Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (27 page)

D
espite the discord in the newsroom, or maybe because of it, Bryce insisted that the Mall of America wedding coverage proceed as planned. “Viewers need some upbeat news. There’s been too much blood on our air.”

That meant Scott would have to broadcast live on location for the ceremony even though he’d lost his exuberance for the story as well as his line in the film. Nicole was assigned to wait outside with a photographer and report on any same-sex marriage protests.

As long as I didn’t have to cover the event, I didn’t care.

With our news hole filled with bridal fluff, there was no pressure on me to chase down real stories, so I retreated to my office pretending to organize my files regarding Lisa, Akume, and Jack so they could be sent down to the station basement for storage.

What I was really doing was reliving the drama of the last forty-eight hours and despising myself for not having prevented Lisa’s death.

I used to think the key to my success as a journalist was seeing the world clearly a couple of seconds faster than everyone else. That was enough to give me an edge on the street and on the screen. But clearly, I was mistaken about my talent. As proof, Lisa’s death scene played out, over and over, in slow motion whenever I shut my eyes. I wished I could shut my ears because I kept imagining her screams after she ignited herself.

Della was right. As much as you might want to, there are some things you can’t unknow.

This was my worst Valentine’s Day ever. Head on my desk, I hungered for the sleep that would not come to my bed. The sound of a ringing phone took me out of my lethargy. It was Ozzie. “I’m in Bryce’s office. He wants you here immediately.”

I didn’t hesitate, figuring news must be breaking. Both men were upset, and Ozzie looked pale. Miles, our attorney, was right behind me, having also been summoned.

“Shut the door,” Bryce said.

“I just got an anonymous call that there’s a bomb at the Mall of America,” Ozzie said. “Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The phone number was blocked.”

“I think we have to assume it’s related to the wedding,” I said. “There’s plenty of people who have reasons to want it stopped. Could be a jilted lover. Or someone opposed to even the idea of gay marriage being portrayed in a film.”

“We need to contact the police immediately,” Miles said. “This is their problem, not ours.”

“You mean dial 9-1-1?” Ozzie asked.

“Let me try someone faster.” I called Garnett’s cell phone. “The director of mall security.” He’d be busy, and I wasn’t even sure he’d answer after our last encounter at Stella’s. Perhaps he’d be curious when he saw my number. Pick up. Pick up. I begged silently. Please, Nick.

And he did, even sounding sympathetic. “I realize you’re probably a mess right now, Riley, after that funeral home business, but seriously, this isn’t a good time to talk. I’ll call you later. I promise.”

“The timing is worse than you think.” I quickly briefed him on the threat situation and explained that I was putting him on speaker with my boss and the station lawyer.

“We get numerous bomb threats,” Garnett said. “That’s why we constantly make rounds with explosive-sniffing dogs and
watch for suspicious packages. Our K-9 team hasn’t signaled any alerts. And we can’t close down the mall every time someone makes a wild phone call, or we’d never be open for business.”

“So you don’t consider this a credible threat?” I asked.

“We will certainly share your information with Bloomington Police, but we’re already at our highest level of security because of the wedding film, and without any specifics, we’re not inclined to change our mode of operation.”

There were other things I wanted to ask him and other things he probably wanted to say, but we both kept our conversation professional because of the other parties listening. He thanked me and I thanked him, while fearing it was a formality on both ends.

“So, air or not air?” Bryce asked.

I didn’t want responsibility for the decision, so I kept quiet and let the station management hash it out.

“I vote no air,” said Ozzie. “If the bomb is a hoax, we look stupid. If there is an explosion, we can say we informed authorities, and took our cues from them.”

“We have fulfilled our duty as citizens,” Miles said. “You decide whether we have a duty to viewers.”

“All right, no air,” Bryce said. “But, Riley, I want you to head out to the mall in case something happens.”

“You want me there if the place gets bombed? Am I that disposable?”

“We’ve already decided this is a long shot,” he said. “If we thought the threat was legitimate, we’d air it. I think the caller is trying to use us to cause a panic, but I’d feel better with another set of eyes on the ground.”

