by Camryn King
“He seems involved. There was a story last week about him visiting one of the kids who wound up in the hospital after suffering an allergic reaction.”
Or after attempting suicide. Following up on that rumor was another action for her growing to do list, an item she didn’t dare share with her boss. Far be it for her to want to smear anything resembling dirt on Christian’s spotless image. The less Charlie knew about her real intent, the better. Unless or until she could find solid proof linking Christian to Leigh, the mission was a covert one involving her, Ava, and to a lesser extent, Sam.
“Good photo op if you ask me,” she said instead. “But the kids and their stories can carry this series. Bring the type of feel-good stories you want.” And the investigative angle my column needs. “A couple of them spoke at the fund-raiser. Bright, articulate, with home lives leaving much to be desired. Drugs. Violence. Poverty. The foundation is a light in their dark worlds. It’ll be the kind of series you wanted, Charlie, and, yes, highlight Christian and his contributions as well.”
Charlie sat back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“I thought I knew you pretty well. But you choosing this direction for ‘Knightly’ surprises me.”
“What, you think I don’t like kids?”
“No, but I know you don’t like fluff. And this kind of feel-good could get fluffy pretty quickly.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m not going to use their misfortune in life salaciously, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it, either. They will be honest, balanced stories.”
“I’m counting on it. And so is the public. By getting the Pen, you’ve raised the bar on yourself.”
“Lucky me.”
“We’re the lucky ones, kid.” He stood and headed toward the door. “Have something on my desk by Wednesday.”
Mallory glanced at her watch. Nine-fifteen. Her colleagues would be coming in at any minute. Back at her desk, she pulled out a card, reached for the office phone, and dialed the number.
“Hello, Zoey. Mallory Knight, New York News. We met Saturday night. I apologize for any offense taken to my trying to talk with Christian after the press conference. I assure you my inquiry is legitimate, and I’m not just another floozy trying to get in his pants. I’m doing a four-part series on Christian’s Kids and would like the opportunity to interview him for the first article. I’d also like to visit the facility and talk with some of the students. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience. I really appreciate it, Zoey. Thanks.”
She left her contact information, then opened up a search engine. As much as she wanted to speak with Christian, doing so wasn’t necessary when it came to writing the four-part series’ first piece. There was enough about Graham on the internet to fill up a New York phone book. And while she would have rather gathered firsthand knowledge before resorting to websites, she opened the site for Christian’s Kids and found enough additional information. That and what she’d heard Saturday night was enough to flesh out the first article and set the framework for her true focus, the kids. Starting with Brandon, the one Christian had visited in the hospital. The one who may have tried to kill himself. The investigator in Mallory wanted to either refute or confirm the rumor. And if she confirmed it, the next step would be to find out why a young boy would want to die.
A quick search and she found the article on Brandon. There sat Christian in all his handsomeness, leaning close to a young, nice-looking boy with smooth, dark skin, a tremulous smile, and troubled eyes. Mallory peered closer, studied the brooding boy who looked to be somewhere between the ages of ten and thirteen. She tried to read the expression on his face like a novel, tried to figure out that if the rumor was true, why this handsome young man wanted to die.
Opening a Word document, Mallory stared at the screen, waited for inspiration and the catchy first line to begin the article. A few finger drums on the desk and then her fingers began to fly.
Word on the street says that New York Navigator phenom Christian Graham has more than a hundred kids. None biologically, at least that are known by this reporter, but all who’ve been helped by his largesse through his Harlem-based foundation, Christian’s Kids.
Mallory studied her work. Too cheeky? Tabloid-like? No, she thought, repositioning her fingers over the keys. It was just the type of sentence that would stop folks in their tracks, especially females for whom he was a fantasy, and make them want to read the rest of the article. Just as she began typing, the office phone rang.
“Mallory Knight.”
Perfect timing, Mallory thought, as Zoey Girard announced herself. “A press kit on him would be helpful, but a personal interview—even by phone—would make for a better story.”
Mallory listened to Zoey’s hesitation while pulling up a search engine to read more about her online.
“A list of questions? Sure, I could do that. What’s your email address?”
Zoey gave it to her and was off the call. Brisk but not quite brusque. Professional, without the attitude Mallory felt at the gala. Heck, as far as she knew fending off females might be part of Zoey’s job description. Getting to him had to be a common MO for many female requests. They wouldn’t have to worry about that when it came to Mallory. She didn’t want sex. Just the story, the truth about his relationship with Leigh Jackson. If Leigh was indeed pregnant and if it was Christian’s child, that would be a story worthy of an above-the-fold breaking-news headline that even fan Charlie would greenlight. The paper would get the scoop and she’d get a shot at having Leigh’s death revisited. With that in mind, Mallory took a break and placed a call. Even though she’d had one just three months prior, it was time for a meeting with Dr. Kapoor and another gynecological exam.
