Front Page Fatality

by Walker, LynDee

  “Come back anytime,” he called as I hurried to my car, silently lamenting my lack of a GPS.

  My Blackberry binged the arrival of a text as I unlocked the door, and I smiled when I saw my mom’s picture on my screen. “Love you more, kid,” the message said. A game we’d played when I was a little girl, now resurrected for the digital age.

  “Nope. I love you more,” I texted back before starting the engine. “Call you later. Been crazy this week.”

  Before I made it back to the office, my scanner bleeped an all-call for a bad wreck on the Powhite. Jackknifed big rig and possible fatalities. Shit. I didn’t have time for that, but damned if I’d give Les an excuse to send Shelby to something else. I made an illegal U in the median and headed south, leaving Les’ voicemail a heads-up that we might have an accident story coming as I drove.

  I had barely gotten out of my car at the scene when Charlie Lewis tapped me on the shoulder.

  “There’s my friend from the print side.” A tooth-bleaching commercial smile beamed through the thick layer of peach lipstick that matched her tailored Nicole Miller suit. “I was worried about you, Clarke. You didn’t show for the lawyer yesterday.”

  “I was busy.” I peered over Charlie’s shoulder at the truck, which at first glance appeared to be peeing on the tollway. “What the hell?”

  The smell from the amber rivulets running across the pavement wasn’t right for gasoline, and the troopers would’ve long since cleared the scene if that much gas was running across the road. I breathed in deep and giggled. It was beer.

  I wondered how long that would have the Powhite shut down and turned my attention from the truck to find Charlie staring at me, one perfectly-waxed eyebrow raised.

  “Busy with what?” she purred.

  “A little less obvious next time, Charlie,” I laughed. “Not that I’m suddenly in the business of giving you leads, but that was halfhearted, at best. I’m insulted.”

  “Then we’re even. I was insulted by that neophyte you sent to the press conference yesterday,” she snapped. “What the hell kind of reporter asks if there’s evidence of foul play in a murder? Don’t you dare bail on me like that again. You keep me on my toes.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” I patted her shoulder a little too hard, moving her out of my way as I spotted a state trooper I knew in passing. “Speaking of, I have work to do. Nice chatting with you, hon.”

  I made a beeline for the trooper before Charlie could get turned around and collect her cameraman.

  No one died at the scene, Trooper Staunton said, but there were serious injuries, some of them to children. That warranted a story. I checked my watch. It was already three. Double shit.

  The trucker swerved to avoid hitting a sofa that wasn’t properly secured to the back of a pickup. Out of control, the big rig turned over, began spewing beer, and got hit by a minivan and an SUV. All the occupants of those vehicles, three women and five children between them, had been loaded into ambulances and taken to St. Vincent’s before I arrived.

  “Can I talk to the driver of the pickup?” I asked Staunton. “Are you charging him with anything?”

  “The trucker said he took off when he saw the commotion in the rearview.” Trooper Staunton shook his head. “The sofa he dropped is over there, and we’re pulling camera feed from the tollbooths a half-mile back to see if we can get a look at his plate. It looks like reckless endangerment. Unless one of those little ones don’t pull through. Then it’s manslaughter, and he just ruined his whole life because he was too lazy to hook a strap over that couch.”

  I scribbled his quote down and thanked him, texting Les as I walked back to my car. Charlie pounced on Staunton as I pulled away, and my Blackberry popped up a one-word response from my pseudo-boss: Hurry.

  “When do I ever get to do anything else?” I sighed and aimed the car toward the office, the hard-won mystery address waiting in my bag.

  It was after five by the time I got the accident story ready to go and noticed an emailed shot of the crash scene, courtesy of Larry from photo. He’d framed the lighter side of a heavy story perfectly: the slightly mauled but still recognizable brewery logo on the truck, the river of beer running over the concrete, and a small band of onlookers waving straws.

  I shot back a quick smiley face and sent my story to Les. It was on the website before Charlie went on at six, which saved me from another ass-chewing.

