“You’re pretty, Nicey.” Jenna smiled. “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like yours.”
Neither had I, and I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. I knew my striking violet eyes were my best feature. They always made people think I was lying when I said I wasn’t wearing contacts. I also had long legs that were well-shaped by hours at the gym every week, and long, thick brown hair that didn’t need much work in the mornings. I wasn’t knocking my brand of unobtrusive, B-cup-and-brains beauty, just imagining how the chosen few lived. Maybe it was a reporter’s curse. I often mused about what it would be like to be in other people’s heads.
“So?” Jenna prodded as I watched the waitress sashay through a hot pink swinging door into the kitchen. She even had the pretty-girl walk. “What else is going on in the seedy criminal world in Richmond?”
The chips and salsa dwindled to crumbs and chunks of onion as I related the story of Darryl Wright and Noah Smith for the third time.
“I think it might be a vigilante,” I finished. “Though, the cops wanted that kept quiet badly enough to give me a hell of a favor in trade for not running it tonight.”
“My friend, the investigative reporter.” Jenna sighed. “My life is so boring.”
“Exaggerate much?” I snorted. “Investigative reporters bring down corrupt politicians and bust slimy, thieving CEOs. That’s what I want to do when I grow up. I’m afraid I’ve just been working with cops for so long I’m starting to think like one. I think Aaron was only half-kidding this afternoon when he asked if I had ever considered going into law enforcement.”
“Seriously?” It was Jenna’s turn to snort. “Cops don’t make enough money to keep you in shoes.”
“Donald Trump barely makes enough money to keep me in shoes.” I smiled, pausing to thank the waitress as she set a sizzling plate of fajitas in front of me, before I finished my thought. “If I paid retail for my shoe collection, I’d have been in bankruptcy court before I got out of college. Thank God for eBay.”
I stuck my foot out from under the table and Jenna smiled at my barely-scuffed latest treasure.
“Ooh, pretty,” she said. “Manolo?”
I lifted my foot to show off the red sole.
“Ah. That’s the other one. Louboutin? I have kids. I have little frame of reference for overpriced, wobbly shoes.”
“Louboutin is right, supermom. Less than a hundred dollars, because of a couple of scuff marks and a tiny wine stain that I took off with a Tide stick. I can’t believe the number of people who wear these once and get rid of them. This pair was twelve hundred last spring.”
Jenna shook her head. “Twelve hundred dollars. For a pair of shoes. If I was going to pay that kind of money for heels, George Clooney had better be in the box with them to give me a pedicure and a long foot massage.”
I laughed. “I think George’s rates for massage therapy would definitely price me out of those. But I do love my secondhand steals.”
“You really have a talent for that. Somewhere, I’m convinced there’s a market for it that you’re missing.”
“Ace reporter, professional bargain hunter.” I held my hands up in a pantomime of scales and furrowed my brow. “I think I’ll stick with the gig I have for now.
“In other news,” I sipped my tea as she flagged the waitress down and ordered another margarita. “It’s entirely possible that, at least in the most technical sense of the phrase, Grant Parker asked me out this afternoon.”
Jenna’s eyes got so big I could see white all the way around the brown.
“What? Where are you going? When?”
“I’m not.” I laughed at her horrified expression. “Don’t look at me like that. First of all, he’s a has-been baseball player, not young Elvis incarnate. I told him thanks for the column he’s running tomorrow on the basketball coach who has breast cancer, and I think he was trying to be nice by asking me to go with him to the game tonight. That’s work, so it’s not an actual date, but it’s the closest I’ve gotten in longer than I care to admit.”
“Who gives a rat’s patootie?” Jenna slammed her glass down on the table for emphasis. “Going out is going out. You could have a t-shirt that says ‘I went out with Grant Parker.’”
“Don’t you use your ‘mom voice’ on me, missy!” I giggled at her chastising tone. “Though, I think you just hit on a viable business idea. There have to be a fair number of women around here who could use such a t-shirt. You could sell them at Pages.”
