by Dianna Love
Turner studied her a minute. His tough shell cracked a bit when his mouth softened further. “To tell you the truth, I have the same feeling. Moving the body to another location doesn’t fit with DV.”
She enjoyed a charge of encouragement. “I’m glad to hear that. Okay, I’ll get moving to see if we can pull some funds and please let me know if you hear about anything else.”
“Will do.” He slipped his notebook inside his coat. “By the way, nothing’s turned up yet on that hooker with the chewed up ear.”
“Hooker? Oh, right, Lucy. Thanks for keeping her in mind.” Kirsten suffered a moment of guilt over having told Turner a friend of hers was searching for a woman called Lucy whose right ear had been bitten half off by some man. The dangers of being a prostitute. That’s how Elicia and Lucy had met eight years ago, before Kirsten and Elicia became friends. Kirsten first met the brassy Elicia in the police headquarters near college where Kirsten had been working part-time to gain law enforcement experience while finishing her degree.
Elicia later told her they both had degrees, but Elicia’s was from the school of hard knocks.
There couldn’t have been two more unlikely women to become friends than Elicia and Kirsten, but Elicia never met a stranger. She had more backbone and grit than any woman Kirsten had met before, and none of the advantages of the women Kirsten had grown up around. Elicia soon became a fount of information on how to spot illegal activities and how to cook great spaghetti sauce.
Elicia’s friend Lucy said she’d always stay near her baby girl who lived with relatives in Philadelphia.
All Kirsten had to go on to find Lucy was a chewed-off ear.
Turner tipped his head in goodbye. “Got to run.”
“Of course. Thanks again for meeting me.” Kirsten remembered one more question about the dead welfare mother as Turner sauntered off two steps. “Do we know who called in the 9-1-1 on Stanton?”
When he turned around, she could swear he sighed from the lift of his shoulders. “Yes. A television station received an anonymous call just after midnight with the body location and instructions to contact the authorities. It’s all in my report, Ms. Massey.”
“What television station? Who took that call?”
“WNUZ.” He hesitated. “Riley Walker took the call.”
For the love of...
Walker hadn’t said a word to her at the press conference. Kirsten ran back over their brief conversation in her mind. Not a word. That sorry scumbag had hidden this detail and toyed with her the whole time. But wasn’t that the way her father’s reporters were trained?
Give up nothing. Use any means to get the story.
The world of media revolved around who won the race for the story or came up with an exclusive. Her father had once joked, “I’m thinking about offering a new Mercedes to any reporter who gets a killing on film.”
Wouldn’t dear old Dad have loved someone like Walker in his stable? A reporter who could sleep at night after that live interview with the Kindergarten Killer? She shuddered at the sick memory. Her heart ached for the family.
Riley Walker was about to find out she had no sense of humor when it came to a dead welfare mother.
Turner’s phone chimed while he waited in solemn silence. He answered it, nodded a couple of times, then his mouth flattened into a grim line. He hung up and lifted eyes that had lost all warmth. “That was about Sally’s little boy. He’s missing.”
The fist gripping Kirsten’s heart squeezed. “I thought he was admitted to the hospital last night.”
“No. My report stated that Sally took her son to the hospital then left with him before the police had a chance to question her.”
Kirsten wanted to strangle Cecelia. The press release had neglected to mention that detail. Or that someone had called the tip in to Walker. If Kirsten had read the police report this morning she’d have known that Walker had taken the call. Had he shared everything?
Would a reporter ever share everything willingly?
Based on what Kirsten’s assistant had said when she called on Kirsten’s drive here, Walker’s station intended to suspend him, pending investigation of that little debacle at City Hall. If he did end up suspended, he’d have plenty of time to come in and review the phone call he took one more time.
And if anything happened to that little boy because Walker withheld information about the phone call to get a jump on a story, she’d bounce his balls back to Detroit.
Chapter 9
Within minutes of leaving Lehman’s office, Riley found Biddy leaning against the wall in an alcove near the break area of the executive level of WNUZ. Biddy held a cup of coffee that had to be gourmet up here in “carpet land” as the reporters called it. The eighth floor of the Liberty Building was a world apart from where the newsies hung out three floors down.
Quieter than the news pit on the fifth floor where police monitors chattering in the background made shouting a necessity.
The only yelling on the eighth floor came from George Lehman. But even he was quiet now.
Riley strode forward, grinding mentally on a way to turn this fiasco around.
His cameraman stood alone, his casual dress and dangerous stance out of place among fragile pieces of glass art and a wall with a smattering of Emmy statues.
Biddy lifted his head when Riley reached him. The look of despair hovering in his eyes punched Riley in the solar plexus. He wouldn’t expect a former SEAL to fear much in life, but Biddy was clearly worried about losing his job.
Lehman wanted to dump the blame on Biddy for the Henry incident at City Hall, but to be honest the cameraman hadn’t done anything Riley wouldn’t have done himself at one time.
And wanted to do badly this morning.
And Biddy wouldn’t be in near as bad a jam if not for being caught in the crosshairs of Lehman’s attitude against Riley.
