Rising Heat (31 page)

The only reason I’d been able to find out that much was through an ancestry search on one of the popular genealogical search sites. The information certainly wasn’t helpful in trying to figure out who Blake Masters was or what happened to him during his teenage years, or the year before or after his father’s murder. Nothing much for about eight years until he popped up in San Francisco.

It wasn’t just the matter of the cold case. I was more than aware that if a case wasn’t solved within a relatively short period of time, it just got colder and colder. What did surprise me was the lack of newspaper articles at the time of the murder. Had it been hushed up? And if so, why? Despite their wealth, the Masters family, according to what few articles I was able to find, had not been movers and shakers in Topeka’s social circles or surrounding regions. They had owned a three-hundred-plus-acre estate out in the country and pretty much stayed to themselves.

Despite myself, I became quite intrigued with the murder case and wished I’d been assigned to follow up on it instead of the man. Sure, my boss expected me to get the scoop on the murder, but any information I managed to finagle out of him would be suspect, wouldn’t it? After all, he was a person of interest. What made Angela think that just because I asked, Blake would be honest and truthful in his response?

Even if I did, would I be able to print that information? I could end up being subpoenaed if evidence or a confession came to light. Not to mention the questions by police, attorneys, depositions… ugh. What a mess.

When it came right down to it though, I had a feeling I wouldn’t get any answers out of Blake when it came to his past. Why should I? What made me any more capable of digging up the truth than any number of curious journalists before me? I’d tried to find video, even short clips, of interviews that had been done with him, and to my surprise, found none.

“Do you know I can’t find one video clip of Blake Masters anywhere?” I complained to Melanie just before quitting time yesterday evening. “Not even on YouTube.”

“And you’re surprised?”

“Frankly, yes,” I replied. “He’s rich and he’s the owner and figurehead of a popular and growing company. You’d think he would accept an interview with someone.”

“I did hear a rumor that he’d been asked to go on Larry King Live,” Melanie said.

“And he turned it down?” I couldn’t understand it. How could he grow his company without actively marketing it? Sure, he probably had an entire staff of people to do that for him, but as the owner, he was the face of the company.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t I what?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t you turn down an interview if you knew it would all boil down to what happened in your past?”

I thought about that and then shook my head. “You know, if I was under suspicion for having committed a murder and I had a chance to shout my innocence from the highest pole, I think I would. Wouldn’t you?”

“Probably.” Melanie shrugged. “But I think, as you’ve probably learned through a rather fruitless afternoon, that Blake Masters is a very private man. He doesn’t pander and he really couldn’t care less about public opinion, especially in regards to his past.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You would think that people investing in his company would. You would think he cared about that, don’t you?”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “He’s filthy rich, Misty. He may not need sponsors or investors. But even if he did, I have a feeling that they would have to play by his rules and not the other way around.”

And so the day ended. I had gone home to my quiet, simply furnished apartment. I was troubled and frustrated, not only by my inability to learn more about Blake but the entire assignment. I was beginning to have second thoughts. While it was an excellent opportunity to show Angela what I could do, I couldn’t help but feel that I was being set up for failure.

Now, as I sat in a cab watching the buildings pass by, saw the myriad of pedestrians, tourists, and local hawkers shouting out their souvenirs and Alcatraz maps, and heard the clang of bells from the cable cars, I was lost in thought. I’d never heard back from the sheriff or police department in Topeka. Maybe today.

I couldn’t help but believe that maybe Blake Masters
did
have something to do with his father’s death. Otherwise, he’d surely be proclaiming his innocence. Motive? Maybe he had been in a hurry to inherit the millions of dollars that his family had amassed over the years. He had no siblings, no surviving cousins, nieces, or nephews. He’d never been officially charged due to lack of evidence, but then why the persisting rumors? Over ten years of them.

