If It Bleeds (3 page)

Did Brent's being there mean that Mike Webb had no faith in me? Or that the story was too big for someone as green as me? Whatever it was, when I saw Brent, I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Great,” I said. “Sergeant Itani is in charge.” I pointed to where the police officer appeared to be gathering her troops. “You'll want to get the lowdown, I guess.”

Brent looked at me closely, the pale blue of his eyes visible in the dim light. If he suspected my motives, I couldn't tell. But why would he? He wouldn't think party girl Nicole was a threat.

“Right,” he said. “Good. I'll go talk to her. You stay here—I'll be right back.”

I nodded, but he didn't see. He was already charging off toward the sergeant. I headed back inside the gallery.

I didn't have much time. It wouldn't take Brent long to get the little information that was available. My only hope was that Itani would stay too busy to talk to him for a while. That might buy me a little more time.

Inside the gallery, the crowd had thinned, and the people left stood in little clusters. Their voices were low and brittle and frightened. Word of Marsh's death had beat me inside.

Erica spotted me as I came in. Even she looked frightened. “Nicole,” she demanded as she came to meet me, “tell me what you saw.”

“Not now, Erica. I'm working on the story.” She looked as though she might reprimand me. Then thought better of it. “What can I do?” she said, surprising me.

“You've been in here the whole time, talking with people?”

She nodded.

“Did anyone seem odd to you?”

“No.” She seemed to think, then said again, “No. The girlfriend…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“Well, I guess I did think it strange that the girlfriend arrived late.”

“Which one is she?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed out a woman in her early thirties, standing apart. The young woman wasn't crying, but she had the air of someone who didn't know what to do with herself.

She should have been beautiful. She had perfect features and figure. She wore good clothes, and she wore them well. But though she was visibly upset, the expression that came most easily to her face was one of dissatisfaction.

“That's Caitlen,” Erica told me. “Caitlen Benton-Harris.” She looked at me expectantly. When I didn't bite, she prodded. “Her father isn't anyone, but the mother was of the department-store Bentons.”

I nodded. That clan I knew. Earlier generations had worked hard to build a little local shop into a big chain. Later generations hadn't done much besides spend the fortune their ancestors had made. The chain was gone now. All that was left was the name.

I approached the woman gently. “Caitlen,” I said. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

She looked me over. Her face asked how important I was. Not at all, it replied a single beat later.

“Thank you,” she said nicely enough, though she didn't offer me her hand.

“I'm Nicole Charles,” I told her. “With the
Vancouver Post
.”

“I know who you are,” she said coldly.

“Someone said you arrived late tonight.” As I said the words, I could feel what they might imply. Her face confirmed my fear.

“Excuse me?” she said sharply. The people nearest us turned at the sound. I fought the urge to melt into the concrete floor. This was what it meant to be a reporter, I told myself firmly. This was what I needed to do if I was going to get even a toehold in the story. I must ask the hard questions, even if it would be easier not to.

“The police are bound to ask,” I said quietly, stating the obvious. “I thought I'd head them off.”

“You people make me
sick
,” she said with venom. “You're like vultures. You're already here. Circling.”

“I found him,” I pointed out. “I was here. At the opening. You were not,” I pressed. “Where were you?”

“I can't believe this,” she cried. “I told you…”

I just looked at her. She hadn't told me anything.

“I told you…I don't have anything to say.” It didn't surprise me when she turned away. But when she kept going and left the gallery, I was surprised. Not only that she'd left, but that she'd been allowed to leave. I looked around quickly. The cops weren't inside yet. Someone would want to speak with Caitlen. But would they know to look for her?

I watched her go. There was nothing in her leaving I could write about. Not yet. But I'd remember her actions. If I played my cards right and kept one step ahead of Brent Hartigan, and if I showed Mike Webb I had what it took to do a story this big, I'd be writing about Steve Marsh's death for a long time. Maybe months.

I didn't have experience covering a murder, but I had a feeling. This was a story that would be retold many ways.

FIVE

A
s I've said, my office is on the fifth floor of the
Vancouver Post
building at the edge of the sea in downtown Vancouver. Even so, when I got back to the building around eleven that night, I had the elevator stop at the fourth floor.

The parking level had been deserted, as had the big marble-floored foyer when I'd swapped elevators to get up to the office level. I knew that had I gone to the fifth level, things would have been quiet there too. Some cleaning crew shuffling through their late-night labors. Maybe not even that.

On the fourth floor, things were different. The doors opened right onto the newsroom, and though it wasn't as hectic as it would have been during the day, the news doesn't stop at quitting time.

The noise level was less low. Still, it was an assault to my senses. When he looked up from his computer at the center of the bullpen, Mike Webb seemed surprised to see me.

“Nicole Charles,” I reminded him tentatively.

He grinned. “Stop telling me,” he said. “We did that already.”

“I know, but that was on the phone…I thought maybe in person…”

“I'm a newsman, Nic,” he said with a scowl. “It's my job to know who everyone is.”

“Okay,” I said, regarding him seriously.

His wide face broke into a grin, and he shook his head. “I'm
kidding
, Nicole. I'm sorry. It's late. We get a little punchy around here on deadline. I know a lot of people, but I don't know
everyone
. But I do know you. What I don't know is what you're doing here. I sent Hartigan down.”

“Yes, sir. I know. I saw Brent there. It's just that…well, I'd hoped that since I was the one that found the body, it could be my story.”

Mike looked at me thoughtfully. “You said something like that on the phone.”

I knew I wasn't likely to get much of an opening, so I took the teeny one I saw. “I realize you don't think of me as a reporter, Mr. Webb.”

“Mike,” he corrected. “And please don't call me ‘sir' again. It makes me feel like your dad.”

