Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (14 page)

I waited a beat. “Ellinger swears he only fired one shot. I heard two.”

Kyle just nodded. “That’s a little out there, even for you.”

“I’m not saying he’s right. I kind of think he’s not, which is why I haven’t paid it much mind. But you guys are making me wonder.”

I glanced around the tastefully modern condo, the open floor plan and breathtaking views lovely, but nothing in sight that revealed one clue about the man who’d lived in the space.

What were they looking for?

My eyes fell on the desk, and a bottom drawer that was still slightly open.

From the size and the tabs I could see through the crack, it was a file drawer.

I turned back to the guys, usually among my favorite people to work with. The look they exchanged screamed that I couldn’t trust any one of them.

I collected Percival from the rug and smiled. “Do me a favor and have a look at Ellinger’s rifle? I’d like to know if it was loaded when they processed it into the evidence locker.”

Aaron nodded, his face curious and apologetic at the same time. “I’ll see what I can do. This is complicated, Nichelle.”

“The good ones always are.” That came from Kyle, with a weird look I didn’t want to try to read.

“Let me know if Bonnie comes up with anything. Off the record,” I said.

He walked me to the door, then stepped into the hallway and pulled it shut behind him. “We need to talk. Not here, though.” He jerked his head backward.

“Name a time and place.”

“Can I come by your house tonight? As soon as I wrap up here, though I have no idea when that might be.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

I patted his shoulder and carried Percy to the elevator, wondering what kind of penalty dognapping carries in Virginia.

“You learning how to talk yet, bud?” Jeff scratched the dog’s ears when I stopped at the door and I laughed.

“If I could manage that, I could quit my job. The TV shooting schedule would preclude working.” I winked.

“You seem like the kind of lady who can make the impossible possible,” he said. “Just wondering.”

I shook my head and patted the dog. “So are you keeping him?” he asked. “She said she just couldn’t handle him anymore. I’d take the little guy, but I don’t need the responsibility right now.”

I froze, Percy’s slight weight warm on my arm. Visions of shelter pens danced through my head. I couldn’t give him back to Jeff if he had nowhere to go.

But where did I have for him to go? Darcy was a princess—she wouldn’t take kindly to competition in our house.

“She just left him here?” I scratched Percy’s ears.

Jeff nodded, scooping up the dog’s toys and blanket and handing them over.

I turned for the car, my brain racing through everyone I knew. Bob wasn’t home enough to have a dog. Parker? Mel was allergic. Jenna would kill me—she liked having Darcy over for playdates, but didn’t need anything else to feed and care for.

I settled Percy in the back with his stuff. “We’ll find someone who will love you, bud,” I said.

He chewed his designer bone, unconcerned.

Turning into the
Telegraph’s
garage, I spotted Eunice’s forest green Subaru station wagon.

Eunice, who’d lost her beloved Terrier, Combat, over Labor Day.

I love it when the universe gift wraps answers.

19.

Ultimatums

E
unice’s eyes popped wider than a Texas summer sky when I poked Percy’s face around the edge of her office door. He yipped and immediately started wriggling.

Not fond of the notion of dog pee all over my favorite new pants, I set him down and prepared to run for paper towels. But instead of lifting his leg, Percival darted for Eunice, bouncing at her feet and whining.

She scooped him up, and he set about licking her face. Jeff’s words floated through my head.

“I hear he’s never that affectionate with anyone,” I echoed, smiling when my friend squeezed the dog to her ample chest and grinned at me.

“He’s too cute for color TV, Nicey,” she said, her voice warmer than I’d ever heard it.

“He needs a good home.”

She froze, tightening her arms around the dog and staring slack-jawed at me. “Really?”

“His former owner needs a new fashion accessory, and I thought you might be ready for some company.”

She nodded, closing her eyes and bending her head to Percival’s. “Would you like to come home with me?”

He licked her nose.

“I’d say that’s a yes. It’s even Friday, so you can get him situated over the weekend.” I grinned. I’d never seen Eunice look sadder than the day Combat died. I’d rarely seen her look this happy, either.

“I just sent the Sunday front to production.” Eunice tucked Percy under one arm and closed her laptop. “Let’s go home, little guy.” She stood and turned to me. “What’s his name?”

“She called him Percival.”

