“I’ve got a hell of a list of questions, starting with this one: Why hasn’t the local media been alerted that Hamilton Baine is missing, Kyle?”
I waited.
And waited.
Pulled the phone away from the side of my head and checked the signal bars.
Still connected. I clicked the volume button. He was breathing, lightly.
“Kyle, don’t bullshit me. I know y’all can’t find him.”
Easy hunch: because Hamilton flipped, killed Lakshmi, and took off. The simplest answer is usually the right one.
But then the only reason for the information freeze was that someone was trying to figure a way to spin the whole sordid mess to avoid hurting Baine’s political career.
Which meant finding someone else to take the fall for it.
Kyle wouldn’t have any part of that.
Right?
“Kyle, is he missing, or are you guys hiding him?” I half whispered the words, bitter as they crossed my tongue. Kyle was a good cop. More than that, he was a good man. Surely to God he wouldn’t be party to covering up a murder.
“I—” He started to say something. Stopped himself.
My latte threatened to come back up.
“I have rarely wanted to be wrong about something so badly in my entire life,” I choked out. “Kyle. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He hung up.
I stared at my phone, forgetting to breathe. How had my fabulous weekend twisted so thoroughly into a nightmare with one murder victim? And who would help me figure this out without Kyle?
Aaron.
I clicked to my text messages.
The one he’d sent me yesterday morning, which I hadn’t paid much mind to. It came right behind Kyle’s, and they were clearly talking about the same thing.
Weren’t they?
Come to the governor’s office. There’s a hell of a story attached to this body, but it’s not going to be an easy one to get. For either of us.
I read it six times before I let my head fall back against the seat, going back through everything I knew about this mess.
Lakshmi used to sleep with men—some of them powerful—for money. One of her clients was recently sprung from prison and might be looking to settle an old score.
Her father was a high-clearance-level scientist who lost his job and then his business because Ted Grayson wanted to know something Dr. Drake wouldn’t tell.
Hamilton Baine was Lakshmi’s boyfriend.
Hamilton’s father was a sitting governor with an eye on the national political stage.
I pulled out my notebook and scribbled all that into a list, because this was already a stupidly convoluted puzzle, and I didn’t trust myself to not lose track of a piece.
Okay. What else?
Hamilton Baine wasn’t around. Or at the very least, people were looking for him. People traveling in dark sedans and matching drab, forgettable suits. I put the pen down and opened my photos, scrolling back through the most recent ones. Nope, nope, nope . . . blurry shots of sky and trees and a dark blob that might’ve been a car.
Damn.
I retrieved the pen. Next.
The Baine family, for all their greeting-card perfection, had a few skeletons in their assorted closets.
Wait.
My photographic memory retrieved the cell phone screen Mrs. Powers had shown me the day before.
“She heard from Hamilton yesterday morning,” I breathed, tapping the pen on the paper and leaving behind a clump of little blue dots. The dim garage in front of me went wavy and unfocused, my brain lasering in on trying to make that piece fit. If Hamilton killed Lakshmi and disappeared, by choice or by design, why would he have texted my neighbor about her death? If he hadn’t, where the hell was he, and why did Kyle hang up on me?
I had nothing. Except a whole list of weird things I couldn’t quite see the connections between, and a situation that was producing more complicated questions practically by the minute.
Oh, and nobody to talk through it with.
Aaron’s text message worried around my head. He wasn’t known for being cryptic.
“Something is off. Way off,” I said to the still silence.
It was about the only thing I was sure of, right then.
I put the car in gear and waved my key card in front of the sensor to open the gate before turning west for police headquarters.
Yes, it was Saturday. But if I was anywhere in the same neighborhood as right, Aaron wouldn’t be able to keep his head out of the case any more than I could keep mine out of the story.
12
I nearly stumbled over my own Manolos when I walked into RPD headquarters, the new face attached to a mountain of muscle behind the desk pressing the brakes on my determined stride three steps into the lobby.
The guy looked more like a Manhattan bouncer than a Richmond cop, and certainly didn’t spend a lot of time behind a desk, or anywhere else that wasn’t a gym. His left bicep was as big around as my waist. And my best smile and chatty “Detective White is expecting me” didn’t get me so much as a grunt. His thick arm shot into my path as he reached for the phone.
“I’m not sure Detective White is in today, miss.”
I held up my press credentials. “Nichelle Clarke from the Telegraph. I can just go up and wait for him. I know my way around.” I tried the smile again.
No dice. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go up unescorted, miss.” His face said the rest, which went something like Which you would know if you really knew your way around.
And while security at the department had tightened since Aaron’s incident this time last year, I was still used to more leeway than your average civilian.
Not today.
“He’s not answering,” Captain Testosterone said.
I waited.
He nodded to the doors behind me. “Have a good day now.”
“If Aaron’s not here yet, I could talk with Detective Landers while I wait for him,” I said.
He sighed and reached for the phone again. “Landers, you said?”
I nodded, not bothering with the smile this time.
He punched buttons, holding the phone to his ear for thirty seconds before he replaced it in the cradle. “He’s not picking up.” He didn’t bother with the “sorry,” either.