Jenna carried on about how many women would jump at the chance for a date with Parker, and I drifted into my own world. It had been a long time since I’d been on a date with anyone, a fact that listening to witness after witness detail “Barbie and Ken’s” undying devotion had brought to the forefront of my thoughts that week.
Someone sexy and exciting, who could hold their own in a conversation and knock me off my feet with a kiss—that’s how my internet dating “what are you looking for in a partner?” would read, if I were brave enough to fill one out. I didn’t think that was too picky, though all recent evidence said it might just be.
I didn’t regret any of the big choices I had made, but my eighteen-year-old self had been so sure of her “where do you see yourself in ten years?” list: finish college, embark on a fabulous career as a political reporter for the Washington Post, and fall madly in love. And even though I was content most of the time, twenty-nine was just around the bend, and I couldn’t help feeling I had fallen short of what that girl wanted her life to be.
I stared at a bright red tile in the middle of the sun mosaic on the far wall. Almost like I was back there, I saw Kyle’s soft smile as I leaned my head on his shoulder in the front seat of my old Mustang, heard the huskiness that always came into his voice when he told me he loved me.
For a split second, it seemed like yesterday that he was the most important thing in my life. I’d nearly lost myself to the point of giving up on Syracuse and my dreams of the Post, which had scared me into a convent-like college existence. He’d walked away when I’d refused to stay, and I still couldn’t bring myself to look him up on Facebook. Maybe some people only get to fall madly in love once.
Whether she was a tiny bit psychic or I was just easy to read, Jenna could almost always tell what I was thinking. She patted my hand, drawing me back to the bustle of the restaurant with a lopsided grin.
“Honey, you have yet to find the great love of your life. Kyle was a high school boy. You need to fall in love with a man.”
I recognized her I-know-more-about-this-because-I’m-older-than-you voice and smiled. She thought being thirty-four made her positively wizened.
“I shudder to think what my life would be like if I had married the guy I was dating at eighteen,” she said. “Last time I saw him he was standing on the side of I-64 wearing an orange vest and holding a ‘stop ahead’ sign. You’re still looking for the right one. He’s out there.”
She spent two hours getting reacquainted with Jose Cuervo and helping me forget my lovelorn woes, her ability to make me laugh increasing in direct proportion to her level of intoxication.
“So, the light is green, but there’s a big truck in front of us that’s slow getting moving,” Jenna said, her words already garbled by laughter as she started a new story. “I didn’t say a word. I was listening to the radio, and all of a sudden from the backseat, I hear Gabby: ‘It’s the long vertical pedal on the right! What, are you waiting for the light to get greener? Some of us have places to go!’ I thought I was going to wreck my car I was laughing so hard. Is that my kid, or what?”
I gasped for air and wiped at the tears streaming from my eyes. “Undeniably. And I’m going to pee my pants if you don’t stop making me laugh.”
Jenna giggled again. “I’m having a great time, hon. I love going out with you. You laugh at my stories, you love my kids, you drive me home—you rock!”
“I do, huh? Okay. I think you’re sufficiently blitzed.” I savored the last bite of a flaky w
hite chocolate and caramel empanada. “I have done my job. We can’t end the evening with a disappointed Chad.”
I drained my tea glass for the sixth time and glanced around. The band had called it a night and the place was practically empty, the cartoon-colored walls not as bright in the soft yellow glow from the overhead bulbs. I pulled my phone out of my purse to check the time and frowned. It was coming up on midnight, and I’d missed two calls in the last hour.
I held up my index finger as I pressed the button to check my voicemail, skipping through a week’s worth of messages, hunting for the most recent ones. I never listened to them unless I was looking for something specific, which had long-ago led Bob to order the receptionists to leave me notes.
“Someone tried to call me,” I murmured as I finally got through the three from that afternoon. “Just a second.”
Aaron White’s voice froze me in my chair for an instant, and I listened to him make a crack about a free favor before I jumped to my feet, looking around for the waitress and reaching for my keys.