13
The next day, in Upper Manhattan, Christian’s penthouse hummed with its usual activity. His personal manager, friend, and former college teammate DeVaughn walked back and forth between the home office and the master suite’s huge en suite, getting the boss man’s input on renditions for a new company’s logo, narrowed down from a dozen possibilities to the final four. Christian sat while his barber gave him a trim and his business manager, Baron, gave him an update on his millions. Pete lounged in the sitting area, constantly surfing the muted flat-screen TV while talking on the phone. Sounds of cooking echoed down the hallway from the kitchen where Christian’s personal chef prepared the paleo meal his nutritionist had recommended. A few of his teammates were at the other end of another hall, watching tape on an upcoming opponent in the comfort of a fully equipped theater and library. Christian’s personal assistant, Andy, just back from grabbing his laundry and dry cleaning, sat with his laptop updating to-do lists while the home cat, Three-Peat, a rescue so named because he’d lost a paw, lounged from a perch near the living room’s wall of windows, unbothered by it all.
The barber finished Christian’s haircut and spun him around. Christian turned his head from side to side.
The barber watched him. “Did I take enough off?”
“Yeah. You could have shortened it even more.”
“I can, that’s no problem.”
Christian removed the smock from around himself and stood. “It’s cool. I’ve got to handle some other stuff right now.” He walked to a side table, opened a rectangular platinum box, and pulled a bill from a large stack of money inside it. He folded it once and gave it to the barber. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re welcome, bro. Any time. See you next week or whenever Andy calls me.”
“Cool.”
Christian stretched, grabbed his phone, and joined Pete in the sitting area. His uncle was still on the phone.
“I agree with you, Zoey. He shouldn’t do it.”
Christian looked over, a question in his eyes. Pete made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
“Don’t think I should do what? Put her on speaker.”
Pete sighed but tapped the appropriate button. “You’re on speaker, Zoey. Christian’s here.
“A personal interview with Mallory Knight, the investigative reporter from New York News.
In a photographic mind that catalogued women better than a Victoria’s Secret catalog, Mallory’s face sprang to the front.
“Why not?”
“Don’t worry about it, Christian,” Zoey said. “I messengered a customized press kit over and she’s emailing a list of questions that I can either fill out or forward over. Either way, it will take up less of your time.”
“Less than a conversation over the phone?”
“More controlled,” Zoey responded. “I don’t trust her.”
“Because . . .”
“Because of what I told you the other night. She’s not a sports reporter. She investigates murders and the missing. Crime, politics, dirty business. Her column won the Prober’s Pen for a series called ‘Why They Disappear, Why They Die.’ You’ve done neither. So why the interest?”
Pete chuckled. “You have to ask.”
Zoey’s voice softened. One could imagine she almost smiled. “You’ve got a point, Pete. I’m so focused on keeping Christian’s name away from that kid’s father’s attempted murder—”
“His name is Brandon,” Christian interjected.
“—that I’d overlooked the obvious.”
“Every woman isn’t trying to sleep with me, Zee. And if she is, maybe I want to have sex with her.”
“You’ll fuck anything female. What else is new?”
“I’m not fucking you, am I? Y’all making me out to be a male whore when you know my life is nothing like that. I don’t sleep with just anybody. I have high standards.”
Pete harrumphed. “Yeah, a shaved pussy. That’s about as high as it gets.”
“No, uncle, that’s you.”
“The point is,” Zoey continued in a tone that suggested they get back on track, “the invite to last week’s gala went to her boss, Charles Callahan. But instead of him, she shows up having done a makeover that, if the pics of her online and what she usually looks like are accurate, had to have taken the better part of a day. Maybe two. Why would an investigative reporter with a serious column go after a celebrity all of a sudden if she didn’t have an ulterior motive?”
“Maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s about the foundation, and the kids, and changing their lives. That’s a serious topic.”
“True, and she did mention wanting a tour of the foundation. I just don’t think she needs an interview with you.”
“Set it up. I want to talk to her.”
“I hope instead of smooth lips you encounter a bush the size of Kaepernick’s afro,” Pete mumbled.
Zoey chuckled. Christian ignored him. “Give her my cell phone number. Have her call me.”
It was after eight before business wrapped up for the day and Christian was able to chill. Tomorrow the team would head to Chicago and be on the road for the next five days. Many fantasized about the dream life of a ballplayer. Christian knew he was blessed and lived a great life, but he also knew the sacrifices involved and the toll that constant travel, exhaustive physical training and hard, competitive basketball playing had on the body. He grabbed a liter of the alkaline water with chlorophyll that his nutritionist supplied him, requested a light dinner be brought to the theater, then closed himself off in the darkened room with its recessed lighting, projector screen, premium sound and kid leather, reclining seats. After slipping in a game tape, he sat down, reclined his seat and had just taken a long sip of water when his phone buzzed.
He looked to see who was calling, sighed and tapped the speaker button. “Hank.”
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Watching a little game tape trying to relax before hitting the road tomorrow. What’s going on?”
“Heard a rumor on the street. Probably shouldn’t tell you but I thought you should know.”
