by Alexa Davis
She nodded, but didn't turn around. I spent the next thirty minutes telling her my entire history, from my parents’ deaths to the fact that my company was now hanging in the balance because Davis Russo was intent on ruining me. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but I could see her taking notes. She asked a few questions, and then when she was done, she looked at me and nodded.
"Will you write the story?" I asked.
"I don't know yet," she replied. Then she turned around and looked at me as she put her hand on my cheek. "But I appreciate you telling me the whole story. It makes a difference. Now, I'm going to tell you what I know."
Olivia quickly filled me in on the theory that Russo and Bangor had brought in a third man to assassinate the senators, but I couldn't figure out who he was. She told me about their involvement in the BAR during the ’70s and the way in which Russo had flipped and gone to the AWN when the money called. I listened carefully and then asked her again.
"Will you write the story?"
She leaned forward and lightly kissed my lips. There was no invitation for more than that, and I didn't try. She stared at me for what felt like a long time before she said, "Okay, you can go now. I need to work."
I got up and walked out the way I'd come in, wondering how I would explain this to Mo and Brant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Olivia
As soon as Linc left the newsroom, I called Bix and told her what had happened.
"What do I do, Bix?" I asked as I chewed on the cap of a pen I'd found in my desk drawer.
"First, quit chewing on that pen, the sound is disgusting," she admonished me. "Second, what do you want to do?"
"I want to take Russo and Bangor down. I want them to pay for the mess they've created, I want the bill to pass, and I want GRIPTech to put smart technology on every gun in this country, but that's not the point."
"What is the point?" she asked. I could hear the kids in the background yelling at the top of their lungs. Bix pulled the phone away and said, "Excuse me, banshees, I am on the phone, can you please tone down the raid on the fridge?"
"Nice, very nice," I laughed when she returned.
"They're driving me crazy; I'm glad there's less than a week to go before Christmas or I'd really be nuts," she laughed. "But back to you, what do you want to do?"
"I told you!" I said. "I'm just not sure I have enough evidence to prove that Bangor and Russo are the ones responsible for the BAR action in the 1970s. I'm also still in the dark about the shooter!"
"Liv, what did your journalism professors tell you to do when you weren't absolutely sure of the facts?"
"If the facts didn't check, we didn't run the story," I said.
"Then you know what you need to do," she replied. "Check your facts and write the story that the facts support. If it brings Russo and Bangor down, then good, but if it doesn't, then maybe someone else will be able to pick up the pieces and take it the rest of the way."
"But Frank will kill me if I let the story to go the Post," I protested.
I heard a loud crash in the background and Bix sighed, "I have to go, the banshees are destroying the living room and I've got party guests arriving in a half an hour."
"Thanks, Bix," I said before she disconnected. I knew what I needed to do, but I didn't know how I was going to make everyone happy. I was also disturbed by the fact that the police still had no idea who the shooter was.
"Maybe Santa will bring me a sack full of facts," I muttered as I turned back to my computer and began writing.
#
I wrote all night as I wrestled with the fact that while I was annoyed with Linc for asking me to write the article exposing Davis Russo, I was also deeply relieved that he'd confirmed all of the information that I'd been busy tracking down. Russo was a snake, and he'd been a snake his whole life.
I'd tracked down a few people who'd been part of the BAR back in the 1970s, and they'd confirmed that Russo had called for a revolt against the government and urged every member of the BAR to arm themselves with as many weapons as they could. They'd also verified the fact that Russo's rise to power in the AWN was the result of his ability to raise money and that it was now being threatened by the passage of gun safety legislation since part of the bill outlined more comprehensive education and safety classes, in addition to limiting the places where guns could be bought.
No longer would the AWN benefit from guns bought at big box stores if the bill passed, and then only licensed gun dealers and sporting goods stores could sell weapons. It would also add more detailed background checks and make private sales of weapons illegal. Davis Russo was losing his grip on the AWN membership, and more importantly, the money. If he could bring in the millions of billions that would be generated by smart technology, he could save his place at the top of the AWN food chain, but if he failed, he'd soon find himself replaced.
I could see now that his attempt to thwart the bill was less about opposing safer weapons ownership and more about a man who saw that he was losing his grip on power. He was set on destroying Linc because it would help his cause.
The only thing I couldn't quite understand was the connection to the Capitol shooter, I knew there had to be a connection, but no one had come forth and identified the man yet, so I speculated without accusing Russo of anything. I’d searched the archives all of the newspapers in the local area, but had come up short and now time was of the essence. The copy editors wouldn't like it, but it was a long shot that might end up producing results, and I crossed my fingers and hoped that if they didn't let it through, maybe Frank would overrule them in the interest of saving the paper.
As I typed, there was a part of my brain where I turned my attraction to Linc over and over. I wasn't sure I where we were headed, but I couldn't get the memory of his hands on my body out of my mind and I wasn't sure that I could maintain my defenses much longer.
#
When Frank arrived the next morning, I was just finishing up the article on Bangor and Russo. I wasn't sure how it would go over, but I knew I had something worth showing him.
