Dawson was one of only three other people who knew what I was working and it was clear by the sound of his voice he couldn’t believe the timing of Thompson’s death either.
“I don’t,” I said, “but I would like to be the one to report on his death.”
Again, Dawson paused before giving his response. Erin was glaring at me and now I wished I would have told Susan my secret sooner. I felt the blood drain from my face as if somehow it was my fault Richard Thompson died.
“Mom, you want the last bratwurst?” Mason called out to me.
“No. You finish it.” I smiled and put on my best poker face to hide the truth from my son before he figured it out himself. Then I turned and faced the house. “So, is that asking too much?” I asked Dawson.
“Garcia should be the one to do it,” Dawson said. Joey Garcia was the business correspondent, and under any other circumstances it would make sense. My colleague had covered Thompson’s businesses for years, but even Garcia didn’t know what I’d uncovered.
“You want me to call him, or will you?”
“I’ll give him a buzz,” Dawson said. “In the meantime, I’m still waiting on the final version to Thompson’s story, which, Sam, I still have planned to go to print tonight.”
My eyebrows pinched. “It’s there. I dropped it in our shared folder this afternoon.”
“I checked before I left the house an hour ago, Sam. It wasn’t there.”
I knew I had put it in there, but I hurried inside the house regardless, with the intention of making deadline. “Give me a minute,” I said, lifting the lid to my laptop computer.
“Sam, thanks again for the barbeque,” Allison whispered as she and Susan gathered their things and headed home for the night.
I covered the microphone on the phone and turned my attention to my friends. “Thanks for coming, and I’m really sorry about your loss,” I said to Susan. She nodded and gave me a weak smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
As soon as they left, I navigated to the Times cloud and found my shared folder with Dawson. I felt my breath hitch when seeing he was right. It wasn’t there. The file I’d dropped in earlier was gone. Could it be I was simply thinking I’d done something that I hadn’t? It didn’t matter. I copied the final draft from my external hard drive and dropped it in Dawson’s folder.
“There, it’s coming through the cloud now.”
“Sam, I know you worked hard on this story, but if don’t want to publish this story now that—”
“Dawson, don’t be ridiculous,” I cut him off before he could finish. Like he said before, Thompson’s death changed nothing.
“All I’m saying is that it’s your call. We can find other stories to fill the gap in the meantime.”
It was a nice offer, and it was clear he had given it some thought, but this story was finished and I knew it needed to be told. Now was the time. “Thanks, but I’ve already made my decision.”
“Think on it, Sam. Once it’s out, there is no turning back and this one has the potential to explode.”
I lifted my gaze and stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. Dawson was right. This story was big, and had already put one threat on my life. Maybe it would serve me well if I hit pause and waited for things to cool down.
“But I need a decision soon,” he said.
“Give me until 10 and I’ll have my answer.”
Chapter Four
Donny Counts stood tall and proud, taking a wide confident stance as he listened to the auditorium burst into a round of applause like he had never heard before. He stared out into the crowd of thousands, smiling beneath the stage lights thinking how they’d all come to hear his story.
The whoops! came from above and echoed off the walls, mixing with the variety of cheers before everyone started chanting his name, Counts! Counts! Counts!
For Donny, this was what it was all about. He swiveled his neck from side to side, taking it all in while asking himself how he could ever top this performance.
He enjoyed his time on stage at the Denver University campus, particularly liked engaging with the crowd and getting them to laugh as he shared his rags to riches journey that began with a simple dream.
But, for Donny, this was the dream.
The vision to be filthy rich—to be seen, to be heard, and have young gorgeous women eyeing him like candy wherever he went. Including the beautiful slender blonde with glimmering blue eyes staring at him from the front row.
Donny locked eyes, smiled, and held her stare as he pretended to undress her with his eyes. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she would feel as he raked his fingertips across her soft, porcelain skin, her firm breasts inside his palm.
The vibration from the crowd filled his chest with a sense of invisibility that only money and fame could buy. Finally, after a brief escape into his daydream, he angled his body and bowed to his fans, blowing kisses to the top rows who continued screaming his name. Donny moved smoothly across the stage, waving his hand through the air.
In just twelve short months, his net worth sky-rocketed to numbers beyond his wildest dreams. Now, his name was synonymous with overnight success and Donny Counts seemed to be everywhere. On the TV, in the radio, across the internet, and on people’s phones as they used his exchange in pursuit of their own quick riches. It was all part of his strategy to use the media to sell his image, to give him a brand he otherwise wouldn’t have.
And it worked like magic.
Not bad for a skinny little kid from the suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona who once was picked on by the high school jocks, he thought as he turned back to the blonde who was still staring in his direction. God, she was gorgeous.
“Donny Counts, everyone!” The MC shook Donny’s hand.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Donny said into the mic, watching a dark silhouette move between the aisle and perch himself against the wall near the front. “And remember, if you want to be rich like me, the time to invest in cryptocurrency is now. Thank you.”