“What’s going on?” Jenna lifted her glass again.
“I have to go back to work, and I guess you’re coming with me.” My words were clipped as I silently cursed the mariachis for drowning out the phone’s musical tinkling, and myself for leaving my scanner in the car. “I have an accident to cover. Apparently there was a boat crash about an hour ago.”
3.
Boats and ballplayers and brides, oh my
Jenna was still giggling twenty minutes later when we climbed out of the car by the river side a few miles south of the city. She was positively giddy from being forced to accompany me to an accident scene. Well that, and tequila.
I tried to look severe as I ordered her to do her best to appear sober and avoid making me laugh when I was supposed be working, but her twinkling eyes and eager grin reminded me of a little kid with a Toys “R” Us gift card, and it was damn near impossible to maintain decorum while I was looking at that.
“Yes, ma’am.” she slurred, proving my point as she offered me a weak salute and then winced when I giggled. “Oops. Sorry. I’ll try to be less funny. Damn you, Jack Daniels.”
“You were drinking margaritas, honey. Wrong label.” I chuckled as I tucked her arm into mine so at least she wouldn’t fall. I knew I had no chance of getting her to stay in the car, not in her condition.
All the emergency vehicles had made it difficult to get the car within field-goal range of the crash site, and the flashing red and blue lights made the natural beauty of the riverbank unnaturally eerie. The shredded boats still burning on the black water in the distance didn’t look promising for a happy ending.
I canvassed the emergency personnel for Aaron, but it was hard to even distinguish the policemen from the firefighters in the strange half-darkness so far from the accident scene.
The blond head bobbing just above most of the crowd, however, I knew instantly.
“It can’t be,” I muttered, even as I recognized the butter-colored polo I’d seen twice that day already.
“There you are!” Parker said when I caught up to him. “This is a madhouse. How do you ever get any work done at one of these things?”
“Hey, Parker.” I stared, still unable to come up with a single logical reason for his presence. “I’ve never been to anything like this before. Boats don’t usually blow up on the James. But I’m about to find a cop and see what’s going on. Forgive my manners, but what are you doing here?”
“I know a little about what happened.” He grimaced. “The coach got a call during my interview after the Generals game. The little speedboat belonged to Nate DeLuca, one of our pitchers. I don’t know the details, but it hit a Richmond PD boat. Like you said, there was an explosion. The fire department is searching the river and the banks on both sides, but they don’t think anyone survived. After I called in my story, I came to see for myself what happened to DeLuca. I’m going to write a feature on him for Sunday. He should’ve been at the ballpark tonight, but he had friends in town, and since he wasn’t pitching, the coach gave him the night off.”
“Sweet cartwheeling Jesus. Let’s go see what else we can find out,” I said. “Kiss your Saturday goodbye, Mr. Columnist. You’re going to be at the office tomorrow.” And so was I. So much for my leisurely weekend.
I turned to dive back into the crowd in search of Aaron and mid-whirl, I noticed Jenna standing there, still and surprised. Her eyes were doing that white-all-around thing again.
“People died out there?” she squeaked.
I patted her hand. “You want to go back to the car?”
“No.” She squared her small shoulders and gripped my arm a little tighter. “I want to go to work with you.”
I turned back to Parker. “Grant Parker, this is my friend Jenna Rowe. This wreck crashed girls’ night. She drank too much tequila, but she’s very excited to see the glamorous world of journalism up close.”
“The best way to do that is after too much tequila,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Jenna.”
The thin fingers around my arm dug in tighter, and I didn’t think their owner was breathing. I elbowed her lightly in the ribs, rolling my eyes. Her forceful exhale sounded like a sigh as she gazed at Parker.
“I really love your column,” she lied. Jenna hated sports in any incarnation. She was already bemoaning the start of Gabby’s soccer season, and it was three months away.
“Thank you.” He smiled.
We moved through the crowd as a unit until I saw a familiar face.
