Friday Edition, The (15 page)

“The vehicle belongs to Chief Gilmore,” the balding officer said. “But he wasn’t the one driving it.”

“Who then?” Sam asked.

“Jonathan Church.”

Sam felt her mouth go dry. She looked from the cocaine on the seat to Rey. He was twisting his crucifix around his neck between his thumb and index finger.

The look on his face was devoid of emotion.

The phone rang sharply and pulled Sam from a troubled sleep. Drug dealers with Dick Tracy cartoon faces, carrying large bags of cocaine in one hand and a gun in the other, were chasing her. She was running as fast as she could, but they were gaining on her. She had just turned a corner and came face to face with the realization that she had been chased right to the edge of a cliff. The men with the cartoon faces were about to push her off when the phone rang.

Her heart was galloping as she groped for the phone. She made a raspy, unintelligible attempt to say hello.

“Sam?”

Despite the cobwebs from sleep, she recognized the voice.

“Wilson, I’m so glad you called. What time is it?” she asked.

“Six-thirty,” he said. “I got your message, but it was too late to call last night. What’s going on?”

Sam sat up in bed and pulled her knees close to her chin. “You’re not going to guess what I saw,” she said.

“Where were you?” Wilson asked and Sam heard the excitement in his voice.

“Rey called last night after I left a message on your machine. He wanted me to come to the police garage.”

“What for?”

“A mechanic found drugs in the police chief’s car.”

There was silence for a brief moment as Wilson registered what he had heard. “You’re kidding,” he said finally.

“I wish I were. But Rey said Wyatt wasn’t driving the car.”

“Who was?”

Sam was silent and the phone crackled between them. She took a deep breath. “Jonathan.”

Wilson’s voice clearly showed surprise. “Your ex?”

“We’re in luck,” Sam said. “This will make the Friday edition.”

“How far along are you with the rest of the story, Sam?” he asked. “We’ve got to move on this.”

“I know.”

“Especially with the drug story for Friday,” Wilson went on. “We don’t want the dailies to get a leg up on us.”

“I know. Rey thinks Robin discovered who Roy Rogers was and that’s why they killed her. That’s my theory, too, Wilson. Robin had those bank accounts in her desk drawer at work and she had written the name Roy Rogers and underlined it twice.”

The phone crackled, breaking their silence.

“You think this Roy Rogers character is someone we know?” Wilson asked.

“Yes, I do. These creeps have gotten sloppy in their work and they happened to come across someone who was very sharp and very determined to stop them.”

A memory of Robin took Sam by surprise. Robin was in the first grade. It was field day at school and Sam had gone to watch her run the 50, 75 and 100-yard dashes. She was a sprinter and won each race easily. After getting her blue ribbons, a classmate who didn’t like Robin pushed her down so hard that she had skinned her elbows. The girl, who had placed last in each race, took Robin’s ribbons.

“They’re mine,” the girl said. She turned around and walked away, leaving Robin on the ground with her bloody elbows.

Sam was about to intervene, but before she could, Robin jumped to her feet. Sam watched with delight as Robin punched the girl in the nose. The girl dropped the ribbons and cried. Sam watched Robin collect the ribbons with a triumphant smile on her face. Robin had carried that field-day determination throughout her life.

“A week,” Sam heard Wilson say. “You have until next Friday. Write the story on the drugs being found today and see what you can come up with in the next week.”

She closed her eyes and sighed with relief. “Thank you, Wilson,” she said. “I will. I’ll work as fast as I can. I promise.”

“I’ll be in after lunch,” Wilson said. “I’ll see you then.”

Before he could hang up, Sam stopped him.

“Wilson, wait, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said and told him about the threatening text message she had received.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“I’m really scared,” she said. “But I’m not stopping.”

On the other end of the phone Wilson smiled at her determination. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” he said. She heard the click in her ear.

Sam jumped out of bed, showered quickly and fed Morrison. She was in the office by eight o’clock and subject to Nick Weeks’ usual ridicule. “On time the past two weeks, Samantha, I am really impressed,” he said.

“I’ll have a story for Friday’s paper, and Wilson will want to play it out front,” she said, letting his comment slide off her.

There was a firm directness in her voice, something authoritarian about the way she felt, and it surprised her. Nick stewed where he stood. She envisioned wisps of black smoke coming out his ears and had to stifle a laugh. She knew he didn’t like her and why. It had always bothered her. Until now.

She thought of the ribbons Robin had won at field day and smiled. As she did something within her changed. Nick Weeks could never say another thing that could bother her. She would stand taller and no longer cower in his presence. She was just as good a reporter as any with the
Perspective
. There was a time when she was better. It would take time to return to that level, but she would.

“Yeah, out front. Wilson will fill you in. Excuse me, I have a story to write.” Sam squared her shoulders and pushed her way past him toward her desk. When she reached it, her heart was beating as if she had run her own 100-yard dash.

It was early afternoon when Wilson arrived at the
Perspective.
Nick was at the front desk sorting mail. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said when Wilson had reached the desk.

“I had to go to a meeting,” Wilson said.

“What kind of meeting?” Nick asked.

Wilson had busied himself sifting through mail and didn’t answer the query. When it was apparent that Wilson had no intention of sharing with Nick, he changed subjects. “Sam says she’s got a hot story you know all about?”

Wilson nodded when Nick looked at him.

“Are you going to let her write it?” Nick asked.

“I am. Come on, we need to talk about it.”

Wilson turned and headed down the stairs and Nick Weeks followed. When they reached the newsroom, they saw Sam typing at her computer. She looked up at Wilson when she heard her name. He motioned her to his office. She didn’t bother to exchange glances with Nick when she entered Wilson’s office.

