Front Page Fatality

by Walker, LynDee

  “I have something better,” I said. And I needed to let the feds know there was a dead guy in that warehouse, anyway. “And I have to talk to the FBI about it, so I’ll get your story while I’m at it.”

  “You have something better than the FBI concluding the crash that killed five people was just bad luck? What’d you do, witness a murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” My lips turned up slightly, picturing his face when the line went silent. “And I have art. Charlie will be chasing my byline for the foreseeable future.”

  I actually shut him up for so long I thought I’d lost my signal.

  “Les?”

  “You have what?” he asked finally.

  “You heard me. Murder. Art. It’ll be ready in two hours. Just watch for an email from Bob and don’t say anything to anybody. Please.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. “But I’ll be waiting. It better be good.”

  “You won’t believe it.” I hung up on him and stood, physically unable to sit still despite the injured leg that burned with every step. Pacing the length of the car, I waited for my actual boss to answer his phone.

  Something so monumental was not going on our presses without Bob seeing it first. Les could bite my ass. No way he was touching this story.

  “Bob, oh my God,” I began when he picked up, the story tumbling through my lips so fast I wasn’t sure I got the words in the right order.

  “Jesus, Nichelle,” he whistled when I stopped for air. “That’s…Wow. I’m not often at a loss for words, but I don’t know what to say. When will you have it done?”

  I turned back toward my car and opened my mouth to ask him if I could go to his house to write. Before I got the words out, a silver sedan shot out of a side street and lurched to a stop near my back bumper.

  I let out a short scream and dropped the phone, my battered leg giving way when I tried to leap for my door. Sprawled in the grass, I threw a glance over my shoulder, but the glare from the sun obscured everything except the barrel of what looked like a rifle in a pair of very large hands.

  I should have called Agent Starnes first.

  Shoving hard with my good leg, I made it back to my feet and tried to spin toward the rifleman.

  He was faster.

  I heard a harsh huffing noise, like air being forced through a tube too fast.

  Something stung my right hip.

  I didn’t even get my hand there to see what it was before I was lost in the darkness.

  18.

  Exclusive of the year

  My head was bigger and heavier than I remembered, and my eyes opened to a world painted in watercolor, blurred and fluid at the edges.

  I tried to remember where I was and how I got there, but the closest I could get was an odd urge to run. Except I couldn’t muster the energy to get up. Everything seemed floaty and far away. Was this what dying felt like?

  Voices filtered through the fog. I strained to hear the conversation, but it was akin to trying to listen to a television with the volume too low. I could make out syllables here and there, but nothing that made sense. And I couldn’t hear them well enough to tell who they belonged to. One rose in pitch and volume, angry. The other remained flat.

  Blinking too-fat eyelids, I looked around. White, industrial-looking walls, exposed metal ceiling beams, and a corrugated tin roof.

  So I wasn’t dead. While I’d never given much thought to what waited beyond the pearly gates, I was pretty sure the hereafter didn’t resemble a warehouse.

  A warehouse. There was something important about that.

  Then I saw the boxes.

  Fuck.

  My heart took off at a gallop, adrenaline blazing a trail through the haze in my brain. Stacks and stacks of plastic boxes, in a warehouse where I’d just witnessed a murder.

  I preferred the view from outside.

  I tried unsuccessfully to lift my arms and legs. I was lying on hard, cold surface, but from the distance I perceived there to be between my body and the ceiling, it wasn’t the floor. I tried to calm myself with a few deep breaths and caught a whiff of something that stung my nostrils.

  The voices got louder.

  “We certainly can’t stay here.” Donovan Nash’s booming tenor wasn’t a huge surprise, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.

  “Why not?” The reply was barely audible.

  I closed my eyes and focused. Nash’s friend sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place the voice.

  “I caught her before she got more than three blocks from here, didn’t I?” the mystery man argued. “No way they have a story yet. We get rid of her, and we’ve contained the situation.”

  “Didn’t you say she was on the phone when you caught up to her?” Nash boomed. “How stupid do you think this girl is? If she figured out enough to come here, don’t you think she told someone where she was?”

  I wished. It hadn’t occurred to me to mention my location as I spilled the murder story to Bob.

  “So check her phone,” Captain Mystery said. “See who she talked to and we’ll take care of that.”

  “Yes, because disappearing in the wake of the murder of an assistant CA and half the city’s newspaper staff is not at all suspicious,” Nash snapped. “Not to mention, we still don’t know where the hell the Boy Scout brigade got off to. What if Sorrel and White know more than I gave them credit for?”

  I sighed, a small smile breaking through the insanity surrounding me. I knew my guys couldn’t have been crooked. And if he didn’t know where they were, then they probably weren’t dead.

  “The FBI said they were done for now,” Nash continued. “I don’t need them poking around anymore. We need to clear out of here and I need time to figure out our next move. Make those biceps useful and haul boxes out to the truck. If we can get out of the state, we can buy a little time.”

  Biceps?

  And the voice. Damn. Mr. Mystery didn’t really sound like Parker, but I’d never heard Parker sound mad.