“Should we tell Scott and Nicole?” Ozzie asked.

“No,” said Bryce. “I don’t want them distracted from their assignments.”

“But shouldn’t we let them know there’s a chance of danger?” I asked.

“You heard the man,” he answered. “Not credible.”

I knew it was nothing personal; we were all replaceable under Bryce’s business model. But that still didn’t make me feel any better heading to the Mall of America. Under orders to get there pronto, and knowing the mall parking ramp would be full, I hailed a cab from the hotel across the street and handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill.

E
xplosive-sniffing dogs and their K-9 trainers paced around the mall rotunda, sticking their noses in wedding gowns to rule out a bomb being smuggled by a bride. From my point of view overhead, it was a comical sight.

I couldn’t get through the security line or close to the action without a filming pass or special media credentials for the wedding. I had to be content with sticking my head around the shoulders of other onlookers on the third-floor balcony.

The film crew was positioning the extras below in a sea of black and white. I didn’t see Rachel or Ricky, but figured they’d be escorted in by bodyguards at the last minute. An elderly couple was admonishing me to stop pushing, when I recognized someone below who stuck out because he wasn’t complying with the tuxedo dress code.

He jerked his head around, like he was afraid someone was watching him. His hand was in a briefcase as if hiding something. Just the kind of behavior mall security staff might deem suspicious and worthy of a security interview. And then I realized the bomb call contained a clue.

I tried to keep an eye on him, but he disappeared into a crowd waiting near the elevator.

I called Garnett, just in case my hunch was right, but this time he didn’t answer his phone. With so many people calling, taking
photos and sending text messages at the same time, I wasn’t sure my call was even going through. Sometimes during stadium concerts or sporting events, the cell network gets jammed by all the activity.

Down the hall, the Chapel of Love was open for business, and a rack of designer wedding gowns beckoned me with an idea of how to get past mall security and into the filming perimeter.

White was the new camouflage.

My own wedding dress had been short, cheap, and polyester, bought on the fly in Vegas for a whirlwind ceremony now too painful to remember. I’d never had the princess wedding most little girls dream about, but this was not the time to search for the perfect gown.

I dashed toward the dresses on display at the bridal shop. All were floor length with unique features and challenges. I disregarded a mermaid-shaped one because it looked too tight to run fast. Another had a long train that might get caught on an escalator. Fear of a wardrobe malfunction made me rule out strapless designs.

A saleswoman offered me professional assistance. “What season is your wedding?”

“I need a dress now,” I told her. “Today. Right this very minute. No time for alterations or questions.” I handed her my credit card to prove I was serious. “Something that will fit well enough.”

She sized me up. “How about this?” She held out a scoop-necked design with a silver belt and black floral beading in diagonal rows throughout the skirt.

“Too distinctive,” I said. “I need all white. With easy movement.”

“This might work.” The dress had a tight bodice with a wide ball gown.

I was about to say fine, when I noticed the back had a corset
closure. “That’ll take too long to put on. I want a plain zipper.”

She pulled out a halter top with an A-line skirt. “The sweetheart neckline is flattering on most figures.”

“Where’s the changing room?”

My clothes fell to the floor as I disrobed. I reached behind to unhook my bra. Stripped down to a pair of nude panties, I stepped into the silky disguise, and struggled to fasten the back.

The woman knocked softly. “Need any help in there?”

I opened the door and turned around. “Zip me.”

Fifteen seconds later, I looked beautiful, except for my frizzy hair. I wished my mom could see me. I considered texting her a photo, but time was too precious. I was on a mission.

“Just ring me up,” I told the saleswoman as she was explaining the store’s no-return policy regarding wedding gowns. “Oh, and I’ll also take this garter.”

I slipped a wide vintage lace one over my thigh, making sure it was snug enough to hold my cell phone in place since my dress had no pockets. It did have a built-in brassiere with enough give to hide my wallet. I’d seen what could happen when identification went missing.

The clerk tried to up-sell me a bridal headpiece and I was about to decline when an idea hit. “Anything that might cover my face?”