Wilson smiled and greeted Sam and said, “What have you got so far?”

“You can call it up on your screen, Wilson. The story is slugged drugs.”

Wilson motioned for Nick to close the door.

They stood behind Wilson as he called her story up on his terminal. Each scanned the headline:

Drugs Found in Police Chief’s Cruiser

Nick looked from Sam to Wilson. “Is this what you two have been discussing behind closed doors?”

“Part of it,” Wilson said, keeping his eyes fixed on the computer monitor. “We’ll fill you in as soon we look through Sam’s story.”

Their attention returned to the story:

“A Grandview city mechanic made an unexpected discovery late Wednesday while working on a police vehicle.

Five bags of a substance believed to be cocaine were found under the driver’s seat of the sedan, a Chevrolet Caprice, which is registered to Grandview Police Chief Wyatt Gilmore.

The city’s service shop mechanic found about 17.5 grams of the suspected powder that sources close to the investigation said was cocaine. The mechanic was working on the sedan when he made the discovery.

A street value for the drugs was not immediately known.

The neatly packaged bags had been stuffed under the driver’s seat, according to the source. The substance was discovered after the vehicle was sent to the shop for repairs.

Gilmore could not be reached for comment Thursday, but sources said the police chief had not driven the vehicle for at least the past two weeks.

The source said Grandview Police Comdr. Jonathan Church had been driving the car. Church was also unavailable for comment Thursday.

The drugs were taken to the police department’s property and evidence vault, where they will be destroyed …”

When they finished, Wilson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his index finger over his lips.

“Good story so far, Sam,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, modestly receiving his praise.

Nick Weeks agreed, surprising Sam when he concurred with Wilson.

“How do you want to play it, Wilson?” Nick asked.

Wilson thought a moment, giving them time to settle in the chairs facing his desk. He looked at them over his reading glasses.

“Once this story is out, the dailies will be on it,” Wilson said.

Sam’s rival at the Post came to her mind. She spoke up quickly. “The last thing I want is for W. Robert Simmons to get the rest of the story before I do. I can’t let that happen”

“We don’t either, Sam,” Wilson said. “When your story comes out tomorrow we’ve got to be ready to go with the rest of the story by next Friday or else it will be too late.”

Wilson tossed his reading glasses on the desk and his gaze drifted from Nick to Sam, settling on her. “Can you do it?”

A sudden tightness in her chest constricted her breathing. She closed her eyes. She wanted to make a fist and center it between her breasts and apply force, but she wouldn’t do it in front of Nick. He would see it as another sign of weakness.

“Sam, are you all right?” Wilson asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Nick rolled his eyes. “No offense, Sam,” he said looking from her to Wilson, “But she’s not the right reporter for the story. The police department isn’t her beat. David Best has been working this beat since he started here. It should be his story. He’s got sources the
Post
doesn’t have.”

Wilson shook his head. “If it hadn’t been for Sam, there wouldn’t be a story. She started with it and she’ll finish.”

Wilson stared at Sam intently. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. The tightness had been replaced by anger at Nick Weeks.
Offense taken, you bastard.

Sam straightened herself in the chair and said, “I’m fine. You’ll have the story by next Friday, Wilson.”

Wilson smiled and nodded at Sam, then directed his attention to Nick. “Put it on the Web site first and play it up big for the paper. Play the story above the fold on the top right-hand corner of the front page of the paper.”

Nick Weeks nodded. “Anything else?”

“No,” Wilson said.

Nick left without comment. When they were alone, Sam looked at Wilson.

“He hates me,” she said flatly.

“Don’t worry about what he thinks, Sam. Just do what you have to do.”

Sam nodded as she smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the fabric of her slacks.

“Sam.”

She looked up into his eyes. They were full of regard for her. She sensed his concern and made a small laugh. “I know what you’re thinking Wilson, so ask.”

“How long has it been since your last drink?”

“It’s no record of time by any means,” she said solemnly. “But I haven’t touched a drop since the night at Tim’s Place.”

“A little over a week.”

Sam nodded, feeling a sense of satisfaction, however small.

“I want to see you succeed at this, Sam,” Wilson said. “I want to help you in any way I can. The offer still stands. Any time you need help, and I mean it. Including getting threatening text messages in the middle of the night.”

Sam smiled and felt a small sense of relief that someone cared. She studied Wilson’s face. The level of his regard remained.

“I’ll find out everything that Robin knew. I don’t give a damn how many threats I get.”

By 5:30 p.m. Sam had filed the rest of her story. She waited and watched over Nick’s shoulder as he formatted the story for the Web. “This should get their attention,” he said, as he posted the story to the newspaper’s website.

Sam gathered the rest of her things and left the office. The tightness in her chest since the meeting in Wilson’s office had persisted. She knew why it was there. She was preparing herself for the coming evening. Her sense of triumph with her story had faded as she stood on Jonathan’s doorstep ringing the bell to a place where she had once lived. He answered the door. They eyed each other as she stood in the small circle of wan light cast by the porch light.

“Can I come in?” she asked, feeling the cold night air swirling around her ankles.

He stood to one side allowing her to enter. He had already built a fire and she could smell the inviting, safe scent of burning wood. Jonathan’s abruptness made that feeling vanish. They were in the foyer when Jonathan said without preamble, “I understand from your message today that there’s going to be a story in tomorrow’s paper.”

She set the bag that held April’s birthday presents beside her on the floor and removed her coat. She took note that she hung it on the coat rack reserved for guests and sadness seeped through her.