  Channel Four led with the wreck and I watched Charlie’s report, relieved she didn’t have anything I hadn’t. She was right. She did keep me on my toes. And if the Post and the Mafia and doing the right thing weren’t motivation enough, I had to admit the idea of the look on her face when my investigative piece hit the racks was smile-worthy.

  I grabbed a turkey on rye from the deli across the street and settled back at my desk for the night.

  Google Maps told me the extra dumbbell was delivered to what appeared to be a warehouse near Shockoe Bottom, though whether it was still used for that was anyone’s guess. Many of those had been refurbished in recent years, turned into everything from trendy apartments to hot yoga centers.

  Maybe it was just a gym. I clicked over to the city’s property tax records and typed in the address, renewed hope turning up the corners of my mouth.

  A Brandon Smith was listed as the sole owner. Another quick search told me the place didn’t hold a business license of any kind. Hmmm.

  A DMV records search revealed hundreds of Brandon Smiths in Virginia. I tried Google and came up with an insane number of hits. Gotta love common surnames. Refining the search to include the word “drugs,” I clicked on the first link that popped up.

  And found something. Even though I didn’t quite know what it meant.

  “Officer arrested in evidence case takes plea deal” read the headline of an old news story from Miami, with a subhead revealing that the evidence in question had never been found. I scrolled through it quickly.

  Eight years before, a cop in Miami had been fired and arrested after more than a million dollars in drugs and cash went missing from their evidence locker. The cop’s name was Brandon Smith. The story quoted the DA as saying Smith had a brother who was a small-time dealer with a record. The brother’s fingerprints were found in the lock-up after the theft.

  “Hot damn.” The pen I was tapping fell to the desktop.

  Noah. The brother’s name was Noah Smith. I flipped to the police report on the first dealer murder to be sure, but I knew I was right.

  A cop who’d been arrested in a strikingly similar case in Miami now might very well own a warehouse in Shockoe Bottom. And his brother’s murder was likely the catalyst for all this craziness.

  That was way too much coincidence to actually be coincidence.

  But who the hell was Smith, and where did he fit into my story?

  I thunked my head onto the desk, a screaming crick in my neck from the hours of research. I wanted answers, not more questions. At that moment even one answer would’ve tickled me pink.

  “Everything all right?” Parker’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  I raised my head and looked around, noticing the silence for the first time. It was dark. And there was no one else around.

  “Fine. Just tired,” I said, my tone too bright. “These hours are murder.”

  “Your whole world is murder lately, isn’t it?” he leaned on one side of the cube door and put a foot up on the other. I’d never been claustrophobic, but evidently there is indeed a first time for everything.

  “It stays that way a lot of the time,” I said, my eyes on his hands. They rested easily on his knees, and I didn’t see any Magnum-shaped bulges on his person. I took a deep breath, catching a whiff of the same clean-smelling cologne he’d been wearing Saturday. “This has just been a very long week.”

  “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” he said. “I was just thinking I didn’t even really know you last Friday, and here it is Friday again, and I feel like we’re old friends.”

&nb
sp; I had thought on Tuesday I might like that, but by Friday night, not so much. He had some old friends I wanted to keep my distance from.

  “This story has had its share of weird twists.” I smiled, easing the chair backward. Dammit, our cubicles were tiny.

  “Anything new?” The question sounded light, but Parker’s eyes were serious.

  I saw two possibilities: I could play dumb, which I was lousy at, or I could maybe get an answer to one of my big questions. Curiosity trumped nerves, and I scooted the chair as far from him as I could get it and stood.

  “Why do you ask? I don’t recall you being so interested in my work before.” It came out sharper than I intended.

  He furrowed his brow.

  “I read your stuff all the time. You’re good,” he grinned and held up his hands in mock-surrender. “I thought you knew that. But if you don’t want to share, that’s all right. I just wondered if I could help.”

  Perplexed, I studied him as he stepped backward into the walkway. I knew my murder mysteries. The bad guy wasn’t supposed to flash a grin and back off when you pushed back. I opened my mouth to reply and my Blackberry bleeped a text notification.

