Friday Edition, The (27 page)

“Sam, you didn’t misquote anyone,” she said directly. “In fact, the story is quite good.”

Debbie hesitated an agonizing moment before continuing. “It’s just that you had the name of the president of the company spelled wrong throughout the article and…”

When Debbie stopped talking, Sam spoke quickly.

“There’s more?” she asked with a sense of falling.

Debbie nodded apologetically. Before she continued, she cleared her throat.

“You had the name of the coffee company written wrong as well…”

Sam followed Debbie’s hand to where it mentioned the company.

“This here, ‘
Inc!’
when it should have been this, ‘
Ink!’,
” Debbie said and tapped the section twice with her index finger.

Debbie Wade picked up the press kit and slid it across the table toward Sam. She stared numbly at the packet, humiliated into silence. She didn’t want to look at the article for fear she would look directly into Debbie’s eyes.

“What happened, Sam?” Debbie asked.

Debbie’s voice was soft and yielding. When Sam finally did look up, she saw empathy in the woman’s eyes. Sam felt like an elementary school student receiving a scolding. She turned her attention to the pen in her hand, wishing the blinds were open.

“I don’t know,” Sam said feeling meek and small in her chair. “I thought I had the names right. You know, I always try to …” Sam’s voice fell away and she wondered what the implications would be, but was afraid to ask. She feared she already knew.

“The editor wants to have a talk with you,” Debbie said in benign softness.

Sam nodded involuntarily. She always felt that Debbie had a compassionate spot for her and she showed it now.

“Sam,” Debbie said speaking softly as though the walls had ears. “Do you know about the treatment program the company has to help its employees who are having problems with substance abuse?”

“I know,” Sam said trying not to sound as if her defenses were rising. “But it’s not for me because I don’t have a problem with alcohol, Debbie. Sure, I drink a little, but who doesn’t? Besides, I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve never gotten a DUI. And I’ve never wrecked my car.”

Sam did not share with Debbie what she was thinking to herself. She didn’t want Debbie Wade to know that when she drank, she felt she had a sense of self worth, and could communicate comfortably with others. That when she drank a little, she felt more socially and professionally adequate. She couldn’t tell Debbie that. Or anyone.

“Sam, this isn’t the first time we’ve had problems with your stories, or with your behavior here in the newsroom and consistently coming late, etc. Can you look at me and tell me that’s not true?”

Sam could not look at Debbie. She felt small as though she had been caught in a terrible lie.

“I care about you, Sam. The program’s good and I wish you’d check it out. I know several other employees who’ve gone through it. It’s helped them.” Debbie grew quiet and stared at Sam. “It’s helped them to keep their jobs.”

Sam attempted to form a small smile, but her lips remained pressed in a thin line.

“Are you saying that I have to go through a substance abuse program I really don’t need just so I can keep my job?”

Debbie sighed and settled back against her chair. She looked from Sam’s article to the reporter who had written the story. “Sam, look, I’m being honest with you and letting you know what’s coming. Yes, that’s what it means, basically. If you don’t get some help soon, you won’t have a job.”

Debbie leaned forward and crossed her hands over the newspaper article Sam had written.

“Sam, you’re an alcoholic and you need to get some help,” Debbie said trying earnestly to keep her voice collected and even.

Sam nodded, but heard nothing. She felt herself make her usual shift into denial. Absorbed by her own blind spots, she hardly noticed the white flash of humiliation, the red heat of rage, the cold wave of grief and surge of panic that consumed her.

She felt like a stranger in her own body, as though she were her shadow, removed, detached and watching from a distance the scene playing out before her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes until the moment passed. When she opened them, Debbie was looking at her. “I’m sorry, Debbie,” Sam said and got up from the chair. “The program’s not for me.” She walked to the door, opened it and left the office.
I’m not a drunk, goddammit.

Later that afternoon the editor of the
Denver Post
talked to Sam. It was her last day at the newspaper. They asked again if she would be willing to attend the substance abuse program, but she declined. Nearly a decade as a reporter at the
Denver Post
melted down before her in a single afternoon. She was thirty-two years old. She had hoped to stay at the
Post
for the duration of her career.

When Sam finished, Wilson nodded and said, “I know the story.”

“And you hired me anyway?” Sam asked, dismayed he knew.

“I hired you because you have a lot going for you, in your career and your life with your daughter. You know …”

He stopped, considering how to phrase his next sentence without putting words in her mouth, without pointing fingers, without accusations. “You know what’s stopping you,” he said softly.

Sam directed her attention to her coffee cup. When she looked at him, her eyes were glassy with tears. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I prom…”

Wilson held up his hand, stopping her from what he knew she was about to say. “Don’t promise me anything unless you know you’re going to keep it.”

