Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (22 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

I printed out all the pages of calls, closed out of all the open windows, and almost knocked the desk over as I got up.

My flurry of activity had caught Freddie’s attention, and he got up and came toward me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just totally forgot I have that interview at ten in Midtown,” I said.

“What inter—” He saw my eyes widen, and he got the message. “Oh, okay, I can get you back in time.”

“Jen,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us do this. It was a huge help.”

“Did you find what you needed to know about Buck McConnell?” she asked with a slight smile.

I stared at her and was speechless for a moment, which is a pretty rare occurrence.

She looked up at me with innocence and just a touch of knowing in her eyes. “Mike said he had something that could ‘take that bastard out.’”

I smiled at her. She had been onto us the whole time, and while I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Barnes and McConnell, it was clear she knew something.

I thanked her again and headed for the door, leaving Freddie to say good-bye. A minute later he was next to me, and we walked out into the bright sunshine.

“What the hell you got?” he asked.

“Marty is—”

There was the screech of tires and the sound of a vehicle accelerating. We looked to our left and down Water Street the white van was speeding toward us with the window on the passenger’s side down.

“Back inside,” Freddie yelled as the van flew closer.

I turned, grabbed the doorknob, and pushed in with my shoulder; Freddie tumbled in behind me. We crashed to the floor, and the door swung closed behind us as two loud blasts sounded. I heard a dull thud as a bullet caught wood around the door. The gravel out front crunched, and I heard it ping off the Jeep as the van sped away.

Jen screamed, and Freddie scrambled across the room, crouching down and staying low. Tires screeched outside, and I pictured the van turning around to take another crack at us.

“Mike kept a pistol in the bottom desk drawer,” Jen yelled.

I looked back across the room. “Really?” I asked.

“Get the freaking thing,” Freddie yelled.

Outside it was quiet. I was closer to the door than the desk, so I decided to take a peek. I stood up nice and slow by the window to the right of the door. I stayed to the side of the window and moved a little bit at a time until I could see outside.

The van was gone.

Chapter Fifty-Six

“I’m really getting tired of living like this,” I said.

We were driving back into the city, coming down I-95, and passing Larchmont.

“Me, too,” Freddie said. “Having to be chauffeuring your ass all over the place: New York, New Jersey, Connecticut.”

“I was talking about this living-in-fear thing. Now I got to worry about violent painters.”

“I’m talking about driving your sorry ass all over the place. And I’m not thrilled with being shot at, either.”

“My big fear is eventually one of these guys is going to get it right and hit me,” I said.

“Might as well call myself Freddie’s Tristate Car Service. Specializing in driving around lame TV reporters who can’t put a damn story together, but endanger others while trying,” he said.

“I’m close,” I said.

“Better step on it, ’cause old Buck’s gonna be in the White House before you figure this all out.”

“Marty’s involved somehow,” I said.

“You told me that already. Didn’t tell me how,” Freddie said.

“Mid-July Barnes sends Jack an e-mail saying he has something on McConnell.”

“Saw Jack’s rant about McConnell’s crap overseas,” he said.

“Right. So, what does Jack do with the e-mail?”

“Like any good anchor he hands it to his producer and says, Follow up,” he said.

“Right. And Marty might have even been the one monitoring the viewer comments to begin with.”

“Either way, it’s on Marty to talk to Barnes,” he said.

“Yes. And less than two weeks later, Barnes is calling Marty.”

“They probably had some back and forth already,” he said. “Marty finding out what Barnes had, then telling Jack.”

“Probably, but Barnes cleared out his e-mails and there’s no trace of that. But let’s assume they talked or connected via e-mail between July 14 and July 26. Then the phone calls from Barnes to Marty heat up. Every couple of days right up to, and into, the night Jack went out.”

“Like they were arranging something,” Freddie said. “What time did Barnes call him that night?”

“Nine forty-seven.”

“That’s after the show,” he said.

“Yes. You’re quite good at this figuring-it-out thing,” I said.

“Someone’s got to be. We wait for you, we’ll have a coke dealer as president. Be inviting all kinds of riffraff over to the White House,” he said.

