” “staying up,” and other similar phrases containing the two-letter word. Some phrases fit within the sentence but others were odd, one-liners and rhymes that looked to Mallory like some type of code. Hidden messages for Leigh’s eyes alone, that only she could understand. Like the lines written on March’s page.
Madness. Yes, crazy the love. Caught up. Impossibly.
Inexplicably. Both of us feeling the scorch of the heat. Yet jumping headfirst into flames.
April and May were all about the Navigators in the playoffs and being in love. Mallory paused to reheat her tea. She leaned against the counter, watched the water begin to bubble and thought back to that time more than a year ago when Leigh stopped talking about her love life. Mallory pushed for information. Leigh admitted she was seeing someone, a man she’d refer to as The Mister or Special Friend. Mallory thought the man was probably married and warned Leigh to be careful. Not long after that, Leigh moved into the luxury condo. Mallory had called Leigh a kept woman, told her she deserved better than to be somebody’s sidechick. Their friendship had wavered, restored only when the two friends agreed not to talk about it. Mallory picked up her mug and slowly returned to the living room, more than ever wanting to know the identity of Leigh’s mystery man.
June was all about the Navigators and Christian Graham, their star player. Leigh was a huge basketball fan and Christian was her favorite player. She called him a triple threat—smart, successful, gorgeous. Mallory remembered her excitement when he joined the team. It was contagious. She lived the regionals, breathed the playoffs, and scored tickets to two of the three home games. That’s when Mallory had felt sure Leigh was dating Christian, that he was her special friend. Leigh had never confirmed it outright. For Mallory, it felt obvious. How else could she have gotten a floor seat and special passes? When she remained tight-lipped, Mallory had given up asking. Other than not wanting Leigh hurt or used, she couldn’t have cared less. But Christian was single, Mallory contemplated, often photographed with the country’s latest “it” girl—actress, singer, dancer, mogul—always gorgeous, mostly rich. Sneaking around to be with him made no sense. Unless he had something to hide, Mallory suddenly thought. Something he’d kill for to prevent going public.
There were other appointments, numbers, and names. Mallory pulled her iPad over and opened a page to jot down notes. Two hours later and halfway through the appointment book/ journal, her mom called with the latest shenanigans of a half-sister Mallory barely knew. That conversation zapped what was left of her energy so after hanging up, drained and hungry, she took a shower, ordered a pizza, and went downstairs to get lost in mindless TV.
She entered the living room to a screenshot of the evening news. Another woman dead. A person of interest named. Mallory’s hand flew to her mouth.
Isaac Bankole—one of several names that just moments before she’d read in Leigh’s journal.
4
Mallory arrived at the office that Monday morning having forgotten all about Charlie’s mention of a new assignment. She’d slept in Sunday morning, then spent the afternoon learning all she could about Isaac Bankole, the person of interest mentioned on the newscast she’d heard, and one of the names she’d gleaned from Leigh’s appointment book. Afterwards, she’d called Ava, gotten voicemail and no callback. First up on her things-to-do list was to text her girl and suggest they do lunch. What she’d found out so far told Mallory one thing. Bankole was too much for one IR to handle.
“Knight!”
“Callahan.”
“Get in here.”
Mallory finished the text on the short jaunt from her desk to Charlie’s office.
She moved a stack of perpetually present folders from one of two overflowing chairs facing his equally cluttered desk and sat down.
“What’s up, boss?”
“I told you on Friday. A new assignment I want covered in your column.”
“Oh. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Thought you might.”
“Why do you think it needs to change, the column? Having just won the Pen, readership numbers will only climb. People unfamiliar with the Why series will want to check it out. I don’t know that now is the right time to switch topics.”
“I think it’s the perfect time.”
“Why?”
“For the same reasons you gave. You just won the Pen. People will be on the lookout for the ‘Knightly News’ column, will follow what you write. Some will want to read what got you the award. For those folks, there are the archives, every article carefully filed. Others will turn to your page to see what’s happening now. And the only thing happening now, at least as far as New Yorkers are concerned, is basketball and the Navigators ruling the playoffs.”
“And?”
“I want you to find a way to work the sport into your column.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Stop acting surprised. I told you Friday night.”
“I was hoping it was the vodka effecting my hearing.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. Besides, I’ve been telling you for months. It’s time to switch gears, give your mind a break from the mayhem. A chance to lighten up and give the readers a reason to smile for a change.”
“Okay.” Said in that long, drawn out way that suggested it was anything but.
“I want you to do a serious piece on Christian Graham.”
“The sports section isn’t big enough for his ego? Mine is a serious column. He doesn’t fit in it.”
“How do you know?”
Mallory’s mind went as blank as her expression, words from Leigh’s appointment book suddenly filtering through her brain.
“Exactly. You don’t. Not until you’ve done your homework and found an angle that, you know, humanizes the guy. Something that shows he has heart.”
Mallory worked to keep her expression and tone bland while the investigator inside her with Graham on a list did backflips. Charlie moved a couple piles around, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“An angle, perhaps. About the foundation and the kids it serves.”
“Sounds like a far cry from the murdered and missing.”
“Not too far. Kids get killed and disappear.”
“Christian’s Kids?” Mallory asked, referencing the bold type on the front of the folder.
“The ones in the program have dodged that fate. That could be the positive part of the story. But their lives haven’t been easy.”
