Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (33 page)

“Send him back,” I told the receptionist.

I walked down the hall and waved him toward my office. He closed the door, planted a deep kiss on my lips, and pressed my body against my desk.

“Not here.” I pushed him away. “The last thing I need is for Noreen to walk in on us making love. This time she could nail me for unsuitability on station property. So cherish your kiss and call me when you land.”

He noticed a photo of us on my desk, taken at my parents’ farm, and I could tell that pleased him.

“I just wanted to show you some spontaneity, Riley.”

Spontaneity. I remembered that conversation. “I’ve been rethinking what I said, Nick. I’ve had enough spontaneity to last a lifetime. I’m starting to treasure predictability.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around me. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you feel safe without abandoning spontaneity.”

“Those might be contradictory goals.” I stared into his eyes, feeling guilt over what I wasn’t telling him about that night by the Black Angel. “Are you sure about us?”

He gazed back at me and paused. “This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.” And he kissed me like he wanted our lips locked forever.

I knew I’d heard those words before. Then I realized he was quoting a movie line. “Clint Eastwood,
The Bridges of Madison County
, 1995.”

I remembered the year because TV anchorwoman Jodi Huisentruit was abducted soon after the film was released. Both the
on-screen romance and the real-life crime happened in Iowa. I really didn’t want any reminders about Iowa.

But what bothered me most was
The Bridges of Madison County
didn’t have a happy ending. Clint Eastwood said his final line to Meryl Streep, then walked out the door and out of her life. And she just let him go. I felt like that scene was putting a hex on us.

“Say a different line, Nick. Say something where the hero and heroine ride off in the sunset together. Quote me something from
Pretty Woman
or
Sleepless in Seattle
or
Romancing the Stone
. I want a comedy, not a drama.”

He shook his head, puzzled at my outburst.

“Please, Nick. I need a happy ending.”

“You complete me.”

I recognized the line. “Tom Cruise,
Jerry Maguire
, 1996.”

“Will that do?” he asked.

I thought back to Tom Cruise and Renée Zellweger. Their work and love overlapped, but all eventually ended well. Kind of like us. I hoped, anyway. “That will have to do.” This time, I kissed him.

“I suppose I should tell you, Riley, that lunch was just a ruse. In the interest of spontaneity, I booked a hotel room across the street. Don’t worry, not the same place where the angel killer came after you.”

“Hotel sex? Nick, I can’t leave. I’m waiting for Noreen to get out of a legal meeting that sort of involves me.”

He handed me a hotel key card. “I’ll head over there now, and maybe you can catch up with me later.” He winked, looking at his watch. “I don’t have to catch a cab to the airport for another hour, maybe longer since I know a shortcut through security.”

His optimism brought tears to my eyes. He trusted I would keep our rendezvous. Instead, I was contemplating breaking his heart. I could not marry him, carrying such a bleak secret. And he could not marry me, knowing the truth.

Then another film came to mind with the line “You complete me,” and I remembered that version did not deliver a happy ending for any of the characters, not even Batman.

“Heath Ledger,
The Dark Knight
, 2008.”

Garnett smiled ruefully like he’d been expecting that answer all along. He offered no comeback, simply kept eye contact with me before mustering a Mona Lisa smile. His gaze was so intense, I had to look away.

Breathing deep, I slipped the engagement ring off my finger, sticking it and the key card in his shirt pocket.

His shock seemed genuine. Whatever he might have imagined could come from my cemetery encounter, this wasn’t it. “Riley, is this the end of us?”

“I’m really confused right now, Nick. Can we call it the middle, and sort things out later?” I turned away so I wouldn’t have to look at him, but he pulled me back.

“I don’t want what we have to be over, Riley.” He paused, lips pressed together with determination. “I know what happened in Iowa rattled you, but we can work through this.”

Before I could answer, a banging sound interrupted our conversation. While I was shrugging it off as some construction noise outside, Garnett was drawing his gun. Seconds later, we heard a scream.

“Stay here,” he told me. “Lock the door and don’t open it again until I tell you to.”

