by Misty Evans
“Which is fine, except you haven’t told me what you did!”
Whew. She’d gotten so churned up about protecting the Chief Justice’s reputation she’d forgotten to tell Amy about the deal. “You’re right. Sorry. I got a little carried away. Anyway, I had to make him a deal.” She scrunched her nose, readied herself for the barrage of hate. “I told him if he didn’t run the story I’d give him the name of a case to look into.” She pushed her shoulders back. “And I told him we’d give him a heads up on our next big press release.”
There. Said it. Done.
Surprisingly, no yelling ensued. Huh. Hope bit the inside of her cheeks and waited, but Amy simply sat staring at her with her tired eyes that were now a little glazed over. Probably that frantic admission Hope unfurled making her punchy.
Four, three, two, one.
Nothing.
I’ve killed my boss. “Amy?”
Finally, Amy sat forward, rested her elbows on the desk. “Theoretically, I could fire you.”
Ouch.
Hope opened her mouth, but Amy waggled a finger at her. “But I’m not going to. I put you in a tough spot here. I thought this blogger was some hack that we could get rid of. Had I known the situation, obviously, I would have handled it or assigned it to a more seasoned person. Not that you’re incompetent. You’re quite talented and I love your spunk. You’re just not ready for something on this level. So, I’m not going to fire you. It’s my fault. Now, I need to take control of this. From now on, I’ll deal with this blogger. You’re to have no more contact with him. Understood?”
Oh, come on! After the night she had, Amy wanted to pull her off this story. They could have something here. “I understand, ma’am. However—”
“No however. We’re done, Denby.”
“Please.” Hope put her hands together, prayerful and, well, pleading. This is what it had come to. Begging. Pathetic. Eh. So what? “I’ve met this blogger. He talked to me. And believe me, Amy, he’s paranoid. He used to be ATF and he takes his anonymity seriously. He’s a tough one and I think, in a twisted way, I connected with him. I won’t say he trusts me, but there’s something there. If you or anyone else suddenly takes over, it’ll make him suspicious. Let me at least be your go-between with him. And I can help with research. Just in case this story might have validity.”
Amy flinched. “What makes you say that?”
“That he trusts me?”
“No. The validity part.”
“Oh. Well.” She thought about it a second, tried to form a persuasive argument, but what it came down to was instinct. Plain and simple. “I don’t know. Call it a hunch.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me, Denby.”
“I’m not. Honestly. It’s just that talking to him, he doesn’t seem like a crackpot. Then I came back to the office and CNN is running that interview with a witness and something doesn’t feel right.”
“Like what?”
“Like why DDOT closed a lane on that bridge during rush hour and then suddenly opened it again right after Chief Justice Turner was shot and killed.”
If that didn’t sway her boss, Hope was in the wrong job. No true journalist could walk away from something like this. A true journalist would dig and keep digging until a reasonable explanation could be found.
Amy’s cell phone rang and she glanced at it. “Shoot. This is the White House.” She picked up the phone. “Okay, Denby. I’ll let you stay on this. Don’t fuck it up.”
Whoot.
“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”
“Good. Tell everyone to go home. We’ll hit it again tomorrow.”
Her twisted state of delirium stayed intact—really, she shouldn’t be so happy about being permitted to stay on a story about a dead Chief Justice. Somewhere down deep she was sad for the man and his family. Truly. But she also wanted to know what happened on that bridge. If Hawk’s conspiracy theory panned out, Hope could find some satisfaction in helping to blow the story open. In putting a criminal behind bars. Yes, that’s what she’d hang on to.
Exposing justice.
Hope wandered back to her desk and on the way found Rob still in his cube cruising the internet.
“Hey,” she said. “Amy is sending everyone home. There’s nothing left to do tonight and she wants everyone to get some rest. Pack it in.”
“Finally. What a rotten day.”
“That it was.”
“Want to share a cab?”