I knew that people often came to their own conclusions despite a preponderance or lack of proof, and I certainly didn’t want to be one of them, but I was definitely suspicious that I’d found so little public information regarding the crime. I’d found nothing about Blake Masters between the time he was noted as a person of interest in his father’s death until he reemerged in San Francisco, a multi-billionaire with an up-and-coming company. The seeming cover-up also pointed toward guilt.

That still left means and opportunity. I wasn’t sure about the means because I still didn’t know what exactly happened to his father. Had he been shot? Stabbed? Bludgeoned to death? Had he died in a gas explosion? Or car accident? It was so odd! The brief write-ups that I found in the newspaper online only mentioned the murder, not how Jeremy Masters died.

Maybe if I could find his widow, Eileen, I might be able to get more information. I had no idea where Blake’s mother lived, whether she was even alive, or if she would be willing to talk about the incident. I shook my head and continued to stare unseeing out the window. Angela had said nothing about an expense account. I certainly couldn’t go traipsing off to Kansas to interview any law enforcement officers, nor take the time to go look for surviving family members on my own dime.

It was expensive to live in San Francisco and my pay from the magazine was just enough to take care of my rent, utilities, groceries, and car insurance. I tried to keep my car well-maintained, had driven it from Texas to San Francisco, but I wasn’t about to go putting thousands of miles on it for the sake of a magazine article that might, just might, only net me fifteen hundred dollars tops — if I were lucky. As a newbie, I figured my article would net me closer to a grand, minus taxes.

When all that was said and done, I also worried about something else. My safety. What if Masters didn’t like my digging around in his past? While I wasn’t that concerned — nervous yes but not concerned — with my initial interview today with Masters, I
was
concerned about digging around and poking my nose into someone else’s business, especially someone who might have killed his father in cold blood. What would happen to me if I unburied something he wanted to keep buried?

“Lady, we’re here.”

The voice sounded impatient. I was startled out of my musings and glanced at the taxi driver, his arm draped across the front seat, his head turned back to look at me. “Oh, thank you,” I said. I glanced at the meter, barely held back a scowl and dug a twenty out of my wallet. “Keep the change.”

The driver took my money without as much as a thank you. I opened the door and stepped onto the curb. I’d barely shut the door when the taxi shot forward in search of another fare. A stiff breeze from the bay tugged at my hair as I turned to marvel at the view. From the top of the hill, I admired the panoramic vista. The dark orange Golden Gate Bridge rose in the distance, a beautiful sight, one that never failed to take my breath away. Even from way up here I could see the cable spans, marveling at the construction of its structure, which never ceased to amaze me. A fog bank rolled in from the Pacific, partially obscuring Alcatraz. Seagulls flew overhead, squawking as they vied for scraps of food with crows along the strip of green between the city and the sea.

I took a deep breath, turned, and walked to the entrance of the glass and cement structure. The office building was of older construction with ornate moldings and multi-paned windows, rising four stories on the top of a hill, nearly dwarfed by more modern developments nearby. It had character to it. Even though it was older, I preferred it to some of the sleek, metal and glass structures on neighboring blocks. There was something to be said about the past, I thought as I entered the building. Unless of course, there was a murder in it.

*

I made my way up to the third floor. A little mini directory with company names and suite numbers directed me to the offices of Hard Impact, which looked to take up about half the office space on the top floor. I was impressed. While I knew outdoor adventures were popular, I had no idea they were
that
popular.

I wondered about the name. Hard impact. Had Blake Masters come up with that or had someone else when the company was formed? As far as I was concerned, the words implied hitting the ground at a high rate of speed, but that was just me. The carpeting in the hallway muffled my steps as I approached Suite 101, designated as the main office for the company. I didn’t knock, but paused before the door, my hand on the doorknob. I took a deep breath before I entered, trying to calm myself. This was new territory for me. I had no idea what to expect and couldn’t deny my shaky nerves.

