Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how much he was paid?”

  “Not much at all. Maybe $150 or $200 a week depending on the hours.”

  “Why him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure a lot of your volunteers would jump at the chance to work for you on a more personal level. Why was he the chosen one?”

  Ellen paused then spoke slowly, measuring her words. “He broke my heart. Jeff seemed so very alone and desperately wanted a place to belong. I admired his passion over causes and the way he threw himself into projects, his intensity. Maybe I saw some of myself in him, someone trying to rise above the cards they were dealt in life. One day he mentioned he was having a hard time finding steady work and asked if there were any odd jobs I needed done. That’s how it started. But it wasn’t a handout. Jeff is very—” Ellen’s voice caught, “I mean Jeff was very diligent.”

  “Where was he from?”

  Konrad took another drink, lifting her shoulders in a small shrug.

  “He never once mentioned where he grew up?” Sam pressed, her tone politely skeptical.

  “Maybe it says something unflattering about me, but I didn’t initiate conversations about his past.” Ellen put her glass down and leaned forward. “I try to live my life very much in the here and now so that’s what our primary interaction revolved around: what needed to be done that day, what needed to be organized, what could be gotten ready for tomorrow. We didn’t have heart-to-hearts in front of the fireplace. I just don’t go there with people, even people under my own roof.”

  Sam heard the echoes of regret. “Sounds like that could get lonely.” When Ellen didn’t respond, she asked, “Did Jeff have a steady girlfriend?”

  “Not that I know of.” Her voice gave noting away but her body language subtly tensed.

  Sam considered the obvious: Ellen and Jeff had been intimately involved. That would certainly explain why Phil Atkins was so nervous about journalists poking around. Sam tapped her pen on the notebook, wanting to phrase the question as respectfully as possible.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask—”

  “Were Jeff and I lovers?” Konrad cut her off, sounding weary. “Of course that’s what the assumption is going to be, isn’t it, regardless of whether it’s true or not. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, especially when there are people under my own roof who assumed the same thing.”

  “I’m not assuming anything,” Sam assured her calmly, wondering who in Ellen’s inner circle had thought she was having an affair and why they cared even if she was. “I just need to ask the question.”

  “I know.” Ellen looked at Sam evenly but spoke with unexpected emotion. “No, Jeff was not my lover. There was no sexual relationship, or sexual contact, of any kind between us—not a kiss, not a grope, not a brief encounter, not a fleeting touch, not so much as a wet dream.”

  Her intensity made Sam lean back on the stool. “I’m pretty sure wet dreams fall into the too much information category, even for the Weekender.”

  Ellen instantly relaxed and took an audible breath. She pulled off the hair band, put it around her wrist, and gave her head a shake, sending the blonde tresses falling below her shoulders. “Sorry,” Ellen apologized, adding wryly, “and as far as wet dreams go, I guess I can honestly only speak for myself.”

  “Well, thanks for sharing. That’s certainly the first time I’ve had that visual during an interview.”

  Ellen coughed out a self-conscious laugh, “My pleasure, so to speak,” and checked her watch. She went around the bar, pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator, and held it up. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Very much. Thank you.”

  Sam stood and twisted to stretch her back, which cracked loudly in complaint. Ellen glanced up. “Someone clearly needs a chiropractor.”

  “Nah, I’m just getting creakier with age.”

  Ellen took off her jacket and tossed it across the counter, eyeing Sam’s leanly muscled body with open appreciation. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Thirty-two, but a few of the joints are going on sixty. Old basketball injuries,” Sam explained. She watched Ellen lean over to use a cork puller attached to the back of the bar. “How tall are you?”

  Ellen glanced up, curious about the question, “Five-ten in stocking feet. I would think we’re about the same height.”

  “Almost, on days I’m not slouching.” Sam sat back down. “So do you wear Achilles-straining stiletto heels because you like them, are a masochist or otherwise kinky, or because you know a woman pushing past six feet will intimidate old boy politicos who are otherwise far more interested in looking down your blouse than hearing your views?” she asked, her eyes brushing over the breasts in question.

  “That’s very perceptive of you,” Ellen acknowledged, aware of the discreet glance. “It’s tricky. You want to be taken seriously by the local party power base, so yes, I don’t mind being a little intimidating in that sense. But you also want to be accessible to the people you’re supposed to be serving, so you don’t want to present yourself in too rarefied air.” She peered at Sam. “You don’t find me intimidating, do you?”

  “Not at all…even if I do feel like a slug standing next to you in those heels.”

  “I like slugs.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  Ellen smiled and after a beat asked in a playful tone, “So, you think these heels are kinky, huh?”

  “Only if used to squash slugs.”

  Ellen laughed out loud. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like high heels very much and rarely wear them, but I was at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon where I knew photos would be taken. Stature conveys certain qualities, so I just dressed the part today. Personally, I can’t wait to change into my jeans and boots.”

  “As one who believes every day is casual Friday, I’m heartened to know you don’t normally wear your designer duds to hang around the house.”

  “Trust me—Donna Reed, I’m not,” she winked.

