by Kelly Irvin
Gasping for air, she crawled toward her bedroom.
“No you don’t.” He switched to English. Not law-school-educated, sophisticated Rick. This guy was a throwback to the barrio. “Get back here.”
He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. Her neck popped. Then he had the back of her shirt, then her pants.
Then he had the gun.
Rick, on track to be the youngest partner in the history of Coggins, Gonzalez, and Pope, up-and-coming politician, and Judge Geoffrey Fischer’s first choice for son-in-law pointed a gun at the back of her head. This day couldn’t get any more surreal.
“Get up.”
She acquiesced. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just looking for information. You showed up from your run early.”
The guy had nerve. Melanie snorted. “Showed up in my own house. If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just called. You know my number. You could’ve rang the doorbell.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’d share your notes with me. Or that handy-dandy digital recorder I’m betting you used when you talked to Serena Cochrane yesterday. They’re not in your office. Where are they?”
“We chatted, that’s all. Why would you care? What’s going on?” Serena hadn’t wanted to talk at first. But she’d changed her mind and called Melanie in the middle of the night. Why was this important to Rick? What would drive a respected attorney to commit breaking and entering? Had he killed the judge?
The questions amped up Melanie’s adrenaline, as if struggling with an intruder wasn’t enough. A big story was her drug of choice. “Tell me what you think she knew or told me. Come on, Rick, give me the story. Be my inside source. I won’t tell a soul, you know that. I’d go to jail before I gave up a source.”
“You were seen talking to Serena at the courthouse yesterday. What did Serena tell you about Judge Fischer?”
Someone was spying on the judge’s staff in the wake of his death and reporting back to CG&P. Why? “I talked to everyone who worked for him. She told me he was a great man, that she loved him.”
“And that he was on the take, right?”
“She’d heard that, but she didn’t believe it.”
“Where’s the digital recorder?”
“What kind of reporter shares her story notes with someone who breaks into her house to get them?” Her story suddenly grew exponentially. One of the most reputable law firms in town with millions of dollars in billable hours was somehow involved with a district court judge’s death. “Why didn’t you call me up, ply me with drinks, and then ask me?”
“Because you wouldn’t hesitate to lie through your teeth.”
“And you know I’d end up getting more information from you than you would from me.” Melanie forced a laugh. “I’m good at what I do. Why don’t I make some coffee and we can talk?” She halted in the living room. “I haven’t eaten. I could go for some breakfast tacos. We can eat and then head to the bedroom. After all, you always liked my bedroom, didn’t you?”
“You aren’t very good at following instructions.” The gun jabbed her again. “Keep walking.”
“At least tell me why you’re doing this.”
“What if I said it was to protect a man’s reputation?”
“The only reputation you care about is yours.”
“That’s not true.” He sounded hurt. “I always liked you.”
“You used me and I used you.”
“That’s exactly what I like about you.” He actually chuckled. The sound sent chills rippling up Melanie’s spine. “We’re just alike. Upwardly mobile. All about our careers.”
“I thought you were in love with Nina.” She turned to face him. “Have you thought about what embracing a life of crime will do to her?”
For the first time he hesitated. His gaze ricocheted around the living room. “You’ve added some artwork to your collection. I bet they took a chunk out of your trust fund.”
Her money was none of Rick’s business, but the conversation bought her time. Melanie edged toward the hallway. “Come on. All this adrenaline has me worked up. Do you want to see the redecorating I did in the bedroom? I have a new painting there.”
And her cell phone.
“I don’t have time to mess around. I want the digital recorder.”
Which was tucked inside her purse. Sitting next to the Keurig in the kitchen ready to go with her to work. Once he had the recorder, what would he do to her? He couldn’t think he would get away with this. She was a reporter, for crying out loud.
The only way out of this for Rick now was to kill her.
He was a lawyer and a candidate for higher office. None of this made any sense. “Why would you kill Judge Fischer?”
