My eyes followed the lines of the concrete bricks on the wall as I turned over the stones in my mind, looking for clues to how I’d found myself here. My nervous reflection stared back from the two-way mirror on the adjacent wall, and I did my best to keep my confidence up.
Time never felt as slow as it did when sitting under the light. I hoped the police wouldn’t waste too much of my day without good cause, because I still had important work to do.
In my heart, I knew I had nothing to do with Thompson’s death. But I didn’t know what the police knew or what they had on me to bring me all the way down here just to talk.
That was what kept my knee bouncing beneath the table with anxious flutters tickling my insides. I was convinced it had something to do with my article. It was the only explanation that made sense. The combination of Thompson dying and my investigation was the perfect storm and I’d managed to stir the waters to a point where it seemed I had everyone’s attention.
I tapped my nails on top of the metal table and glanced around, thinking about the way Mrs. Thompson attacked me. I wanted to be sympathetic to her grief—could relate to the intense pressure I assumed was squeezing her chest, strangling her heart. Coming to terms with a spouse’s death was never easy. I knew what it was like, having said goodbye to my own husband years ago. But if she was the reason I was here now, I would never forgive her for accusing me of killing her husband.
The heavy metal door creaked open and quickly slammed shut. Homicide Detectives Robbins and Zimmerman—the two detectives from the Thompson house—stared as they entered the small square box. Robbins took the seat across from me as Zimmerman leaned with his back against the wall and glared with arms crossed. Neither of them spoke for the longest time as Robbins shuffled through a half-dozen manila folders to further intimidate me.
I turned to the mirror. Though I couldn’t see him, I knew King was listening from somewhere. Maybe Lieutenant Baker, too. My two allies—colleagues left over from when my deceased husband, Gavin Bell, worked on the force. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I finally broke the ice, asking again, “Was Richard Thompson murdered?”
Robbins swept his gaze above the rim of his reading glasses and glared. Zimmerman didn’t react. “Is that what you think happened, Mrs. Bell?” Robbins asked.
“I only know what’s being reported, that Mr. Thompson died of CO poisoning.”
“And you believe that?”
I gave him a funny look.
“Because you being at the Thompson house suggests that maybe you have some doubts.”
“Without knowing the facts, it’s impossible to make a conclusive statement.”
“What were you doing at the Thompson residence today, Mrs. Bell?”
“Working. Just like you.”
“Did you know that we would be there?”
“How could I possibly know that?”
I was smart enough to know their tactics. I trusted my ability to steer their inquiry away from making a false admission of guilt, but I couldn’t underestimate them, either. They were good at what they did and had years of experience interrogating Denver’s worst.
“Someone has to keep the department in check.” I grinned.
They never confirmed whether or not Thompson had been murdered. That left me nervous with what they thought I knew.
Robbins opened up one folder and produced today’s newspaper. “Let’s talk about this article you wrote for today’s paper.”
“What do you want to know?”
Zimmerman stepped away from the wall and approached the table. “Let’s start by having you tell us who you tried to sell your story to.”
“Sell my story to?” I brought my elbows to the table and leaned forward. “Maybe I should remind you that I don’t have to sell my story to anybody as I work for the Colorado Times.”
“At any time throughout your investigation was there any doubt that the Times wouldn’t publish this story?”
“No.”
The detectives stared with a salty look that dried out my own eyes. For the remainder of the hour, they took turns asking me about my job, if I felt like my career was secure, and if I had ever accepted outside payment to keep my findings quiet. I answered each question to the best of my ability—and always truthfully—and still didn’t see how any of this was relevant to learning the truth of how Thompson died.
“You clearly want to steer me in a certain direction, so why don’t you just come out and say what it is,” I said. The truth was, their dizzying array of questions was working—wearing me down like a tire without tread—and I was quickly loosing traction.
Robbins looked at me from beneath a heavy brow. “It’s not uncommon for someone like Richard Thompson to be blackmailed.”
I pinched my eyebrows, wondering where Robbins was going with this. “And what, you think I blackmailed him?”
Robbin’s eyebrows raised just enough to convince me he did.
I fell back into my seat and folded my arms below my breasts. “Then show me the evidence.”
Zimmerman licked his finger and reached for a second folder. I watched him open it and retrieve a stapled printout. He flipped it around and held it up for me to see. “Recognize this?”
My heart stopped beating. “How did you get that?”
“So you do recognize this?”
I didn’t answer. We all stared, hoping someone would cave before they were forced to be the first to speak.
“For the record,” Zimmerman said, “let us indicate that the interviewee, Samantha Bell, does recognize Exhibit B—”
“Oh this is bullshit.” I snapped forward and stared at the date printed in the top left corner of what was clearly the final draft of my Thompson story. How the hell did someone get their hands on it, and where did they find it?
“I want my lawyer,” I said, and just like that everything stopped.
Zimmerman stepped forward. “We thought you might say that.”
My heart was knocking so fast I didn’t know who to blame for this debacle. King, or the asshole who stole my work and clearly gave it to Thompson as a heads up to what was coming. Now I was convinced Thompson was the one who threatened me to try to silence me before the story broke.