More banging. More terror.

“No matter what happens,” he demanded. “Don’t open the door. Promise me? Riley?”

I nodded.

“Remember, I’m holding you to your word.” Then he left me.

Immediately after my door closed, he pounded on it, reminding me to hit the lock button and ordering me to call 911. “Tell them shots fired. Tell them I’m on the scene and ask them not to shoot me.”

I made the call and told the dispatcher that someone at Channel 3 was firing a weapon, and gave her the message about Garnett. She told me my call was the fourth they’d received in the last fifteen seconds and that squads were en route to the station.

“Stay calm and take cover.”

I wasn’t surprised to discover evil in a dark graveyard, but none of us expect to find danger at our desks. I had to see what was happening. I remembered the station’s closed-circuit house feed and turned on my television monitor. One of the floor cameras was rolling. The view was stationary, but I saw a person crumbled on the floor.

Suddenly a figure walked through the shot, and I recognized Keith Avise. He was waving a gun and shouting. He wasn’t wearing a studio microphone, but his muddled audio must have been picked up by a wireless microphone left on at the weather wall.

“Where is she?” he ranted.

He pointed the gun and another shot echoed, followed by a scream. “Find her!” he ordered someone standing off camera.

I knew he was talking about me. And I wanted to rush out and end the whole ordeal, even if it cost me my life . . . because I believed I deserved to die. I even wondered if God had sent Avise to deliver my punishment.

“Promise me?”
My promise to Garnett stuck in my mind as I debated my guilt.

Suddenly I realized a way I could get the psycho’s attention and perhaps distract him. I grabbed my phone and activated the overhead paging system.

“Looking for me, Avise?”

He glanced right and left trying to figure out where my voice was coming from.

“Better ration those bullets,” I advised. “Or you’ll run out before you and I face off.”

“I’m coming for you, bitch!”

“Better hurry, the police are on their way. I suspect you’re not going to want them to take you alive. Your kind seldom do.”

I knew rescue was not as simple as the first cop on the scene walking in with gun blazing. With spree killers, officers would assemble a SWAT team and plan their entry. I figured Garnett was in touch with them, giving them instructions about the building floor plan and shooter’s location.

My immediate mission was to draw the shooter’s attention away from my coworkers. “Hey, Avise, I can see you, but you can’t see me.”

He looked confounded, then raised his gun, walked toward the floor camera with the tiny red light. The last video I saw was the flash of his demented grin before the screen went black. Then a loud bang. Pulling the trigger on the robocam had destroyed my window to his rampage.

“Open up, bitch.” His voice was clear now, just outside my door. I hoped my colleagues were all fleeing the building while he was in this back hallway. He hammered against the door. “I know you’re in there.”

My name was on a sign outside my office. But I stayed quiet so he couldn’t be certain I was indeed inside. I longed to push a bookcase against the door, for another layer of protection, but worried the noise would verify my presence.

Suddenly he started shooting. With every bullet fired, I sunk lower to the floor until I was cowering under my desk. I’d never paid any attention to whether my office door was wood or metal, but I put my hands over my ears and prayed the bullets stayed on the other side.

I contemplated letting loose a tortured scream, as if I’d been hit. Maybe that would satisfy him and he would place his weapon in his mouth and blow his brains out, like so many mass murderers do to avoid being taken into custody. More likely he’d be determined to break down the door to watch me bleed to death. I stuck with my strategy of silence.

A minute went by. I heard two more shots, this time farther away. Then five minutes seemed to pass without gunfire. Was it over? Why hadn’t Garnett knocked? Or at least called? Where was he?

I wanted to open the door, but I’d promised. I called his cell phone, which rang into his voice mail. I dialed the assignment desk, but no one answered.

I counted back the number of gunshots I’d heard, and considered whether the stillness in the building could simply mean my attacker might be out of ammunition. If that were the case, Garnett would have apprehended Avise and handed him over to the authorities.

And come for me.

So I continued to wait, but no one came.