Typically, unless she needed her car during the day or after work, Hope chose not to brave D.C. traffic and took the bus in. This morning, as if the universe sensed her day would implode, she’d missed the bus by two minutes and rather than wait for the next one, decided to drive in. “I drove today. Missed the bus this morning. Got a question for you though.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know anyone at DDOT?”
Rob pulled a face, waggled his head for a second. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“This thing about DDOT suddenly opening up that lane has me curious. The fact that they can just open it up, meaning there were no workers or equipment there tearing up the pavement is a little odd.”
“No it isn’t. This is DDOT.”
Hope scoffed. “Please. Why the heck was that lane closed if no one was working there? I thought if we, meaning you, knew someone there, I could poke around some. If not,” she grinned, “I’ll do it the old fashioned way.”
“Oh, brother. Sorry. I don’t have a contact there.”
She swung around the corner to her own cube and dug out her phone for Hawk’s number.
“Hey,” Rob said from his side. “I thought we were leaving.”
“We were. Now I’m staying. You go on ahead. I have to call my PITA blogger and see if he knows anyone at DDOT.”
Chair tipped back, Brice half dozed in front of his computer. The 31-inch screen flickered with three windows…his blog forum, alive with chatter about the FBI hacking scandal, his Twitter feed of loyal readers spreading the word, and his search engine scanning the web for other potential news stories.
One of his competitors had picked up on the FBI story and spun it into the creative non-fiction zone. They had no credible sources and had lifted direct passages from his original document. Seemed like everyone was a pirate these days, unwilling to do their own work when it was so easy to steal someone else’s.
He itched to release something on the Chief Justice’s death, even just to let his followers know he’d had a tip, but Hope Denby had tied his hands. He’d given the brat his word and he never went back on that.
In his mind, he’d already framed a brief alert, and made a list of people he wanted to contact tomorrow. The CJ’s killer had escaped, but someone had snapped his picture with a cell phone. The picture’s quality was good, but the man was difficult for police to identify since he’d covered his face with a hood, sunglasses, and wore a thick beard. Suspicious? Just a little.
An abundance of eye-witness reports had flooded TV, the Internet, and radio, but few accounts matched. The only thing the witnesses seemed to agree on was that Justice Turner and his security detail were trying to help settle an argument.
His computer phone line buzzed with an incoming call. Even though it was nearing midnight, that wasn’t unusual in the first few hours after one of his stories went live. Most callers just wanted to let off steam and add their own two cents. Since he’d had a dozen calls already, he let it go to voicemail.
But then he heard Hope Denby’s voice.
The chair legs hit the floor and he nearly knocked over his Diet Coke in his haste to hit the connect key on his keyboard. “Denby?”
“Hey, Hawk. Screening your calls?”
The sound of her voice—that mixture of sweetness tinged with confidence—sent his blood flowing to places he’d rather not think about. “What’s going on?”
“Do you know anyone at the department of transportation?”
“Should I?”
She tol
d him about a news bulletin she’d seen on CNN and the fact that a DDOT worker had removed the barricade right after the shooting. “Don’t you think that’s odd? That the lane was closed, but there were no crews there working on it, and then suddenly, it was opened up?”
“This is D.C. Nothing the transportation department does surprises me.” He tipped his chair back again. “Although if you wanted to stop traffic long enough to pin someone on that bridge and shoot him, that would do the trick. The timing would have to be just right…”
“I’d really like to know if there’s a legit reason why that lane was closed. If there is, it would lend credence that this was just an accidental road rage incident. If there’s not, your theory might have more weight.”
“Let me make some calls and get back to you.”
“If you find anything, call my cell. I’m on my way home.”
“You’re still at work?”
“Long day. I’m the last one here, closing up shop.”
The back of his neck tensed. “Don’t you have any common sense, Ms. Denby? A woman leaving the office alone in D.C. at night? You’re asking to get kidnapped, raped, or at the very least, mugged.”
