Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (15 page)

“So what’s the deal?”

“Off the record. Tell me what my photo means off the record.” I held up my cell phone and clicked the crime scene so there’d be no doubt what picture was at stake.

“Do you mean off the record, you won’t report the story? Or off the record, you won’t attribute it to me?”

It was a good question. More sources should think to establish the parameters before offering information.

“How about I quote ‘a law enforcement source,’ and leave you out of it?”

“No, you can’t broadcast the story, period. It’s not about shielding me, it’s about protecting the investigation. That’s got to be the deal.”

“But this is a local investigation, you’re a fed now. Why are you so concerned?”

“The feds will be running it sooner rather than later.” He spoke cryptically, but I knew exactly what his hint meant.

“So the murders cross state lines. Our killer likes to travel.”

He didn’t answer.

“Okay, I won’t report the serial-killer angel . . . angle now.” I said angel by mistake, luckily he didn’t notice. “But you have to fill me in on what’s going on with the case and keep me up to speed as best you can. But if I can confirm anything with other sources, or it leaks out, then I’m free to run with it.”

Maybe he was tired of fighting, or maybe he just wanted us to feel close again. And I wanted both of those things, too. So when
he pulled me tight and kissed me deep, I led him to my bedroom and we crawled under the covers together.

As we undid buttons and zippers, he told me about the similar chalk pictures he’d seen a couple of months earlier at a briefing in Quantico at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime.

“Is that part of VICAP?” I asked. VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—helped far-flung jurisdictions find clues for investigations of serial killings, missing children, and unidentified human remains.

“Actually VICAP is part of us,” he said. “Much of my agency’s work also involves behavioral analysis of terrorism threats. That was my primary mission, but I stuck around for another discussion involving two Midwest murders.”

“Once a homicide detective, always a homicide detective.” And not just with Garnett either; I’d seen that pattern in cop after cop. Unable to leave the beat. As he nuzzled my neck with his beard stubble, my fingernails dug into his back.

“When I saw your chalk fairy, déjà vu hit,” he said. “Those other murders had been tagged because the victims had chalk outlines around their bodies. All the officers on the scene swore they didn’t mark them. Yet there they were. Speculation came that the outlines might have been made by the killer. Seeing your photo makes me certain.”

“Where did the other cases happen?”

“Ames, Iowa, and Madison, Wisconsin.”

“Both victims young women?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about crime anymore. I just want to concentrate on you.”

So he did. And ten minutes later the bed was a mess and we lay breathless in each other’s arms.

I teased him. “Not bad for an old guy like you.”

“It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.”

“Harrison Ford,
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
1981.” The film
opened the same day Major League Baseball went on strike. I remembered having tickets to the Minnesota Twins and having to settle for a movie instead.

I drifted off to sleep—no nightmares—reminded of the advantages of not being a thousand miles apart from a man who loves you.

T
he next morning, I cracked a couple of eggs to make an omelet for Garnett. The yolks stared at me from the bottom of the bowl like a pair of jaundiced eyes, and I thought back to my pelting in front of the station and the man who rescued me while the crowd gawked.

A mysterious stranger, coming to my aid, then vanishing. His face suddenly became clearer to me. Could he have been my guardian angel?

While Garnett and I shared breakfast, I broached the subject.

“Do you believe in guardian angels?”

“In what? Where’s this coming from?”

I told him about my encounter with the egg man and he couldn’t believe I hadn’t filed assault charges.

“I didn’t feel like being ridiculed by every radio talk-show host every time I go on the air. It’s like I attract crazies. It seemed best to just forget the blitz.”

“But you haven’t forgotten it, have you, Riley? I bet you’re looking over your shoulder all day.”

He had a point, but he switched direction. “So you think this other man was your guardian angel?”

“I don’t know what to think, Nick, but something about him felt different from regular guys.”

“Well, my philosophy concerning protection is a little more straightforward than yours. You want to meet my guardian angel?” He opened his jacket and slammed a handgun on the table. He pushed the weapon toward me. “Meet Saint Glock.”

