Front Page Fatality (9 page)

6.

And curiouser

I sipped my white chocolate mocha while I waited for Sorrel, recalling my first meeting with him. After I’d managed to get past my rookie jitters and through the interview about the biggest drug bust in department history, my first crack at covering cops had come out pretty good. Good enough, at least, to earn Sorrel’s respect and trust. And leave my mind racing, a half-dozen years and hundreds of stories later, through possible explanations for his peculiar call.

Just as I was digging in my bag for my Blackberry, I saw his unmarked cruiser turn into the lot. He pulled a briefcase out of the passenger seat and ambled toward the door. Mike was about as tall as I was, and twenty years of chasing bad guys kept him in good shape. He had broad shoulders, but a wiry build, and with his dark coloring and clean-shaven face, he cut a striking figure in his pressed chinos and camel-colored blazer.

I waved unobtrusively from my post in the corner. He picked up his coffee and sat down in the simple wooden chair across from me, pulling a file folder out of the handsome black leather case and pushing it across the shiny round table.

“We have missing evidence,” he said.

“Missing evidence?” I echoed as I reached for the file. “From where?”

I scanned the page on top and gasped, casting a quick glance around and ducking my head even though no one was paying attention to us. I looked at Mike, my eyes wide.

“The drugs and the money? How the hell does that even happen?”

He shrugged. “I wish I could tell you.”

I turned back to the file. Between my two murdered drug dealers, the police department had confiscated nearly four hundred thousand dollars in cash and a veritable truckload of various narcotics, the last of which had been cataloged on Friday afternoon. It should’ve stayed in the PD’s evidence lock-up until after the killer’s trial, when the drugs would have been incinerated in a sealed steel drum, and the cash given to the city to subsidize the cost of the narcotics unit. But that morning when Mike went down to look at one of the prescription bottles from the second murder scene, he’d discovered it was all gone.

“Did someone break into the evidence locker over the weekend?” I asked the obvious question first, but I knew I would’ve already heard about it if that were true.

Mike shook his head. “No. This thief had clearance. A cop, or someone from the CA’s office, maybe.”

In Virginia, prosecutors are known as commonwealth’s attorneys instead of district attorneys, a quirk I’d finally gotten used to.

I nodded as I scribbled, and he continued.

“There was no sign of forced entry.”

My mind colored some of those blank pieces in my drug dealer puzzle with stolen evidence and the possibility of crooked cops. Hot damn. Talk about a sexy news story.

“Are you sure, Mike?” I exploded in a loud whisper. “That’s…wow.”

He just nodded.

“How much can I have on the record?”

“That depends on how you feel about using unnamed sources. I don’t want it attributed to me, at least not now. If it’s someone in the department, it could get ugly.”

I flipped through the file and nodded. “This corroborates what you said. I have no problem citing it as ‘a police department source.’ ”

I paused and studied him for a minute, taking a longer drink of my cooling latte.

“This is huge. And it’s not going to make the department look so good,” I said. Mike was nothing if not loyal. “I’m grateful to be sitting here, but why bring me this? Why not keep it quiet?”

He exhaled slowly and toyed with his keys. “Because this is just flat-ass wrong, any way you look at it,” he said finally. “You’re my insurance it’s not going to disappear. While I don’t relish the idea of the department being dragged through the mud, I also know if I don’t say something, this may never go anywhere. It happens. Shit like this goes on and it just gets swept under the rug. I love my job, Nichelle, but I hate how I’ve felt about it the past couple of hours. I’ve known some of the guys I work with for more than twenty years, and now I’m looking at everyone like they’re a suspect.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a cop,” I offered. “Didn’t you say something about the CA’s office?”

“If they can tie it to a lawyer, they will. Keeping the department’s collective halo shiny is priority one.” He tapped the file. “The only prosecutor who signed in this weekend came in yesterday afternoon. The major crimes unit is picking him up for questioning, but if someone’s going to steal evidence, they probably wouldn’t sign the log at the desk.”

“Doesn’t everyone have to do that?”

“I don’t,” Mike said. “Anyone my rank or better can go in and out at will. Since we go in the most, it simplifies the record keeping.”

“Was there anything else missing?”

“I don’t know. The inventory will take a while. A few days at least.”

I nodded. “Did you talk to internal affairs?”

“Yeah, right before I called you. I’ve never done that before. I feel like I’m tattling to the teacher on the playground.”

I jotted a note to call the captain of internal affairs, wondering if he’d tell me anything. A lock of hair escaped the clip at the nape of my neck, and I pushed it behind my ear as I looked back up at Mike and reached for the file folder. “Can I take this with me?”

“What the hell?” He pushed it toward me. “If I’m going to risk my badge to get a story in the newspaper, I might as well not half-ass it.”

“What’s the use in that?” I winked. “I’ll keep it safe.”

“Make sure you keep you safe, too.” Mike drummed his fingers on the table. “You read about this happening in other places, but you never think it will happen in your own backyard. I want you guys to blast this all over the front page. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It’ll force the brass to figure out who did it and fire their sorry ass. But be careful. If this was a cop, they’re into something very serious. Something they could go to prison for. And going to prison is pretty much every cop’s worst nightmare.”