“I told you, Mr. Paranoid, I know Kro Magna.”
“It’s Krav Maga, and you don’t know the first thing about self-defense. Unless you plan to use the spiked heel on your shoe to take someone’s eye out.”
She huffed. “I’ll be fine. I have acute senses that detect danger a mile away. It’s my super power.”
Right. He gripped the arms of his chair. “You don’t even lock the restroom door in a public place.”
“I was nervous about meeting you, Hawk! I forgot.”
He squeezed his hands into fists, released them. The tension in his neck was another story. “Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
“So you do have a human side. That’s sweet.”
Another fist squeeze. “Go home, Ms. Denby.”
“Hope.”
“Hope. Go home, and call me once you’re inside with the doors locked.”
“Yes, sir!”
She disconnected and Brice rubbed his forehead.
And she thought he was a nutcase.
A minute later, he had David Teeg, Grey and Mitch’s lackey, on the phone. Like Brice, he was a night owl. “Teeg, it’s Brennan. You have any connections at DDOT?”
A yawn from the other end and the sound of keyboard clicks. “Maybe. Why?”
“Maybe” in Teeg’s language meant yes. “Why do you think? I need a source who knows about the Gaynor Bridge lane closing.”
“Because you’re investigating the suspicious death of Chief Justice Turner and want to spin it into a conspiracy theory.”
Brice sighed. “Grey told you.”
A new voice came over the speaker. “Yes, I told him. I informed him you’d run into a dead end and come to us for help.” Grey sounded even more uptight than usual. “Guess what? We have our own highly important investigation going on over here and our services are not free. If you want Teeg’s help, or mine, or any other Justice Team member, pony up, Brennan. You help us, we’ll help you.”
Not this again. Grey was a good guy—for a pain in the ass—but when he wanted something, he went for it. Hard. ”I don’t have time to work for the Justice Team, nor do I want to.”
“Then find your own damn connections and sources. Oh, and don’t expect any more of Syd’s cookies on your doorstep.”
Ouch. “That’s hitting below the belt, Grey.”
The line went dead.
Balls.
He sat for a few seconds considering his options. On a normal night, no one would be at DDOT this late anyway. Tonight? They were probably still fielding questions from the police, sheriff, and anyone else who had jurisdiction over the bridge, not to mention the Justice Department and FBI. He could take his chances and cold call them tonight or wait until morning.
Regardless, a direct contact, not some public relations spokesman spouting the party line, would be more efficient. He didn’t need another Hope Denby to deal with.
That meant sucking it up and offering to help Grey.
It pained him to do so, but he redialed Teeg’s number.
“Yo,” the computer hacker answered on the first ring. “Guy’s name is Pearson. Brian Pearson. He’s in the Bridge Maintenance Department.”
Teeg rattled off a phone number. “That’s his personal cell. Tell him I sent you and that anything he divulges is strictly confidential. You’ll keep his name out of it.”
“What about Grey?”
“He said you’d call back in five minutes or less and offer to help us on a contractual basis. Told me to go ahead and spot you this one.”
Grey always seemed to know everyone’s next move before they did it. Brice hated to admit it, but it was a damn impressive skill. Creepy as hell, too. “How does he do that?”
“Predict the future?” Teeg snorted and lowered his voice. “He was a profiler back in the day. Knows us better than we know ourselves. Scary-ass shit, man.”
Scary, indeed. “And what is my first Justice Team assignment?”
“I’ll email three files to you tomorrow.”
The line went dead.
Brice checked the clock. Ten minutes since he’d spoken to Hope. How long did it take her to drive home? Could be another half hour, even with mostly empty roads at this time of night.
Grabbing a burn phone, he dialed the number Teeg had given him. Brian, the poor bastard, was probably snuggled down in his bed, sleeping off the day’s stress. No better time to hit him up for intel.
Six rings before Brian answered. Definitely sleeping. “Hello?” a groggy voice answered.