Their eyes met. Hers were searching for answers. His seemed to have them.

“How is it you know how I feel?” she asked.

Wilson allowed a small smile to form. It was his opportunity to tell her about his own past, but he let the moment pass. He knew he would tell her someday, but not today.

“I guess there are some people who just know.”

She shrugged her shoulders, pursed her lips and tried to smile.

“I’ve got some sausage in the oven and omelets ready to go. I make the best Denver omelets. I know you probably don’t feel much like eating now, but a good breakfast will do you good,” Wilson said getting up from the table.

“Sounds wonderful,” she said. “Maybe I can eat a little.”

“Time has started to work against us,” Wilson said as they ate. “I got a call from Judie Rossetti Friday morning.”

Sam’s eyes widened in interest.

“She wanted to talk to you, but Anne said you were out. She said it was about Robin’s autopsy and Anne asked if I would talk to her.”

“What did she say?” Sam said leaning closer to the table.

“She said the
Post
reporter was poking around asking questions about Robin.”

“Simmons?”

He nodded. “Judie said it sounds like he’s still fishing. But we can’t afford too many more chances. I made a call to the Grandview PD and heard the same thing. Simmons has been snooping around there, too.”

“And I know Simmons,” Sam said feeling desperate. “It won’t take him long to find a story once he starts digging.”

“When people read this in the
Post
first, they won’t give a damn what we have to say about it two or three days or a week later,” Wilson said. “We have the flash drive thanks to Brady, but we can’t let up now. We need that story.”

Sam nodded. “Jonathan refused to say who ordered him to kill my…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence.

“I know,” Wilson said in an assuring voice.

Sam suddenly sat straight up in her chair, her eyes bright and full. He looked at her, his brow furrowed.

“What is it?” he asked.

Sam looked directly at him. He saw that determination and mastery had returned to those blue eyes.

“Roy Rogers,” she said. “That’s why Jonathan was ordered to murder Robin. She must have found out who he was. I am sure of it now.”

“Since Jonathan was part of the operation, he had no choice but to kill Robin,” Wilson said. “And this Roy Rogers won’t be wearing a white hat, whoever he is.”

Sam studied Wilson intently for a moment before she began to clear the dishes.

“I think I know just the person who can tell us who Roy Rogers is,” she said, her shape retreating from the kitchen table.

Basketball practice was almost over when Wilson and Sam arrived at Grandview High School. They had planned it as the best way to talk to Brady. They sat on the bleachers and watched Todd and the team finish the final minutes of practice. Todd knew they were coming, Wilson had called to explain why.

When practice was over Brady walked to the bleachers in front of Wilson and Sam. His hair was tousled, his face pink with exertion. “Todd said you guys wanted to see me,” Brady said looking from Sam to Wilson.

Sam patted the empty space beside her and Brady climbed the bleachers. “Do you feel better, Sam?” Brady asked.

She felt terrible at the moment, but the last thing she wanted to do was tell Brady why. She knew what he meant and she was recovering, slowly. She forced a smile and nodded. “I’m doing a lot better, thanks to you and Todd.”

She put her hand gently over Brady’s knee. “If it hadn’t been for you, I could’ve been a lot worse,” she said.

Brady smiled broadly and directed his attention to Wilson. “Brady, this is Wilson Cole,” Sam said extending a free hand in Wilson’s direction. “He’s the publisher of the newspaper where I work.”

Sam turned to Wilson and said, “Wilson, Brady Gilmore.”

Wilson gave him a quick nod of the head and said, “Hello, young man. We were watching you practice. You were doing a great job out there on the court.”

Brady beamed and sat straight up. “We’re undefeated so far,” Brady said.

Sam wasn’t sure if his smile could cover any more of his face. “We’re going to have to come and watch you play,” she said.

“Our next game is Saturday. Can you come? My dad comes, but not a lot. But that’s okay, ’cause I sometimes don’t like it when he comes, ’cause afterwards on the way home, he always yells at me and tells me all the stupid stuff I did.”

Sam cringed, remembering countless times Robin had told her how Wyatt had scolded Brady for his mistakes on the court. “If that’s an invitation, Brady, I accept,” Sam said.

“Does that go for me, too?” Wilson asked.

Brady’s face lit up again. “Yep.”

There was a moment of silence as Sam considered how to phrase her question. She crossed her arms in an effort to ease the tightness in her stomach. “Brady, do you remember …” When she looked into his eyes, her voice faded. They were filled with an innocence that melted her. She swallowed hard. “Brady, do you remember you tried to tell me something the night you and Todd brought me to my apartment after you found me in the parking lot?”