Fine. Big guns for the win. “Chief Sorrel,” I said. Technically, my old friend Mike was the deputy chief, but brass is brass. The name-drop widened his eyes.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Nichelle Clarke.”
He picked the phone back up. Punched buttons. “This is Officer Trenton at the desk. I have a Nichelle Clarke here from the newspaper, was looking for Detective White and now says she wants to talk with Chief Sorrel. Should I—” He stopped, his brows drawing into a V over the apex of his nose before he met my gaze. “Of course. I sure will. Yes, ma’am.”
He put the phone down and pointed to the elevators. “She said you know the way.”
I flashed a calmer smile. No gloating, just thanks and relief. “I do. Thank you.” I strode to the elevators and pushed the up arrow, keeping my eyes on the flat steel of the doors until they opened.
Mike’s office was on fifteen. Aaron’s was on twelve. I touched that button first, but didn’t press it. I’d love to go poke around and eavesdrop on the detectives’ floor, or see if Aaron was just ignoring his phone, sure, but with all the weird around this place today, it might not be the best idea. Pushing the right button, I leaned against the back wall of the elevator. Mike was the only person in this place who was as big a workaholic as I was, so throwing his name out was a somewhat calculated last gasp at getting past Captain Powerlifting, but I had to go up to his office since he was now expecting me.
The bell dinged on twelve and my eyes went back to the buttons. I hadn’t actually pressed it.
The doors parted and if I hadn’t already been leaning on the wall, I’d have fallen over.
Aaron flinched back from the elevator, fl
anked by Detective Chris Landers—and a stubble-jawed, bloodshot-eyed Governor Thomas Baine.
“What in actual hell—” Landers didn’t get his whole sentence out before Aaron recovered, holding one hand up in front of the junior detective and flashing a smile at me.
“Nichelle. I didn’t expect to see you today.” His tone said we might as well have reached for the same apple at the grocery store.
I rolled my lips between my teeth and bit down for half a second before I put a hand out. “Gentlemen,” I said. “It’s almost a crime to be stuck inside on such a gorgeous fall Saturday.”
Aaron nodded. The doors started to close, and I put one hand on the right panel, arching an eyebrow. “Going up?”
The governor hadn’t said anything, so I pretended I didn’t recognize him for the moment. Mostly because I didn’t have a way to open a discussion there that wouldn’t piss off Landers more. Landers kind of stays half pissed off where I’m concerned. His dad was the sort of old-school reporter who devoted himself more to the story than his family. While I knew the feeling, I felt for Landers, too. This job doesn’t exactly lend itself to family. Not that police work was better—but I wasn’t in a position to point that out.
They stepped forward almost in unison, turning to face the doors and not offering another word as the elevator rose three more floors. I stepped off behind them on fifteen, and Landers whirled.
“What are you doing here, Nichelle?” He didn’t yell, but the lines in his forehead said he wanted to.
“Going to see Mike,” I said, raising one arm toward his office.
The little blue vein under Landers’s left eye popped to attention.
So, not the response he wanted, then.
I slid my eyes to Aaron, whose face was so carefully blank it was hard to pull my gaze away. What had I lucked myself into when they wouldn’t answer their phones? I would’ve never asked to talk to Mike if Officer Muscles downstairs had been able to get either of these guys. Probably not the best time to tell them that.
I tipped my lips up into a tight, toothless smile and stepped around Landers before his blood pressure could notch up any more.
Striding to Mike’s door, I kept my head up and my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the murmurs around us, which were probably more on account of Governor Baine than Landers and his bickering.
I raised my fist and rapped twice on Mike’s door. “Come in, Nichelle,” his deep voice boomed from the other side. Turning the knob, I pushed the door open with a real smile. I didn’t get to see him much since he’d moved upstairs. “It seems I’m not your only company today, Chief Bigshot,” I said.
He stood, a grin flashing bright beneath a thick, dark mustache that was just starting to show the slightest hint of gray. “Long time no see, Lois Lane. I guess you’ve been too busy saving the world to drop in on tired old workhorses like me.”
“You’re one to talk.” I shook his hand, forgetting the bizarre trio on my heels for a moment. “You miss your drug runners and snitches yet?”
“Only on slow days. I’ll let you know when I have one.” He winked, gesturing to a gray microfiber upholstered chair across from his. “Make yourself comfortable.” He turned to the door. “You waiting for an engraved invitation, Chris? Shut the door.”
Landers opened his mouth. Snapped it shut again. Pulled a rolling black leather desk chair from the table at the far end of the room over and laid a hand on the governor’s shoulder. “Sir,” he said, nodding to the chair.
“Thank you.” Baine’s voice was hoarse. Thready. I knew the mix of grief and exhaustion that caused that well, thanks to more interviews with folks whose quiet worlds had been upended by tragedy than I cared to count. I pulled my notebook out and flipped it open, casting my eyes down but trying to study the governor through my lashes. A dozen questions practically burned a hole in my vocal cords. Why was he here? What had him so distraught? Was he sleeping with Lakshmi? Was he worried about his career? This timing was God-awful, with the president’s impending visit and the whispers of a national run for him. And perhaps most important: Where the hell was his son?
