by Camryn King
“That’s true.” Mallory frowned. “Hey, can’t a girl take time out to get her groove on with a handsome hunk who’s hard and willing?”
“I thought Sam and I convinced you to stop trolling those online dating sites.”
“I found this one while trolling the grocery store. Six feet of charming chocolate, thick lips, dark eyes. Muscles rippling every time he moved, mine clinching each time he smiled.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“He was at the meat counter picking up steaks. I offered to cook them. Dinner was great, dessert even better. My phone was off from the time he arrived until he left this morning just before dawn.”
“Well, it’s obvious he made you happy. Your disregard and tardiness are forgiven. Is this one and done or do you want seconds?”
Ava shrugged, and motioned to a waiter. “We’ll see.”
The two studied the menus, then placed their order.
Mallory watched the bubbly blonde walk away. “I might have a date this weekend.”
“What? With who?”
“Christian Graham.” Said casually, offhandedly, like a throwaway line.
“Shut the front door. Is that why you called yesterday?”
“Indirectly.” Mallory eyed a group of businessmen being led to a nearby table. Ava followed her eye and then tapped Mallory’s arm. “Focus. The tea. Spill it.”
Mallory laughed. “It’s not what you think. Charlie wants me to do a human interest-type story on him. Like you and Sam, he feels I need a shift in focus.”
“This is for work?” Ava slumped back in her chair. “Darn it, Mal. I thought you meant a real date. But who knows? Play your cards right, or in this case your questions, and it just may turn into one.”
“I’m hoping it will turn into something . . .”
The waiter returned with Ava’s drink. She reached for it. “Something like what?”
Mallory shifted in the booth and lessened the distance between them. “Like a lead, perhaps,” she continued softly, “into who killed Leigh.”
Ava almost choked on the sip of soda. She picked up the napkin to cover her cough.
“Are you okay?”
After taking another more careful sip, Ava replied. “In hearing that segue, maybe I should be asking you that question.”
“That probably did sound a bit disconnected.”
“You think?”
“But it isn’t. Not after what I found out this weekend.” Mallory told Ava about the duffel bag she’d gotten from Barbara, and its contents that had belonged to Leigh.
“I’ve only read through the first six months so far,” she finished. “But I made notes of what I thought was important—names, places, events that might mean something.”
Mallory pulled out her tablet and opened a file. “A few times, I ran into what looks like a series of random numbers. Like this,” she said, pointing to the screen. “I can’t figure out what they mean, if anything at all.”
Ava stared at Mallory’s laptop screen. “Phone numbers, maybe? With extra ones added in some kind of sequence that only she knows?”
“You might be right in which case it would take forever trying combinations to try and get the right one.”
Ava tapped the mouse to scroll down the page. “What are these?”
“Some of the addresses that were in there.”
“Did you check them out to find out who lives there?”
“Only this one.” Mallory tapped the screen. “It belongs to an accountant who is also a murder suspect.”
“No way!” Ava hissed.
“I couldn’t believe it either. It hadn’t been an hour, maybe thirty minutes after seeing his name in her appointment book that I heard it over the news. A person of interest is how the reporter framed it. But I did a background check on the guy, Ava. And it was shadier than a full-grown oak.”
Ava pulled out her phone and began rapidly typing.
Mallory watched her. “What are you doing?”
“Checking the other addresses.”
Mallory reached for her phone. “Good idea.”
The first one she checked matched a yoga studio in lower Manhattan. The second one was the workspace of an up-and-coming designer. The third and fourth addresses were high-rises in Manhattan. The fifth address drained the blood from Ava’s face and took Mallory’s breath away. Silent screams assailed her insides as she and Ava looked between themselves and the screen.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mallory asked when she could trust herself to speak.
“Of course.” Ava clicked on the website link next to the address. “There’s only one reason you make an appointment to see this kind of ob-gyn practice.”
“Leigh was pregnant?” It was said not so much as a question but an impossibility. An incredulity. Both of us feeling the scorch of the heat. An inexplicable chance.
“At least she thought she was.” Ava sat back against the couch. “What if she was, and the father of the child didn’t want to have it?”
Mallory’s eyes narrowed as she processed this news. “Then you kill her, and make it look like a suicide.”
The two ladies continued talking, plotting, their heads close together, their voices low. The food arrived, but Mallory had lost her appetite. She thanked Ava for playing detective and keeping what they’d discussed between the two of them, accepted the now boxed lunch from the waiter and headed back to work for another pow-wow with Charlie. To think that not one but two lives had been taken when Leigh was killed made Mallory twice as determined to nab the killer. Mallory believed the answer might lie within the names found in Leigh’s appointment book. Christian’s name was one of several mentioned in that book. Mallory wanted to know why, was determined to learn if he was Leigh’s secret. For a reporter to get more than a press kit and a pat interview with a bad boy who was also basketball royalty might not be easy. Even for an award-winning one.
The fundraiser.
