Front Page Fatality

by Walker, LynDee

  Joey nodded when she looked at him.

  “I see.” She pulled the blanket back and examined the cut. “This is going to need a few stitches. When was your last tetanus vaccine?”

  Shit. I hated shots. And since I couldn’t remember the last one, I was due.

  She bustled off and returned with the nurse and a tray holding two hypodermics and several other pointy medical things.

  I took a deep breath and clamped my fingers around the railing on the right side of the bed, studying the cream wallpaper and trying to think of anything but needles and murderers. I felt the doctor remove Joey’s tie from my leg and gripped the rail tighter.

  “You all right, Xena?” Joey’s voice was closer and a quick glance revealed that he’d walked to the foot of the bed. He stepped up beside me and leaned his head down, so close I could feel his breath on my ear. “Guns, kidnapping, overgrown maniacs. That doesn’t faze you and this is what gets to you?”

  I clenched my teeth and glared at his smirk.

  “Shut up,” I said, without moving my jaw.

  “No judgment,” he grinned. “Just trying to figure you out.”

  “Because I’m such a mystery.” The sarcasm I intended to inflect on the words was lost in a hissing intake of breath when the doctor stabbed my leg with one of the needles.

  “Lidocaine,” she said. “It’ll burn a little for a second, but you won’t feel the stitches go in. That hurts a lot worse.”

  Apparently “burn a little” meant “set your entire thigh aflame from hip to knee,” but it faded quickly. Feeling odd pressure where the cut should’ve been, I glanced over to see her prodding it, squirting it with first a clear solution, then a rust-colored one. Although it looked disgusting, it didn’t hurt.

  “How about that?” I muttered.

  She asked about Bob as she scrubbed dried blood off my thigh, and I told her he was stubborn, but improving.

  When my wound was decontaminated to her satisfaction, she picked up a pointy doohickey that could only mean she was about to start sewing me up, and I looked away again. Deadened nerves or not, I couldn’t watch that.

  Joey could, though. And did, giving me the color commentary as the doctor closed up the unsightly souvenir of my crazy night. Seven stitches. The scar would limit my skirt-length options, but it’d make a respectable war story for the whippersnappers someday.

  Dr. Schafer dressed the freshly-sewn cut with loose gauze as the nurse stuck a little round band aid on my arm over the blood drop from the tetanus vaccine. She smiled at my grimace and began cleaning up.

  “You should be healed in about ten to fourteen days.” Dr. Schafer pulled her gloves off and tossed them into a bin in the corner, picking up my chart and laying a hand on the doorknob. “Keep it covered until day after tomorrow, then let it air out as much as you can. Clean it with antiseptic solution twice a day, and put some antibiotic ointment on it after you do that.

  “Your general practitioner can remove the stitches for you. After it’s healed, make sure you use sunblock every day for six months to minimize the scarring, and if it swells up or gets red or oozes anything, come back here.”

  I thanked her as she left, signing a stack of papers for the insurance company while the nurse finished picking up. I handed her the papers, eyeing my bloody skirt with distaste.

  “Why don’t I see if we have a pair of scrubs you can wear home?” She asked, following my gaze. She took the paperwork and the tray of pointy things with her and returned shortly with a clean outfit, such that it was. I thanked her.

  “Be more careful around your garden tools.” She patted my shoulder and smiled at Joey. “Take good care of her.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her I could take care of myself, as evidenced by Burly McGiant the one-eyed cop, then snapped it shut. That’s why I don’t lie. My big mouth tends to get me caught.

  I shooed Joey into the hallway and pulled on the pea green PJs before I settled back into the wheelchair and let an orderly push me to the car.

  Joey insisted on driving me home, and since asking for help picking up my car would give me a good excuse to catch up with Jenna the next morning, I didn’t argue.

  The short trip to my house was mostly silent, me scrutinizing Smith’s photo and trying to place him, and Joey drumming his fingers on the wheel in time to Kenny Chesney.

  A Jersey mobster who liked country music. Of all the crazy things about my week, that one might be the most unbelievable.