"Carl, what did your journalism professors tell you about facts?" I asked as I printed off a copy of the story and prepared to give it to Frank.
"They told us that unless we had them, we weren't allowed to print anything," he said. "But that was a hundred years ago, before the Internet and the advent of this new breed of journalists who don't seem to care so much about facts as they do about attention."
"That's what I thought," I said. "We're old school."
Carl laughed as I walked to Frank's office and tapped on his door. "Got a minute to take a look at this, boss?" I asked.
"What is it?" he said in a grumpy voice. I could see that he was stressed and I almost backed down and walked away. "What's the story?"
I handed him the print out and fought the urge to explain anything until after he'd read the whole piece. When he'd finished, he looked up at me and said, "Is this true?"
"Most of it is fact based," I said. "But that part about the shooter is conjecture based on connections that are true."
"If it's not provable, then it doesn't run," Frank said.
"But Frank!"
"Don't ‘But Frank’ me, sunshine," he said shaking his head. "Facts, facts, facts!"
"But what if I told you that printing that article would make it more likely that someone would come out of the woodwork and identify the shooter?"
"I'd tell you that you need to prove the connection before you make the assertion," he said without looking up from the stack of messages he was quickly separating into two stacks.
"We'd get the attention we need," I said, holding the paper in front of him like a juicy piece of meat in front of a bear. "We could up the price of advertising. We could regain our hold on the market."
"Olivia, let me explain something to you," he said as he rubbed his eyes. "I'm willing to do a lot of things to ensure that this paper survives, but violating the first rule of journalism is not one of
them. Track down the evidence and prove that the shooter is connected to Russo and Bangor, and I'll run the piece even if the President himself asks me to pull it, but without the facts, I'm not going there."
"Not even for the greater good?" I asked, making one more pass.
"Not even if Frank Sinatra himself came back from the dead and sang me a lullaby," he said with a smile. "Now get out of my office and go track down the facts!"
I walked back to my desk only slightly defeated. Carl turned around and said, "Have you thought about tracking down the roster of BAR members and seeing if they know what happened to Beau Danford? I mean, what if Danford was the shooter?"
"Danford as the shooter," I repeated. “That’s what I’ve been thinking since we uncovered that picture of him with Russo and Bangor, but there’s no evidence that completely links him to the crime so I don’t see how we can pin it on him.”
"Yeah, it’s true that he disappeared; no one has seen him in decades, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely out of the game," Carl said as he picked up the printout of the BAR picture I'd left on his desk. "I'm just saying that Russo is a conniving bastard who plays a long game. Is it so unlikely that he'd hold Danford in reserve until the situation called for it?"
"That's positively evil," I said.
"Yeah, well, it's Davis Russo we're talking about after all," Carl said with a pointed look and then turned back to his computer and began typing furiously.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Linc
On Thursday morning, I left the office to go clear my head and get a cup of coffee. I had spent the morning making calls to senators asking for their support when HR 8212 came up for a vote the next day, but I had been striking out. No one seemed to want to support the bill, and while I could understand that they were under pressure from the party, I didn't understand why so many of them were so afraid.
I was waiting at the counter for my coffee when the door opened and I heard a familiar voice begin to speak.
"Those weak bastards won't know what hit 'em tomorrow," the voice said. "They're all a bunch of mama's boys who have their thumbs up their asses. Not one of them has a backbone."
It was obvious that he wasn't paying attention his surroundings because when I turned around and showed my face, Davis Russo turned white as a sheet.
"So, Davis, you've got your boot on the neck of our senators, do you?" I said calmly.
"So what if I do?" he shot back quickly regaining his composure.
"What would the party have to say about your bullying lawmakers into agreeing to vote down the one bill that has a snowball’s chance in hell of making a difference?" I asked. There was something about facing Russo in this place that made me feel calmer than I had in days. Russo, on the other hand, was a whole different matter.
"Who says I've been bullying anyone? Have you been talking to that bitch reporter?" he sneered. It took everything in me to keep my fist balled at my side and not send it slamming into his face.
"No, I've spent my morning calling around and getting the cold shoulder," I said. "I should have known it was your handiwork."
"I've done nothing, Redding," he said as he tried to move past me. I blocked his path to the counter and leaned in so that I could speak quietly in his ear.
"You're a filthy little snake, Russo. You always have been and always will be, but you and your henchmen have dropped way too far below the line of decency this time," I said, carefully shaping my words to deliver the most impact. "Hiring that poor man to kill those senators so that you could make a point about gun laws, well, that's low even for a scumbag like yourself."
"You lying son of a bitch!" Russo screamed as he wound up and threw a punch. Fortunately, I had been fully prepared for him to get violent, and as he threw his weight into his fist, I stepped aside and watched as he went sprawling to the floor.
"Rookie mistake, Russo," I said calmly as I looked the angry man scrambling to try and push himself up off the ground.
"Even if I had done it, you know I’d never be so sloppy,” he hissed. "I wouldn't have left any evidence, Redding. You should know me better than that."