We were on the Bruckner now, and traffic was moving. The Midtown skyline was up ahead in the haze.

“So Jack’s show is over, and Barnes the environmentalist calls Marty,” I said.

“The big question is, why?” Freddie said.

“Don’t know.”

“You got a plan on how to find out?” he asked.

“Working on it,” I said. “Thinking about one even as we speak.”

“Means you got no plan.”

“How about you drive and I think.”

“Sure, Freddie’s Tristate Car Service,” he said.

“Known for its cheerful and friendly drivers. Exceptional service with a smile.”

“My ass.”

We crossed over the RFK Bridge and went down the FDR, got off at Forty-ninth Street and drove west toward Sixth Avenue.

“I got it,” I said.

“Uh-oh.”

“We think Marty knows more than he’s letting on about that night, right?”

“Now it looks like he be downright mixed up in it,” he said.

“Right, so what’s the best way to get the info we think he’s holding back?”

“Beat it out of him,” he said.

“Okay, the second-best way?”

“Beat it out of him,” he said.

“Last time I use Freddie’s Angry Rican Car Service.”

“Don’t make me kick your ass.”

“Here’s the plan. I lure Marty in by telling him all I know, never letting on that I wonder if he’s mixed up in this, and then boom, he lets his guard down and tells me something without even realizing it. Get it?”

“No,” Freddie said.

“Maybe I didn’t articulate that well.”

“Sounds like you’re going to tell Marty
everything
you know and hope he tells you
something
he knows,” he said.

“Yes. Look at that, you did understand it.”

“Dumb plan,” he said.

“You disapprove?”

“You going to show your hand—”

“Please, think of it as our hand. Take a little ownership in the plan. After all, you’ve been shot at, too.”

“Thanks for reminding me. So you going to show your hand to a guy who could possibly be mixed up in this and then just hope he gives you a little something back?” he asked.

“Yes, there you have it. You were paying attention.”

“You thought this out by any chance?” he asked.

“Meaning?”

“Hell, if Marty is involved, maybe he even pushed Jack in the river. Then what? You tell him everything you know, and then you going to stand there smiling, waiting for him to give you something in return?” he asked.

“I don’t know that I’ll be smiling.”

We sat in silence for a moment, until Freddie sighed and shook his head.

“Dumb-ass plan, is all I’m saying,” he said.

“Trust me,” I said. “I’m a skilled professional.”

“Damn good thing you don’t need to be licensed to be a reporter,” he said.

“Thank God for that, huh?”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

It was Monday morning just before noon and I was ready to talk to Glover. I got past security with the misplaced ID story and walked into the newsroom. I spotted him at his desk in the far corner, his head down as he pecked away at his keyboard. He looked up as I cut across the newsroom, and did a double take.

“I thought you were exiled,” he said as I got to his desk.

“I think I figured out what happened to Jack.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “I mean, I think I figured out who killed him.”

“Oh, please,” he said. “Not that again. You’re not still chasing that nutty thing for Robbie Steele, are you? I thought you gave that up.”

I looked around the newsroom. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. I’ll tell you what I found.”

Marty got up fast, or as fast as someone his size could, and suggested Steele’s office. A minute later we were upstairs and inside with the door closed. All of Jack’s belongings had been boxed up, and a stack of file-size boxes stood in the corner.

“Sam, listen, I’m worried about you. Seriously. Cal said you were really consumed by this thing and—”

“Marty, hear me out.”

“Cal said you’re blowing up your career with this,” he said.

“Marty, just listen,” I said.

He put up his hands like he was stopping traffic. “Okay, okay. I’ll listen. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t have this all locked down yet,” I said, “but here’s what I got.”

Marty took a seat on the couch, lowering himself down with great effort. I took a spot on the corner of the desk.

“I think Buck McConnell killed Jack,” I said.

“What on earth—”

“Or he may have had Jack killed.”

I let it sit there, and he waited to see if I was done. When he was satisfied that I was, he gave a little shake of his head as if he didn’t understand.