“I didn’t kill the judge.” Anger raged in his face. He no longer looked like a handsome up-and-coming politician. The depth of his emotion drew lines on his face and turned his eyes into smoldering coals. “That’s what started this whole thing. If he hadn’t been killed, none of this would’ve happened—”
“None of what would have happened? What was the connection between the judge and your firm?”
“Knowing you, you were working on the story in your bedroom last night. Your stuff’s in there, isn’t it? Your laptop and the recorder? Let’s go.”
“Fine, you’re so hot to go to the bedroom, let’s go.” She drew a breath and gave him her best top-ten market smile. She needed her phone. They were moving in the right direction. “And while we go, you can tell me what this is all about.”
“You don’t need to know.”
She did. If she was going to die today, she’d at least like to know why. She wanted the story. Not even her gun in her killer’s hand could change that.
18
Aaron glanced in the rearview mirror. No sirens screamed. No red lights flashed. The drive from Jim’s restaurant to Melanie’s neighborhood north of San Antonio College took less than ten minutes. He punched the accelerator and hung a left. The 4Runner swerved around a corner. Tires squealed. They made the first two green lights. No such luck at the next stoplight. He jammed on the brakes. The back end slid. He steered left. The SUV straightened. The guy in the Chevy Traverse next to him rolled down his window and gesticulated. His expression said it all. Aaron ignored him.
Two more blocks. Two more blocks.
Nina shoved her phone in her pocket and grabbed the door handle with both hands. “The dispatcher says a unit is already on the way.”
“Their response time is pretty good.”
“Maybe there’s already a unit in the area.”
“Maybe.”
The light changed. He took off. The 4Runner shimmied. The engine whirred and whined. “Don’t quit on me now.”
Nina threw both hands up as if to prepare for imminent contact. “Take it easy. We can’t help Melanie if we die in a one-car rollover.”
He plowed around another corner and hit the entrance to her neighborhood.
“You need to chill.” Nina’s placating tone only riled Aaron more. He sucked in a breath and tried to stave off the effects of adrenaline and fear for Melanie. She was an irritating woman, but she’d grown on him in the three years they’d worked together. Nina leaned over and squeezed his arm. “If this guy really is still in her house, we don’t want to walk into the middle of something. We need a plan of attack.”
“Maybe it’s just a random burglary.”
“Her car’s probably sitting in the driveway. Would a burglar break in if he thought she was home?”
“Depends on whether the burglar knows her routine. Does she park in the garage—which of course she does, given that she drives a new Dodge Charger. Does she have more than one car? Does more than one person live in the house? Does she work days or nights? Maybe he’s stupid.” Not likely. “Try her number again.”
Nina punched in the number and waited. She shook her head.
“Try texting her. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk while the guy’s in the house.”
>
“You think he’s still there? Every second he lingers he risks getting caught.” Nina thumbed the screen with the dexterity of someone who didn’t have fat fingers. “Maybe he took her hostage.”
“Pray.”
She didn’t answer. He didn’t dare take his gaze from the road. If she couldn’t pray, he would pray enough for both of them.
Aaron slowed and turned onto Melanie’s street. The one-story colonial-style house was in the middle of the block. No car in the driveway. Melanie loved her silver Charger. It would be parked in the garage. She lived alone. She said she liked it that way. No fuss, no muss. People from the news station had been invited over many times for parties. She liked to cook and always served good eats. A big draw for the TV crowd. Nobody got paid squat, so free food and good shop talk meant all-nighters.
He didn’t drink, but he ate plenty and he never tired of shop talk. He liked serving as a designated driver to make sure his buddies arrived home safely. A DUI would kill a photog’s career. Had to be able to drive to stories.
He pulled over to the curb two houses down, put the 4Runner in Park, and surveyed the neighborhood. Quiet during the day. Nice cars, mostly SUVs, in the driveways of two-story, historic brick-and-wood homes with big front yards and no fences like San Antonians preferred in the newer gated subdivisions. Nice landscaping. Basketball hoops on the edge of driveways. Tricycles parked next to front doors. At least the older kids were at school.
