Trisha hooked my arm, spun me around, and slapped the damn thing against my chest, forcing me to read it. “Great work, Sam. No matter what you’re doubting, don’t. It’s stories like these that wake people up.”
I heard the paper crinkle in my grasp as I stared into Trisha’s big round eyes, silently cursing her for being obtuse and inconsiderate.
“Hopefully after today more scumbags like him will think twice before running a scam.”
Trisha smirked, made an uh-hum sound with her lips, and hit me on my shoulder with her fist like I had done her a great big favor. Then she spun on a heel and walked away with the same swagger as what she carried with her when she arrived. I hated her for doing it, but now that I had the paper in my hands, I couldn’t help but steal a quick peek.
Slowly, I tucked my chin and glanced down to today’s headlines. Then my eyelids popped with surprise when seeing that my headline story had been replaced with Garcia’s article covering Thompson’s death. I quickly turned the page, searching to see where my piece landed, and found my story on page 2.
Suddenly, my feelings of remorse were replaced with fiery anger.
Why had I been bumped to the second page? Was Thompson’s death bigger news than the crime he committed? This couldn’t have been Dawson’s decision. Someone else was behind this and I would like to know who that was and why.
I picked my head up and headed toward my desk, continuing to hug the paper close to my chest. Was it that obvious I was doubting my work? Because I swore that wasn’t what this was about. It was only the timing of having to decide when to release it, combined with not accepting Thompson’s death as an accident. Maybe Trisha could read through my disguise, but I doubted it. With her, it had to be about my piece getting bumped to the second page and the water cooler gossip that would fill her day.
My feet shuffled across the floor as I stuck my head into Garcia’s article. The irony of the conflicting stories seemed larger than what I originally imagined. That surely had to be one reason why I had been bumped from the front page. On one hand, Garcia had told the story of a man who died too young in an unfortunate accident at home, and on the other side of the coin, I was tearing the man down by labeling him a con man who was duping a lot of people into thinking he was something that he wasn’t. It couldn’t have been a more obvious spar between reporters—even if that wasn’t my intention.
I paused and stopped to lift my head in thought. But what did it matter now that Thompson was dead?
I tried to reason with myself that his story went to the grave along with him. Except it did matter, and the foundation he funneled money through would continue on whether he was alive or not. My story was supposed to be the beginning of his end. And that was the exact mindset that got my thoughts to circle back to asking myself, why couldn’t he get out of his house and save his own life? Thompson was a fighter, a man of action. In business and in life, so why not also in death?
I turned the corner and was one foot inside my own cubicle when I slammed on the brakes and hit pause. Without looking too closely, I knew immediately something about my work desk was off. It was the angle of where my chair had been left, and how there was trash that I knew wasn’t mine left in the bin.
After a quick glance around to see if anyone was near, I lunged forward taking the mouse into my right hand. Wiggling it until the monitor lit up, suddenly my worst fears became real. My computer’s password had been breached.
Everything was exposed. Nothing was secure. I couldn’t believe my own eyes.
With a spiking pulse, I quickly went in search of the folder I shared with Dawson. As I clicked around, I thought about how my file wouldn’t sync last night and if this was the reason why. None of this made sense. I always logged out and never shared my password with anyone, so how did this happen?
Lowering myself into my chair, a masculine scent lingered in the air. I was disgusted by the trail of evidence that was left behind. A coffee lid was turned over near brown drops of drying liquid splattered next to my wonky keyboard. The mess was only half the problem, the real issue was wanting to know why my computer’s password had been breached and, with it, access to all my secret files and works in progress.
Then I clicked the open document on the bottom of the screen, feeling my heart pound in my chest. The tab popped up and I quickly realized that I was in far bigger trouble than anything the Thompson article would bring.
Chapter Eleven
Detective Alex King was drinking stale coffee at his desk inside the Denver Police Department near City Hall when his partner, John Alvarez, dropped today’s paper onto his desk. It landed with a soft thud next to King’s forearm. King was slow to react but rolled his gaze to the right and stared at the paper, asking, “What’s this?”
“You’re not curious?” Alvarez lifted an eyebrow when he glanced over his shoulder before dropping into his chair.
It was a silly question to ask. King knew damn well what it was and why Alvarez gave it to him. After his conversation with Samantha last night, he knew her story about Thompson’s charity fraud was going to ruffle some feathers, and though they both expected some kind of reaction, King hoped it would be well received. That was the best case scenario. Worst, it made Samantha a target.
“Your girlfriend sure knows how to push people’s buttons.” Alvarez leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared at King with a wrinkled brow, waiting for a response.
“What’d she write this time?” King played dumb.
Alvarez barked out a laugh. “You expect me to believe you knew nothing about this?”
King only stared. After a moment of pause, Alvarez flung forward, leaned over King’s shoulder, unfolded the paper and turned to the second page, jabbing his thick index finger into the heart of Samantha’s story. “Everyone is talking about this.”
King didn’t have to read it to know what it said, but he pretended to anyway. “It’s a good piece.”
