Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery)

by Walker, LynDee

  Finishing my coffee, I watched bailiffs and attorneys enter the thick glass doors. Getting into the courthouse was a bit of an ironman event, involving heavy lifting to open the door and quick reflexes to avoid losing the hide off an ankle.

  I wished for an arrest report to read, but I wasn’t even sure if the arrest had been made by the Richmond PD or the FBI or the ATF. For all I knew, Batman could be bringing Billings to the courthouse.

  I reached for my Blackberry and dialed Aaron’s cell number.

  “I thought you went to the gym in the mornings,” he said when he answered. “Didn’t you tell Anderson Cooper that’s where you learned how to fight?”

  “I usually do, but decided the courthouse would be more exciting than body combat today.” I coughed off the throat closure that came when I thought too much about how close I’d come, in June, to dying. At least the nightmares had dialed back from nightly to weekly. “You have an arrest report to email me?”

  “For something going on down there this early? Not that I know of,” he said. “Whose arrest are you nosing around?”

  “James Billings.”

  “Who?”

  So not the PD. I hoped whoever picked Billings up had at least notified someone at the PD, or I was about to find myself smack in the middle of a jurisdictional pissing contest.

  “He’s a big fish over at Raymond Garfield. And about to go before a judge on a charge of murdering the lobbyist those kids found in the woods the other night.”

  “Oh, really?” Aaron tried for interested, but annoyance bled through in his tone. “And do I get to know where you heard that?”

  “From the FBI,” I said, scrunching my nose apologetically even though he couldn’t see me. “But, you know, maybe they called someone else and you haven’t gotten the memo yet.”

  “Not likely. Damned irritating, them waltzing in and arresting people without telling anyone what the hell they’re doing. If you’re down there, every other reporter in town will be looking for information on this before I finish my second cup of coffee. You know who they’re going to call? Not the goddamned FBI, that’s who.”

  “Well, thank me for the heads up later then,” I said. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not counting that as a favor,” he grumbled. “Have fun with your hearing. I’m gonna go find out what the hell’s going on before my phone starts really ringing.”

  I clicked the end button and dropped my press credentials over my head, stepping out of the car as the parking lot across the street started to fill up. No TV trucks. Not yet, anyway. I wrestled the door open and scuttled into the lobby.

  Laying my bag in a battered plastic bin on the conveyor belt, I waited my turn before shuffling through the metal detector, offering the bailiff a smile and a good morning as I grabbed my x-ray inspected tote.

  “What’re you looking for this early, Nichelle?” Hurley asked over his shoulder as he waved a pinstripe-suited gentleman with salt and pepper hair through the detectors. “I haven’t seen Charlie this morning. And when she’s late she always gives me a hard time about security. Is she fixin’ to holler at me because she got stuck in traffic?”

  “Not sure, Hurley,” I said, already striding toward the courtrooms and realizing I had no idea whose docket Billings was on. “Sorry.”

  I was about to stick my head into the clerk’s office and ask when an auburn head in the middle of a throng of suits outside number four caught my eye. I stared at the profile, fear of smudging my makeup the only thing keeping me from rubbing my eyes. Kyle Miller. My old flame had grown up to be some Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives supercop. But he was supposed to be in Texas. What the hell was he doing here? I didn’t have time to find out, but I walked over to the edge of the huddle anyway.

  I cleared my throat and touched Kyle’s shoulder.

  “Nicey!” He pulled me into an unexpected hug when he turned and I lost my balance, clinging to his broad shoulders such that we drew a couple of snickers from his entourage. He still wore Eternity. Same old Kyle. Except for the biceps. The arms I remembered were skinny. The ones crushing into my ribcage were not. I pushed away memories of some very nice evenings spent in those arms as I gathered my wits.

  I kept one hand on his arm and straightened myself, then smoothed my flared navy skirt and smiled.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said.

  He turned to his colleagues, all of whom also sported gun-bulges under their jackets. “This is Nichelle Clarke. She’s the cops and courts reporter at the Telegraph.”

  “We’ve heard.” A barrel-chested man with cocoa skin and a voice that belonged on the radio offered his hand, his teeth flashing stark white when he grinned. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Clarke.”

  I shook his hand firmly and turned back to Kyle, one eyebrow up. “Some reporter I am. I wasn’t aware you were back in town.”

  He ducked his head. “Busted. I was going to call and ask you to dinner. I got a transfer to the Richmond office. Meet your newest local ATF special agent.”

  I stared in silence for a full minute, my brain in hyperdrive. Once I’d thought Kyle Miller was the love of my life. It had taken me a decade to stop thinking it, actually. And now he decides to move halfway across the country to my city? Fabulous.

  “Well, welcome to Richmond,” I said finally.

  His eyes told me that wasn’t the reaction he hoped for.

  The other three men laughed and introduced themselves as members of Kyle’s new team.

  “What brings you to the courthouse this morning, Miss Clarke?” Agent Silky Voice asked.

  “I’m covering a bond hearing. James Billings. I need to go find the courtroom before I miss it. It was good to see you, Kyle.” I turned back to the clerk’s door.