He turned off the ignition. “You stay here.”
Nina snorted. “In your dreams.”
“She has a gun. The intruder may have one too.” He undid his seat belt and shoved his door open. “I don’t want you getting caught in the cross fire.”
“You either.” Nina opened her door and hopped out. “When did Melanie get a gun?”
“A couple of years ago. She has a license to carry. She does a lot of stories that irk people who have long memories and long arms.”
But mostly she liked guns.
Aaron ran to the back of the 4Runner and pulled out his camera. He stuck the camera on his shoulder. Her Leica still dangling from her neck, Nina met him at the curb. “You’re really going to shoot this?”
“I have to. I’ll help her and get the story for her.” His voice sounded breathless even though he hadn’t exerted himself. He always got an adrenaline rush on big stories, but it had never involved someone he cared about. “That’s what she wants. Get in the car.”
“No way.”
“I don’t have time to argue. Stay put.”
“I’m not a puppy.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Then move.” Everything about Nina’s posture and tone said he’d lost this argument before it started. “I’ve got your back.”
Using a neighbor’s car for cover, Aaron surveyed Melanie’s yard. Perfectly manicured. A crepe myrtle and a rubber tree in the front yard. Fire bushes under the windows. He ran to the next car and stopped. His heart pounded in his ears. He’d shot stories at active crime scenes many times. Guys holed up in their houses with children as hostages. He’d done ride-alongs with the cops. News photographers lived for those moments. The juice flowed. Getting as close as possible to the first responders was a welcome challenge.
He’d never known the victim before. Not a victim. Melanie was a reporter. His reporter. Aaron stayed low and ran toward the front door. It was closed, pinecone wreath still in place. The little cement porch, just big enough for a Christmas cactus and a welcome mat, looked undisturbed. Normal. He paused and glanced back. Nina kept pace. He shook his finger at her and pointed at the 4Runner.
She shook her head so vehemently her long ponytail flopped. “Wait for the police or I’m going with you.”
“I can’t wait. It’s Melanie.”
“How are we getting in?”
He turned the knob. Nothing. “Around back.”
The camera bumped on his shoulder as he ran. Melanie kept a spare key hidden under the deck. She was the queen of losing her keys but refused to do the predictable and leave the spare under a potted plant by the front door.
He opened the gate and slipped through, aware of Nina close enough to be his shadow. She touched his shoulder. “We won’t need a key.” Her voice was high and breathless. “Someone beat us to it.”
The back door stood open. A crowbar lay on the red-cedar deck. Strips of wood hung from the door around the jimmied lock plate. Aaron grabbed Nina’s hand. “Go back.” His whisper sounded loud in his ears. “Call for help.”
“I’m not going back unless you do.”
“I have to help her.”
“Are you going to knock the guy out with your camera?”
A shot rang out.
* * *
Nina flattened herself against Melanie’s house. Adrenaline pumped through her body, making it hard to suck in a breath. She swiped at her face. Sweat burned her eyes. Her heart beat so hard it hurt. They edged forward across the deck to the door. It stood open. Aaron peeked in. He leaned back again and nodded. “Here we go.”
They moved in to the kitchen. It was spotless. A reusable water bottle sat on the counter next to a Keurig. Melanie’s Louis Vuitton purse lay on its side. The room smelled of fresh coffee.
Aaron’s hiking boots clomped against the tile. She touched his arm. He looked back. She put a finger to her mouth. He nodded.
Nothing like seeing a big burly former linebacker try to tiptoe.
“Melanie?” he whispered the name. He might not even know he said it aloud. “Melanie.”
They moved through the kitchen, the breakfast nook, and a formal dining room that held a modern-looking dining room table and six chairs. Nothing had been touched.
Into the foyer by the front door. To the right, someone had knocked over a chair in the living room. Magazines and books were strewn across the tile floor. Paintings hung at odd angles.