I swallowed them all, the waves of irritation radiating from Landers’s tense form threatening an eruption he was only holding in check because of Mike. He might lose his temper if I spoke first, chief be damned.
I clicked my pen out and waited for everyone to settle. Governor Baine’s chin rested on his chest, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with measured breaths. If he weren’t so upset, I’d have thought he was asleep.
Mike cleared his throat, drawing my eyes up to his. He laced his fingers together and rested his hands on a thin butter-yellow file folder, the lone one in the center of his desk.
I tapped my pen on my notebook. Yellow was missing persons at the RPD.
Shit.
“It seems we have ourselves quite a problem here, gentlemen,” Mike said.
And that was all it took to blow Landers’s top. “Sir, we shouldn’t discuss an open investigation with—” He got halfway to his feet, his voice getting louder with each word, before Mike stopped him.
“Enough, Detective.” The words could’ve pierced Kevlar, and I blinked, my head swiveling slowly back and forth between the two of them.
Landers returned to his seat as Aaron coughed over a chuckle. Mike Sorrel was legendary for his temper and strict adherence to policy as a detective and then sergeant in the narcotics division, where he led some of the largest investigations—and secured some of the biggest busts—in department history. It seemed two trips around the sun on the command staff hadn’t cooled his head.
“Nichelle has more than proven herself not only trustworthy but a damned fine investigator in her own right and an ally of this department,” Mike said. “And I asked her here today. That will be the end of the discussion of her presence.”
Holy Manolos. That was a loaded defense if there ever was one. There were cops in the room I considered friends, yes. But my allegiance was to the truth, not the Richmond PD, and Mike knew it. Furthermore, he’d only asked me because I presented myself via phone in the lobby.
Not that I was going to quibble over details.
“While we’re on the subject, though, Nichelle, I see your notebook and I’m going to have to ask you to leave what’s discussed here today off the record, at least for now.”
I nodded. Of course he was. “We get it in print before it goes to the TV,” I said.
Mike tapped his index fingers on the backs of the opposite knuckles. “I can’t promise you first, because we have limited control over when something is going to get out about this, and I’m afraid I’m not up on who Charlie’s got in her pocket around here these days. But I can promise you more. Exclusive interviews with the investigating officers, when we can.”
“Deal.” I put the pen down, pretty sure of what I was about to hear.
“I’m sure you’ve already managed to find out what happened at the capitol yesterday,” Mike began.
I nodded. “Lakshmi Drake.” My eyes went to the governor, who was looking at Mike. His eyes closed for two beats when I said her name, but if it bothered him more than that, he wasn’t showing it.
“I know she was dating Hamilton Baine, though it seems someone doesn’t want anyone else knowing that.” I stopped there, lighting my eyes on each of the cops in the room in turn.
Aaron nodded slowly, but not at me. At Mike.
“Hamilton is missing.” Mike lifted the folder in front of him, turning it so I could see the name on the tab and the small color photo of Hamilton stapled to the corner.
I widened my eyes and sat up straighter, because I didn’t need them to know I had already figured that out. Yet, anyway.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I said, turning to Governor Baine.
A tear fell from the corner of one eye, a shiny dark mark across his cheekbone before it disappeared into the scruff lining his jaw.
“I just don’t understand,” he rasped, leaning forward and resting his
elbows on his knees. “Any of this, really. What the hell is going on?”
Aaron put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what we’re going to find out, Tom. I give you my word. We will get your boy back.”
“Has there been a ransom demand?” My brow furrowed as the question popped out, because nothing about this made sense. For a missing person, and a high-profile one at that, where was the FBI? And for that matter, the state police oversee the First Family’s security.
Landers tightened his hands on the arms of his chair, but he didn’t tell me to shut up. Mike shook his head slightly.
Damn. So they didn’t even really know if Hamilton was missing or dead.
I tucked a wayward strand of dark hair behind my right ear, frowning at Mike. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you guys handling this?”
He smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
I rolled my eyes. He knew I didn’t mean it that way.
“Because I don’t trust anyone else,” Governor Baine said. “Aaron and Mike have been my friends since my first month on the city council, and I don’t know what the hell is going on in my house, but I have a pretty good hunch that not everyone who’s supposed to be protecting me and my family is actually invested in that mission.”
I dropped my pen, turning to him.
Both eyes bright with tears, he was focused on Mike. “You have to help us.”
Mike nodded, reaching across his desk to grip the governor’s hand and raising one eyebrow at me. “What do you say, Nichelle? You in?”
“Of course.”
There wasn’t anything else to say. And I knew Mike was well aware of that when he dropped the question.
I could worry about what I’d just agreed to later. For now, maybe I could finally get a few answers if I was going to dig myself deeper into this story.
13
Chris Landers can lose his shit more spectacularly than a Real Housewife who’s knocked back three too many glasses of chardonnay.
Apparently, even the governor and the deputy chief weren’t enough motivation to keep it together once Mike asked me to do whatever it was he still hadn’t explained.
Deadly Politics Page 11