  “Got a date?” Parker asked.

  I laughed in spite of myself and shook my head, figuring my mom wanted to know why I hadn’t called yet. Parker was still close, and I didn’t want to take my eyes off him. Until I glanced at my phone and completely forgot he existed.

  “Or yes,” I said, shoving my laptop, files, and phone into my bag. “Maybe a hot one. Gotta run, Parker.”

  He called a goodnight as I ran for the elevators, killing two birds by getting away from him and to whoever had sent that text.

  “RPD officer with answers. Meet me at the beanery on Parham in 20 if you want them.”

  I wanted nothing more.

  Who does this guy think he is, Deep Throat? Why is he parked back there in the trees? Unease fluttered in my stomach as I turned the corner a second time and stopped in a spot near the shadow-shrouded police sedan, far from the light spilling out of the coffeehouse despite the relatively empty parking lot.

  “Officer?” I called, taking a step toward the car.

  The middle-ageduniformed cop in the driver’s seat opened the door and unfurled a hulking form that towered over even my height.

  The butterflies in my stomach morphed into bats.

  I stood up straight and called up my most confident smile before I looked up at his dark eyes and extended my hand. “Nichelle Clarke. Nice to meet you.”

  Officer McClendon (according to the shiny nameplate on his uniform) had hazel eyes, but they looked darker because they had curiously little depth. It added to the nagging in my gut that something was off, and I was glad he didn’t hold my gaze long.

  “Nice to meet you.” He mumbled, ducking his head.

  I took a big step backward and asked if he’d had a chance to eat dinner yet. My instincts about people were almost never wrong, and everything about him screamed at me to get to a place where we weren’t alone in the dark.

  I considered sprinting back to my car, but dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it occurred to me. I wanted the story worse than I’d ever wanted anything.

  Eyes on McClendon, I planted my feet and curled both hands into loose fists. My right hook had sent my trainer staggering a few times, and he was a pretty big guy.

  “Um, no,” McClendon said, staring at his shoes.

  I knew that voice from somewhere. The hesitancy and soft tone were unusual for a cop. I tried for a better look at his face, but he kept it pointed down.

  Maybe hearing him talk some more would help.

  “Let’s go inside, then. Have you ever tried their blueberry scones?” I took another, shorter step backward.

  He shook his head and fidgeted with his hands, and I wondered if I was getting paranoid. Parker turned out to be less than threatening. Maybe his weird vibe stemmed from the fear of revealing something he wasn’t supposed to.

  “Are you okay?” I smiled again, trying to catch his eye. “Whatever you want to talk to me about, you don’t have to be on the record. At least not at first.”

  “Thanks. I’ve never talked to a reporter before.” He looked up and to one side, toward The Beanery’s windows, and something clicked in my head.

  He was the cop from the beheaded accountant trial, the one who’d forgotten to read the accused his rights.

  Shit. How did he still have a job? There was only one answer for that, and it meant I wasn’t paranoid after all.

  I spun on my stiletto and started to run. I didn’t get two steps before something hit the back of my head, and everything went black.

  15.

  Of crooked cops and car trunks

  Not even a week as an investigative reporter and people were already trying to bash my head in? That had to be some kind of record.

  Pitch black surrounded me like a cloak on all sides, but I was pretty sure I was in the trunk of McClendon’s cruiser. And the car was moving. Trying hard not to panic, I focused first on deciphering why I was there. I wasn’t certain I knew anything too incriminating, but someone sure thought I did.

  First the mysterious Mr. Smith, now this guy. The only way for him to still be a cop after losing a murder case to such a stupid mistake was for him to be in on something—or with someone—pretty powerful. Like David Lowe?

  But I didn’t have anything on Lowe that I could prove. Did I? I pondered that for a minute.

  My stomach lurched as we took another corner and I decided none of what I’d compiled would mean squat if I didn’t figure out how to get away from McClendon. I had no experience with being cracked over the head and tossed in a car trunk, but his intentions couldn’t be good.