  I looked up as he turned onto my street, still just a nagging familiarity about Smith’s face dancing in the back of my brain. Maybe sleep would float whatever it was to the surface.

  “Get your head down,” Joey said in a low voice, throwing an arm behind me and yanking my torso over into his lap.

  “Have you lost your mind?” I struggled to sit up, but he was strong. My heart rate took off like Earnhardt roaring out of a pit stop. Dammit, was no one trustworthy?

  I didn’t want to die in a Lincoln with Kenny crooning about tequila and toxic love in the background. I shimmied my shoulders, trying to get an arm free to swing at Joey.

  “I count three cars that weren’t here earlier, all close to your place. And your lights are on,” he said tightly. “I know this isn’t terribly comfortable, but would you be still?”

  I froze. They were in my house? I didn’t feel so ridiculous about having hidden Neal’s folder under the floorboard anymore.

  “Darcy.” I swallowed a sob.

  “No reason to hurt the dog unless they’re just douchebags,” Joey said, stomping on the accelerator once we passed the house and letting go of me a second later. “I’ll handle that. She likes me. You have to get somewhere safe.”

  I told him to take me to a hotel and laughed when he reeled off the name of the poshest place in town.

  “You might be able to afford The Jefferson, Captain Armani, but those of us who don’t have unlimited offshore accounts tend more toward Holiday Inn.”

  “Fair enough. Where is one? Far from here, preferably, and no using a credit card for that or anything else. We’ll get you some cash.”

  Off the grid. Fan-fucking-tastic Friday I was having. At this rate, I’d be hacking off my ponytail and bleaching my hair by Sunday. I glanced at my reflection in the dark window, hoping it didn’t come to that. Brassy hair and washed out skin would make me a shudder-worthy blond.

  I directed Joey to a bank and emptied my checking account, which netted me a pitifully small stack of twenties, then navigated to a suburban hotel in my price range, turning to tell him goodnight when he stopped outside the revolving glass door.

  “Thanks for your help.” I said. “How do I get in touch with you if I do figure out who this guy is, anyway?”

  “I’ll be around,” he said. “And I’ll look for your byline. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “That seems to be difficult for me this week.”

  “All you can do is the best you can do.” He smiled, staring at me for a long minute. Not liking where that could go, I kicked the car door open with my good leg and climbed out, watching the taillights until they were out of sight.

  17.

  Two and two isn’t five

  Morning didn’t bring me closer to a match on Brandon Smith, but staring at Google Maps gave me an idea of what might.

  Though I didn’t remember exact details—owing to the darkness and the running for my life—the satellite view of the warehouse Smith owned in Richmond looked disturbingly similar to where McClendon had taken me. Which would also give me a reason for Joey’s never-fully-explained cameo in the alley.

  What if I’d been a hundred and eighty degrees wrong and this was all a criminal ex-cop who’d hooked up with a crazy patrolman looking for some extra cash?

  I ran mentally through Mike’s evidence log, but I didn’t remember McClendon’s name. For the first time, I wondered if Mike had brought me the actual documents, or if the ones I had were doctored versions designed to finger Neal as the bad g
uy. My stomach wrung like an old dishrag, uncertainty swimming through my head.

  I pulled out a notebook and made a list of everything I knew and everything I didn’t. The latter was much longer. And Les’ timer was running out.

  “A week of busting my ass, and I still don’t have the first clue,” I said to no one.

  As much as I wanted a sounding board, the only people I trusted were Jenna, Bob, and my mother, and I wasn’t about to worry any of them with my near-death experience.

  I stared at the lists until the letters blurred, instead, then tossed the notebook to the foot of the bed and sighed. Loads of suspicion, but very little actual fact.

  And Brandon Smith’s warehouse was the only place I could think of to find a few facts, whatever they might be.

  It was early, and I was willing to gamble cab fare on a hunch McClendon had been so preoccupied with his injuries he’d forgotten about my car. I called a taxi to the hotel and forked over two of my dwindling stash of twenties when we pulled up next to my sporty little SUV. It was still at the coffee shop, my bag resting in the backseat. Hooray for tiny awesomes.