Brice skipped identifying himself. “Brian, I’m a friend of David Teeg. He gave me your number. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but with everything that happened today, I need some information ASAP.” He didn’t pause long enough for the man to say anything. “Why was the lane closed on the Gaynor Bridge today?”
A deep sigh. “I went over this with the police. There was a memo that went out late yesterday. The lane was closed for a routine inspection.”
So there was a valid reason. “How often do these routine inspections happen?”
“Twice a year minimum. If there’s been a maintenance issue in the last six months, we do more. That bridge is old and has a lot of issues. We’ve probably done three or more checks on it in the past two months.”
“So the inspection occurred this morning before the traffic jam?”
“Um…who did you say you were again?”
“Whatever you tell me is in confidence. Why was the lane opened up immediately after the shooting?”
“Look, the inspector claims he didn’t get the memo. One of the road crews who did see the memo set up the barricade, but the inspector hadn’t gotten there yet when the incident went down. It happens.”
Incompetence. It happened far too often in his book. “Thank you for your time.”
Brice punched the disconnect key and rocked in his chair. While the DDOT guys had failed to do an inspection before rush hour traffic, there was no sign of obvious foul play.
Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t hear his computer line ring a few minutes later. He answered, hoping it was the brat. “Patriot blog.”
“What, no Thomas Paine quote?” Her voice was teasing. “Just wanted you to know, I’m home safe and sound. The doors are locked, the windows secure, and the motion sensors activated. The only thing I don’t have is the Hulk standing guard outside.”
She knew Thomas Paine. He was mildly impressed. With her knowledge and her level of security. “You have motion sensors?”
“If I say yes, will you relax?”
Annoying little shit. Something in him liked her, and not just because she was sexy and a smartass. It was the smell of a scoop. She was a woman who understood his weakness and that made him want to open up, to trust her.
He pushed that feeling d
own into the deep, dark hole of no-way-in-hell. Trusting Mrs. Tilly was one thing. Trusting a woman like Hope was as scary as having Justice Greystone read his mind. “A source on the Bridge Maintenance Unit says the lane was closed for a routine inspection.”
He heard a fridge opening. “Well, that’s weird,” Hope said. “I listened to a radio talk show on the way home and I swear they said the lane was closed for a pothole repair.”
After yet another brutal winter, potholes were as rampant as incompetence. “The guy I spoke with suggested there was a lot of miscommunication within DDOT.”
A glass clanked. “Is it miscommunication or is someone lying?”
Brice smiled at his screen. “Now who sounds like a paranoid conspiracy theorist?”
“Oh, please. I’m a journalist at heart. We never stop asking questions. Which is why I’m going to dig a little and see if I can verify what I heard on the radio. I went to school with one of the assistant producers on that show. He owes me a couple of favors. And seeing as his show is on the air right now, I might be able to get to him tonight. I’ll call you back. There goes my glass of wine and a long, hot bubble bath.”
And, oh, the images that conjured. If only she’d wear those fuck-me shoes, and nothing else, while she was running that bathwater, his fantasy would be complete. “Call me. Don’t forget your deadline.”
He could hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t worry. If there’s a story here, I’m going to find it.”
“You wouldn’t steal my scoop, would you?”
“Who me?”
He heard tinkling laughter before the connection went dead.
Chapter Six
Hope dialed Jeremy’s cell phone and by the third ring knew she’d get voicemail. That was okay. The man obsessively checked his phone, probably waiting on that next big scoop, and she knew he’d call her back tonight. She’d thrown him a couple of inside tips since she’d gone to work at the Supreme Court and they had a standing agreement to always, always, return phone calls.
Opening the fridge, she bypassed the Chardonnay—almost grieving its loss—and grabbed a bottled water. If Jeremy came back with something interesting, she wanted to be sharp and refused to risk even one glass of alcohol. She’d settle for water and scanning the internet for any late breaking news on the justice.