Everyone in the crowd cheered but one. The lone, dark figure against the wall remained stone-faced and bitter looking. Never once taking his eyes off the keynote speaker, he had the look of someone who knew the truth about Donny. And it was a secret Donny couldn’t afford to have let out.
Chapter Five
A half-hour later, Erin and I arrived at Richard Thompson’s six thousand square foot mansion on the south side of Denver. I turned my wheels to the curb and pulled the emergency break. Casting my gaze to the front of the house, I kept thinking how much energy I had spent on this man. The sleepless nights, the runaround that came with fact checking different sources, and the gathering of evidence to know that what I was uncovering went beyond just rumor. Yet, even in death, I had nothing positive to say about him. Not with what I’d learned and what he’d done to con people into giving him their hard earned money under the disguise of a charitable donation.
Bile rose in my throat the more I thought about what Richard Thompson did.
Erin rolled her neck and looked me straight in the eye. “You’re the best reporter I know, Sam. The story you wrote about him,” she flung her hitchhikers thumb toward Thompson’s front door, “was accurate, and just because he died doesn’t change what he did.”
I smiled, reached for her hand, and squeezed it. I knew the truth, but that didn’t erase the fact that someone—maybe him—threatened to release hell if I went through with putting the story to print. “Let’s see if we can’t get any answers to what happened.”
Together we stepped out of the car and made our way across the green grass, joining the growing crowd of media and spectators there to watch the show. There was a warm evening breeze that kicked up every so often and the fading baby blue skies above did nothing to keep me from feeling creeped out by the strange timing of his death.
“Hey Samantha.” Nancy Jordan, a TV news reporter with a local Denver affiliate, was there. I wasn’t surprised. Nancy was always looking for an edge to separate herself fr
om the pack. We’d worked together in the past, but I wouldn’t say we were friends.
“What did I miss?” I asked her.
“Nothing. Pretty uneventful as they’re not letting anyone unauthorized through.” Nancy glanced over her shoulder and looked to the road. I knew she was seeing if my boyfriend, detective Alex King, was here with hopes of me passing on the inside scoop. “What about you? Have any insight to what might have happened?” she asked, naturally assuming I’d share whatever secrets I knew myself.
I shook my head no and took in my surroundings, looking through the faces of bystanders and noting anything out of the ordinary or suspicious, which was nothing. It was clear Garcia wasn’t here, though I expected to see him soon if he was going to tell this story instead of me. Then again, Garcia probably already knew enough about his subject to skip the party without sacrificing accuracy, so maybe he would sit this one out.
Staying in the thin patch of grass, I moved past Nancy to work another angle. She called after me, “Let me know if you learn anything.”
I tossed a hand in the air to acknowledge her without turning to look or promise anything.
“She’s only here because Thompson was rich,” Erin said, keeping stride with me.
“The coroner is inside,” I said, not wanting to get distracted by Nancy’s—and every other reporter who was here for the wrong reasons—questionable ethics, “but I don’t see King’s sedan anywhere.”
Erin looked around. “That’s a good sign.”
I nodded. “Means Thompson’s death was probably an accident.”
When I turned my gaze near the firetruck parked horizontal to the driveway, I caught Matt Bales, a new recruit with the Denver Fire Department, staring at Erin’s backside. It was obvious Matt had a thing for tall blondes, or maybe just Erin, and even from across the way I could see a hint of loneliness in his eyes that made me call him over.
I waved my hands in the air and managed to get his attention.
Matt was surprised to see me, but flashed a friendly smile and didn’t hesitate to meet up with us.
“Hey Matt.” I smiled. “Samantha Bell with the Colorado Times.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he said as we both recalled our first encounter. It was two weeks ago when I introduced myself to him for the first time. I had traveled with Dawson to the firehouse for the inauguration of the new tanker truck. It was a lovely afternoon and a nice break from my Thompson story, and now I was glad to see my connections coming to fruition.
“What brings you here this evening?” Matt asked as he kept glancing in Erin’s direction.
I pointed to the house. “I heard Richard Thompson died.”
Matt rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the house. He lost that smile he’d carried with him on his way over to us. Though I hated doing it, I had to use his weakness for blondes against him.
“This is my friend, Erin.”
The spark was back in his eyes when he shook Erin’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure.” Erin smiled with an extra layer of charm. “Was it a fire that killed him?” Erin was onto my game and already in character.
“Carbon monoxide,” Matt said between easy breaths.
Good work, Erin, I said to myself. “Anybody inside the house besides the owner?”
Matt rolled his gaze over to me. “Just him.”
“Strange he didn’t get out of the house,” Erin said. “Was he sleeping at the time of death?”
“Unless he slept in shined shoes and a neck tie, I’d say no.” Matt shifted his weight to his opposite leg. “Victim was found unconscious near the back door.”
“Was the door locked when you found him?”
“That, I can’t say for sure.” Matt turned his head and locked eyes with me. “However, the house was outfitted with detectors. Nice new smart home technology. Stuff I couldn’t afford but wish I could.”