Rush hour was especially heavy while I drove Garnett to the airport for his flight back to our nation’s capital. All the stop-and-go traffic gave us additional time to talk that I hadn’t counted on. To avoid intimate dialogue, I complained about gridlock, the news biz, and how best to nail the supposed serial killer.

“Think how more relaxed things would be if we were married,” Garnett said.

“For me or you, Nick?” I decided his comment wasn’t specific enough to count as a proposal, mere discussion.

“With me, you could live the life of Riley.” He said the words teasingly.

“What do you mean? Aren’t I already doing that?”

He explained that “living the life of Riley” was an idiom meaning living an easy and pleasant life. “You don’t seem to have either. I’d like to change that.”

I hadn’t heard the expression before, even though I wore the name. Easy and pleasant had a tempting ring, but I told him that goal might be something I had to learn to do for myself and not depend on others to deliver.

Because of the road delay, all we had time for at the airport was a quick kiss and promise to talk later.

Noreen seemed irritated that I was late, and waved me into her office, pointing to her computer. “You remember Fitz Opheim?”

The station consultant—my recent nemesis—stared at me from the screen in that computer application that allowed people in two locations to watch each other as they spoke. Cyber meetings at the click of a mouse.

“Certainly, I remember you, Fitz.” Knowing he was watching, I kept my face and voice neutral. An easy task for a television reporter.

Consultants make their living telling TV newsrooms what they’re doing wrong. The last time I’d seen him face to face, Fitz read a long list of Channel 3’s flaws. Immediately, Noreen had implemented his changes: from painting the green room to symbolize a fresh start to commanding the staff to join social networks such as Facebook and Twitter.

I hadn’t noticed any long-term shift in the ratings, but since our general manager had signed a two-year contract with Fitz, those of us in the news trenches were stuck with his advice.

One of the producers had mentioned recently that Fitz was proposing “modernizing” our newscasts by having our anchor team read the news standing up instead of sitting behind a traditional desk. No more talent wearing jeans on the job.

The hope was that change might bring in younger viewers—those twenty-five to fifty-four years old—coveted by advertisers. Channel 3 had a loyal but older audience. We liked bragging that we don’t lose our viewers to the competition, we lose them to death or dementia. Deafness also used to take some until close-captioned television came along.

Budget cuts had slashed the number of times the station could fly Fitz in from California to lecture us in person. That was one of the few good situations to come out of the media meltdown, so the last thing I wanted to do was talk one-on-one with him through cyberspace.

“Fitz has some interesting observations on the Buddy story,” Noreen said. “He’d like to discuss them with you.”

She motioned me to sit in
her
chair so Fitz could see me better. Uncomfortable. Her watching him watching me.

I knew why I was in the hot seat. By now the YouTube video of me crying over a dead dog had more than 750,000 hits. I braced myself to be labeled an idiot in front of my boss.

Instead, Fitz was calling me a genius.

“I don’t know what instinct kicked in and made you tear up on camera like that, Riley,” he said, “but we need to see more of the same.”

“More?” I said. “You got to be kidding, I’m a laughingstock around town and in newsrooms across the country.”

“They’re all jealous. We tested you in front of focus groups and we’re getting a very positive reaction.”

And the ratings had spiked . . . it could be curiosity over me, but it could also have been our insider-trading strategy with Chuck Heyden’s people meter. I glanced at Noreen, but she volunteered nothing. Because Fitz couldn’t see her, she put a finger to her lips to signal me to hush.

“So we need to figure out what other stories might best lend themselves to this type of coverage,” Fitz continued. “And then assign them to you.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I didn’t mean to fall apart that day on camera, and I sure don’t want to ever have it happen again.”

“Sure, Riley, I understand how thinking about it might make you uncomfortable. That’s why I’m here to practice with you, until an emotional outburst seems natural. I’ll count to three, then you start crying. One . . . Two . . .”