“They getting rid of me?” Biddy stood away from the wall, thick forearms crossed, ready to accept the decision.
“Not yet.”
“Yet? What does that mean?”
“He wanted to dish out separate penalties until I reminded him our unions would kick a fuss.” Riley watched as understanding settled in Biddy’s face that Lehman had wanted to fire him. “We’re both suspended for a week.”
“Guess it’s not as bad as it could be. Still got health insurance.”
Riley studied him for a minute, but didn’t push for details. Since Biddy had grumbled once that he didn’t like his wife working so hard, Riley assumed she had insurance, too.
Biddy’s gruff exterior folded briefly under the weight of his gloom. “The wife’s had a couple problems already, needs to stay off her feet. We’ve maxed out our credit cards.” He shook his head. “She quit work as a temp and is doing what she can by computer from home, but even with insurance it’s already going to be tight to have the baby we’re expecting.”
Riley nodded. He doubted he could say anything that would lighten Biddy’s load.
“We can make a week on money we got stashed, but it’s a high-risk pregnancy. If I lose this job, insurance won’t cover a lot of extras she needs and Lehman’s gonna hold my insurance hostage during a suspension. We lost two babies already. I’m more concerned the stress will cause her to miscarry.”
Well, damn. No wonder things were tense at home for Biddy.
Biddy stared off for a minute. “It was a helluva lot easier facing down terrorists than dealing with assholes and corporate bullshit.”
More bad shit would twist the knife in his gut right now, but a man like Biddy would want to know exactly what he faced.
“That was the good news.” Riley considered how much to share about the terms of his 90-day contract for a nanosecond. The terms didn’t matter. If he failed to pull a story out of his bag of tricks he and Biddy would both be gone.
“What’s the bad news?” Biddy scratched his chin, eyeing Riley closely.
“I’ve got eight days to hand the board a third ratings
point jump. If not, they’ll have the ammunition to get rid of me...and you.”
Two suits strolled past the alcove, chatting, just as Biddy released a lethal curse.
The men went dead silent and turned stern faces to the cameraman who glared them into submission. When they continued on, Riley cocked his head toward the elevators. “Let’s get out of here.”
Biddy followed him, neither one speaking until they reached the bottom level where the elevator doors opened to the parking deck. A wicked breeze howled around the concrete pillars and slammed Riley in the chest with every step to where he’d parked his Tundra pickup truck. No one hung around long with temperatures in the low thirties.
He hated this weather. “God, feel that wind. One thing I hadn’t missed about Philly.”
“Cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra face down in the snow.” Biddy didn’t so much as rub his arms in spite of wearing no jacket.
“Wish I could convince Jasper to move somewhere warm like Florida.” But Jasper wouldn’t leave Philly, which weighed heavily in WNUZ’s favor when the station made Riley what amounted to a pity offer. Jasper needed Riley’s help whether he’d admit it or not.
“Philly has personality.” Biddy stopped next to the Tundra and turned on Riley. “What’re you not telling me about this deal?”
Riley would have been surprised if Biddy had let it go with a superficial explanation. “Lehman will do damage control, but the board is running scared about the advertisers. I think he doubts the board will renew my contract, but if I can land a big story this week the station will pick up that third ratings point. All the board cares about is what translates into profit. No advertiser will walk away from that.”
Biddy hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You did a favor for me with Lehman and the board so I’m in this with you. We need a hot story. How do we get it?”
Riley hadn’t expected the “we,” but wouldn’t turn down help from a guy with Biddy’s military intelligence skills who had grown up in Philly. “The only thing I have right now is the Stanton murder, but I think it was premeditated.”
“I don’t see somebody killing out of rage and taking the time to move the body, but what else have you got?”
“The caller said something about ‘her fault’ at one point, which makes me wonder what Sally did. When I asked the caller who he was and how he was involved, the guy said ‘I’m cleaning up.’ He was calm and sounded like he was just taking care of business. None of that fits the MO for a domestic killing. I’m going to find out what I can about Sally and her son, and anyone connected to them.”
“I see your point.” Biddy scrunched his mouth to one side, pondering on something. “I know this ain’t your favorite topic, but what about a piece on Sally’s kid?”
“No.” Riley answered so fast and hard he expected Biddy to snap right back at him. “I’m not doing anything with any kids. Ever.”
I thought after you did that special on the child abuse doctor you might – ”
“No kids.”
“Okay, your deal.” Biddy raised his hands in a just-trying-to-help motion. “If this don’t work out, I might have a lead on another story.”
That surprised Riley. “Like what?”
“Pope’s visit to Jersey in a couple weeks.”
“Old news and we need something in Philly.”
“There’s some behind-the-scenes scuttle going on.”
He wanted Biddy thinking much bigger. “I haven’t heard anything significant about the Catholic Church recently and pedophilia is yesterday’s story – ”
Biddy shook his head. “Not that. Let me check out what I got and I’ll get back to you.”
Screw it. If the Stanton murder fell through, Riley needed something so he wasn’t about to discourage Biddy. His cell phone played the default jingle, meaning caller unknown. He pulled the phone out of his coat pocket. “Walker.”