“I’m a reporter, I’m a reporter,” I mumbled under my breath. Doing that always gave me a bit of confidence. After all, the demeanor of most people, in my short experience as a reporter back home in North Dallas, gave me the impression that interviewees were often as nervous as the interviewer. The more confidence I exuded, the more willing interviewees appeared to answer my questions. Then again, I’d never interviewed someone like Blake Masters.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

“Good morning,” a pleasant, female voice greeted me as I closed the door softly behind me.

I smiled at the young woman sitting behind a desk in a small foyer. The office space was small but nicely decorated. A door opposite the entryway led the way into the inner offices of the company. The small space was decorated much like a doctor’s office. A live plant in the corner, a couple of comfortable looking chairs, a small coffee table with an array of magazines. The receptionist sat behind a teak desk equipped with a flat screen computer, a wireless keyboard and mouse. A metal mesh basket sat on one end.

“I have an appointment to see Blake Masters.”

“You must be Misty Rankin from
Sweet Success.”
The woman smiled and gestured. “Please, have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Masters know that you’re here. He’s just finishing up with a board meeting.”

I nodded and sat down in one of the upholstered chairs. I didn’t bother reaching for a magazine. I didn’t think I’d be here very long. This was just an introductory meeting. I figured I would be here ten, fifteen minutes tops to arrange a longer, first official interview with Masters. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t be available for a longer session until tomorrow, maybe even the day after. That would give me more time to dig into his past. Maybe even find someone local willing to talk to me about him.

The receptionist hadn’t been gone two minutes when she returned. “Mr. Masters is ready to see you. I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry though. He’s preparing to leave for an inspection of one of his new acquisition properties.”

“That’s fine, I only need a few minutes,” I assured her and stood to brush at my slacks. The strap of my satchel over one shoulder, I tried to appear confident and completely at ease as I followed the woman through the door into the inner sanctum, down a short hallway and then into a corner office.

I took in the office in one quick glance. Windows on each side overlooked the Oakland Bay Bridge. Beautiful vista. I acknowledged that it couldn’t be a more beautiful day. Bright blue sky, not a cloud, no damp and wicked wind from off the coast for a change. The office was simply appointed.

A leather sofa and coffee table to the left, a desk with a couple of leather chairs in front of it for guests in the middle, and a small bookcase, a couple of filing cabinets, and a small table with an espresso machine on the right. A small door in the corner of the office probably led to a private bathroom.

The desk was large, also equipped with a flat screen computer, wireless keyboard and mouse, a stack of folders, and a blotter that held only an open day-planner kind of agenda. A nice leather office chair was turned to face the window. A male voice spoke from it. All I saw of Blake Masters was the top of his head over the back of the chair.

“I’ll check on it this afternoon. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment… yes, I’ll call you later this evening to let you know if I want any changes.”

“Can I get you anything to drink? Some coffee or tea perhaps?”

I glanced at the receptionist and shook my head, smiling a thank you. “I’m good.”

She gestured for me to take one of the chairs in front of the desk. “He’ll be finished in just a minute,” she whispered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you,” I whispered back, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. I had just settled in, placed my satchel on my lap and glanced once again out the window at the view when the chair spun around. Whoa.

Blake Masters looked even better in person than he had in the photograph from my assignment packet. How could somebody be so ruggedly good-looking were the first words that popped into my mind. The close-up view offered me a better look at his features. Gorgeous light blue-grayish eyes rimmed with thick lashes. A slash of dark eyebrows above. Luscious black hair, thick and full, the kind that made you want to just run your fingers through it. Wide lips that curved slightly upward at the corners, as if he were about to smile. A five o’clock shadow on his cheeks even though it was only mid-morning.

He wore a t-shirt that stretched at the confines of the fabric. Broad shoulders. Well-developed chest, obvious from the outline of his pecs through the thin material. He placed the phone down on the blotter and rested his forearms on it, causing me to tug my gaze from his chest and down. His biceps bulged and I swallowed hard. He interlaced his fingers, that slight movement causing the thin muscle fibers in his forearm to twitch.