  “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Nash clapped his hands, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.

  I turned my head toward him and bit back a scream, full-on panic drawing acid to the back of my tongue.

  I was tied up and surrounded by at least two very large, armed men who wanted to “get rid of me.”

  Objectively, I didn’t like my odds.

  “Nichelle, I didn’t expect to see you again today.” Nash took two more steps and stared down at me with the same cold smile I’d seen from the window. Up close it was a thousand times more frightening, and a hundred and eighty degrees different from the charming grins he’d flashed in his office the day before.

  “I knew you were working on a story about this.” Nash waved a hand at the surroundings. “But I was pretty sure you suspected Lowe.”

  “And I thought I was being so secretive.”

  “I’d give you a solid B,” he said. “I was impressed with your roundabout questions yesterday. I thought having McClendon arrange a meeting with you last night would keep you from tying anything back to me. It appears I was wrong, on a couple of counts. Notice the ropes. I won’t be losing an eye to one of those pretty shoes.”

  I raised my head and peered at my ankles. Like my wrists, they were bound to a big metal table with medium gauge, white rope.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” Nash said.

  I concentrated on keeping my breathing even, trying to slow my pulse. I refused to let him see that I was about to pee myself.

  “That crossed my mind,” I said. “Why not shoot me in the alley and be done with it? The river was right there.”

  “I need to know how you put this together. I already had to deal with an unpleasant situation this morning. You showing up here was not something I expected.”

  Killing a man was an ‘unpleasant situation’? I’d hate to see what really got him upset.

  “Who tipped you off?” he asked.

  �
��Why should I tell you anything? You’re going to kill me anyway.” I nearly choked on the words. Saying it aloud made it real.

  “There are many ways to die, Nichelle,” Nash smiled and wrapped a hand in my hair, jerking my head to one side and removing a few strands. “Some of them are less pleasant than others.”

  I stared, keeping my silence.

  “I suspect you’ve been talking to Mike Sorrel.” Nash said, his hand still in my hair. “Since he’s jumped ship, I can’t ask him, so I need you to share.”

  “I’m an only child. I suck at sharing.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  “You have a knack for sarcasm.” He wrenched my hair harder, and I gasped as I felt a clump give and a warm trickle down the back of my neck. “I don’t particularly care for it. Who told you?”

  “No one.” It was the God’s honest truth, unless someone promoted Google to personhood. Too bad he didn’t believe me.

  He snapped his arm backward. White stars of pain exploded behind my eyes and I screamed. Nash flung a bloody clump of my hair onto the concrete behind him.

  “Don’t make me ask again,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and took slow breaths, trying to mimic the Lamaze breathing Jenna had used when Carson was born. When I could speak, I focused on Nash.

  “There is no mysterious trench coat-clad source.” I said, blinking back tears brought on by the pain. “Only my computer. Tax records are boring as hell, but they’re often a reporter’s best friend. So is Google.”

  Nash didn’t appear to know about Joey, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Too bad I didn’t have some kind of mobster bat signal. Joey could probably get me out of the warehouse without scuffing a wingtip.

  “Is that a fact?” Nash held my gaze and appeared to relax, his grin returning as he pulled out his cell phone. “Nice detective work. Have you ever considered going into law enforcement?”

  “Ugly shoes.” I tugged at the restraints on my wrists, which were snug, but not too tight. My double-jointed left thumb could probably help me slip a hand out of them if I could stretch them a bit. Trying to look relaxed, I kept pressure on the rope and my eyes on Nash.

  “Aren’t you supposed to uphold the law?” I asked.

  “There’s not as much money in being a good guy.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Look where it got Gavin Neal.”

  “Do you know he had a sick little boy?” I asked, already sure he didn’t care.

  “And if he’d kept out of my business, the sick little boy would still have a father. If you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.” He smirked. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  He disappeared into the dwindling stacks of boxes, and I stared at the ceiling, contemplating a way to save my ass while Nash tried to cover his. The back of my head burned with what would’ve been all-consuming pain in any other situation.

  Flexing my forearms, I strained the ropes against the table. They cut off my circulation when I pulled, but I could’ve sworn they felt looser every time I relaxed. How the hell could I get out of the building without getting shot?

  Bob must have heard the commotion when I’d dropped my phone. I didn’t want him to come riding to the rescue, but I hoped he’d call someone. Jerry. Starnes. Spiderman. I wasn’t picky, though it might help if the someone had a gun.

  I popped my thumb flat and tried to wriggle my hand free. I almost had it when Nash’s voice came closer again. I shoved my wrist back into the rope.

  “Good news,” he said, sticking his phone back into his pocket. “Things are going my way again. And in a way, I owe you my thanks for forcing my hand.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll take a ride home in lieu of a card, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m not that grateful.” Nash’s eyes skipped around the warehouse and he nodded, appearing satisfied with the progress.

  Faint chatter and the sliding, slapping thud of the crates being moved were the only sounds. From what I’d seen earlier, there was no one in earshot who’d care if I screamed.

  “Hey, if you didn’t know I suspected you, how did you know I was here this morning?” I asked.