The solemn look in his dark eyes sent such a chill through me, I actually shivered.

“I’m not trying to scare you. But you should know what you’re getting into.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised, shoving the folder and my notebook into my bag and hooking it over my shoulder as I stood. “Thanks, Mike. I appreciate the call. I definitely owe you one.”

“I guess that depends on how you look at it,” he said, picking up his briefcase and moving toward the door. “You get a headline, I get to sleep at night. Win-win. But remember this next time you’re bugging me about something I don’t want to tell you, huh?”

“I’m sure I won’t,” I said as I walked through the door he held open. “But you’ll remind me.”

The thought of an exclusive put a bounce in my step as I crossed the parking lot, already stringing my lead together in my head. Mike had his pick of reporters to meet with that morning, but he called me. Boy, was Charlie going to be pissed. The rush of warmth at the thought wasn’t even iced over by the memory of his parting words.

Kicking the door of the car open before I’d even put it in park when I got back to work, I made a beeline for Bob’s office, stopping short and grumbling when his door was closed. Bob’s door was never closed, and this was a hell of an irritating time for it to be that way. I went to my desk to wait, figuring maybe I could get more information before I talked to him.

My only experience with Captain Simmons at internal affairs had been pleasant enough, but it had also been a relatively minor case of an officer being arrested for drunk driving, so I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I’d get when I dialed police headquarters and asked for him.

Voicemail. I rattled off a quick message with my deadline time and a plea for him to return my call, which I wasn’t at all sure he’d do. But I’d tried. If he didn’t call back, I could stick a “didn’t return a call seeking comment” into my story.

I blew a raspberry at nothing in particular as I put the phone down and picked up my pen, tapping it on the desk. So many questions. And answers had been hard to come by lately. I was beginning to miss the simplicity of Barbie and Ken and the gruesome homicide trial.

Popping halfway to my feet, I looked at Bob’s door. Open. I grabbed my folders, half-running to his office.

“Chief? Did you get my message? Wait ’til you hear what I’ve got!”

“I didn’t have time to check my messages this morning,” he said, his bushy brows knit together in a glare that would’ve been scary any other day. “I had a meeting. That you didn’t bother to show up for. The staff meeting is mandatory for the crime reporter, Nichelle. You know that.”

“But I did call,” I protested. “I had an interview, and you’re going to be glad I went. I’ve got an honest-to-God exclusive. And it’s fabulous.” I took a deep breath and launched into the story. I may not have inhaled again before I finished.

Bob leaned forward in his seat. The more I talked, the faster he nodded, and though his brow furrowed when I got to the part where “my source” warned me to be careful, he certainly didn’t look pissed anymore by the time I sat back in my chair and grinned.

“So, what do you think? It’s great, right? And no one else will have it.”

“Holy shit, kid. Nice work. But slow down. How much do you trust your source?”

“Implicitly. I have a copy of the file on the missing evidence right here, and I already called internal affairs. Maybe they’ll give me confirmation.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Bob said, opening the file as soon as I handed it to him. “But this looks pretty solid. And it’s damned fabulous, all right. You’re sure no one else has it?”

“No one,” I said. “My source assured me I was the only reporter he talked to.”

“Then we’ll hold the web version for morning and release it when the papers hit the racks,” he said, his face wrinkling up in a grin. “I need it by three. Legal will want to check it, I’m sure.”

I nodded and started to get to my feet.

“One more thing,” he said. 

I stared at him blankly. What? I had solid information. It was a huge story. I eyed the Pulitzer on his wall again. Most of the time I wasn’t terribly interested in contests or awards for my work. But that one was different.

“Nicey,” Bob spoke slowly and his expression was serious. “You’re a good reporter, but you’re young. I know the only way for you to get experience is to go get the story, but watch yourself. If you’re dealing with crooked cops, then everyone you talk to at the PD is a suspect. I want the story. It’s a great story. But you just mind how you handle yourself.”

“There’s no reason for you to worry.” I smiled my most reassuring smile. “Really. My guy was being a little dramatic.”

“I’m not convinced of that.” Bob gave me an age-begets-wisdom look. “There are dangerous people out there, kid. You might not want to think about the things they’re capable of doing, but they can be pretty horrible.”

I held his gaze. He wanted the exclusive, and I didn’t want some misguided concern for me to trump that desire.

I looked back at the Pulitzer. I knew he had won enough awards in his career to fill a good-sized closet, which was where I suspected the rest of them lived.

“Why do you keep that on the wall in here?” I asked him, gesturing to the frame.

“The Pulitzer?” He looked confused. “Well, because it’s the one I’m the most proud of. I think I actually did something special to earn it.”

“Why?”

“Because that series was great,” he said softly. “There were civil rights activists who said my stories helped heal wounds that festered here for more than a century. I’m still quite proud of that.”

“Didn’t you tell me the KKK threatened you while you worked on that series?”

Bob’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“Nicey.” He sighed. “This is different.”

“Why? Because you don’t mind putting yourself in danger, or because I’m a woman?”

He flinched.