Brady nodded.

“Do you remember what you told me?”

Again he nodded.

“What did you tell me?”

Brady began to fidget slightly with his fingers. He couldn’t look at anyone when he spoke. “I said, ‘my dad has a bank account.’”

“Where is that account, Brady?” Sam asked.

“Robin was the only person who knows that. I don’t know if I can tell anyone else. Robin promised me to keep it a secret,” Brady said.

“Remember the night last week when we were at city hall and you showed me all that information on the computer?” Sam asked.

Brady nodded and smiled proudly that he could help.

“You could help us now the same way,” she said. “Where’s the account?”

“At a bank,” Brady replied.

“What’s the name of the bank, Brady?” Wilson asked patiently.

“Grandview National Bank.”

“And the account is under your father’s name, right, Brady?” he asked.

“No,” Brady replied simply.

Sam looked at him, her eyes registering no emotion. He said what she had expected him to say. “Whose name is it under?” she asked.

“It’s like a secret code name,” Brady said.

“A secret code name,” Wilson responded looking from Brady to Sam.

There was a collective silence before Wilson reached the conclusion that Sam already suspected. “Roy Rogers,” they said jointly.

Brady looked surprised. “Yeah,” he said brightly. “How’d you guys know?”

“We didn’t know for sure, Brady,” Sam said. “That’s why we came to you. We knew you’d know. And we had to hear it from you.”

“Are you sure Roy Rogers is the name your father listed on his account?” Sam asked.

Brady nodded. “My dad’s a cool guy, but Roy Rogers isn’t,” he said and kept his head downcast.

“Why is Roy Rogers a bad person, Brady? Is it because he hurt Robin?” Sam asked, pushing him along gently.

Brady nodded, keeping his eyes downcast.

“How do you know that?” Wilson asked.

“One night I was delivering mail kinda late. It was after that one holiday.”

“Martin Luther King,” Wilson said.

Brady nodded and continued, “I heard these two guys talking in one of the offices. I didn’t know who one of them was, but I knew the other one.”

“Did that voice belong to Roy Rogers?” Sam asked.

Brady shook his head and looked directly at Sam.

“It was Jonathan,” he said.

Sam worked to maintain her composure as she pressed on. “What did you hear that night?”

“Something was found under the seat of a police car and I heard Jonathan say that Roy wasn’t happy about it,” Brady said.

“That must’ve been when they found the drugs,” Wilson said looking at Sam.

She nodded, “Go on, Brady.”

“Roy ordered them guys to hurt Robin.”

“So your father ordered someone to hurt Robin?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why the name Roy Rogers, Brady?” Wilson asked.

Brady shrugged his shoulders, looking forlorn. “I dunno. I know it used to be my dad’s favorite show when he was little and, when I was little he used to pretend to be Roy Rogers and make me laugh. He said Roy Rogers was always the good guy and always got the bad guy.”

Sam looked at Wilson.

“Just before Jonathan left Tuesday night, he said if I ever found out who Roy Rogers was, we’d have our man,” she said. She felt like her insides were melting and she wanted to scream. She looked at Brady. The brightness in his eyes earlier had vanished. They seemed dull, empty and sad.

“Brady, I’m sorry you had to hear this,” Sam said. “But it’s important you say nothing to your father about this. I know it’ll be hard not to act any differently, but can you do that for the next few days?”

Brady shrugged as if to say that’s nothing. “I’ve been doin’ that since I heard Jonathan talking to that other guy that night. I can still do it. He hurt Robin and I don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

“You’re a good kid, Brady,” Wilson said. “Just hang in there a little longer.”

“Shall we get out of here?” Todd asked, who had finished putting the basketballs away following practice and had joined them at the bleachers.

They walked out of the high school in silence. Once outside, Brady noticed Wilson’s Honda.

“You have a cool license plate, Mr. Cole.”

“You can call me Wilson, Brady and thanks. I’ve had that plate about 15 years.”

“What does it mean?” Brady asked.

By now they had reached Todd’s truck.

“Well it’s a long story,” Wilson said. “But remind me and I’ll tell you about it someday.”

Wilson and Sam waved to Brady and Todd as he started the truck and drove out of the parking lot. The mood in Wilson’s Honda was somber. Sam stared blankly out the window as they waited in silence for the car to warm. She kept her attention on the spot where she woke the night Brady and Todd found her. Wilson pulled her from her thoughts. “This is the first time I can ever remember having to break a big story and being really sorry about it,” he said. “We’re about to expose Brady’s father, a well-liked police chief, as a murderer and the leader of a drug smuggling operation.”

Sam looked at him and nodded numbly.

“Take me home,” she said.