“No doubt it is,” Alvarez said, falling back into his chair. Still looking at King, he continued, “But that’s not why everyone is talking about it.”
King arched a single brow.
“Not only does the man die, but then Samantha has to go writing about what a crook the guy was? Seems cold for Samantha.” Alvarez shook his head.
“That’s why people are talking about it?” King cast his gaze back to the article, wanting to bark out his own feelings of disbelief, but instead restrained himself. “They should be asking themselves how much money this asshole stole from them.” When Alvarez didn’t respond, King said, “You know she was working this story for the past six weeks, right?”
“And you’ve been holding out on me all this time?”
King chuckled. “I didn’t know until recently.”
“But you knew before all of us.”
“Perks of the trade.”
This time Alvarez chuckled. “Maybe I should sleep with the enemy.”
The further King traveled into Samantha’s lengthy article, the more he learned Samantha had kept from him. It got him thinking about the strange timing of Thompson’s death once again, and Sam’s worries that it seemed too coincidental to not be suspicious.
“If you were in her shoes, would you not have published the story?” King asked his partner without looking up.
Alvarez didn’t bother taking his eyes off his computer as he worked to enter data into a spreadsheet. “If it were me, I would have given the guy and his family at least of week of peace before reminding everyone what an asshole he was.”
King snapped the paper straight and stared into Thompson’s image, thinking about Samantha’s question of why he didn’t get out of the house before it was too late. After a minute of thought, he stood and tapped Alvarez on the shoulder and said, “C’mon.”
Alvarez glanced over his shoulder. “Where are we headed, partner?”
King was already halfway to the exit by the time he responded. “To the
medical examiner’s office.”
“What the hell for?” Alvarez called after him.
“To see if we should open up an investigation into the death of Richard Thompson or not.”
“Christ,” King heard Alvarez grumble as he hurried to catch up. “Why is it that the rich demand the most of our time?”
Chapter Twelve
Susan was relaxed, sitting across the table near the window with the handsome stranger she had just met. He introduced himself as Damien Black, and after an initial hesitation, Susan finally took him up on his offer to buy her a coffee.
With her right leg swung over her left thigh, she casually leaned back, keeping one hand on the warm mocha Damien purchased for her. They sat at a table near the window as Damien charmed Susan with easy small talk and gentle laughs. It was a nice distraction from thoughts drifting to Benjamin or circling back to asking herself why Samantha kept her investigation into Richard Thompson a secret.
The Times was on center display between them, and though they both stole glances to the headlines currently rocking the airwaves, they kept their conversation mostly to the good Thompson did for the community of Denver, neither one of them wanting to speak ill about the deceased.
“Just goes to show, you never can tell who a person really is,” Damien said, staring at the paper.
“No, I guess you can’t,” Susan said gently, surprised to find Damien staring at her.
Damien’s dark eyes had a playful, almost childlike glimmer that Susan couldn’t stop staring into. She liked looking into his magnetic browns and certainly took an immediate attraction to him. Damien was well dressed, casually covering his tall six-foot frame with a dark gray sports coat and white t-shirt above blue jeans and expensive leather shoes that matched his belt.
“I worked with him on several events,” Susan said, thinking of Thompson.
Damien titled his head and squinted his eyes.
“I’m an event planner.”
Damien smiled. “I know.”
“You knew?”
Damien nodded once. “It’s why I asked to buy you a coffee.”
Susan’s lips parted as she stared, suddenly feeling suspicious of his unspoken intention.
“Wait,” Damien gave a sideways glance, “you didn’t think that I was trying to—”
“No. Of course not.” Susan laughed and shook her head. Of course I didn’t think you were trying to pick me up. Susan pretended to roll her eyes, if not a little disappointed when learning the truth. She knew he was too young for her—and certainly out of her league—but it was still fun to dream. “But how do you know what I do for a living, and what other things do you know about me? I know nothing about you.”
“The school shooting several months back.” Damien licked his lips after taking a sip from his coffee. “Your face was everywhere.”
Susan smiled as she recalled the tragedy of that day and how the governor randomly chose her company to handle the victims fund without first approving it with Susan.
“When I saw you, I knew I had to talk to you.”
“Here we are,” Susan turned her palms to the ceiling and gave him a cute smile, “talking.”
Damien laughed and cast his gaze back to the paper. “What was Richard Thompson like to work with?”
Susan inhaled a sharp breath, giving herself a moment to think over her answer. The sound of grinding coffee echoed off the walls behind her. “At the time, he was a great client and I would have never thought he was a fraud.”
“That’s why they call them con-men.” Damien took a pull from his coffee. “Truth be told, I find it extremely interesting, but can’t personally speak on the matter as I’ve never donated a penny to Thompson’s charity. Thank God.”
“But a lot of people have.”
“Which is why I’m glad your friend, here,” he casually pointed to Samantha’s byline, “is exposing his lies.”
“Yeah.” The jab of betrayal hit Susan’s gut once again. What was Sam trying to protect her from by keeping this from her?