Eunice wrinkled her nose. “Stuffy. But whatever.” She scratched his chest and picked up her coral Land’s End tote. “He’ll be spoiled enough for it to suit him, anyhow. I cooked for Combat every night.”

Eunice was a champion southern chef. “Really? Can I come home with you too?” I asked.

“Darlin’, I’ll cook you whatever you want for a month. I wonder how many recipes I can find calling for white chocolate.”

“I’ll take some white chocolate chip banana bread and a batch of armadillo eggs, and we’ll call it even.” I stepped back to let them out and scratched Percy’s ears, handing Eunice his paraphernalia. “You two take care of each other.”

She shuffled toward the elevator, talking to the dog and humming, and I turned for my desk, ridiculously pleased with myself.

Now if I could just figure out this story. What had Aaron said? Mrs. Eason. He was looking at her, too.

Time to call Mrs. Kochanski.

I
dialed the San Francisco number I’d found for the Kochanskis that morning, and tapped a finger on the desk as it rang. Had I lost my mind, calling Bob’s old friends to ask about a once-upon-a-time mistress? Those kinds of wounds don’t always heal completely with time.

But what if Elizabeth Eason really had killed Maynard? And maybe her husband, too? These folks would know her and how she operated.

Just when I was about to give up, a breathless, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Kochanski?” I asked.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her voice was warm with a note of polite removal.

“My name is Nichelle Clarke. I’m the crime reporter at the
Richmond
Telegraph
,” I said.

Silence.

I waited, knowing full well she might hang up.

“There’s something I haven’t heard in a while.” I heard a deep breath go in. “What’s going on at the
Telegraph
these days?”

“Same thing that goes on at every other paper in the country. Trying to keep our heads above water.” I kept my tone light.

“How’s Bob?” she asked softly.

“He’s good.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Grace.” Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “She was the sister I never had, but I was afraid having us show up at the service…Well. Bob had a falling out with my husband. I’m not sure how much he talks about it.”

“He doesn’t. I heard a version of events from Larry,” I said.

“Larry is a good man.” Her voice brightened. “And a damned fine photographer.”

“He spoke highly of you.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve often wondered if they all hated me for making Herman leave the paper.” Her voice caught—only a small hitch, but I didn’t miss it. I felt like a jackass for bopping her with painful memories out of nowhere on a random Friday.

Asking uncomfortable questions (of people lacking a badge or an indictment) has never been my favorite part of my job, but it’s often necessary. I find it best to just blurt them out when the opportunity presents itself. There’s no such thing as tact when you’re asking about something that might make the person on the other side of the conversation cry.

“If anyone hates anybody, it’s not you, ma’am. That’s why I called. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about Elizabeth Herrington?”

A sharp breath in, followed by a gurgle that sounded halfway between a cough and a hard laugh. “There’s a name I could go forever without hearing again.” Every degree of warmth vacated her tone.

“I’m sorry to bring this up, truly, but I need to know what kind of person she is. Can you help me?”

She was quiet for so long I thought she’d hung up.

“Mrs. Kochanski?”

A deep breath, followed by a sigh. “I read the papers. I keep up with industry gossip. Bob loves you. He trusts you. But this is a very personal thing you’re asking me about. I’m not comfortable talking about it on the record. I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about it at all.”

“I would never quote you,” I said, the words running together they popped out so fast. “I’m stuck. Grasping at anything I think might turn up a lead. I’m working on a story about an unsolved murder. Maybe two.”

She barked a short laugh. “No, really.”

“That’s the truth.”

“She’s a murder suspect?” The flat tone gave way to glee. “Do they still fry people in Virginia?” She caught a sharp breath. “Heavens. Don’t answer that. I’m sorry.”

I bit down on a laugh. So much for time healing all wounds.

“I think I can safely say I get it, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. I probably am that old, but I don’t like to think about it. I’m Sophia. Tell me what kind of background you need on…that woman. I can safely say I’ve never thought she had any morals. Or conscience.”

“And I guess you don’t live with Herman Kochanski for decades without picking up a feel for reading personalities.”

“You do not. My Herman is…special. We’re happy. But I still think about her. She’s a good reminder to pay attention to our marriage. We’ve never slipped again, since that almost destroyed our family. And my kids were too young to remember most of the bad years, thank God.”

“How was she with other people?”

“She was excellent at seducing my husband.”

I snorted. Touché. “She married a local businessman several years ago and left the paper. Larry said it was one of the happiest days of Bob’s career.”