  A zing went through Sam’s body, causing her arms to erupt in goose bumps. This is getting embarrassing, she thought, flustered by her reaction to this woman.

  Ellen handed Sam her wine and sat back down. She reached over and lightly clinked their glasses. “It’s good to meet you, Sam Perry.”

  “It’s good to meet you, too.” Sam touched the counter lightly with her glass then took a sip, wondering how much of this repartee was genuine or just an actress playing the role of congenial hostess.

  She moved her backpack to make room for the wine glass, causing the envelope of photos with Rydell written on it in black marker to slide out onto the counter. She quickly shoved it back in.

  “So, did Jeff have any friends you know of?”

  Ellen ignored the question, staring at the backpack. “You have pictures of him?”

  “I visited his apartment and took some shots, just to keep a visual record for myself when I write the story,” Sam hedged.

  “Can I see them? I’d be curious to see where he lived.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Sam explained, feeling ever-so ghoulish, “I had my camera with me at the crime scene.”

  “You mean there are pictures of him? Of his body?”

  “Some.”

  Ellen reached for Sam’s arm. “Can I please see them?”

  Sam understood the request. Humans have a primal need to see death in order to believe it. For surviving friends and family, it’s the first step in dealing with the finality of it. Even so, she felt uncomfortable being Ellen’s Kubler-Ross conduit. But the blue eyes reeled Sam in, and her resolve quickly waned. She sighed in surrender.

  “Do you ever take no for an answer?”

  “Not often.”

  She hesitated, still conflicted. “Are you really sure you want to look through these?”

  “I’m sure.”

 
“I’m probably breaking some major code of ethics, but…,” she handed her the envelope.

  Ellen pulled out the prints and went through them one by one. The first few were of the apartment and her eyebrows knitted in dismay. “I can’t believe he lived like this.”

  Sam sat forward. “When we went to the apartment, somebody had broken in. That’s why it’s such a mess.”

  “He was robbed?” Ellen repeated. “What was taken?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Do you think it’s related to his death?”

  “Possibly.”

  Ellen slowed as she got to the next series of shots, which were different angles of Rydell’s sheet-covered body, one burned and bloodied arm sticking out, the broken fingers of his hand bent in obscene angles. Her jaw clenched, but she otherwise maintained composure until the last photo when her eyes welled.

  She stacked the pictures and replaced them in the envelope. “I’ll never understand how anyone could hurt another person like that regardless of who they were or what they’d done.” She handed the envelope back to Sam. “Do you ever get used to seeing such cruelty?”

  Sam put the photos in her bag before answering. “No, of course you don’t. You just try to keep some professional distance.”

  “That’s got to be a fine line. You can’t constantly confront violent death, even as a career choice, and not be occasionally haunted by it.”

  “Let’s just say insomnia can be an occupational hazard.”

  “And what do you think about lying awake in the dark?”

  Sam ran her finger slowly around the top of the iced tea glass, eyes fixed on its movement. “You see the terrible things people do to others and it’s awful. But in a weird way, that’s the least of it. What stays with you is the ripple effect of grief one death causes for so many people. The victim’s pain is over, but the survivors’ agony is just so…raw. You try not to imagine that loss and personalize it, but it happens anyway. And I think that’s the real price you pay for getting immersed in the human element of the story.”

  “What about the price others pay?” Ellen moved closer, well into Sam’s personal space, her eyes intense. “What if in finding your story, you hurt innocent people?”

  Sam felt the warmth of her breath and inhaled the scent of her perfume. She reined in her overactive senses and sipped some wine before answering.

  “If by innocent you mean family members or significant others of a victim or a killer, the public’s right to know outweighs their embarrassment or discomfort. And so does the victim’s right to justice.” It was an old debate and Sam’s voice reflected it. “When you write about murder a certain amount of privacy will be lost for everybody involved. That’s a given. So I suppose sometimes innocent people do suffer, but at least they’re alive to feel it.”

  Ellen put her hand over Sam’s. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the defensive, even though it probably sounded like it.”

  “And I didn’t mean to sound defensive,” Sam cleared her throat, “even though I probably am.”

  Ellen nodded and squeezed her hand before letting go. Sam suddenly felt very shy and blushed. This is fucking ridiculous. She averted her eyes and flipped to a fresh page in her notebook.

  “When was the last time you saw Jeff?”

  “That would have been Friday, around dinner time. He took my car to get it filled up and washed. I drove to Los Angeles Saturday morning to attend a fundraiser for breast cancer research that evening then had brunch on Sunday with some friends before driving back.”

  “What—no driver?” Sam teased.

  Ellen grimaced. “I hate the whole notion of being driven. Always did. And yes,” she added dryly, “I’ve had enough therapy where I can fully accept it’s a control issue. It’s funny; I never even sat behind a steering wheel until I was eighteen, had absolutely no desire.”

  “So you really did come to Los Angeles on a Greyhound bus?”