“You’re talking about the IT&E guy? Buck McConnell. The guy who’s about to run for president?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me, Sam, but I just don’t follow.”

“McConnell went to Harvard,” I said.

“Okay, so far.”

“I had a source tell me he was busted for coke, and not just for carrying. The guy was going to deal it out of his dorm room. He was about to launch a career as an Ivy League drug dealer, and guess what? He gets busted. But Daddy and his big Houston lawyers make it go away.”

He took it all in then said, “Let’s just pretend this is true.”

“It is.”

“And you think it’s something McConnell would kill Jack over?” he asked.

“Last time I checked, we hadn’t had a president who had attempted to go into the drug trade.”

“People are willing to forgive a lot of candidates, Sam,” he said.

“You think McConnell wants to chance that?”

“Maybe.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “He’s obsessed with the White House. Can’t have this get in his way.”

“And your … your theory … has Jack figuring this out?” he asked.

“Yes. He stumbled across it after he started reporting on IT&E back in July. I think someone saw his IT&E pieces and then e-mailed him with info.”

“Funny, he never said anything to me, and I was his executive producer,” he said.

I hesitated and said nothing for a moment, giving Glover a chance to backtrack. He passed.

“I’m not sure he had it all figured out, even up until that night,” I said. “Jack knew he was onto something, he just didn’t know how big it was.”

Marty was shaking his head like it was the craziest thing he had ever heard.

“Sam, I’m not sure where you got this from, but there’s no way this happened.”

“I tracked down a guy who I know was with McConnell that night in Cambridge,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Guy by the name of Michael Barnes. He apparently served time while McConnell—the guy whose idea the whole drug buy was—walked.”

I watched Glover for a reaction to Barnes, but all he did was shake his head and offer a shrug.

“The cops ruled Jack a suicide, right?” he asked.

“They were wrong,” I said.

“If you say so,” he said. “But what about the note? Seems to make it clear the pressure was too much.”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” I said. “But I will.”

“Sure you will,” he said.

“Marty, think about it. The man is the host of the number one-rated cable-news show in the country. He has a beautiful wife and more money than he could possibly spend.”

“Doesn’t make him happy,” he said. “I can attest to that.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t make him happy,” I said.

“But there’s something else,” I said. “Something that proves there is no way Jack killed himself.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to go on.

“Robbie is pregnant,” I said.

His face reddened and his eyes narrowed; he shook his head like he didn’t understand.

“She’s …”

“Pregnant,” I said. “She told me early on and asked me to keep it quiet.”

“Oh my …”

“She’s probably somewhere around three months is my guess,” I said.

“Jack had been talking about how they had been trying to …”

“She said he really wanted to be a father,” I said.

“He did.”

Glover closed his eyes, put his head back and rested it on the top of the couch, and exhaled. He rubbed his temples like it would help him find the answers he needed. After a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked at me.

“This is huge, Sam,” he said.

“No kidding.”

“Crap,” he said. “And I had dismissed all the IT&E stuff as just the usual pissed-off PR people, but maybe there was something there.”

“There was,” I said.

“You know, after we aired that first IT&E piece, I told Jack to be careful with these guys. The way they reacted, that little PR dweeb—”

“Ripley?”

“Yeah, that guy. He was nuts. Said Buck McConnell doesn’t forget who his enemies are in the media and always gets even,” he said.

“Nice,” I said.

“A real asshole,” he said.

“McConnell is a mean SOB,” I said. “But I don’t think Jack realized it. I don’t think he knew what he was onto. I think he went out that night to meet someone to get info on McConnell, and it was a setup.”

“He told me he was working a story, but I had no idea it had to do with McConnell or that …” Glover’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “It’s so pointless, Sam. I even remember telling Jack that night to call me if anything interesting came up.”

“But he never did?”

“No, I went down to Malloy’s for a drink after the show and never heard from him,” he said.

I looked at Marty and didn’t say anything.

“I’m sitting downstairs having a beer, and Jack is out there trying to work a story.” His eyes began to well up. “All he had to do was call and I could have gone with him,” he said.