“Bob is loyal to a fault. He never forgave Herman, but still.”

“Her husband was pretty wealthy,” I said.

“Was? Is it him you think she killed? The more you talk the better I like this. I mean, except for the poor schmuck she married.”

“His death was ruled an accident,” I said. “But the murder of another man she knew—a doctor—makes me wonder. I just want to get a feel for what you remember.”

“She was a scheming, devious little trollop.”

“Interested in helping other people?”

“Not a whit. She didn’t care about anyone but herself. We had four children—little children—and she took my husband up to a hotel room without a thought for anything but what she wanted.” She spat the words, then cleared her throat and offered a shaky laugh. “Listen to me. So emotional after all this time.”

“That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

“Cold. Calculating. Self-serving. Grace told me she heard her comment at a party once about how she just wanted to marry some rich old bastard and inherit all his money, and the society beat was the fastest way to that. Better than politics, she said, because those guys never leave their wives and run background checks on their mistresses.” I jotted her comments down, starring “inherit all his money.” It seemed from what DonnaJo said, this plan backfired. Maybe Maynard was insurance?

“Thank you for talking to me.”

“I hope I helped. With your story.”

“And maybe the PD’s investigation?”

“Maybe.” I smiled, wondering if this would’ve been what it was like to talk to Bob’s wife. I’d always been sorry I hadn’t gotten to know her.

“Looking forward to reading it,” Sophia said.

I thanked her, wished her a nice day, and hung up.

Checking the clock, I flipped my laptop open.

After three. I owed Bob a story, and Charlie’s early report would be on TV in about half an hour. I sent him a message that I’d have his copy ready by five and got up to hunt for caffeine, wondering what Charlie knew. And, as much as I hated to admit it, what Alexa thought she knew. Her blog had been a pain in my ass for months, and with a big story in the works, I should probably keep an eye on it.

What Alexa actually had? Not much.

But you couldn’t tell it from her homepage.

I managed to refrain from spitting soda all over my computer by nearly choking myself, scrolling and reading as I coughed.

Girl Friday had been a busy little bee, her new career slinging hospital food notwithstanding. She had two posts already on the conspiracy between the
Telegraph
and the RPD to keep a murderer out of jail.

“I try to be a good person. But I really hate you,” I said, my eyes on her little notebook and pen avatar.

“It appears the feeling is mutual. And Andrews is pissed,” Shelby’s voice came from behind me, and I turned in my chair.

“Andrews saw this?”

My former nemesis just nodded, not a trace of the old animosity on her face. “Fair warning: he’s yelling about the paper being used to barter with the cops and how it hurts credibility.”

“Yelling. At who?”

“Bob.”

“Damn him. Thanks, Shelby.”

I bolted out of my chair and charged for Bob’s office, Andrews’ nasally twang reaching my ears from several feet away.

“Dammit, Jeffers, this blogger is making us look like amateurs. What do you have to say for yourself?” he bellowed as I shoved the door open and stepped into the room.

They both whirled on me. “That was closed for a reason,” Andrews snapped.

“Nichelle, it’s a bad time.”

Bob’s face looked a little haggard and a lot resigned, and the combination pissed me right the hell off. I ignored him and turned to Andrews with a tight smile.

“I gather you’re chewing Bob’s ass for a decision I made.” I maintained control of my temper only because the little ferret in front of me was Bob’s boss—and mine, technically—though I didn’t like to think about that. “I thought maybe I should be present for this conversation.”

“You have final approval over what goes on our front page now? I must’ve missed an email.”

Deep breath. Count to five. “I made a decision, in the middle of a crime scene, and made a deal with Aaron White. And I stand by that decision.”

“This Alexis whoever, this blogger, is using a poor decision on your part to call this newspaper’s credibility into question. I’m disappointed, Miss Clarke. You usually show better judgement.”

I flicked a glance at Bob, whose face portrayed a conflict that made my heart twist. He wanted to defend me, but didn’t really want to step into the line of fire again.

I’d been working my ass off for months to keep Andrews at bay, and now here sat my boss, in trouble with a jerk whose entire knowledge of the news business would fit in Bob’s pinky fingernail. Because of me.

Dammit, Nichelle.

Bob opened his mouth and I shook my head slightly.

I got this one, Chief.