“About what?”
“The dude who got shot, or his family rather. You know, the kid.”
“Brandon?” Christian raised the recliner back and sat up. “He’s okay, right? I got a text saying that over the weekend he’d been released.”
“Yeah, he’s home. Don’t know if that’s the safest place for him. The guys with the hit on his daddy are pretty upset because dude’s heartbeat is holding up their paper. You feel me?”
“You said that the other night.”
“What’s new is the plan to smoke him out by going after his family. Now, I don’t know how true it is or how serious whoever was that made the comment, but I thought you’d want to know so we can, you know, handle that.”
“Of course. You know what to do. Call Trey and have security check it out. Tell one of them to post up and find out what’s going on. Any word on who’s behind the hit?”
“No, man. But whoever it is has some weight behind them because I’ve hit up my informers and let me tell you, mum’s the word.”
“Which mean you don’t know Danny’s whereabouts either.”
“He’s a ghost, man. Hasn’t been back to his house, hasn’t been seen on the streets. He probably left town.”
“I hope so. Keep me posted and keep security on Danny’s family. I’ll handle the rest.”
Christian ended that call and placed one to Pete. Confident that appropriate actions would be taken to protect the center, Brandon and the family, he pushed play and tried to focus on the Bulls and how to properly defend his man from posting up and making threes. But he couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of Danny, who was after him and why, kept pulling his attention away. He paused the film and reclined his chair, worked to keep relaxed the muscles his therapist had loosened earlier today. He didn’t need extra pressure right now. The Navigators were in good shape but everybody knew that the game could change on a dime. The next two months were crucial to entering the playoffs at an advantage. Christian’s mind needed to be on the game.
She’s not a sports reporter. She investigates murders and the missing. Crime, politics, dirty business.
Christian’s eyes fluttered open. Someone with a talent for uncovering hidden information is exactly what he needed right now. He tapped his cellphone screen and placed her name in the search engine. He scanned through the posts with links to her newspaper and read one regarding her Prober’s Pen award from the Associated Press. Her stories had led to families being united and criminal arrests? Impressive.
The chef tapped on the door and brought in Christian’s light dinner of a huge kale salad with seared chateaubriand, red quinoa and freshly baked bread. He tapped the play button and this time was able to focus on the competition. Later, when he lay down in his customized king-size bed, his thoughts were on the reporter and what she might make of what happened with Danny, the resources that might be available to one connected with a major paper that could help him find Danny and learn what information he’d wanted to share with Christian the night he was shot. Zoey had warned him to steer clear of Mallory. But it was Christian’s life and he was behind the wheel. No one could tell him how to drive.
14
Mallory hadn’t been able to get an appointment with Dr. Kapoor, but she decided to go by the office anyway. She was surprised to see how secure the facility was—they definitely valued client privacy. Which is why she’d returned home, fired up a search engine, and entered three words: avoid security cameras. The results were both shocking and satisfying. There was a noble cause behind the crime she hoped to commit, but what about true criminals out to scam and steal? She put the worry behind her and after ordering a Faraday case, an LED-strung baseball cap, and studying how to obscure one’s facial features through an art called CV dazzle, Mallory felt that if given the opportunity, or being able to create one, she could obtain Leigh’s medical records without being identified. Unless she got caught. And providing Leigh’s medical records were even there. Now all she needed to do was become an expert at breaking and entering, an act that could carry some serious jail time. She typed how to bu
rglarize a business into the search engine. When several links came up, Mallory could only shake her head. And read. And take notes. One way or the other, she was going to find out what was in the doctor’s files. Whichever way it took . . . she’d be ready.
Mallory took off her criminal hat, focused on her day job, and called Christian’s Kids. No one answered. She left a message for the director. The next day the assistant director, Emma Davis, called her back and scheduled an appointment for three o’clock.
Christian’s Kids was located in Harlem, housed in a colorfully painted building that appeared to take up half a block. Mallory walked up to a set of double doors painted bright red, a perfect contrast to the mustard-colored cement blocks and blue window trim. She turned the knob. The door was locked, but an intercom box was to her right. She pushed it, and after announcing herself she heard a loud click as the door unlocked. She stepped into an interior even brighter and more colorful than the building’s façade. A wide blue line divided walls that were painted bright yellow on top and black on the bottom—the Navigators’ team colors. Posters with positive messages lined the short hallway. The man in one of them was instantly familiar. Christian. Handsome and smiling. Casually dressed and holding a basketball as he leaned against a wall, his eyes seemed to follow Mallory as she passed by. If you can dream it, you can do it. That’s what I did. You can, too.
A door stood open at the end of the hall. She entered what appeared to be an administrative office. The wall color went from yellow to sky blue and was covered in more inspirational posters. A row of colorful wooden chairs lined one side of the room, opposite a wall unit filled with books, board games, and electronic gadgets. A desk was anchored against the far wall where a young woman typed on a laptop, bobbing her head to a softly playing tune. The woman looked up, noticed her, and smiled.