I inhaled a deep breath through my nostrils as I turned my attention back to the house, thinking it strange Thompson didn’t just open the door and leave. “He must have had symptoms before he died?”
Matt shrugged. “Hard to say. I’m only telling you what I know, and even that is already probably more than I should be saying.”
Erin reached out and put a hand on his muscular shoulder. “Your secret is safe with us.”
Matt smiled. I thanked him and told him it was good to see him again. “Yeah, you too, Samantha,” he said as he turned and winked at Erin.
“What are you thinking?” I asked my partner.
“I’m thinking why you didn’t introduce me to fireman Matt sooner.”
I quirked a single eyebrow.
“He’s hot.”
“Pun intended?”
Erin chuckled. “Seriously, it seems like Thompson should have had more than enough warning to escape before succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning.”
I thought the same. What Matt told me didn’t sit well with me. I knew I needed to get inside the house and draw my own conclusion to why the man whose crimes of fraud I was only hours away from exposing had suddenly been found dead.
Chapter Six
Loxley parked his Toyota 4Runner a block from where the emergency vehicles and coroner’s van remained stationed outside Richard Thompson’s residence. He rolled down his window before turning off the engine. Resting his arm on the sill, he breathed in the sweet cool flirtation with summer that opened up his lungs with rejuvenation.
Spring at a mile high, he thought as a smile tugged at his lips.
It was the season of rebirth and high spirits, but also the time when people were waking from their winter slumber. And everyone seemed to have come out tonight to enjoy the show.
Casually watching from afar, Loxley took his time before deciding to show his face. He stared at the media vans, scowling at society’s infatuation with people of great wealth. Jealously took hold and Loxley yearned to gain their attention as he stared at the backs of their heads. Was that why he came out tonight? Why he risked getting caught? To seek the attention and notoriety from a TV reporter? He might be desperate for attention but he was no fool. However, the idea of sharing his excitement with those same boring news junky souls waiting to hear what happened to poor Richard Thompson certainly appealed to him.
Loxley stroked his chin, thinking again why he was here if not to begin his game of cat and mouse. Perhaps it was the rush to see what he could get away with, or the hunt when looking for more thrills and spills that made him feel alive. But, above all else, perhaps it was the intense magnetic pull to get closer to his first kill, needing to see it with his own eyes as if seeing it in person instead of through a pixelated computer screen would make it seem more real.
Loxley rubbed his limp crotch, wanting to feel the excitement from before. It was long gone and, with the way he was feeling know, he doubted he’d ever feel that great sense of release ever again.
The light was fading into a dark curtain of disguise and the soft murmurs traveling from the bystanders only had him more curious to hear what was being said. Finally, he opened his door, stepped out, and shut it before making his way down the path and joining the group of civilians by taking a spot in the back.
No one paid attention to him, even with Loxley standing a head taller than most. Everyone remained focused on the front door hoping to get a glimpse of a dead body—including the reporters and news cameras whose attention he desperately craved.
Questions of why and how and who swirled around him as gossip about Richard Thompson and his sometimes questionable character began to take root. There was a lack of urgency that only Loxley could truly appreciate. This wasn’t a crime scene, only an unfortunate accident that could have happened to any one of these people. His plan had worked and, suddenly, Loxley felt invisible, like he could do and get away with anything, including giving these people the greatest gift of all—erasing the greed and cleansing the earth of the one person who stole without remorse.
He wondered if th
ey knew how lucky they were to have him. Probably not. Then everything suddenly became clearer when Loxley spotted his favorite journalist only twenty-five yards from where he stood.
She was standing with her thumbs hooked in her jeans pockets. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her t-shirt bunched around her waist showing off a perfect backside. Blood rushed down his spine and suddenly the feeling of power and masculinity was back.
This, Loxley thought, was why he came out tonight.
It was because of her.
To see Samantha Bell.
For if it weren’t for her, he would have never even considered killing poor Richard Thompson.
Chapter Seven
Cooper, my yellow lab, was snuggled up against me on the couch as I nursed a glass of red wine. Mason was at a late movie with his friend, Nolan, taking advantage of not having to work tonight, and the house was quiet as I was still mulling over my options of taking Dawson’s advice and delaying the release of my story, or just run it as planned.
I was hoping my visit to Thompson’s residence would have given me the answer I sought. Instead, I was beginning to think that Dawson might be right. He messaged me a couple of times and I kept responding that I needed more time to make my decision. He was losing patience and I couldn’t blame him. We were coming down to the wire. I needed to make a decision soon.
Erin and I left the scene after seeing Richard Thompson’s body get wheeled out and loaded up into the coroner wagon. We left without any further insight to what happened. Matt Bales gave us a good picture of what they found, but I still wanted to see it for myself and learn how and where the gas leak occurred.
I pulled another sip of wine from my glass and found myself staring at my own windows. Then I rolled my eyes to the front door, asking myself what would prevent me from leaving the house if finding myself in a similar position as the one Thompson found himself in tonight.
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