4 Shot Off The Presses (7 page)

“Just show up and tell them that you hate all cops,” I suggested. “That’s how I got out of jury duty a couple years ago.”

“That’s not true,” Derrick corrected. “You got out of jury duty because of your bumper sticker.”

I shushed him quickly.

“What bumper sticker?” My mom asked suspiciously.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said evasively. “I don’t even have it anymore.”

“What bumper sticker?” My mom turned to Derrick questioningly.

“I think it said
Mean People Kick Ass
,” Derrick said smugly.

“Why would you have a sticker like that?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I replied. “It just appealed to me.”

“Why would that even come up at jury duty?” Mario asked.

“It was federal court,” I said. “I have no idea. Let’s go back to talking about gun control.”

“It’s our right as citizens!” My Uncle Tim was getting animated again.

Eliot turned to me with a small smile on his face. “Your family is never a disappointment.”

“You don’t share a gene pool with them.”

The next morning was supposed to be a lackadaisical mixture of pajamas and Saturday morning cartoons. The minute I heard the annoying R2D2 beep of my cell phone – the one that signified an incoming text message – I knew that wasn’t going to happen, though.

I groaned as I rolled over, reaching across Eliot to his nightstand, and grabbing my phone irritably. “I just know this is going to suck.”

“Don’t look at it,” Eliot suggested, never opening his eyes but trailing his hand down my back lazily. “I have a few ideas of other things we could do.”

I glanced at the readout on my phone screen and scowled. “Crap.”

“What?” Eliot asked, resigned.

“Fish just texted me the name of the Oakland County victim and he wants me to do some legwork on him today. He’s authorized overtime.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know,” I blew out a sigh. “I could use the extra money. Converse just released some Black Sabbath shoes I really, really want.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I hate working on my day off, though.” The truth was, I sometimes wasn’t thrilled working on my scheduled days.

“Tell him no,” Eliot replied, sliding his hand under the covers and pinching my ass suggestively.

“All I have to do is run over to some insurance office in Birmingham,” I said. “I’ll get paid for eight hours and it will probably only take me three. If I don’t, that would mean I’m really lazy.”

Eliot considered my statement for a second. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to land on this, so I’m just going to let it go.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“To interview secretaries at an insurance office? I don’t think I’m going to be in any danger.”

“Do you only want me around when you’re going to be in danger?” Eliot asked.

“No,” I said hurriedly, I shoved him, though, when I saw the smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You’re teasing me.”

“It’s easy in the mornings,” Eliot agreed. “It takes you a good hour to be at your sarcastic best.”

“Good to know.

AFTER
a shower, a big breakfast at the local Coney Island, and a promise that Eliot could continue feeling me up in a couple of hours, I set out for Birmingham.

A lot of people picture all of Southeastern Michigan as one large appendage of Detroit. They would be wrong. The city has its problems, sure, but the suburbs are actually pretty nice.

While Macomb County is blessed with Lake St. Clair and quaintly idealistic northern communities, Oakland County is the money county. And Birmingham? That’s the supreme money town – of many money towns.

It took me about a half an hour to get to Birmingham – and another ten minutes to find the insurance company once I got there. I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot, it was a Saturday and they had limited hours, and I switched off the ignition of my car and sat and watched the business for a few minutes. I was trying to get a feel for it. If I thought I was going to get some magical insight into Malcolm Hopper, 55, though, I was sadly mistaken. It looked like any other insurance business – although the clientele was extremely well dressed. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess, this was Birmingham, after all.

When I entered the building, I couldn’t help but be a little impressed. Everything was in its place and ridiculously clean. I glanced around the office quietly. It was a weekend, so I didn’t expect there to be many workers. It didn’t take me long to realize that all of the workers in the office were women and – with the exception of the secretary at the front desk – unbelievably attractive. It looked like a model bomb had gone off here, with five tall, willowy blondes working at various stations across the office. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

One of the blondes glanced in my direction, frowning when she saw my baggy canvas pants and
Kiss My Sass
sparkly Nike T-shirt. “Are you lost?”

“Not last time I checked,” I said carefully. I wasn’t a fan of the snotty attitude, but I needed information. I clearly wasn’t going to get it from this woman, but if I threw her down on the ground and started pulling out her obviously fake hair tracks that probably wouldn’t endear me to the rest of the office workers.

“What do you want then?” The woman’s voice was impressively snooty.

“I’m just looking around,” I said carefully. “I heard good things about you guys, I just wanted to see if you lived up to the hype.”

“You heard good things about an insurance agency?” The woman didn’t look like she believed me.

I glanced over her shoulder and saw the nameplate on her desk. “Yeah,” I said jovially. “I heard everyone here but someone named Charlotte was really great and easy to work with.”

So much for reining in the snotty.

The secretary, the only one that didn’t look like she belonged on the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog, snorted and buried her head in the paperwork she had been perusing when she saw Charlotte cast a biting look in her direction.

“Have a seat,” Charlotte said. “Someone will be with you . . . eventually.”

“I can’t wait.”

I watched as Charlotte moved back to her desk and plastered a fake smile on her face for the woman sitting in front of her. Once I was sure that Charlotte was otherwise engaged, I sidled over to the secretary and shot a winning smile in her direction. “She’s friendly.”

The secretary, whose nameplate read Chelsea Princeton, glanced over her shoulder to make sure Charlotte wasn’t looking towards us and then nodded her agreement. “She’s a bitch.”

“I’m guessing she’s mean to you, too.”