“Mike. Okay. But I
am
a reporter. That's what I trained to do.”

“How'd you get stuck there then?” he asked pleasantly. I realized it wasn't an insult, just what he saw as the natural order of things. There are news people. Then there are feature writers. Then there's me.

“I did my practicum under Philby Donner,” I said.

Mike nodded. “Homes section, right?” And, to his credit, he didn't say it with a sneer. There were others who wouldn't have been as generous. And we both knew why. A lot of real-estate reporting isn't much more than advertorial, covering this new condo development and that new home-care product. There might be the hint of hard news here and there, but you really have to dig to find it.

“Right,” I agreed. “Then Howard Enders died during my last week, and…”

“There you were.”

I shrugged. That was pretty much how it had gone. What I didn't need to say was that we both knew a green reporter fresh off her practicum after attending a community college would come cheaper than either a seasoned reporter or someone from a better school with hotter prospects. And in the newspaper business, the bottom line is never far from sight. They hadn't looked far to fill Howard's post because they hadn't needed to. I'd been sitting right there, not looking like I'd cause any trouble. And not expecting a hefty paycheck. At least, not right away.

Webb kicked back in his seat and looked up at me thoughtfully. He didn't speak right off. He considered his words. “What you're
really
saying is that you have no reporting experience. That you did the program at… where did you say you went to school?”

I hadn't said. “Delta College.”

He'd know the program—it was right outside the city. He'd probably even speak to a grad class every year or so. I couldn't imagine he'd hire anyone for his newsroom straight out of the program though. Not with his pick of graduates from four-year programs across the country each and every year.

“Nicole…sit down, will you?”

I perched nervously on the chair near his desk. I wasn't sure I liked the way this was going.

“Look,” he said, “from what you told me, this may well end up being one of our top stories of the year. Of the
year
. Now, I respect why you feel it's your story. You found the guy. On your watch—you were covering his event, right? But there's no way I can turn you loose on this one by yourself. You're just too green. Hell, you're not
even
green. You've never actually worked on a real murder case, am I right?”

I managed a sort of nod/shrug. I would have liked to deny it, but what he said was true.

“Now, Hartigan has contacts in all the right places. You know yourself, Nicole. You need those on any story. You wouldn't even know where to start on this one—”

“Oh, but I would,” I broke in before he could finish his thought. “I have, even. That's why I came straight in. I have some very strong stuff, Mike. I spoke with…with sources before I left the scene. I'm here to start right on it.” I told myself it was not a lie. And I didn't think I'd get a second chance. “I thought you'd want something for the morning edition.”

He grinned at me again. I liked the way that grin warmed his face. “You're keen, I can see that. Hungry. That's a good thing. You're not planning on staying in the party room forever?”

“I want to be a reporter, Mike. A real one. The job came up and I've been doing it. I'm even good at it, I think. But I want to be a reporter. That's all I ever really wanted.”

He sighed and slumped back in his seat. “You're a smart kid. I can see that. A nice one too. You know I can't give you this story.” I started to protest, but he stopped me. “Not all of it. If it was something smaller, maybe, but…well, it's not. Like I said, considering who this guy was and how he died, this might be one of our top stories of the year. I've already got Brent on it, but I think it might be enough story for both of you.”

“He won't like that.”

Mike grinned again. “You're right about that, but he's a pro. He'll do what I say.”

I smiled back at him, but I wasn't so sure.

“How should I…that is…how do you see it working?”

“You write something. He'll write something. You guys talk in between. It'll all work out. You'll see.” I must have looked doubtful, because he said it again. “You guys will work it out.” It was more order than observation.

I might have said more—I could feel the words forming even as Mike was finishing speaking—but the elevator doors opened with an efficient
swoosh
and Brent Hartigan breezed into the newsroom. It was just after midnight, and he looked as bright and fresh as a Christmas tree on the first of December.

SIX

“W
here'd you get to?” Hartigan asked as he walked past Mike's desk. He didn't look surprised to see me. I was surprised at how unsurprised he was.

“I thought I'd get back here and start on the story.” I looked straight into his eyes as I said this. Laying it down while the editor looked on.
Our
editor, I corrected myself.

My raised hackles didn't seem to raise Hartigan's at all, which annoyed me. It wasn't that I
wanted
to annoy him. More like I wanted him to see me as enough of a threat that he'd be a little annoyed. But he looked at me mildly. Even smiled lazily. “Well, good then,” was all he said. “That's just fine. And what have you done so far?”

I was aware of Mike Webb watching us from his desk. I didn't know the editor well enough to tell if he was amused or alarmed. In either case, I had a sense Mike wasn't about to intervene.

“Well…” I said, trying to think of a good answer. Coming up short. “Well… nothing, I guess. Not yet. Not so far. Mr. Webb—”

“Mike,” he piped up from his desk.

“Mike was just telling me how he thought he saw this going.”

“Ah,” Hartigan said, more interested now. But only slightly. “And how was that?”

He sat on the edge of Mike's desk, supporting his weight on his heels. I waited for Webb to object, but he didn't. And that action—a single bum on just one desk—did exactly what I guessed Hartigan had meant for it to do. It put me, the little girl who had lost her way back to Features, in her place.

I hiked up my courage. While I did, I saw myself as I'd been in journalism school. The bright kid who'd known she was destined to help make the world a better place.

Oh, sure. I had
a way with words.
I was
good with people
. But there was more to it than that. I had attacked my classes like someone who was hungry for each new assignment. No weekend keggers, trips to music festivals or skiing at Whistler. No hours lost on the beach or rollerblading the seawall. I'd used all my time to study and read and work. In short blocks of free time, I'd dreamed about what my life would be like, the reporter I would be. The difference I would make.