There was a knock on the metal door and a second passed before Detective John Alvarez entered the room. He nodded to Zimmerman and motioned for both detectives to leave. As soon as it was just Alvarez and me, he looked to the mirror and said, “Turn off the cameras.”
I glanced to the video camera in the ceiling corner and watched the red light flick off. Alvarez checked too before turning his attention to me.
I remained seated when I asked, “You don’t actually believe I had anything to do with his death do you?”
“Of course not, Sam.” He lowered himself down in the chair opposite me and gave me a sympathetic look.
“Then what’s this all about? I wrote an article. The man died. It doesn’t make me an accomplice to murder.”
Alvarez was nodding as he listened to what I had to say. Then I watched him open the same manila folder and finger through the documents before finding the page he was looking for. As if knowing where my story was found wasn’t enough, I couldn’t wait to see this next piece of evidence.
“This was found with your article inside Richard Thompson’s home office.” He spun the image around and I made note of the long string of alphanumeric digits, wishing I had a photographic memory. A single glance wasn’t going to be enough for me to commit it to memory. “Maybe you can tell me what it is.”
“Well, since I don’t know how my story got into the hands of your victim before it went to print, how in the hell can I identify that?” I kept my eyes trained on the image as long as possible but he finally put it back in the folder.
Alvarez locked his eyes on mine and sighed. “The question the department wants an answer to, Samantha, is who gave this to Thompson, if not you?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Esca
ping the afternoon sun, Susan entered the redbrick Tudor north of downtown that was home to Allison’s digital marketing business. Scents of hot lunches and afternoon tea filled the halls as Susan made her way to the back where she found Allison clicking away on her computer. The door was open but Susan knocked regardless. Allison picked her head up and smiled.
“Sugar, c’mon in.” Allison waved for Susan to come inside. “I’m just finishing up my last client review before I head out and take my afternoon jaunt around the block.”
“I’ll let you finish up.” Susan pointed to the breakroom.
“It shouldn’t be long,” Allison said, waving. “Give me five minutes.”
After several hours in the office, Susan needed a break. All morning, since meeting Damien Black, Susan couldn’t wait to tell Allison more about her potential new client and the nonprofit he ran. Patty O’Neil, Allison’s Chief of Operations, was at the table eating lunch when Susan joined her.
“Hey, Susan, you here to join Allison on her afternoon walk?”
“Anything to have her take a break.”
Patty smiled. “In case you’re curious, I have been keeping track of her schedule and I’m happy to report that Allison is taking breaks more often than before.”
“That’s great.” Susan smiled.
“Eating healthier, too.”
After Allison had been diagnosed with Huntington’s disease, Susan and their group of friends asked Patty to make sure Allison followed through with her new commitments and what she promised them and her doctor. They didn’t need a repeat of what happened, and certainly didn’t need any one of them to have an extended hospital stay like the one Allison had endured. To make the change easier for Allison, they all vowed to live a healthier life.
“I’m sorry to hear about your client,” Patty said. “Allison told me the news.”
“Thanks.” Susan wondered if Patty had read Samantha’s article or not. She didn’t ask.
“You still seeing that doctor?” Patty asked when she was at the sink, washing her plate. “He was cute.”
“Took him to the airport this morning.” Susan turned in her chair to face Patty.
“Visiting anywhere exciting?”
“He’s traveling for work. Received an invitation from a job recruiter to visit Dartmouth.”
Patty gave Susan a questioning look. “He’s not going to take it, is he?”
Susan sighed. “I don’t know.”
She glanced to her cell phone, expecting Benjamin to call soon. She had been so distracted by Damien that she’d stopped thinking about Benjamin’s future and where she fit in it—if at all. She felt awful for it, but also knew there was no harm in enjoying a friendly conversation with the opposite sex. And that was all it was with Damien—a potential client who just happened to be extremely good looking.
“Hope you got your jogging shoes on,” Allison said happily when she stepped into the kitchen. “I’m getting fast.”
Susan laughed, stood, and said to Patty, “It was great seeing you.”
The women headed out the door, turned up the sidewalk, and began moving at a brisk pace. “Have you seen today’s paper?” Allison asked.
Susan rolled her head to Allison. “And Sam’s article. Couldn’t believe it when I saw it.”
Allison cast her gaze to the ground. “Me neither.”
“How could she keep this from me?”
“She probably didn’t want you to tip him off.”
“Sam knows I can keep a secret.”
Allison pumped her arms quicker and glanced up at Susan. “You’re telling me that Sam’s article wouldn’t have put a strain on your relationship with Thompson?”
Susan knew it would have and decided to change the subject. “I didn’t come here to talk about the article, and I’m not going to hold a grudge against Sam.”
“No?”
Susan shook her head. “I came here to ask if you would like to visit a new computer lab with me.”
Allison stopped, turned to Susan. “A new computer lab, huh?”
“Yeah. I met this guy this morning—”
“Does Benjamin know about this?”
“Benjamin is on his way to New England.” Susan gave a knowing look. “And, no, he does not know about this potential new client.”