  Thanks to the deserted Saturday morning streets, it took less than twenty minutes to get to the warehouse. I circled it three times. The steel double doors that served as the main entrance were on the side of the building that faced the big gravel parking lot.

  When I was reasonably sure no one was there, I parked in the alley around back next to a hulking green dumpster. An inspection of its back corner revealed a piece of jagged metal decorated with dried blood and black linen.

  Bingo.

  In the daylight, without a maniac chasing me, I could see a large bank of windows high on the wall above the dumpster.

  I looked around for a stepping stool and spotted a big plastic crate at the far end of the alley. Dragging it over, I slid the side door on the dumpster open and clambered up onto the lid. The four Advil I’d gotten from the hotel desk kept the pain in my leg to a dull ache, though I still leaned heavier on the uninjured one.

  Reaching the other side of my perch, I gripped the bottom of the window frame and pressed my nose to the glass, taking a deep breath as the interior of the building came into focus.

  Boxes. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of stacked plastic crates like the one I’d used to climb up, their contents not discernible from the outside.

  I groaned under my breath as my eyes swept the room again. A whole lot of nothing. Just a massive expanse of concrete floor, white walls, white and gray steel ceiling beams, and boxes.

  I stood there for a long minute, contemplating the door, but knowing there was only so far I should push it. There was investigating, and then there was just plain asking to be murdered. Going inside that building looked like an excellent way to jump from one to the other.

  Just as I turned to get down, I heard the low purr of an engine.

  I froze for a split second, then nearly gave myself whiplash searching for the source of the sound.

  Shit.

  I started for the edge of the dumpster, but couldn’t help wondering if I’d be able to see what lurked in the mysterious boxes if someone went inside.

  The engine shut off, the alley still empty.

  I was still out of sight.

  “All or nothing,” I whispered, spinning back to the window. That curiosity that killed the cat is about to help the crooked cops whack the nosy reporter, the little voice in my head that sounded a lot like my mother warned. Guns. River. Sleep with the fishes. Anything unclear?

  I held my breath as the door on the opposite wall swung outward, and a large man I didn’t recognize walked into the room. It could’ve been Smith. It could’ve just as easily been the tooth fairy for all I could tell from so far away. I tried to focus on his face, looking for the features from the grainy mug shot.

  He had a scar on one cheek I could see across the considerable distance, and his dark features looked frozen in a perpetual scowl. He was probably as tall as Parker and maybe even more muscular, sporting an expensive-looking tailored leather jacket in the middle of summer.

  He jerked the big metal door closed behind him and walked to a small office, emerging with an empty plastic crate much like the ones that were stacked halfway to the ceiling throughout most of the room.

  He stopped in front of a tower about ten yards from the door and pulled the top box down. Taking a large plastic bag of white powder out, he added it to the box he was holding.

  I blew my breath out forcefully and thanked my lucky stars, every fiber of my being zeroed in on Mr. I’m-Too-GQ-For-This-Heat.

  He chose another crate and peeked inside it before he lifted the lid and moved a smaller bag, this one full of little yellowish pebbles, into his box.

  I wondered if my mystery man was getting ready to make a delivery, already contemplating whether I was stealthy enough to follow him without getting caught.

  The next box was full of guns, and he pulled two out and added them to his cache.

  “Jesus,” I whispered to myself. “Welcome to Costco for criminals.”

  Replacing all the lids carefully and straightening the boxes, he turned to take the one under his arm outside and froze.

  I clutched the window frame, forgetting to breathe. In all my excitement over a building full of proof that I was right, I hadn’t heard another car, but a long shadow stretched across the concrete floor in the light from the high windows.

  Someone else was there. A very large someone.

  And I couldn’t see them because they were standing behind a tower of plastic crates. Shit.

  Mr. Box o’ Drugs and Guns shook his head hard, setting his loot on the ground and backing up three steps.