“Mike!” I waved at Sergeant Sorrel from the narcotics unit.
“Nichelle,” he said, turning from the water to face me when I stopped next to him. “Where’ve you been? You missed the TV crews. They all left about twenty minutes ago.”
Damn. Charlie no doubt drank her margaritas with her scanner in her lap.
“I was out and I missed the call, but got down here as quick as I could. I didn’t even take my poor friend Jenna home first.”
Mike smiled at Jenna and held out his hand. “I guess you never know how your Friday night is going to end up when you’re friends with Nichelle, huh?”
I started to introduce Parker, but quickly learned women weren’t alone in their rambling worship of him.
“Hey! You’re Grant Parker!” Mike said before I got a word out. “I watched you play ball when you were in college here, man. You had some arm. Too bad about all that, I guess—but I read your column. I’m a big fan.”
Parker smiled and shook Mike’s hand. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
I stared at Mike, and then at Parker. Parker had fans? I was impressed. And a little jealous.
“I guess you heard a baseball player was driving the little boat, huh?” Mike asked Parker.
Parker nodded, but I jumped in before he could say anything, impatient to get to the bottom of at least one story that day.
“Aaron’s here, so he’s taking point on this, right?” I asked.
“I saw him down closer to the crash site a little while ago,” Mike said. “Let me see where he went.”
He called Aaron on the police radio attached to his shoulder, and we all heard Aaron say he was about fifty yards downstream from us.
With Jenna and Parker in tow, I headed down the bank. It was tricky, navigating over the slimy rocks in the middle of the night. We’d had a wet spring, and the river had swollen almost to flood level, leaving the rocks along the banks coated with a layer of slippery goo once the water began receding. It was still fuller than normal and moving fast, judging by the bubbly whooshing that underscored the sounds around us. I wished I’d worn more practical shoes.
Aaron looked up at me with a grim half-smile when I found him. “Nichelle. Nice night to be out on the river. I can’t believe this. Such a fucking waste.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Probably be several days, and even then we won’t have the whole story because there were no survivors.” Aaron talked, I scribbled.
“It looks like the ballplayer and his buddies were going too fast, and when they came around that bend, they didn’t have time to avoid our boys.
“The little speedboat came apart around the hull of the PD vessel,” he continued. “Their gas lines and tank also shredded, and the sparks set it off, so our guys ended up basically wrapped inside the explosion.”
Jenna whimpered behind me and I closed my eyes, as if that could somehow banish the image he just put into my head.
“Good God, Aaron.”
When I had my wits about me again I returned to my questions. “Who was it? On the police vessel, I mean?”
“Couple of rookies.” He shook his head. “Both under twenty-five, not too long out of the academy. This kind of shit makes me sick. Senseless.”
I had never seen Aaron so upset. Not often at a loss for words, I laid a hand on his arm. He stared at the flames as he spoke. “I know. It’s all part of the job, right?”
“I don’t like it, either,” I said, remembering some of the stories that had made me feel as bad as he looked. “What were they doing way out here? Isn’t that the big patrol boat? Did somebody drown?”
“Yes, it is,” he said, his shaking head seeming to contradict the affirmative answer at first. “And no, no one drowned. At least, not that we got a call about. I’m not sure what they were doing, and we still haven’t been able to get the commander of the river unit on the phone. He’s going to have a very unpleasant day tomorrow.”
I nodded, still writing. “I’m going to need the names and records of the officers who were killed, and contact info for the next of kin. I’m sure Parker here will have a piece on the baseball player.”
Aaron looked over my shoulder.
“Hey! Grant Parker!” Aaron’s dark mood appeared at least partially forgotten.
Stepping forward, Parker shook Aaron’s hand. Aaron gushed about Parker’s golden arm, just like Mike had.
I waited for a break in the Parker-adulation, and when Aaron started stumbling around the inevitable apology for the way Parker’s pitching career had ended, I took the opportunity to steer the conversation back to the crash. “When can I have the accident report?”
Front Page Fatality Page 4