That was it! A place for casual conversation. To observe, scrutinize. Unlike Leigh, Mallory hated dressing up. She’d feel as out of place as Cinderella had one minute past midnight but so be it. The prince was giving a ball and one way or another, Mallory would be there.
6
“Absolutely not.”
Similar to Cinderella’s plight, going to the ball wasn’t going to be easy. Mallory learned this as soon as the question passed her lips.
“Charlie, you didn’t even let me finish the sentence.”
“Didn’t have to. To any question regarding basketball and Saturday night, the answer is no. Graham’s fundraiser is one of the hottest tickets in the city. The paper only got one and it’s got my name on it. If not me, Josh is next in line.”
Josh was the sports editor. It made perfect sense that after the editor, he’d be in line for the paper’s sole Holy Grail. That didn’t stop Mallory from fighting to usurp his position, and Charlie’s too.
“Look, you’re going to rub shoulders with the athletes and hobnob with celebrities. It’s prestigious. Huge. I get that. But for me, it’s not about any of that. It’s about the paper, and my column, and how we can build on the momentum gained by my winning the Pen. I’ve got an idea on how to do that, how to grab our readers back from the Reporter and reclaim the number one spot.”
There was no love lost between the New York Reporter and New York News. They’d battled for years, scrapping like boxers and fighting for stories to gain the edge and be the first papers New Yorkers opened to get their news. Mallory knew Charlie loved at least one thing more than basketball—being number one and beating his nemesis, Rob Anderson, the editor at the Reporter.
Charlie leaned back in the chair, his soft beer-belly straining the buttons on his wrinkled white shirt. “I’ll probably regret asking, but tell me this idea.”
Mallory grabbed the few folders that accumulated on the chair she’d sat in just hours ago and held them as she sat.
“You wanted a soft story, right? To make people feel good.” C
harlie gave a slight nod. “Instead of a single article solely focused on Graham, think of a four-part series that starts out about him but then highlights his foundation. After reading what you gave me I checked out the website and read about some of the children his center serves. Reading about them reminded me of the missing and runaway teens I covered last year, many with situations similar to those kids. Low-income families living in less than desirable neighborhoods. Often being raised by single, working mothers. One link told the story of a kid who fits that profile but is doing amazing stuff. She’s into horticulture. Growing a rooftop garden in her Queens neighborhood. The article seemed to suggest that the difference in her story and the girls I ended up writing about was a center that helped turn her life around. Christian’s center.”
Charlie worked an unlit electronic cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. “Keep talking.”
“I thought I could do comparable stories in a way that ‘Knightly News’ retains its brand of serious journalism on issues that matter, that directly effects our communities. One kid makes it. Another doesn’t. Why? Answer the question. That way I continue the theme of what got me the Prober’s Pen while using the center’s success stories as a bridge away from a topic that you suggested I needed to take a break from.”
“At first you weren’t keen on making the change. Now you’re almost gung ho. What happened?”
“I’ve had time to think about it and am now using a woman’s prerogative of changing her mind.” Mallory said this lightheartedly but Charlie’s expression didn’t change. “For over a year I’ve been single-minded. As you’ve pointed out, I can use a break and the readers could use something lighter too, a little love for a change.”
Charlie eyed her speculatively for several seconds, then sat up and rolled closer to his desk. “I’m glad you appreciate the angle I suggested, maybe even embraced it. And this from a woman who professes to not like sports.”
“Liking sports and covering those who play them are two different things. Besides, before the New Year even got here you shot down the story I really want to do.”
“The one on your friend Leigh Jackson?”
“I believe the suggested series title was Catching Up on Cold Cases.”
“I know what you wrote. I also know how you think and what you believe to be true about her. I get that she was your friend and I’m really sorry about what happened to her. But there’s no more story there. That case isn’t cold. It’s closed. Over. End of story. The public’s moved on.”
Mallory heard the words in the silence that followed. And you should, too.
“Attending the foundation’s fundraiser is the perfect event from which to frame this story. It should, hopefully, afford me a whole picture of both the man, and his mission.”
Charlie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, Knight. Graham’s annual gala is everything, and it’s not just about hobnobbing. It’s about positioning the paper for future interviews, networking and, you know, stuff like that.”
Mallory remained silent, her expression neutral, waiting. She’d delivered a sound argument, thrown all her rocks, used all her bullets. By remaining quiet, Charlie wouldn’t know that the chamber was empty.
“And . . . included with the ticket may have been a suggestion that stories focusing less on his bad boy persona and more on his humanistic, philanthropic side would be appreciated.”
“So we’re his PR team now?” Mallory asked with raised brow. “The ticket was incentive for you to publish articles that reshape Graham’s public persona into that of a nice guy reeking of kindness and humility?” She snorted.
“Okay, I’ll also admit that I’m a Navigators addict who worships Graham. He’s the god of the goal, Mal! You do know that, right?”
“Really, Charlie? That’s like asking if I knew President Obama passed the Affordable Care Act.”
She paused, softened her voice.