“Then we’re even, Mr. Andrews.” The words held a layer of frost even Andrews couldn’t miss—and his head is generally so far up his own ass, that’s saying something. His eyes widened and I waited a few beats before I continued. “I’m disappointed that my publisher is leaping to judgement, siding with an actual amateur, when I’ve proven myself more than capable of doing my job well and landing this newspaper exclusives that increase revenue. Why do you have that little confidence in your staff?”

Bob leaned back in his chair, throwing me a quick wink before he turned an interested gaze on a sputtering Andrews.

“Of course I have confidence in our staff.” Andrews waved a hand at the Pulitzer on Bob’s office wall. “Your portfolio certainly speaks for itself, but…” He paused, looking around for an answer to pop out of the air and rescue him. His face lit with a smug smile and he focused on me again. “I’m concerned that you’ve gotten too close to your sources.”

Alexa’s words, lifted straight from her blog. At least our publisher was reading something.

“The story is always first for Nichelle,” Bob said. “I’ve never been surer of that.”

I smiled. Thanks, boss. But hush up.

“Actually, if you want to know the truth, the people edge the story by a hair, sir.” The word tasted funny as it slipped out directed at someone I had so little respect for, but I needed Andrews to calm down and leave Bob alone. “I think that’s what makes me good at what I do. And no one is sure exactly what happened at St. Vincent’s.”

“I understand from Charlie Lewis, Alexis what’s-her-name, and your own report that there was a woman with a bullet in her head and a guy with a rifle. Is two and two seventeen now?”

I kept my face arranged in a carefully neutral expression—not easy when the top of my head was ready to blow off. Andrews had about seven years and a million-fold brown-nosing chops on me, making him the youngest publisher in the paper’s history. He’d come from the advertising side of the great journalism divide, which meant the bottom line was his only real concern. Everyone in the room was well aware of that. While I was thankful to still have a newspaper to write for in an age where they were shuttering all across the country, Andrews putting on like he cared about integrity would’ve been laughable—if it hadn’t been so infuriating.

“I appreciate you keeping up with my competition, but I feel it necessary to point out that I was the only reporter inside the hospital,” I said. “That was a huge exclusive for this newspaper, and I’m interested to see what it meant for our rack sales yesterday. And our advertising sales today.”

He didn’t miss the disdain in the words, blinking for a second before he replied.

“I’m sure sales are up all around.”

Like he doesn’t check them more often than Perez Hilton checks his Twitter.

“Then why are you upset?”

More blinking. For so long I had to join in before my eyes shriveled into raisins.

“I—well, I saw that article and I was concerned,” he said. “The newspaper isn’t supposed to be a PR sheet for the police. Everyone knows that.”

“I think I’ve proven that I’m willing and able to call the PD on the carpet when it’s necessary, have I not?” I raised a brow and Bob erupted into a coughing fit that poorly disguised his laughter.

Andrews dropped his eyes to his shiny brown wingtips, folding his hands behind his back. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I’d like to think I’ve earned some credibility and respect. I’ve been at this for a long time to have my bosses doubt my abilities.”

“Also…true,” Andrews grunted.

“So there’s no reason for you to be concerned,” I said, touching his elbow with one finger and steering him toward the door.

He looked like he wanted to stay but didn’t really have a viable reason to when I walked him across the threshold and closed the door behind me.

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his eyes not meeting mine.

“I do. And I know what you’re doing, too. Leave Bob alone. If you have a problem with the way I’m handling a story, come talk to me.”

He stiffened. “The editorial content of the newspaper is Bob’s responsibility. Beyond that, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I bent my knees and caught his eye. “I believe you do. And there are enough people here who won’t stand for you forcing him out the door to make your life downright hellish. Try explaining the loss of every one of your top reporters and columnists to the board.”

He took a step backward. “I don’t care for ultimatums.”

“I’m not giving you one. Just helping you see the situation more clearly.” I smiled. “The news staff is a family. We squabble, we eat, we gossip—and we stick together. I haven’t figured out why you’re so hot to get rid of Bob, but do everyone a favor and lay off.”

He gave me a measured once-over and turned on his heel, striding to the elevator without another word.

His abrupt exit made me uneasy, and I walked back to my chair mulling over the last thing I’d said to him.

It was true: I didn’t know why he had it out for Bob. I assumed it was simply that my editor was getting older, but people work into their seventies all the time.

Maybe I assumed wrong.