“No.” I shook my head.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not going to stage crying on the air.”

“I’m not asking you to pinch your wrist or poke your thigh with a pin.” He sounded like I was being unreasonable. “Simply try mustering the saddest thought you can, and let nature take over.”

My life was full of enough misery, I didn’t need Fitz Opheim coaching me into tears. So I reached over to press the Escape button on the computer.

“Riley!” Noreen perceived my intent too late. By then the
screen was dark, with nary a good-bye on either end. “You can’t believe that was the best way to handle this. He’ll be livid.”

“Why did you just sit there all quiet?” I asked. “He works for you.”

“Actually, he works for the GM. And so do we. You could have handled that a bit more diplomatically.”

“There are lines I believe can’t or at least shouldn’t be crossed, Noreen. Almost everything out of that man’s mouth falls into that category.”

I understood the importance of branding in this business. Some reporters develop a reputation for humor. Others for landing exclusive interviews. I couldn’t be the Twin Cities’ star investigative reporter if I was also the crybaby reporter.

“What am I supposed to tell Fitz when he calls back?” she asked.

“Tell him I’m in the field, covering news. That’s my job. Tell him there’s been a school bus crash.”

“It would have much easier if you’d pretended you were trying to cry, but were unable.”

“Easier for who? I’m the one the viewers see.”

“For both of us,” she insisted. “I’m the one who answers to the man upstairs.”

She wasn’t talking about God either. The general manager had the top-floor corner office, and because Channel 3’s ratings were shaky, a consultant like Fitz probably had more job security than a news director like Noreen—sort of like a coach for the Minnesota Vikings. Whether talking fans or viewers, it’s all about winning.

“We need to finish sweeps higher or he’ll bring in staff he thinks can move the ratings needle. It’s not about the news, it’s all about the numbers.”

“Well, I am partial to being first,” I said.

“Not first with the story, Riley, first in the overnights.”

She and I hadn’t had such an animated conversation in some
time. If she had a sense of humor, we could have laughed together about Fitz. But I doubted she’d smiled much since her recent divorce from Toby Elness, her fellow animal lover and my animal activist source. I wondered whether to tell her I’d visited her ex in prison, but decided better to wait.

“Fitz now has input in all personal services contracts.” Noreen looked unhappy about sacrificing some of her clout. “Including yours.”

“Then it’s a good thing my contract isn’t up for another year.” I grinned like I was joking, but down inside I knew that growing shift in news priorities could spell trouble for me at renegotiation time.

Before my boss could admonish me further, my phone buzzed with a text from attorney Benny Walsh telling me the jail was kicking loose his client, Chuck Heyden.

I showed Noreen the text just as her phone rang with a number from California. Suspecting Fitz on the other end, I hurried to slide out from behind her desk and give her chair back.

“Tell him news called, and I answered.”

She waved me back from her door, so to prove I was serious, I called out a lead for her to take to the news huddle.

((ANCHOR CU))
MINNEAPOLIS POLICE TODAY
RELEASED A MAN THEY’D BEEN
HOLDING AS A SUSPECT IN THE
MURDER OF A BESTSELLING
AUTHOR OF EROTICA.

Then I left to go after the story.

T
he jail was less than a mile from the station, downtown parking was always a chore, and no photographer was immediately available . . . so I ran.

The assignment desk was trying to muster a camera for video of the release, but jail processing was unpredictable and I had no guarantee a photographer would make it in time or might not have to leave for another shoot before Chuck was freed.

I took the skyway to avoid the rain now falling and having to wait for traffic lights. As I cut through the crowd, I thought I passed the man who saved me from the egg attack. I turned around, but he was lost in the horde of people. Nothing unusual, I told myself. Less likely that he’s my guardian angel than he simply works downtown.

Benny was shutting the door to a cab when I arrived outside the jail. Chuck sat in the backseat. I grabbed the door handle on the street side and climbed in next to him. Benny opened his door again and scrambled in too. Harder for him because he held an umbrella.