  “The courtroom is right here,” Kyle said. “Billings is my collar. How the hell did you find out about this hearing? His lawyer got him set for bond before the ink on the arrest report was dry.”

  Interesting. I glanced around at Kyle’s team, and everyone had the same casually-curious expression. Something told me it was a face they practiced in front of the mirror. Possibly as a group.

  “I’m just that good.” I winked and brushed past them, opening the massive cherry-paneled door and nodding to the agents. “Gentlemen first.”

  Kyle brought up the rear, pausing on his way in. “No reporter is that good. Who tipped you off?” he asked in a low voice.

  “If I wanted you to know that, I’d have told you.” I returned the no-nonsense tone and flat stare syllable-for-syllable. “If you don’t mind, this door isn’t as lightweight as it looks.”

  He narrowed his ice-blue eyes and looked like he wanted to say something else, but turned on the heel of his Justin ostrich dress boot and took a seat in the front row instead.

  I slipped into the back and pulled out a pen and notebook as the bailiff called the court to order and announced the Honorable Reginald S. Davidson’s entrance.

  Sure enough, Corry was at the prosecution’s table, dark blond head bent over a yellow legal pad. He wore a tan suit that fit his lanky frame well, his wire rimmed glasses pushed up on top of his head as he studied his notes.

  A petite bailiff who didn’t look strong enough to restrain a schoolyard bully led Billings to the defense table. In his wrinkled Hugo Boss, with a silver-flecked shadow beard playing across the angular planes of a face that had aged well, he looked like a rumpled movie star. A haggard, terrified movie star who had not enjoyed the jailhouse experience.

  Kyle thought this guy was a murderer?

  I had seen stranger, I guessed. I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag.

  Billings didn’t fidget or drop his head as the judge read the charges being levied against him.

  His attorney, wearing enough Aramis I could smell the musky cologn
e from my seat, launched immediately into a plea for the court to allow Billings to be released on his own recognizance pending trial.

  Kyle erupted into a coughing fit.

  “Your honor, Mr. Billings is a model citizen, a pillar of this community, and a major contributor to many charities.” The lawyer threw a glance over his shoulder at Kyle, who was still shaking, though whether it was with laughter or coughing was hard to tell from behind. “He has no prior record. These charges are false, insulting, and defamatory, and we will more than prove that at the trial. In the meantime, my client would like to return to his family, his job, and his community service.”

  The judge scooted his glasses down the bridge of his nose and looked over them at Billings and Overused Aramis, Esq.

  “I appreciate everything Mr. Billings does for the community,” Judge Davidson said. “However, in light of the severity of the charges, I’m not prepared to let him out without bond.”

  Billings nodded and leaned toward his lawyer, whispering.

  Corry stood. “Your honor, Richard Corry for the Commonwealth. If I may, I’d like to request that Mr. Billings be held without bond until his trial.”

  Oh, my. Totally worth skipping the gym. I scribbled, not taking my eyes off the key figures in what had just become an even more interesting hearing. Kyle’s head bobbed like a fishing lure with a prize trout on the business end, and Billings’ lawyer gaped as though Corry had just branded him the antichrist.

  “Ob-Objection!” he stuttered. “Your honor! Again, my client has no prior record. I’ve never heard of the Commonwealth holding a defendant with no priors over for trial.”

  “I’ll hear him out,” the judge said, his eyes on Corry. “Mr. Corry, that is a highly irregular request. Care to tell me why you’re asking?”

  “Your honor, Mr. Billings is a flight risk,” Corry said. “Most of the murder defendants our courtrooms see don’t have his resources, or his connections. The commonwealth wants to ensure that he stays in Virginia until the trial.”

  The Honorable Reginald Davidson nodded, his eyes flicking from Billings to Corry for a full minute.

  “The court concedes the commonwealth’s point,” he said, raising one hand when Captain Cologne knocked his chair over jumping to his feet. “However, Mr. Kressley has a point, too. The defendant has no record, and the Commonwealth of Virginia believes very strongly in the notion of innocent until proven guilty. At least in my courtroom it does. The defendant may choose to post bond of two million dollars, but will wear an electronic tracking device at all times between now and the end of his trial.”

  My pen moved so furiously my hand cramped, but I ignored it until I had every word in my notes.

  The judge waved his bailiff over for a quick conference before facing the attorneys again.

  “I’ll hear opening arguments on February sixteenth.” He adjusted the specs for the look-down-the-nose thing again. “Mr. Billings, it would behoove you to keep every toe in line between now and then. Court is adjourned.”

  5.

  Demolition by pickup

  Kyle filled in Billings’s attorney’s full name, which sounded vaguely familiar, and the particulars of the arrest warrant, much of which I’d gotten from Evans the night before. But the story coming from the arresting officer sounded better. I thanked him and hightailed it back toward my office, grateful my scanner was silent throughout the ride. Speeding back down Grace, I slowed as I neared police headquarters, wondering if Aaron might be irritated enough with the feds to tell me whatever he’d been keeping quiet the day before.

  I zipped into a tight spot in front of a meter and hurried inside, punching the elevator button for the ninth floor impatiently and hoping Aaron was there. The detectives’ offices were bustling, as usual. Crime pilfers on.