  “A combination of luck and brilliance.” What could only be described as a shit-eating grin crossed his face. “Your copy editor wants your job.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I stared, waiting for him to go on. That backstabbing bitch. She better hope Nash finished me off before I had a chance to practice my ap-chagi on her.

  “She called police headquarters this morning asking for information on a murder. Of course, that murder hasn’t been reported to the proper authorities.” Nash said. “But she insisted that a Telegraph reporter had witnessed it. Since we LoJacked your car, it was easy to see you were nearby.”

  “How very Orwellian villain of you. When did you do that?”

  “McClendon said you left it at the coffee shop, so Brandon went by before dawn and put in a tracking device. It came in pretty handy.” He grinned like a father whose son had just scored the winning touchdown.

  “Brandon Smith?” If my minutes were numbered, I had to find out who that guy was. “Why would he LoJack my car for you after you killed his brother?”

  “Noah got greedy. He and his friend were trying to blackmail me, and after I paid them very well for the effort I asked of them.”

  From his tone, he could’ve been talking about the weather or his golf score. “I wasn’t sure what to do, because I couldn’t afford to lose Brandon,” Nash continued. “But he was surprisingly reasonable.”

  “I even went to Noah’s house and explained it all to him. Right before I shot him.” The voice Nash had been arguing with earlier came from behind a stack of crates to my left.

  Except closer, with a more conversational tone, I recognized it instantly.

  I clenched my eyes shut. No way.

  “Brandon,” Nash boomed. “How are we doing out there?”

  “Almost done.”

  I opened my eyes just as Jerry Davis’ face came between my head and the ceiling.

  Smith was in much better shape than he’d been in when he left Florida, with darker hair. His clean-shaven face looked younger, too. But Jerry Davis was the man from the mug shot, plus one extreme makeover.

  “Brandon?” I whispered.

  “Yes, Nichelle?” He leaned over me and batted his lashes, his laugh low and disturbing.

  How many times had I talked to him that week, with him “filling in” for Aaron? Christ on a cracker, as Eunice would say.

  “You didn’t know.” He grinned. “How about that?”

  “You’re quite the thespian,” I said. “I suppose that helps when you’re trying to get away with murder.”

  “I was sure you’d pegged me when I let it slip that I was watching the Seminoles in the college series,” he said. “I knew you had to know where Noah was from. Isn’t that why you turned me down when I offered to help you?”

  Strike two. Nash’s Gators pennant and Jerry’s college world series. Fat lot of good it did me to put it together now.

  As long as they were giving answers, I figured I’d try for a few more. The way Nash’s eyes flicked to his phone every four seconds, he was waiting for a call. And the boxes were disappearing fast. Maybe I could buy a few minutes if I could get them bragging about their cleverness. Not that I knew what I’d do with more time, but I wanted it anyway.

  “Why put the drugs on a boat?” I blurted the first question I thought of. “Doesn’t that limit where you can take them?”

  “We used to use trucks,” Nash said. “But for the last couple of years, some friction has made that difficult. This spring, the river level rose enough that the water allowed us access to the coast, and I didn’t need to fight anyone over transportation. No one was the wiser until that baseball player lost control of his speedboat.”

  “Friction. With the mob.” Gavin Neal’s guns had come off a truck, so it followed that Joey’s friends had been involved.

  “We tri
ed to work a deal with them,” Nash said. “I even had McClendon perjure himself during a murder trial and say he hadn’t read the defendant his Miranda rights so their guy would get off. But they’re stingy bastards.”

  Greedy crooks. Imagine that.

  “And the guys who died in the boat crash, Freeman and Roberts? Did they know what they were hauling?”

  Nash shook his head, staring at his phone again.

  “They weren’t the type,” he said. “Which is what made them the perfect cover.”

  The phone binged and Nash turned his back, studying the screen and muttering to himself.

  I turned to Jerry/Brandon, the crime scene stills of Darryl and Noah flashing up from my memory, both of them relaxed in the face of death. Because they knew him.

  “You knew I was here because you tracked my car.” I said, talking to keep from panicking as Nash waved an arm in a wrap-it-up gesture at whoever was carting off boxes. “It was you with the rifle. A dart, right?”

  He grinned.

  “I tried to aim for your hip. They hurt a lot more when they hit you in the neck. I do what I can for the pretty girls.” He leered, trailing one finger down my arm, and I clenched my jaw to keep from spitting in his face.

  Brandon turned his attention to something I couldn’t see, and I tried again to yank my left hand free.

  Success!

  And not a minute too soon, if I could just think of some way to capitalize on it.

  Arm still at my side, I looked around, noticing a muted splashing sound had now replaced the slapping of the crates moving. The sharp scent in the air was suddenly strong enough to make my eyes water. Shit.

  “What’s going to happen to this place?” I fought to keep my voice even, because I already knew the answer.

  “You don’t smell the gasoline?” Nash spun back toward me, cold smile in place. “Enough chit chat. You’ve had a fine last interview, and we have somewhere to be.”

  His phone rang and he raised it to his ear.