Nina put one hand on Aaron’s back. His T-shirt was damp with perspiration. Without looking, she knew he’d started shooting. Her other hand closed around her Leica. It felt solid warm in her hand. Others had guns. She and Aaron had cameras.
She jerked her head toward the hallway. He nodded. They moved in sync.
First door, guest bathroom. Empty. Second door, a computer desk, chair, bookshelves, computer. Office. Again, papers were strewn in all directions. Third door, empty bedroom.
The last door stood open. Aaron’s arm came back across Nina’s chest, knocking her against the wall. “Stay.”
His voice was the barest whisper.
She shook her head, but he never looked back. His arm dropped and he charged forward. “Melanie?”
She followed as close as she dared.
A figure dressed in black jeans, a black ski mask over his face, darted into the hallway. He shoved Aaron, who slammed backward into Nina. His camera banged into her sore face. Pain blossomed across her cheekbone. She flailed, desperate to keep her balance. No dice. Her head banged on the tile. She rolled and the Leica slammed into her chest.
Aaron tripped over her, righted himself, and raced after the intruder.
Idiot.
Nina opened her mouth and tried to scream. Stop. Don’t do it.
Nothing came out. The fall had knocked the wind out of her.
She rolled over and dragged herself to her knees. Blood from her nose dripped on the tile. She crawled forward, one hand on her camera.
Her ragged breath filled the air. It was so loud in her ears, she wanted to clap her hands over them.
Sirens screamed in the distance.
Finally.
“Help.” One syllable. Barely a whisper. Her lungs ached for air. “Here. We need help here.”
Look. Just look.
A powerful sense of déjà vu buffeted her. No cats or dogs this time. No darkness. An intruder, though, a powerful one. Built differently. Dressed differently. Jeans instead of sweats. She crawled through the doorway. Her hands encountered carpet. Soft. Nice on her aching palms
and fingers. She let the camera drop and used both hands to move forward.
Melanie sprawled across the carpet, her arms and legs askew. She wore a tank top and leggings. Her feet were bare. Her toenails had been painted a bright red. So festive. So Melanie.
Her eyes were open.
A neat bullet hole decorated her forehead. A pool of blood soaked the once-tan carpet around her wet, tangled hair.
“Melanie?”
Silence filled only with Nina’s panting.
She sat back on her haunches. She put hand over mouth. Acid burned the back of her throat. Her stomach, empty except for water, heaved.
Throwing up at a crime scene wouldn’t be good.
Melanie Martinez, the model turned reporter with her perfect makeup and high heels, was gone.
She looked so surprised.
Nina gritted her teeth. She crawled forward to do that thing a person must do in this situation. She touched the woman’s throat. No pulse. CPR. She should do CPR. Every second counted.
A small, black gun lay just beyond her long, red fingernails.
“SAPD. Everyone down. SAPD!”
Heavy footsteps pounded on the hallway tile.
The room filled with bodies then. Uniformed officers, guns drawn, screaming.
“On the ground. Hands over your head.”
Nina hit the deck. “CPR. She needs CPR. Help her.” A police officer squatted and grabbed Nina’s arms. “What are you doing?”
“Handcuffing you, ma’am.”
Reality faded into a surreal world where anything could happen and did. The cuffs bit into her wrists. At least she could still feel pain. “What about Melanie? She’s hurt.”
Another officer knelt next to Melanie. “If this is Melanie, she’s gone.”
19
Aaron couldn’t let go of the camera. His shoulder hurt and one of his fingers might be broken. Adrenaline had flown the coop, leaving him drained. Still, he couldn’t let go. Had he shot video of Melanie’s killer? Maybe. Tears choked him. He swallowed them, swiped at his face, and gritted his teeth. The camera had definitely been hot when the intruder came at him from the bedroom. In that split second Aaron had been sure he would die. That Nina would die. Like Melanie had died. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the distorted video that ran like a movie on an endless loop in his head.
