Makeovers Can Be Murder (16 page)

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

My story about Antoine aired on the late news Sunday night. Early Monday morning, I walked into a firestorm of criticism. A string of irate messages was waiting for me when I arrived at the newsroom at eight a.m. The worst of them was from Luke Petronella of Durham Homicide.

″What the hell got into you last night, running that tabloid trash about Antoine Hurley?″ the detective′s message began. ″Don′t you know that every gangbanger in the world claims that he was ′coerced′ into going along with the crime? Shit. It was your friend he killed, Kate. Are you out of your
mind
?″

As I cringed back in my desk chair, Luke continued his rampage. ″So listen up—from now on, I′m not giving you shit about my investigation, ″ he said. ″You want a comment about a story, you call Public Relations. And you can go fuck yourself while you′re at it. You were
way
out of line to let some shiny-suit lawyer raise questions in public about my case. Fucking lawyers. You′re shit on my shoe, Gallagher. Total shit!″

I′d never been raked over the coals like that by someone I respected like Luke. And there was much more like that to come. The nicer callers implied that I was shilling for Antoine′s defense. The nastiest one said my mother should have aborted me in the womb. Most of the callers simply implied that I′d earned my journalism degree from an online school for hacks.

Good grief. They
hated
me. Maybe Evelyn had had a point when she said I was clinically depressed. I′d never felt so low, so barely alive. It felt as if my body′s vital signs were registering in the zombie zone.

I was hunched over the phone in my cubicle, sipping coffee and scribbling notes about each call, when Beatty appeared at the opening to my cubicle.

″Hey—you need to listen to something on the police scanner,″ he said, nodding toward the assignment desk.

I slunk along in my boss′s wake, mentally girding for the worst.

A bunch of news reporters were leaning around the assignment desk, monitoring the police scanner. The assembled crowd included Dutch Kramer, the sportscaster.

″Hey, Kate,″ Dutch said, tossing me a loopy looking grin. ″You′re the hot topic this morning on the squawk box.″

″Oh, yeah, Dutch? How′s that?″

″They′re saying you should get a big hairy one up the ass for that story you did last night about Antoine Hurley.″

″Thanks for sharing that.″

I rested my knuckles on the desktop and listened as disembodied cops′ voices squawked over the scanner.

″That hit piece she did last night was a complete piece of crap,″ one cop said. ″They oughta fire that Gallagher woman′s fat ass.″

″The whole thing′s bullshit, man,″ another responded. ″Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?″

The cops in the squad cars had to be aware that we monitored their exchanges over our scanner, as did every other media outlet in town. They undoubtedly meant to be overheard. I was being skewered in a most public, graphic way. It was more than a bit disconcerting, especially since the case involved my friend′s murder.

Just great. I hadn′t wanted to do that story in the first place, and now I was being blamed.

I stood by my story—it was a solid piece—but still, the anonymous criticism by the cops raised the hair on the back of my neck:
Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?

My colleagues were chattering and bouncing oddly energized looks off me. There′s nothing that gets the adrenaline going for journalists like provoking the wrath of police officialdom. But you better not get caught making a mistake in your reporting. That would be a job killer.

″Hey, I love being tarred and feathered in public, ″ I said, trying to make light of the situation.

I waited with bated breath for Beatty to render his verdict. You never knew which way the news-directorial wind would blow.

″Way to go at ′em in that piece last night, Gallagher, ″ Beatty said finally. ″You′ll notice that they aren′t challenging your
facts
. If they were, the chief of police would have been crawling up my ass already by now this morning. They′re just pissed off we ran something for once that didn′t parrot their side of this story.″

The news parrot in question—Lainey—stood a few feet away. She was staring intently at the cable TV monitors on the wall. But I could tell by her defensive body posture that her ears and reporter′s ego were burning. Too bad.

Beatty was pleased with my story about Antoine Hurley. In maritime terms, a nod from the Big Boss was the equivalent of starting the day off with a fair wind and a following sea.

″Hey, Kate!″ Frank called out. He was standing near my desk. ″Phone!″

I dashed to grab the phone, even though it was probably just another caller who couldn′t wait to describe how my reporting had stunk up the airwaves.

″Hi, Kate. It′s Belmont Miller. Jana′s brother.″

It took me a moment to connect the name with the identity.

Jana′s brother, Belmont. When we′d last spoken, Belmont had been on his way to the Bahamas, taking Shaina with him so she could recover from her carjacking ordeal and the death of her mother.

″Hi, Belmont—are you all still in the Bahamas? ″ I asked him. ″How is Shaina doing? How′s her recovery coming?″

″Shaina′s doing fine. But I′m calling about something else. Did you hear about what we found out about Jana′s autopsy?″ Belmont′s voice rose with emotion. ″Goddammit, they′re not going to get away with this. Someone in the police department is going to pay!″

My mind flailed about, trying to figure out what the heck he was talking about.

″Wait a second—slow down, Belmont,″ I said. ″What are you saying about Jana′s autopsy? What′s happened, exactly?″

″We just heard back from the firm we hired to do a second, private autopsy on her,″ Belmont said. ″They told us that Jana′s body was mutilated. ″

″Mutilated? I don′t understand. The police already did a standard autopsy. Is that what you′re talking about?″

″Something was done to her body
after
the police autopsy but before we got the body, according to my people. While she was still in the custody of the medical examiner′s office, someone surgically removed some tissue from her body.