Mallory flipped through the folder’s contents. “Today’s troubled youth, huh? You might be right, Charlie. I’ll give it a shot.”
She rose to leave.
“Whoa! Wait a minute. What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“That was way too easy.”
Mallory needed a few seconds. Whatever she said next had to sound convincing. She walked over and closed his office door, then leaned against it.
“I visited Leigh this weekend.”
“You what?”
“Her gravesite.”
“Oh.”
“I went there. Hard to imagine all that beauty buried six feet deep. Seeing a stone instead of her face. Talking to the ground. It did something to me.” Made me more determined than ever to find out who killed her. “Brought back a flood of memories, of her and all of the others. All of the missing and murdered women I covered over this past year.”
Mallory pushed off the door, slid her hands inside her jeans pockets. “Besides, you aren’t the only one who thinks I need a break, who feels this series has become much too personal. So I’ll take you up on the challenge.” She walked to the door and turned. “When is this going to run?”
“Next week.”
Mallory gave a curt nod, left his office, and smiled all the way to her desk.
After checking her phone and seeing Ava’s thumbs up response, Mallory fired up her laptop and placed Christian Graham’s name in the search engine. More than fifty million results showed up, along with images of his godlike physique. She tapped uneven nails on the well-worn desktop, scrolled through the links, and tried to figure out how to best use this opportunity to benefit Leigh. Go for a one-on-one interview, bring up Leigh’s name, and watch his reaction? No, too limiting. If he reacts, then what? If he doesn’t, end of conversation about her. She continued surfing, logged on to the charity website. Christian’s Kids—a diverse group of bright-eyed, smiling, happy children if one went by the photo on the site’s. . . . She read the foundation’s mission, scanned the curriculum. Thoughts of a series for the column began to form, one that opened with a story about Christian, then segued into the foundation and the children it benefited. That would hopefully give Mallory the time she needed, time and access, to either incriminate or eliminate him as a suspect in Leigh’s death.
Mallory wished Leigh were here to write the article. She’d followed the guy since he was drafted by the Navigators in their first-round pick. Leigh could have written the article without references where Mallory would have to do some heavy lifting to find a unique angle on a guy that stayed in the papers, lived in the news. Christian, she read, had been a mainstay in sports news since bursting onto the scene as a seventeen-year old high school junior. Writers waxed effusive on his natural talent. Headlines continually screamed his praise. “Graham Leads Cadets to Wildcard Upset.” “Eastern Regional Graham Grabs MVP Honors.” “Graham to the Big Brawn on a Full-Ride Scholarship! Multiple Recruitments.” His stats were impressive. He’d led college championships while maintaining a 4.0 GPA, and been first pick in the draft. He was the Most Valuable Player who’d led the New York Navigators to NBA victory for three years straight, with a new contract for more than one hundred million dollars. Mallory paused at the number, remembered the homeless man with the bent shovel who cleaned their walks for change. She thought of America’s wealth and its misplaced priorities, teachers who earned an average of fifty thousand while a millennial earned more than ten times that much for bouncing a ball. It hardly seemed fair but that wasn’t her story. Mallory bypassed the articles touting his millions and refocused on ones that highlighted the man.
She scanned a bio. White father. Black mother. Their son—six five, one ninety, ten percent body fat—a glorious and perfect blend of the two. A true goddess magnet, evidenced by all the images of him with beautifully flawless women draped on his arm. Several stories in and all the high praise started to bug her. Then she realized it was more than that. There wasn’t much written that was truly personal. That gave the reader a glimpse behind the larger-than-life persona and a chance to see the human standing behind it.
She clicked a tab and returned to the foundation website. At the bottom of the home page was a section highlighting the foundation’s annual fundraiser. Mallory sat back, her mind’s eye scanning Leigh’s appointment book. Hadn’t this event been written there? Her brows scrunched with the concentration to recall her best friend’s conversations about Christian, the Navigators, basketball, conversations that Mallory usually blanked out. She clicked on tickets, looked askance at the prices. The least expensive ticket was five thousand dollars, heady Mallory thought, even for a fundraiser. But not for the wealthy. The event was sold out.
How could someone like Christian relate to the underprivileged children his foundation served? Didn’t think he knew what a deprived life looked like from what she’d read. Grandfather a retired banker. Mother a real estate whiz. Grew up in Nassau County. Private schools. Privileged life. Were the reasons behind the non-profit like those of so many others who ran them? A wise though worthy tax write-off? Probably.
Who
are you really, Christian Graham? She wasn’t as interested in who he was when the world was watching, as in the person who showed up behind closed doors, when the public could not see him.
5
Fifteen minutes, a delivered drink order and a coveted booth at the crowded restaurant, and still Ava wasn’t there. Mallory ignored the waiting groups shooting daggers. Any other day, she’d be fine at the bar. Not today, though. She was not going to budge. The booth was the most private spot in the room, she was a regular and tipped well to gain favor. Five minutes and a third of the way through her cranberry and sparkling water spritz, she yanked her cellphone off of the table and began to text.
“Calm down, Mal gal, I’m right here.”
Mallory looked up as Ava reached her and leaned down for a hug.
“About time you got here. You know I only get an hour, right?”
“Did Charlie see you and start a timer? Why are you tripping?”
“Why are you trying to be MIA? I called you yesterday.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t call back.”