I turned and walked toward the door as Russo stood up sputtering and spitting as he tried to come up with something to counter my accusation. I stopped at the door and look at him.
"That's what I thought," I said as I turned and walked out the door leaving an angry red-faced Davis Russo standing in the middle of the coffee shop.
#
As soon as I was back in the office, I picked up the phone and called Olivia.
"Hey, I was just thinking about you," she said in a voice that sounded a little buzzed.
"Olivia, I just ran into Russo and he all but admitted that he and Bangor had hired someone to shoot the senators," I blurted out.
"Wait, what? Russo admitted that? To you?" she said turning into the consummate reporter. "What did he say exactly?"
"I don't remember; I tripped him and he fell to the floor and I told him he was a coward for hiring someone to kill the senators," I said trying to remember the exact words. "He said that if he'd done it, he'd have done a better job of hiding the evidence."
"Hiding the evidence?" she said. "What the hell does that mean?"
"I don't know, what evidence was there from the crime scene?"
"The shooter, his effects, the gun...oh holy shit," she said softly. "The gun. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Think of what, Olivia?" I said as she cursed a blue streak on the other end.
"The gun! I need to get to the station and see the gun!" she shouted before hanging up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Olivia
By five o'clock, I was handing Lillian a copy of the story I intended to file for the next day's paper. I'd been down to the police station and had them verify that the gun used in the shooting was one that looked exactly like the gun Russo was holding in the ’70s shot of the BAR protest. I wondered if it was the same gun recovered after the murder of the three protestors, but since they had no digital evidence of the crime, there would be no way to prove it.
The thing that I could prove was that it was on the shooter when he'd been taken from the Capitol to the hospital. There were no fingerprints on the gun because the shooter had worn gloves, but one of the desk sergeants had said that there was some hope that the fingerprints taken off the dead man would soon be matched up to some records from Virginia.
I asked if I could see the gun, and the evidence officer brought it out in the sealed plastic bag.
"Can you turn it over so I can see if it's got a mark on it?" I asked.
He flipped the gun over and sure enough, on the stock there was the familiar circle with a design inside. Up close, I could see that the design was a replica of the original stars and stripes. Thirteen stars and stripes inside a circle made by something similar to a branding iron. I pulled out my phone and took a quick picture of the stock so that I could match it to the photo on my computer.
I thanked the desk sergeant and headed back to the paper. Once there, I ran my theory by Carl who gave me a thumbs up and sent me on to Frank. It took Frank all of ten minutes and a look at the photo to okay the story, and an hour later I was handing it over to Lillian.
"You fact checked this, did you?" she asked as I waited for her to read it.
"I did," I nodded and handed her the photos I'd been working with.
"Okay, then, I guess if Frank says it's okay, then it's okay," she nodded and stamped the copy with her approval.
#
"You saved the story," I said when he answered his phone.
"Huh?"
"You saved the story with your quick thinking and your information," I repeated. "It's going to be in tomorrow morning's paper."
"Great, I'm glad it worked out for you," he said glumly.
"What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy about this," I said, feeling a little resentful of the fact that he wasn't happier about the news.
"We're going to lose t
he bill, Liv," he said. "I appreciate the effort, I really do, but the bill's dead in the water."
"What does that mean for you?" I asked afraid to hear the answer.
"It means that we've lost the contract with the Chinese and the company goes bankrupt," he said. Adding, "I don't care about losing the stuff, it's not that important, but I do care about the fact that I've worked my entire adult life to get this technology on the market and now some jerk with a substandard design is going to win."
"He's not going to win, Linc. My story will come out in the morning paper before the vote. Just wait and see."
"Yeah, sure," he said as I tried to figure out a way to lift his spirits.
"Want to have dinner?" I asked. "Netflix and chill?"
"Thanks for the offer, Olivia, but I have other plans tonight," he said. "Maybe next time."
"Yeah, sure, next time," I said as I found myself wondering what was up with him. "Then I'll meet you at the Capitol in the morning for the vote?"
"Sounds like a plan," he said in a distracted voice. "I gotta go, Olivia. See you in the morning."
"See you in the-" I began and then the line went dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Linc
The next morning's headline in the Sentinel read, "President of AWN Possible Link to Capitol Hill Shooter" with the picture of Russo, Bangor, and who we now knew was Danford on the steps of the Virginia capitol holding guns and declaring war against the United States government. The article didn't go so far as to say that Russo was responsible for the senators' deaths, but the implication was that his connection to Danford was damning enough. Overnight, the fingerprints had arrived from Virginia and had identified Beau Danford as the shooter and connected the gun to the BAR.
Russo was waiting in the lobby of the Capitol when I walked in with Brant and Mo. He shot me a murderous look as we took our seats and waited for the vote to take place. A few minutes later, Olivia came rushing in dressed in her usual army coat over jeans with her red hair flying. I tried to hold back and maintain a slight distance, but she grabbed my hand and squeezed it as she whispered, "This calls for a celebration, Redding, don't you think?"