“This is DA Investigator Massey.”
Riley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “What can I do for you Investigator?”
“Be in my office in an hour.”
“Why?”
“To answer questions on the Stanton case.”
Riley checked his watch. A little before noon. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch?”
The hesitation should have warned him, but the control behind her smooth voice didn’t waver. “This is not a social call, Walker. Be in my office at one o’clock or I’ll send an officer to give you a ride. Got it?”
“Consider it a date.” The phone line died.
Riley killed the call on his end. What had happened in the last couple of hours for Massey to want to talk? “That was Investigator Massey. Wants me in her office at one. That might produce some answers.”
Biddy gave a little shake of his head. “Better be careful with her. She ain’t been here long, but longer than you have and she’s tough as nails. Not a good one to jerk around. Doubt even your slick routine will charm her.”
Riley grinned. “Ye of little faith.”
“Telling ya, she ain’t got a soft corner on her.”
“The bigger the challenge, the sweeter the prize.”
Biddy scowled and walked away. Not that Riley expected Biddy to turn into a happy guy any more than he expected Kirsten Massey to give up one of her secrets without a fight.
Or did she have word of Henry’s newspaper legal eagles filing an assault charge?
His cell phone rang. Another unknown caller.
He keyed the button to talk and smiled when he asked her, “Change your mind about lunch?”
“Careful who you talk to. You’re being followed.” The line died.
Riley pulled the phone away slowly and stared at it. He raised his eyes and took in the parking deck, but no one loitered.
He’d heard that voice before. Just after midnight this morning. The killer had his cell phone number.
Chapter 10
“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession. I...I had impure thoughts about the teenage boy who shovels my driveway.” Crying and sniffles, then Mrs. Feldman cleared her throat.
Here it comes again. Same thing I heard two weeks ago.
“I know it’s wrong, but my husband travels all the time with his job.”
Can’t criticize him for that, besides getting away probably keeps him sane around you. Change of place, change of perspective.
“He doesn’t appreciate me, father. I’m stuck home raising three kids and doing their homework at night, plus dealing with anything that needs to be fixed around the house or the car while he takes people to dinner.”
Get a life. Or better yet, get a job during the day while the kids are in school. He waited through the pause as she made squirming noises.
“I tried to talk to him about it, but he just ignores me, or if we argue he tells me to find something to do during the day.”
See?
“I know it’s wrong to think about a seventeen-year-old boy, especially being a married woman, but Cody makes me feel special.”
Not special, young. You want to relive your youth.
“He makes me happy, but not like we’ve done anything, just that he brightens my day. When I’m happy, I don’t hit the dog or my kids.”
You hit the kids?
“My husband doesn’t understand how tiring it is to raise three children alone. I’m exhausted all the time and stressed out. I deserve some peace and rest, too.”
Yes, you do deserve rest. Eternal rest.
Chapter 11
If I died right now I could ask God why humans hurt one another.
Margo Cortese considered praying for a swift death before her brain exploded from an excruciating headache. She could suffer the pain in her head better than that in her heart.
Poor Sally. And what about Enrique? Where could the wee one be?
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Margo licked her dry lips and kept trudging down the street toward St. Catherine�
�s. Thankfully, temperatures were still in the mid-thirties at lunchtime, warm by Philly standards in January. Her black dress pants, raspberry cotton turtleneck and sturdy canvas jacket were ideal in this cool breeze, but she could do without the endless blue sky and bright sunshine she’d send a prayer of thanks for on any other day.
How about a few clouds, huh? Just until my head stops feelin’ like a swollen melon about to split.
Sunglasses spared her the worst of the glare blazing off the snow, but the bright light still aggravated her pounding head as she picked her way along the narrow strip of half-shoveled walkway running from Second Street to St. Catherine’s stone-and-mortar chapel.
Had to remind Valdez to clear a wider path for church and outreach center visitors. This would be a treacherous walk for the elderly, who seemed to make up most of St. C’s parishioners. Not that St. C’s was much different from any other inner-city parish, but after only seven months here, Margo was still adjusting to feelin’ so young in comparison. At her last parish in a suburb of San Francisco, she’d been considered middle-aged at twenty-nine years.
She was not middle-aged.
Just as Monsignor often said, “Change of place, change of perspective.”
When she reached the steps to the chapel, Margo made a right turn, taking the walkway that led to the entrance of the three-story, brick addition attached to St. C’s by an enclosed breezeway.
Her head throbbed, but her heart hurt more.
If vengeance belonged to the Lord, she wanted to ride shotgun for him.
Tomorrow. When she felt better. Hopefully.
Extreme stress triggered really nasty head-bangers that forced her to spend some nights slumped over a toilet. Hearin’ about Sally Stanton and wee Enrique qualified as extreme. Margo swallowed the misery climbing her throat over the news she had to be givin’ Monsignor soon.
And over havin’ to explain her delay in returning from lunch. Opening the weathered pinewood front door to the administrative offices and outreach center, she kept her dark shades on when she entered. No one should have to face all that yellow paint in the foyer without eye protection.