“Well, I don’t look like her, do I?” There was bitterness to Chelsea’s tone. I had a feeling that, at 5’3” and a hundred-and-ninety pounds, she was the odd woman out in this particular nest. The shoulder-length bob and wide swath of bangs wasn’t doing her any favors either. She was friendly to look at, though, which made me immediately gravitate towards her.

“She won’t look like that forever,” I said dismissively. “And once her looks go, no one will want to be around her because she’s got the personality of a dirty ass.”

Chelsea laughed openly this time, and I caught Charlotte raising her head and shooting a glare in our direction out of the corner of my eye. I opted to ignore it.

“So, what do you need?” Chelsea asked. “You need house insurance or something?”

“Actually, I’m looking for information on Malcolm Hopper.”

Chelsea looked surprised. “Malcolm? Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Malcolm passed away.”

“I know. He was killed in a freeway shooting,” I said. “I’m a reporter over in Macomb County. We had a similar shooting over there the other day. I’m just trying to find out if Malcolm had any ties to our victim.”

“I thought the police said that was a random shooting,” Chelsea looked confused.

“The police don’t know what to think right now,” I replied airily. “My boss just wanted me to come over here and ask some questions about Malcolm. Personally, I think it’s a waste of time. That’s how I keep a roof over my head, though.”

“What do you want to know?” Chelsea asked nervously.

“What was Malcolm like?”

“He liked young and pretty women,” Chelsea said quietly, almost to herself. “He surrounded himself with them.”

I knew she was the one to come to for information. “Are you saying the women here don’t know how to do their jobs?”

“I’m sure they do,” Chelsea replied. “I’m sure they knew exactly how to get their jobs, too.”

That was pointed – and I knew which direction she was heading. “So, Malcolm slept with all the women here?”

Chelsea caught herself and shook her head. “I don’t know that.”

“You just have a feeling.”

“He was a little . . . handsy.”

“With you?”

“No,” Chelsea scoffed. “I’m not his type. Look around, why would he pick me when he could go after all of them?”

This was a woman in definite need of a self-esteem boost. “So, you’re saying he goes for flash and no substance?”

Chelsea grinned and I couldn’t help but think she had a nice smile. “I guess I am.”

“Sounds like he wasn’t too bright?”

“No,” Chelsea shook her head. “I think he was really good at his job. I just think he had certain . . . weaknesses.”

“Most men do.”

“Yeah, but not all,” Chelsea smiled shyly. She clearly had a specific man on her mind with that smile. I noticed she didn’t have a wedding ring on, so I figured she was referring to a boyfriend and not a husband.

“What happens to this office now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Malcolm owned it. Will it close now that he’s gone?”

“No, his wife is keeping it open.”

“He was married?”

“Yeah.”

“And he was still getting handsy with the help?”

“Yeah, what a prince, huh?” Chelsea obviously didn’t like Malcolm.

“If you hate it so much here, why do you stay?”

“It’s Birmingham,” she shrugged. “I make more as a secretary here than I would as an executive in Detroit.”

She had a point. “Have the police came and questioned you guys?”

“Yeah, they did the day after it happened,” Chelsea said.

“What did they want to know?”

Chelsea shrugged. “The standard. What kind of a boss was he? Did he have any enemies? Did we know of anyone that would want to hurt him?”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Not that I know,” Chelsea replied. “Like I said. He was good at his job. I think his only weakness was women. I mean, maybe one of them had a boyfriend or something.”

“What about a woman named Carrie Washington? Did Malcolm have anything to do with her?”

Chelsea bit the inside of her lip while she considered the question. “I don’t think so.”

“Could she have been a customer here?”

Chelsea typed on her computer keyboard quickly, glancing at her screen after a few seconds and then shaking her head. “No. There’s no one by that name that’s a customer here.”

“I didn’t think so,” I blew out a sigh. That would have been too easy.

“Who is she?”

“Who?”

“Carrie Washington.”

“She’s the young mother that was killed in Macomb County.”

Chelsea’s brown eyes filled with pity. “That’s terrible. Do you think there’s really a freeway shooter out there? Do you think we’re all in danger from some crazy person?”

“It looks like it.”

“Are you really a newspaper reporter?” Chelsea asked.

“I am.”

“That sounds like a cool job. Where do you work?”

Everyone that has never been a reporter thinks it sounds like a cool job. The first time they would have to write eighteen obits in a two hours, though, they would quickly realize it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. “I work for The Monitor.”

“Oh,” Chelsea looked surprised. “I think a guy I went to high school with works there.”

“Really? Who?”

“Oh, his name was Brandon. I think he’s on the copy desk.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know anyone by that name,” I said. “Maybe he used to work there or something. I’ve only been at the paper for about five years.”

‘Yeah, maybe,” Chelsea said. “Maybe I heard wrong or something.”

“Maybe.”

I thanked Chelsea for the information, shot one last haughty look in Charlotte’s direction, and then left the business. When I got to my car, I sent Fish a text to tell him I had found out some information, but nothing that tied Malcolm Hopper to Carrie Washington. I was waiting for his response when I saw Chelsea exit the front of the building and climb into a pickup truck that was idling in one of the parking spots.

I figured this was the special someone that she had been thinking of earlier. I watched the truck pull out in front of my car, straining my neck to get a gander at her boyfriend. I couldn’t help but be curious.

I felt the air whoosh out of me when I saw the driver – and I recognized him. It was Brick.

“Holy crap!”