“I know it’s a hot ticket. I know you love all things Graham and that I’m probably not the only one who’d like the chance to attend his soiree or even better, for a one-on-one with New York’s media darling. Not as many journalists were rushing behind me to cover the latest Jane Doe runaway-turned-sex-slave. But it begs the question, what if there’d been a Christian’s Kids center where she lived? What if she could have run away to a place like that for support? The column could get more celebrities and people with big bucks thinking about using their dollars to make a real difference in this country. To help save lives.”
“Any other female, Knight, and I’d have no doubt that the motive was self-serving.”
“You know me. Between getting shot and wearing heels, I’d rather take a bullet.”
“But to get the story . . .”
“I’d walked in them the length of the Macy’s parade.” To potentially catch a killer, twice as far.
Charlie turned and opened a drawer behind his desk, then swiveled around and tossed an envelope toward her.
Mallory picked it up. “Is this the ticket?”
She opened the envelope and pulled out a gold-embossed invitation on linen stationery. “I get to go?”
“It’s not just any gala, but the annual fundraiser for his charity,” Charlie explained, casually, a slight frown the only indicator of the pain turning over that ticket must have given him. “Wear something fancy.”
“Right up my alley.” Mallory’s sarcasm dripped off every word.
“You asked for it.”
Charlie pushed back from the desk, his twenty-year old mentor’s chair squeaking under his bulk as he rolled across the mat. It was an obvious dismissal. Mallory remained seated.
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Then you’d better get out of here before I change my mind.”
Mallory jumped up and headed back to her desk thinking, be careful what you ask for. Sometimes you might get it.
7
Mallory hated shopping. At times like these, she really missed Leigh. Her diva girlfriend wouldn’t be in angst about what to wear to a black-tie event that Charlie dubbed “high-brow.” Leigh’s dilemma would be which one out of the plethora of dresses in her huge walk-in closet would best dazzle and make her stand out in the crowd. After receiving the invitation from Charlie, Mallory had worried about the situation for all of five minutes before deciding to rely on her little black dress standby. Then she’d thrown herself back into writing and investigating, what she did best. The center at the heart of the Christian’s Kids foundation and the contents of Leigh’s calendar note book had consumed her for the past two days. Christian Graham? Other than a potential suspect in Leigh’s demise? Not so much. Which is why at eight p.m. on a Wednesday night she was still at work, pondering part one of the four-part series she’d pitched to Charlie and searching for a way to write about a man who to her came off as a bit of a jerk, in a way that revealed more positive qualities while remaining true to the “Knightly News” brand.
It wasn’t easy. She’d been at it for over an hour and still had only half of a typewritten page. She huffed in exasperation and dropped her head in her hand.
The shrill sound of the office phone startled her. “Mallory Knight.”
“So . . . what’s the plan?”
“Sam? Why are you calling the office, especially at this time of night?”
“You didn’t answer your cell.”
Mallory had silenced it before going in to speak with Charlie and belatedly realized she hadn’t turned it back on. “Plan for what?” she asked, while reaching for her cell phone and firing it up.
“Tracking down Leigh’s killer.”
A gentle huff was the only sign of Mallory’s anger.
“Ava told me about the appointment book you found in Leigh’s things, and how you felt one of the men named in it might have something to do with her murder.”
“Did she also tell you that I’d asked her to keep it to herself?”
“Don’t be mad at her, Mal. Y
ou know there’re no secrets between the three musketeers. And while she believes you may be onto something, she’s also concerned that once again this search will consume you, that you’ll stay so focused on Leigh’s death that you’ll forget to live your life.”
A pause and then, “I’m worried, too.”
“Don’t be. It’s okay. And I’m not mad at Ava.”
“Good. So how do you plan to check out these guys and find out their connection to Leigh?”
“Background checks on the internet and then meeting them, striking up a friendly conversation, mentioning her name to hear what they say about her.”
“You think it will be that easy to get guys to talk?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. My first test is this weekend. Christian Graham.”
Sam laughed. “That one should be obvious! You’re how I found out Leigh was a die-hard Navigator. That she spent hundreds on game tickets and bled black and gold.”
“I think there was more. I think they may have dated.”
“I can see that. Leigh is . . . was . . . stunning. Definitely his type. But you don’t think he—”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’ll be finding out.”
“How? Joining the press after the game to try and nab a private conversation? And even if you do, I doubt he’ll cop to a murder, no matter how nicely you pose the question.”
“You’re so bright. That’s why we’re friends.” They laughed. “I’m going to his annual fundraiser Saturday night to do an interview for my column.”
“You’re featuring Christian in ‘Knightly News’?”
Mallory laughed. “Thank you for sounding appropriately shocked.”
“It’s just such a stretch from the usual gist of your column. He’s not female, missing, or dead.”
“It was Charlie’s call, not mine. But I’ve found a way to make it work.” She told Sam about the series. “The longer the contact, the more info I’ll get. Visiting the center, speaking with the employees, maybe a little secret sleuthing . . . who knows what I’ll find out.
“All right, Sherlock, whatever and however. Just be careful. Promise me that.”