“What’s his name? This potential new client,” Allison teased.
Susan started walking, passing through the shade of the trees, as she summed up her morning talk with Damien.
“Never heard of Backstage,” Allison said with a pinched brow.
“Neither had I.”
“And you’re skeptical because you haven’t heard of it or his non-profit?”
“I’m skeptical because he approached me like a hawk who had his eye on me.”
Allison raked her eyes over Susan’s attire. She was wearing a single-button pantsuit and looked like a million dollar executive. “You look great. What’s the problem? I’d kill for a man to pick me up at a coffee shop.”
Susan kept her gaze cast toward the ground. She couldn’t admit to what she was really thinking, but when Allison suddenly stopped and pointed at Susan, she knew her friend had already figured it out.
“So you are here because of Sam’s article.”
Susan rolled her eyes and continued walking. Allison quickly caught up and kept stride. “I just thought maybe you had heard about Backstage,” Susan said. “Since you’re in a similar industry.”
“And you want to know if I think this guy is legit?”
“Sure. Why not?” Susan shrugged her shoulders.
The corners of Allison’s eyes crinkled when she flashed a knowing smirk. “Because Sam’s article got you thinking there could be more scammers out there than we think.”
“Yes,” Susan admitted. “Of course it got me thinking. The last thing I need is to be caught up doing business with someone else running a scam.”
“You didn’t know about Thompson—”
“No,” Susan snapped as if feeling offended. “If I would have known he was a con-man, I would have never done business with him.”
“I know that, honey. None of this is your fault.”
Susan locked eyes with Allison. “But I could have done a background check before signing him on.”
“We learn from our mistakes.” Allison looped her arm through Susan’s and continued on with their walk. “You want to do your background check on this new man of yours? Let’s start by having you tell me more about this mysterious Mr. Black.”
“Well, for starters, he’s young, rich, and completely enthusiastic about what he does.” Susan leaned her shoulder into Allison’s.
Allison held her chin high as she grinned. Staring straight ahead, she asked, “And is he single?”
“Does that mean you’ll come with me?”
Allison gave Susan a playful look and they both burst out laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Loxley parked three spots behind Donny Counts on West 32nd street in the Denver Highlands. Stepping out of his vehicle, he followed Donny on foot. Weaving through small knots of people, Loxley kept pace with his target without drawing attention to himself.
Sensing he was being followed, Donny glanced over his shoulder and picked up his pace. The look on Donny’s face almost made Loxley laugh. It was clear Donny was feeling paranoid. His eyes bloodshot red and his pace erratic and jumpy as a squirrel being hunted by a fox. But it wasn’t Loxley that had Donny nervous. No, it was something else that had him scrambling for cover.
Loxley didn’t worry about Donny recognizing him. He could operate in plain sight, blend in with the regular civilians and go undetected. And even if Donny managed to get away from Loxley, he had his target’s phone traced, making it impossible to disappear for long before being tracked down once again.
Donny angled his body to the side and locked eyes with Loxley.
Loxley didn’t flinch, knowing there was always a chance his target might spot him coming. But Loxley�
�s research into his target almost certainly gave him an advantage to anticipating his next move far before he himself knew what that was.
Loxley picked up speed when Donny turned around the next corner, vanishing down a side street.
Donny’s paranoia didn’t surprise Loxley. He’d been watching Donny for nearly a year now, and each month that passed without someone learning of his secret only worsened Donny’s anxiety. He was living a lie and he knew he would soon be caught if he didn’t do something to stop the inevitable from knocking on his door.
Loxley hit the corner and turned just as Donny disappeared through a storefront.
He slowed and shortened his stride, looking around to see who else might be watching—if anyone else was following. When Loxley was certain he was alone, her read the sign above the door for an IV bar.
He smiled at the irony of stalking his prey while his target was coming to a rehydration IV bar with hopes of discovering the fountain of youth. Tech millionaires like Donny would do anything to extend their life, Loxley thought as he debated whether or not to enter himself.
Shuffling through his choices, and knowing the setting was small and intimate, there was always the risk of Donny knowing who he was. But Loxley liked games, liked subtle intimidation, and that’s was all this was to him, a game—this one called, Chameleon.
Loxley pulled his cap down over his eyes, reached for the door handle, and entered.
He was immediately greeted by reception and Loxley made note of Donny’s whereabouts. His target was seated in a leather recliner between two large snake plants not more than twenty feet from where Loxley stood. He was getting set up with his IV treatment.
“And what can we do for you today?”
The receptionist was a brunette with small breasts and flaring hips. “Not sure,” Loxley said, looking up at the menu.
“First time?” Her eyes glimmered in the soft light.
“Is it that obvious?” Loxley charmed her.
Brunette laughed and was kind when explaining to Loxley the different options on the menu. “Really, your choice depends on what your goals are. We have jet-lag for those who just arrived to the Mile High City. Altitude sickness who can’t handle the thin air.” She giggled. “Hangover is self-explanatory; our athletic blend for those who push their daily limits physically; or simply health and wellness for those who want to feel their best.”
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