″They stole her heart valve. It′s missing from her body.″

Chapter 31

Foot Detox

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

″What?″ I asked, not sure exactly what I′d heard. ″Somebody removed Jana′s
heart valve
? Wait a minute—are you sure that wasn′t part of the medical examiner′s autopsy procedure? Sometimes they remove body organs, don′t they?″

″Of course they do,″ Belmont replied in an impatient tone. ″But this is
not
standard procedure. My lawyer told me heart valves can fetch up to ten grand on the black market, even from . . . even from cadavers. I guess when they use cadaver valves in research, med schools don′t ask too many questions.″

″So—″

″So somebody in the medical examiner′s office thought they could make a quick killing by taking the heart valve from my sister′s body.″

″Have you told the homicide detectives about this yet?″

″I′m not going to waste my time talking to those clowns,″ he replied. ″If they have to learn this from me, they′re incompetent. I don′t want any of them anywhere near her.″

″I understand,″ I said, reaching for a notepad and a pen on my desk. ″Is it okay if I jot down some notes about this conversation, Belmont? I might run a story about what′s happened.″

″Be my guest,″ he replied. ″You can write that I′m suing the city of Durham for all that Podunk city′s worth, just to show them they need to learn how to do their jobs better. How do I even know the police have arrested the right suspect when they screw up Jana′s autopsy like this? Who stole her heart valve? I mean, it′s nothing compared to her murder, but they′re a bunch of damned incompetents, in my opinion. You always get the D team in the government.″

″What′s happening these days with Jana′s widower, by the way?″

″Widower? Hah! That′s a kind term,″ Belmont said. ″I′ve tied up Gavin′s insurance settlement in court. I don′t think that blondie girlfriend of his is going to wait around long enough for him to become a rich man.″

After getting the name and number of Belmont Miller′s lawyer, I decided to put in a call to Luke. But for that I′d need to screw up some major courage.

″I′m not talking to you,″ Luke said when he picked up the phone.

″I can hear that.″

″Just so we′re clear.″

″We are,″ I said. ″I was just wondering if you heard about Jana′s heart valve being removed during the autopsy. Supposedly by someone in the medical examiner′s lab.″

A pause. Followed by ″You′ll have to ask them.″

″You′re in charge of the investigation, Luke. What do
you
say?″

″On the record? No comment.″

″And off the record?″

″Make a Xerox and tack it up on your cube.″

″C′mon. This could screw up your case against Antoine Hurley real bad, couldn′t it? The defense could have a field day with the fact that Jana′s heart valve was stolen while the county had custody of her body. It won′t exactly take a Dream Team to make that argument.″

″Since when did you become the spokesman for the defense of Antoine Hurley?″

″For the
defense
? Luke, Jana′s family told me about her missing heart valve. Her brother, Belmont Miller, is the only spokesman I know about today. But for Jana, not for Antoine Hurley.″

When Luke stayed silent, I went for blood. ″And while we′re discussing Jana, Luke, what′s your reaction to the new independent lab evidence about the bullet that killed her?″ I asked. ″That the bullet came from outside the car. And if that turns out to be true, then Antoine couldn′t have been the shooter the way you′ve been saying. ″

″Kate.″ Luke′s voice was venomous. ″I said, ′No comment.′ What word did you not understand? No comment. No how, no way.″

I didn′t have a chance to come back after that, because Luke hung up.

That went pretty well
, I thought, slumping back in my chair. Luke was saying that by showing Antoine′s side of the story, I was trampling on the prosecution′s side of the case.

When it came to identifying Jana′s murderer, I only hoped I wasn′t in danger of trampling on the truth.

Chapter 32

Banish the Clumps

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

As if I didn′t have enough on my plate, Beatty chose that exact moment to bug me about my weight-loss series.

″How are your fat stories coming along?″ He′d rematerialized at my cubicle.

″Fine,″ I lied. In fact, Frank and I had finished taping only the first segment of the weight-loss series, the Skinny Wrap story. We had four parts left to do.

″Good, because I want to move your series up on the schedule,″ he said. ″We need to run the first two installments next week.″

Next
week
? Yikes. I was supposed to have three more weeks to work on it.

″Okay, but I′ve got a lot of breaking stuff I′m following right now,″ I said. ″I just got an update about the Jana Miller carjacking.″

Beatty waved off my objection. ″Give your carjacking updates to someone else if you don′t have time to handle everything,″ he said. ″I need to get your series on the air ASAP. It′s going to run instead of Lainey′s series on homeless dumping.″

At the mention of Lainey, my ears pricked up like a terrier puppy′s.

″Why the switch?″ I asked him. ″What′s wrong with her series?″

″It needs more reporting. Meanwhile, Marketing is screaming bloody murder down my back because we need something else pronto to promote for next week. We got squat right now.″

Needs more reporting.
That meant that Lainey had screwed the pooch on her stories, newswise. There was no time for me to do a victory dance, however, because I was woefully behind in completing my own series. Plus I was anxious to check into the report I′d heard from Jana′s brother about how her body had been mishandled. That was a major scandal brewing in the medical examiner′s office.

I gave Beatty a wild, hopeful look. ″Maybe I could finish Lainey′s homeless series for her. I could turn that one around really fast,″ I suggested. ″I′ve already got solid sources for it.″

Give me anything, God, but having to work on more fat rip-off stories.
I sent up a little prayer.

Beatty lowered his aviators on his nose to peer at me. ″Does that mean
your
series is ready to go right this second? Fine. Where′s the disk?″

″I′m tweaking it.″

″You′re tweaking it. And I′m the wizard of friggin′ Oz.″

Beatty started to turn away. Then he snapped back around, his favorite method for catching reporters off guard. The Beatty Brows were working in hypermotion. If the rest of us were lucky, one of these days his eyebrows would sprout wings and fly away with his face.