She reached for a floral lace hair comb and tucked my locks behind my ears. “This one has a face veil attached.”

The French netting covered my eyes and nose, but didn’t obscure my vision. It actually looked quite romantic.

“How about shoes?” The clerk suggested some white strappy heels with rhinestones.

“Nope. These will have to do.” I raised my skirt to show off a pair of worn brown loafers. The four-figure price on my credit
card receipt astounded me, but I signed anyway before racing out the door.

The saleswoman followed, shouting after me. “Miss, you forgot your clothes!”

“Keep them,” I yelled back.

I
had lost sight of my target while shopping for my dress. I moved from one escalator to another to reach the ground floor, apologizing as I cut in front of people who were holding shopping bags and small children. My costume worked, getting me past security and into the mall rotunda without warranting a second glance.

I was one bride among a hundred.

Then we heard some music coming from the indoor amusement park, but not any wedding song I recognized. Everybody watched as a young man in sweatpants and a T-shirt danced to a rap tune, arms waving in the air, his shoulders spasming to the beat. Ten seconds later, a dozen bystanders joined in, moving across benches and fences, legs kicking and hips swaying. One even jumped on the table of a coffee shop and spun around.

“It’s the Harlem Shake!” a groom shouted.

I had heard this Internet dance craze was sweeping schools, workplaces, and sports arenas. The giant wedding party started hip-hopping rhythmically while spectators cheered. I prayed Bryce wasn’t watching, or he’d make us tape a Channel 3 version on the new set to post online to be relatable to younger viewers.

The crowd parted as Rachel and Ricky made a grand entrance to the rap beat. While they mimicked the dancers, I saw the man I’d been pursuing and moved toward him, still suspicious.
I wasn’t sure if the timing of the music was spontaneous or choreographed, but it provided the distraction the man needed to pull something from his pocket and fling it onto the ground. A loud noise followed.

I tackled Scott before he could get far, but already smoke was billowing in the air. My dress ripped as we wrestled on the floor of the mall rotunda. He held the advantage of not having to roll around in a full skirt or worry about a wardrobe snafu, yet I managed to keep him from fleeing by holding on tight to his necktie until security staff separated us.

The smoke was actually fog and slowly dissipated as the source was identified as dry ice in a travel mug filled with hot water. Most of the crowd seemed unfazed by the commotion, figuring it was special effects from the film.

Scott recognized me when the veil netting fell off my head, and he tried to smack me in the nose. But this was one of those moments when I
did
see life faster and was able to dodge the brunt of the blow. His swing was enough to get him led away in handcuffs. By then the security camera operators downstairs had replayed the surveillance video and verified that Channel 3’s news anchor was behind the threatening incident.

Nick Garnett had heard about the commotion and arrived on the scene. He was more surprised than Scott to see me dressed to wed. “Hello, Riley. You look lovely.” He politely ignored the stains and tear in my dress, although he did slip me a handkerchief and mention that my arm was bleeding.

“So how did you wind up in the middle of this mess?” he asked.

“Remember the bomb call?” I dabbed the blood from my scalpel wound. “Ozzie said it rang up as a ‘blocked’ number. That means the caller phoned the assignment desk direct, rather than being transferred through the Channel 3 switchboard. Not too many folks other than station employees or media contacts have that number. When I noticed Scott acting odd, it fell together.”

“Heckuva job, Riley.”

“Are you being sarcastic or sincere?”

“I meant it.”

For a second, his eyes seemed to hint at something much more personal. Then the wedding march began to play with a slow crescendo. The ceremony was about to begin. All around us, brides and grooms smiled, held hands, and awaited their big moment.

I tried to retreat from the wedding mob, but Nick startled me by raising my hand to his lips and kissing my fingers. “That’s not all I meant. Riley Spartz, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“What? Hush, Nick. No jokes. These people are about to get married. Stunt or not, to them it’s real.”

“I know. And I want it to be our wedding, too. I’m tired of brooding over why we’re not together. Let’s end the drama right here right now and not let this moment pass us by.”