“That’s not fair,” he said. “It was a different situation. The crackpots I dealt with weren’t armed public officials who stood to lose everything because of what I was writing.”

“But they threatened your life,” I pressed. “No one has done that to me, and besides, I’ve already called internal affairs, so it’s not like my source is the only person at the PD who knows I know about this.”

Bob was quiet for a long moment, bending his head and massaging both temples. He took a deep breath before he looked up.

“It is one hell of a sexy lead, isn’t it? Go get it. Just be careful. And get it to me by three in case it needs shoring up.”

I leaped out of my chair and managed to resist the impulse to pump my fist in the air. Grinning instead, I pushed Mike’s warning to the back of my mind and locked it there.

“You’ll have it,” I said. “This is going to be huge, Bob. I can feel it.”

“Three o’clock,” he repeated.

“Not a second past,” I promised over my shoulder, already on my way back to my desk to see if Captain Simmons returned my call.

Sprinting the last few steps, I grabbed the ringing phone, my breathlessness more from excitement than exertion.

“Hi, sweetie, I’m sorry to call you at work.” My mom’s voice deflated my enthusiasm. “You didn’t call me this weekend. Is everything all right?”

“Mom?” I hastened to cover up the disappointment in my tone. “Hey! How are you?”

“I’m fine. Tired. But fine. You don’t sound happy to hear from me. Are you very busy today?”

“I am, but I have a minute. I’m waiting for a call, though, so if I hang up on you, don’t take it personally.”

“Noted,” she said with a laugh. “What are you working on? There was something yesterday about a boating accident over the weekend? I didn’t read it yet, but it looked like a sad story.”

“It is. The guys who died were all my age or younger. Not a fun weekend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I was at the accident scene until ridiculous-thirty on Friday night, and then back here all day Saturday, and I stayed home with Darcy and tried to relax yesterday.”

“I see.” Her tone brightened. “Speaking of relaxing, I went to the pool for the first time in years yesterday, and guess who I bumped into?”

“A handsome doctor who swept you off your flip flops?”

“Not quite.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “But I did have a nice chat with Rhonda Miller.”

“Aw, really?” It was entirely possible that I missed Kyle’s family more than I actually missed him. His parents were among the sweetest people I’d ever met. “How is she?”

“She’s doing really well. And so is Kyle. He’s somewhere up there, actually. She said he followed his dad into law enforcement and he’s in Virginia working on a case.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said, tapping a pen on the desk and wondering how to steer the conversation away from my old boyfriend before she asked me to look him up. There were a variety of reasons why I had no interest in doing that, none of which I wanted to discuss right then. “Small world. Hey, Jenna says to tell you hello.”

“Wow, that might be the worst segue ever,” she said. “But all right. I won’t push it. Just wanted you to know. Give Jenna my love. How is she?”

“She’s great. Carson isn’t nursing anymore, so she had her first margaritas in two years at girls’ night Friday. Then she went with me to the accident scene at the river, which she was very excited about until we got there and she got an eyeful of why reporting isn’t always as much fun as it looks in the movies.”

“Ah.” My mother fell silent for a minute. “I can sympathize with that. I’m happy you love your job, but I don’t think I would care to see it for myself. I read your stories and I can’t imagine how you stand dealing with that day after day and stay off medication…”

She trailed off and when she spoke again she sounded slightly alarmed.

“Nicey, you’re not on medication, are you?” she asked.

“Not unless you count vitamins.” I laughed. “Contrary to popular belief, my job does not generally depress me. It’s usually pretty exciting. I have a story going out today I’m very excited about, in fact.”

“About what?”

“All sorts of intrigue at the police department this morning,” I said, refusing to elaborate any further. “You’ll have to read it like everyone else.”

“I gave you life, and you won’t even tell me what you’re working on,” she lamented. She sounded so convincingly pitiful, I almost felt bad, but then she laughed and I could picture the mischief flashing in her blue eyes.

“I love you, mom,” I said, my voice thickening slightly. Growing up the only child of an “I was an attachment parent before attachment parenting was cool” single mom made for a different dynamic. I missed her. And I lived in constant fear of her cancer returning. “Are you okay? Why are you tired?”

“I love you, too, kid. I’m fine. You stop worrying about me. I’m a pretty tough chick. I’ve just been busy at the shop, that’s all.” She’d expanded her flower shop into a one-stop wedding boutique after she’d recovered from the mastectomy. She loved it, which I found hilarious given that my mother’s opinion of marriage echoed the regard most women hold for sandals worn over socks: almost always good for a laugh and almost never a good idea. No wonder I had issues with my love life. “Have a better week. And call your mother more often.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I hung up the phone and shoved the stray lock of hair behind my ear again before I unfastened the clip and twisted all of my hair back up into it, my thoughts still on my mom.

The ringing phone jerked me back to the present. I picked it up and tilted my head to brace the receiver against my shoulder as I reached for a pen and paper with both hands.

“Miss Clarke, this is Don Simmons at the Richmond PD.” A smooth, deep voice came through the line and my pulse quickened.

“Captain! I won’t take up too much of your time today,” I said. “I’m working on a story about the missing evidence from the Southside dealer murders.”