  She smiled at the memory. “Actually, I did, corny as it sounds. But after I moved I realized I had no choice but to drive if I wanted to get around. Once I learned, I loved it and would drive for hours all over LA, just to be on the road.” She refilled their wine glasses. “When I was on the series, I always drove myself to the set or location because besides wanting to be in control of the car, it was time to myself. Between work and kids and fans it was hard to find solitude. Even now, though the kids are grown and I don’t really have fans milling around out here, it’s still a challenge,” Ellen paused, surprised she had veered so off-topic. “So anyway, yes, I drove myself to Los Angeles.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  “I’m surprised Atkins let you.”

  “It not his call,” she said pointedly, “but why?”

  “For security reasons. You’re running for office, plus you’re Grade-A stalker material—rich, famous, and beautiful. So I suspect you’ve had a lot of unwanted attention over the years.”

  “Sure, I’ve had some stalker incidents, but they ended up being more sad than dangerous. There are some very lonely people in the world. But I can’t let any of it dictate my life. That said, I usually travel with my assistant, Lena Riley. But not Saturday.”

  “Solitude is seriously underrated,” Sam commented.

  “Yes, it certainly is,” Ellen nodded, staring into her wine. Sam again sensed Ellen’s loneliness. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live such a public life. No wonder the woman took to the road solo. “Just out of curiosity, what kind of car do you drive?”

  “What would you think I drive?” Ellen challenged coyly.

  “Well, let’s see…probably something sporty. Definitely a convertible—your tan is natural and I doubt you have much time to spend lounging around the pool these days, so you must get your sun while driving. Mercedes are way too user unfriendly, Volvos are too boxy. Possibly an XK but Jags are temperamental and my guess is you’d get impatient with that and want something just as sleek but with a tougher constitution, like the latest BMW M series. How am I doing?”

  Ellen stared. “My current car is a BMW and my previous car was a Jag. You had to already know that; there’s no way you could guess that, Sherlock.”

  “It wasn’t guesswork at all, my dear Watson. I noticed that on the far end of your bookcase you have some driving manuals stacked on the bottom shelf. You don’t seem like the Cadillac or Celica type. The Jag manual was several years old, and I assume you trade your cars in every three years or so. Plus, on the table in your hallway was a set of keys, and I noticed a car key from a BMW. My mother owned a gas station, so I spent a lot of time around cars growing up. One of my favorite jobs was to make duplicate keys.”

  “Why did you think the M series?”

  “It just suits you. It’s stylish, classy…”

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “No thanks necessary; just stating the obvious.”

  “Are you always so observant?”

  “Are we talking about you or the car?”

  “My ego’s not that big,” Ellen laughed. “About the car.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Ellen twirled the wine in her glass and regarded Sam thoughtfully. “Perceptive and observant…I’m sure your editors love that about you, but I suspect your intimates might find it challenging.”

  Sam shrugged and met Ellen’s unwavering gaze, “Only if they’re trying to hide something.”

  “I’ll consider myself forewarned,” she said, her smile enigmatic.

  It was like playing 3-D chess, Sam thought, feeling seriously outmatched. She glanced at the clock on Ellen’s desk, surprised it was almost 5:15. “I really didn’t mean to take up this much of your time. I just have a few more questions.”

  “There’s no rush,” she waved off Sam’s concern. “Besides, you need to finish your wine.”

  Sam picked up her glass and pointed toward the lighted case of awards. “Nice hardware.”

  For the first time, Ellen seeme
d uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

  “Is that an embarrassment of riches I detect?”

  “Exactly,” she admitted, surprised by the insight. “Don’t misunderstand; I’m very proud of the work those awards represent, but I think the awards themselves should be personal mementoes, not trophies per se. But my assistant feels they should be prominently displayed in keeping with my so-called stature. We compromised putting them here instead of the living room. It’s still a bit showy, though, isn’t it?”

  Sam glanced up at the pin-light illuminated awards then back to Ellen. “The only thing missing is an oil portrait of you hanging over the case.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Ellen laughed, “please don’t give her any ideas!”

  The intercom on the phone beeped. “Excuse me.” She walked over to her desk and picked up the receiver, her voice light with lingering amusement. “Yes?”

  Although Sam couldn’t make out specific words, she could hear the agitated tone and wondered who was making Ellen’s smile fade.

  “That can wait…Because, I’m in the middle of something…Yes, she is…Of course it’s not…Well, it really isn’t up to you whether I do or not.” She sat on the front edge of the desk, her jaw twitching as she listened. After a few more moments, she held her hand up. “You know what? We’re going to have to talk about this later.” She hung up and blew out a small sigh. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “That’s okay. Sorry if you’re getting flack for talking to me.”

  To her credit, Ellen didn’t deny it. “The irony is, this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks. Months. There are just a lot of tense people around me who are very focused on this election, and to be honest, they are making…me…crazy. And now with this happening to Jeff…” She looked at Sam, debating. “Were Luke and Phil really arguing yesterday?” she finally asked.

  “It wasn’t arguing, exactly. More like, unhappily engaged in an intense discussion. Your son looked pale, and your campaign manager looked ready to eat glass. Unfortunately, the closed door made eavesdropping impossible.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Her candor intrigued Sam. “Is everything okay?”