“What’s she like?”
Susan swept her eyes up to his. “Who? Samantha?”
Damien nodded. “She’s your friend, right?”
Susan knew Damien had overheard her conversation with Maggie and that was the reason he was asking. Not thinking any more into it, Susan said, “Samantha is not only my best friend, but also a hell of a reporter.”
“It takes balls to not only write that story, but then to release it the morning after he was found dead.” Damien shook his head and laughed.
“She might not have had a say in the matter.” Susan came to her friend’s defense. An awkward silence settled between them. “Are you suggesting that Samantha is a cheap shot?”
Damien fell back in his chair and stared. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Because that isn’t who Samantha is. She helps people and only wants what is best. Would it have made a difference if he didn’t die yesterday? Would that change your opinion?”
“I’m sorry if I said something to offend you.” Damien reached for his knees and turned to face the window. He was surprised by Susan’s sudden lynching. “That wasn’t my intention.” He turned back to face her. “I guess what I’m saying is that we should be grateful to have journalists as brave as her.”
“I’m sorry,” Susan apologized. “I’ve had a rough morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“It’s quite all right.”
“But you’re right, Samantha’s job does sometimes sound exciting.” Susan forced a smile. “But it can also be dangerous working the crime desk. She often sees the dark side of our city, the city none of us want to admit exists—telling stories many of us aren’t courageous enough to speak about ourselves.”
Damien grinned. “I know it all too well.”
Susan changed direction when asking, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Black?”
“Damien.”
Susan fixed her eyes on his cognac gaze, once again feeling her body tip forward, and felt a little breathless when doing so. There was something about this man that made her travel up and down and all around.
“Call me Damien.” He paused. “Go on, say it.”
“Damien.” Susan felt her cheeks blush as she couldn’t believe she was falling for his brazen confidence. She would be the first to admit his distraction was a nice way to forget the secret Sam had kept from her, as well as having to imagine Benjamin taking a job in a different state. With Damien, he made her believe she was single and on the market, and that was a refreshing feeling that made it easy to forgive.
“That’s right.” He winked. “I founded a non-profit computer science lab, Backstage, in East Denver and fill my days keeping it organized.”
“And your nights? What do you do with those?” The crown of Susan’s head pulled to the ceiling with a sudden surge of confidence. She couldn’t believe she’d asked, but the opportunity presented itself and now there was no turning back.
Damien’s eyes narrowed with flirtation. “That is a secret of mine that your friend might want to investigate.”
Susan laughed and Damien followed her lead. Then she asked, “How do you fundraise? Maybe I could help.”
“I was hoping you’d ask.” Damien reached inside his sport coat and pulled out a business card. Handing it to Susan, he said, “Why don’t you swing by the lab tomorrow and I’ll give you the complete tour.”
“The complete tour?” Susan’s eyes sparkled with innuendo.
Damien smiled, stood, and tugged on his coat. “Call me. My number is on the back. I promise to make it worth your time.”
Chapter Thirteen
My surroundings disappeared as I dove into researching why this particular folder was chosen to be opened. I forgot where I was—who might be watching—and spent the next ten minutes clicking through old files, familiarizing myself with the notes I had taken eight months ago on a potential story I had been working on a young entrepreneur who went
by the name Donny Counts.
Donny Counts was born Donald H. Wallace and changed his last name to Counts halfway through his junior year while attending University of Texas at Austin where he later dropped out to move to Denver with his roommate, Josh Stetson.
Both men majored in Business with an emphasis in Computer Sciences. Neither of them graduated, having decided they would cut their school short and begin their life in business. They found quick success creating software programs that they eventually sold to schools across the country, becoming millionaires in their early twenties. They partied much of their riches away, but then cryptocurrency came along and changed everything.
Supposedly the two men had a falling out somewhere along the way. Stetson went one direction, Counts another. Then, eight months ago, I had been assigned to cover Stetson’s criminal trial. That was where I first met both Counts and Stetson and they were quite the dynamic pairing, though only one of them was facing a ten year sentence.
Stetson had been convicted of running a scam called “SIM swapping” and was being accused of stealing close to $10 million in cryptocurrency from over fifty victims. I spoke to Allison about this one night over margaritas and essentially SIM swapping went something like this.
A computer hacker would convince the target’s mobile phone provider to port their phone number over to a SIM card belonging to a hacker. In this case, Josh Stetson. Then, once the swap occurred, the hacker essentially hijacked his target’s mobile device, including one-time passwords, verification codes, two-factor authorization codes sent to the hacker’s phone, all of it opening up access to email, bank, cryptocurrency accounts, and even social media profiles. It was just a new way for criminals to steal someone’s identity and Stetson was hoping he could hit and run before the authorities even had a clue what these new technologies were capable of doing. In the end, Stetson was wrong and he was convicted by a jury of his peers. But on my way out of the courthouse, I was told by a reliable source to keep my eye on Donny Counts, for he would be the next one to be wearing the orange jump suit.
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