Seven minutes passed and I tried not to think that one of the bullets might have found him, though that now seemed the most likely explanation. I didn’t want confirmation of that news, so I stayed under my desk, where I could continue to deny the worst.

My cheeks felt wet before I realized I was sobbing. I clenched my eyes tight to slow the tears, and started ruminating useless thoughts of “What if?”

What if Buddy’s death had never made the news?

What if Noreen hadn’t let Avise in the building?

But the real “what if” hinged on what if I hadn’t killed Karl Dolezal? Because it was that decision I suspected turned Channel 3 into a war zone. A perfect storm of evil.

My own culpability now kept me on the floor of my office, rather than out in the newsroom soaking in the aftermath.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” I kept muttering a useless apology that no one could hear.

Then a determined knock startled me, and I jumped to unlock the door for Garnett. Instead, Malik stood there.

So I had my answer on the fate of my once fiancé.

My cameraman hugged me and told me how glad he was that
I was all right. “It’s a mess out there, Riley. The building has been declared a crime scene. Police are evacuating everyone and interviewing them downtown.”

The last thing I wanted to do was talk about what happened.

Malik pushed me toward the back door. “They want everyone out this way to avoid the carnage.”

“I need to see it.”

“They won’t let you back there. They’re moving in body bags.”

“I need to see his body. Don’t you understand, Malik?”

What I wanted to do was take the engagement ring from Garnett’s pocket and put it on my finger. An irrelevant gesture but one I needed to make, both for me and him.

“They’re not going to let you anywhere close to that jerk. None of us are getting by his corpse. I think they’re afraid we’ll spit on it and contaminate the evidence.”

“I’m talking about Garnett,” I said.

“Garnett? He’s busy with the homicide team. He sent me back to get you.”

We looked at each other; Garnett was the first to speak. “Now we’ve each killed somebody. I guess that makes us even.”

F
or the first time in more than half a century, Channel 3 did not broadcast the nightly news. Those time slots were filled by the network. But our local competitors crammed most of their news hole with details of the tragedy.

((CHANNEL 8 ANCHOR))
FOUR DEAD . . . TWO WOUNDED
IN A NEWSROOM MASSACRE AT
CHANNEL 3.

Sophie Paulson’s death got top billing. Beautiful dead television anchors are always lead stories. The media lumped Noreen in with the rest of the casualties because she was no household name.

Miles survived with a bullet in the stomach, and later described the spree to police, saying Avise went crazy when Noreen pointed out that Channel 3 was merely reporting the news about him, his dog, and his ex-wife.

“Are you going to let them talk to me like that?” he shouted at his attorney, who was trying to smooth things over and scare the station into a quiet financial settlement to avoid a public legal battle.

Avise apparently pulled out a gun and, without saying a word, held it against his lawyer’s head and pulled the trigger. “Now do you see I mean business?”

Blood spatter and brain matter were on everyone. Miles said he couldn’t talk or move or even breathe, but that Noreen tried to assure Avise that the station would retract everything they’d broadcast about him.

“Let’s work on the script right away and you can approve it. You can watch us read it live on the air.”

Avise smiled like he was satisfied with this triumph, then pointed the weapon at her, firing twice. Miles didn’t remember anything else except waking up in the hospital the next day.

Ozzie heard the shots while sitting at the assignment desk, ducked underneath and was the first to call 911, reporting the attack. He told investigators that Avise wasn’t aiming at just anyone. “He seemed to be looking for specific targets.”

He found Sophie almost immediately and ignored her apologies, blowing away most of her anchor face. That’s when he started asking newsroom staff about me. When no one answered, he shot Xiong in the leg. “Maybe this will get your attention.”

Right away Xiong had volunteered directions to my office.

Karl Dolezal had bought a plot in Oakland Cemetery and left instructions and money for a small replica of the Black Angel to sit over his grave. Trustees of the cemetery were horrified and voted to deny his wishes.

Based on my trumped-up identification of him as my attacker, Minneapolis police showed up at his apartment with a search warrant. Inside, the cops found a broken bat coated in human blood, birth and death certificates of the murdered women, and a framed photograph of the Black Angel.