  I remembered a salesman showing me the release handle inside the trunk of my old car. But they were supposed to glow in the dark, and I saw nothing. I ran my hands along the side walls. The lining was rough, the metal and plastic beneath it hard. I felt a thick, textured metal cable roll under my fingers, but it didn’t lead to anything. Damn.

  In the absence of an escape hatch, I needed a weapon. Maybe surprising him when he opened the trunk lid would give me an advantage. I was unsure exactly how I’d manage to hold my own with the Jolly Green Giant’s cousin out there, but I damn well had to try.

  Mostly, I counted on the fact that Officer Felony didn’t know I had such a hard head. Whether it was conditioned or just a God-given gift to offset my uncanny ability to get brained by any object flying through the air in my vicinity, my skull seemed more resistant to damage than the average.

  Which was nifty, given that I needed my brain at full speed if I wanted to see Saturday’s sunrise.

  Think, Nichelle. I had a sudden flash of slipping my Blackberry into the small pocket in my skirt as I jumped out of my car.

  Please, be there.

  My fingers grazed smooth plastic when I slid them into the slit at my hip, and my heart leapt as I sifted through everyone I knew, trying to think of anyone I might be able to call for help.

  Not the police (“Hello, 911? I’ve been abducted by one of your officers and am in the trunk of his cruiser on my way to certain doom. Please come save me.” I could practically hear the click of the operator hanging up on me). Not Jenna. Not Bob. Agent Starnes at the FBI came to mind. Did I have a cell number for her?

  I touched a key and the screen lit up.

  No bars. Not even a fraction of the little one.

  Most coverage in the country, my ass. I stared, willing the icon to change. The flashing “no service” verged on mocking.

  I pointed the LCD away from me like a flashlight.

  The metal cable I had felt during my tactile exploration appeared from the ragged end to be what was left of the safety cord. Fantastic. McClendon was a planner.

  I moved the phone slowly, looking for anything I might be able to inflict pain with. A short steel bar strapped to the sidewall over my head looked promising. Probably part of a small
jack for changing a tire.

  I jerked the bar loose, grimacing at the ripping noise it made as the Velcro holding it to the wall gave way.

  I shoved the phone back into my pocket and gripped my makeshift club with both hands, waiting for the car to stop.

  After several corners and some brain-rattling bumps, it did. I had no idea how long I’d been out, so I wasn’t sure where we were. Apparently, somewhere that wasn’t on Verizon’s big red map.

  I waited for McClendon to come for me.

  The air felt thick.

  Stress, or an actual shortage of oxygen making it harder to breathe? I couldn’t tell.

  Bob could’ve been in the trunk talking to me, I could hear his words so clearly: “You’re crossing into the world of investigative reporting, here…That means you’re going to be in every bit as much danger as any cop working a case would be.”

  I thought of the hundred or so times I’d watched All The President’s Men and imagined investigative reporting to be glamorous. Right. I’d be young and beautiful in my casket. And I even knew where mom could get a good deal on a “gently used” one. A stray hubcap wouldn’t bother me.

  A door slammed.

  Fear obliterated the greater good I’d always wanted to serve.

  I wished I could turn the clock back a week and do it all differently. I’d never cared less about a scoop.

  Charlie was probably on her third sangria of the night, and I was locked in a car trunk. I failed to see where that meant I was winning anything.

  I wanted desperately to be curled up on my mother’s sofa in Dallas, watching trashy TV and eating chocolate and laughing.

  I hadn’t even called her back. What if I never saw her again? I’d been so scared of that when she was sick, that a can’t-breathe-can’t-eat-oh-my-God-I’m-going-to-vomit dread washed over me every time a monitor beeped or she shifted in her bed.

  In a thousand tearful prayers, I’d begged and bargained, offering God anything and everything in trade if he would please just not take my mommy away. And he hadn’t.

  And McClendon would not take me away from her. Not without a fight, anyway.