  I wished I could hear what they were saying, and I would’ve traded my shoe closet for a camera. From the side of the discussion I could see, it appeared that maybe someone was taking things that didn’t belong to him.

  Which shouldn’t surprise people who employed criminals, in my opinion.

  Leather jacket man fell to his knees, and inspiration struck me seconds before a bullet struck him.

  Clenching my eyes shut and flinching at the faint scream that was cut off by a muffled gunshot, I snatched my Blackberry out of the hip pocket of my baggy scrubs and hit the camera button.

  Raising it to eye level, I pushed the selector and then the save key over and over, capturing the death of a drug dealer and wondering again if this was Smith. Whoever he was, he’d just become the story of the year.

  The body slumped to the left onto the concrete, blood ebbing outward in a nearly-black circle on the smooth silvery floor.

  The shadow moved.

  I held my breath, my thumb still clicking automatically.

  The shooter stepped out from behind the crates, sunlight glinting off the gun in his hand.

  My entire body went numb. Clinging to the window frame, I managed to keep clicking the camera and tried not to throw up.

  Tucking the gun under his pinstriped navy suit coat, Police Chief Donovan Nash surveyed the warehouse with a satisfied smile before his attention turned back to the hemorrhaging form at his feet.

  The body shuddered once and fell still. Nash’s lips curved up and he pulled one foot back and sank his shiny wingtip into the man’s midsection before he disappeared into the office.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  Not Lowe. At least, not just Lowe.

  I stumbled backward and clapped one hand over my mouth, the metal under my feet strangely less than solid all of a sudden. But even my shaking knees and roiling stomach couldn’t keep me from getting the hell out of there.

  I whirled, scrambling on all fours as I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and half-jumped, half-fell back to the concrete, my leg protesting through the double dose of painkillers.

  Diving behind the wheel, I started the engine and steered stealthily out of the alley, then squealed the tires when I got past the next building.

  Shaking, I gulped deep breaths, the adrenaline f
ading fast. My stomach lurched and I groaned, barely getting the car stopped and the door open before I vomited Friday night’s turkey sandwich into the grass between the road and the river.

  When my insides were empty I sat up, fumbling in the console for a napkin and a stick of gum. The image of the police chief kicking the dying thief would haunt my nightmares forever, no doubt. I’d been so focused on Lowe that I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Nash was involved.

  I dug my Blackberry out of my pocket. Please, God, just let the photos be recognizable, I thought.

  Before I could call up the pictures, my phone started ringing, Bob’s office number flashing on the screen.

  “Clarke,” I sighed as I picked up. I wasn’t obligated to work Saturdays, and I really wasn’t in the mood for Les’ bullshit.

  “Charlie Lewis has a nice interview with the FBI about how they’ve ruled your boating crash an accident,” Les barked. “But it’s the damnedest thing—being the managing editor of a daily newspaper, I’m getting tired of getting my news from Channel Four. So haul your ass out of bed and get me a story I can put online before three.”

  I barely heard him, my eyes resting on the printed copy of the story from the Miami paper Joey had brought me the night before.

  Nash’s cold smile and something I’d seen in his office the day before zipped through my thoughts. I put Les on speaker and opened my Google app, tapping Nash’s name in.

  It took less than twenty seconds for my Blackberry to make me swear I’d background every cop I ever worked with for the rest of my career.

  Nash had come to Richmond from heading the narcotics unit at the Miami PD eight years earlier—about two months before the date on the article in my passenger seat. I’d seen a Gators pennant on his office bookshelf, but by the time I’d found the story about Smith, I’d forgotten all about it.

  “Clarke? Are you even listening to me? I can send Shelby over to interview the FBI if you’d like,” Les’ voice blared from the tiny speaker in my phone.

  I contemplated telling him to fuck off. But I’d pissed him off enough for one week and, exclusive of the year or no, Bob was right about Les. At his core, he was bitter and spiteful, and he could hang onto a grudge like a bride with a hundred-dollar Vera Wang at a Filene’s basement sale.