  I looked around the maze of map-and-photo-covered cubicles for a familiar face, my ears pricked for interesting bits of conversation.

  “Can I help you?” A pretty brunette in a uniform cradled the phone in her hand and looked at me expectantly.

  “They called from downstairs when I came in. Nichelle Clarke, from the Telegraph? I’m here to see Detective White.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  I shook my head. “I was driving by and had a question for him. I can call him later if he’s busy.”

  She smiled and gestured to the chairs between the elevators. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  I turned toward the olive green vinyl seating, but before I’d made it half a step, a frustrated man’s voice stopped me cold.

  “But, ma’am, this break-in has to be investigated with all the others. We have a procedure.” My head snapped around to find a middle-aged, shirt-and-tie detective who was running one hand through his graying hair while he held a phone to his ear with the other. Cat burglar strikes again? That story got more interesting every time the crook managed to get away. “Yes, I understand that. People tend to get upset when their home is violated. Yes, we know there have been robberies in the Fan lately. We’re working on it.”

  I scooted closer to the chest-high wall of his cubicle, attempting to feign disinterest by skipping my eyes around the drab gray decor.

  He dropped his hand from his head to the desk blotter and picked up a pen, flicking the button on the end of it. “I assure you, we’re doing everything we can to catch this guy. We have every detective we can spare working on this case. But we do need your cooperation.”

  “Can I help you, miss?” A ringing baritone from behind me made me jump.

  I turned, confused smile already in place. “Please. I’m waiting for Detective White, but I was looking for a restroom,” I said, straining to hear the detective’s phone conversation over my unwanted Samaritan.

  “We generally like visitors on this floor to be escorted.” He was shorter than me, stocky, with sandy brown hair, wearing pressed chinos and a cerulean Polo. His friendly smile didn’t cover the questioning look in his hazel eyes.

  “I’ve been here before,” I said, offering a hand for him to shake. “I’m Nichelle Clarke, from the Richmond Telegraph. First time I’ve needed y’all’s restroom.”

  He shook my hand, his grip firm. “The restrooms are right back there.” He pointed toward a long hall that extended off the end of the row of cubicles where my frustrated detective was still clicking his pen.

  I took three steps, but just past the door to the cubicle where the interesting phone call was going on, I purposely failed to lift my foot high enough and stumbled over my stilettos, leaning far forward and dumping my bag all over the floor. My little flashlight, peppermint lifesavers, Godiva white chocolate pearls, pens, change, and tampons rolled and bounced into a scattered formation worthy of a broken piñata. I dropped to my knees and glanced up at the detective who’d given me directions, willing him to either go away or shut up.

  He leaned on the edge of the empty cube across from me and watched me crawl around the floor picking up my belongings, his thick arms folded across his chest. Not one for touching tampons, then.

  I focused on Detective Frustrated’s voice behind me, taking my time and trying to keep from looking up.

  “No, I don’t have any idea how someone could have circumvented the security system.” He sighed heavily. “Yes, I really do understand that. But I still need statements from everyone who was in the house. Are you sure we’ve spoken to everyone?”

  I crawled forward a bit and snagged a runaway nickel, reaching behind me to make sure my skirt was still covering my lavender undies. I’d never be able to go to a crime scene again if half the detectives in Richmond had seen my Victoria’s Secrets.

  I stuffed the last pen back into my bag and stood up carefully just as Detective Frustrated finished his call.

  His shoulders heaved with another sigh. “Of course. Thank you.” All that eavesdropping effort
for no information. Damn.

  He hung up the phone, and I smiled at Cerulean Shirt. “Oops.” I waved a hand toward my shoes. “I love them, but they’re not always the best for balance.”

  “They’re very nice,” he said, not glancing down. “Right this way.” He started toward the hallway and I followed, my thoughts still back in the tiny cube with the graying detective.

  Another robbery. Now I just needed to know if it was connected to the others, but Aaron grew less fond of talking every day the cat burglar story stretched on.

  My new friend watched me go into the bathroom, but wasn’t there when I came out, three minutes of silent mulling bringing me no closer to a way to ask Detective Frustrated for the address of the most recent robbery. Which meant digging through every police report from the last few days to find it.

  I made my way back to the vinyl chairs just in time for the pretty brunette to come back without Aaron.

  “Detective White is very busy this morning, but he said he’ll call you as soon as he has a chance,” she said. “Is that all we can do for you today?”

  “I think it is, thanks.” Smiling, I flipped my notebook closed and tucked it back into my bag as I stood. I had some reports to read, and I still wanted to talk to Aaron, but maybe it wasn’t an entirely wasted side trip.

  As an exclusive, the hearing story took precedence over everything else when I returned to the office. Except for coffee.

  Pulling my syrup bottle from the cabinet, I shook my head as I tipped it over my cup. It was definitely lighter than it had been the day before. Was someone else using it? I pushed it to the very back of the shelf and took a couple of sips before I started for my desk with an over-full mug.

  I tried to stay focused on Billings and his arrest as I typed, but my inner Lois Lane bounced, wanting to file that story and move on to the robbery.