Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) (5 page)

I copied the photo to the Amesworth folder on my hard drive and clicked over to Google.

A search for the good senator’s name brought up all the usual suspects: his official Senate page, his campaign site, a long list of minutes for both the Senate and the Virginia House of Delegates, where he’d served for six years before winning his first federal campaign, and a slew of articles. Some of them were written by Trudy, some were from the
Washington Post
, and some were from various other websites and publications that covered national politics. I clicked on news articles covering political campaign speeches and appearances, scanning the stories and photo cutlines for mention of Amesworth or the tobacco industry. Four pages and seventy minutes of Ted Grayson 101 later, I had bupkis.

Grayson had a background that consisted almost exclusively of public relations and politics. He did a short stint at his father’s PR firm and then ran for Richmond City Council, leapfrogging through just two terms in the House of Delegates into the national spotlight. Then he went on to the U.S. Senate, where he was running for a second term. Ted Grayson was a political wunderkind.

I stared at the photo of the dead lawyer and the senator for a long while before I packed my computer up for the night. The pose was too familiar for strangers at a party.

But with no other link between the two of them, Bob wouldn’t touch it, and I knew it.

I’d have to keep looking. 

4.

Tipping point

My toy Pomeranian was positively indignant when I walked into my house at nearly midnight for the second night in a row. I bent and scratched her head, then opened a can of Pro Plan and scraped it into her bowl, ignoring my own rumbling stomach for the moment. I kicked my sapphire Louboutins off and flipped the TV on, my mind still on Grayson.

I fiddled with the five-thousand-piece jigsaw on my coffee table, while mulling over the mental puzzle of the story. My Blackberry erupted into “Second Star to the Right” and I jumped, dropping a piece under the table.

I glanced at the screen. Agent Evans.

It was midnight. What the hell was the FBI calling me for?

“Clarke.” I braced the phone against my shoulder, bending forward at the waist to reach for the lost puzzle piece.

“I have a tip for you that won’t go to anyone else for another twelve hours,” Evans said in a warm tone I wasn’t used to hearing from the FBI. “I think we’re even after this.”

I forgot the jigsaw piece.

“I appreciate that, Agent Evans,” I said, rifling through a nearby basket for pen and paper. “At the risk of sounding redundant, you don’t owe me anything, but I’m not turning down an exclusive from the FBI.”

“There was an arrest this evening in that murder case we discussed earlier.”

I scribbled, holding my breath. “Who?”

“James Robert Billings, age fifty-six, of Henrico,” Evans said, rustling papers in the background. “He’s a senior vice president at Raymond Garfield.”

The tobacco company. Hot damn.

“Did he confess?” I asked.

“This is an inter-agency operation with the ATF, and I wasn’t there for the questioning, but I’ll go with no. Bank records show he was paying the vic off the books, and the bullet was fired from a rifle that belongs to Billings.”

“How do you know that?” I asked. “Private citizens don’t have to register guns in Virginia.” I listened to Aaron complain about that often, because it made it harder to build a case in a shooting.

“Good question.” Evans rustled more papers. “I don’t have an answer. This isn’t my case, but the warrant lists the gun as the reason and a judge signed it.”

“I see. Do they have the weapon, then?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is this: a guy like Billings won’t talk without a lawyer present, and the kind of lawyer he can afford isn’t going to let him give up anything. I imagine his attorneys will call in as many favors as it takes to have him on the early docket.”

“Who’s the ACA handling this one?” In Virginia, prosecutors are known as Commonwealth’s Attorneys instead of district attorneys, but after covering cops for six years, I’d finally gotten used to the quirk.

“This paperwork says Corry’s going to take it himself,” Evans said.

Wow. That in itself was newsworthy. At thirty-four, Richard Corry was the youngest head prosecutor in Virginia history. He rarely showed up in a courtroom or in front of a TV camera, preferring to stay out of the limelight. I’d heard he was a damned fine orator. That should make for great copy when the trial rolled around.

“Anyway, they’re going to try to get him through without the press knowing what’s going on,” Evans said. “So I thought you’d appreciate a heads up. If you’re at the courthouse by eight in the morning, you won’t miss it.”

I thanked him, adding a last bit of chicken scratch to my notes. An exclusive was always a good thing. Especially on something like this. The senator would have been a sexier angle, but this was good stuff.

I stared at my notes and then lifted Darcy onto the sofa when she bounced and scratched at my bare foot. Sifting my fingers through her silky russet fur, I couldn’t help wondering again how well the dead lobbyist knew the senator.

I texted Bob to tell him I would miss the morning staff meeting and flicked the TV off. Grabbing a protein bar out of the pantry to stave off starvation, I took Darcy out for a quick round of fetch so I could get to bed. Maybe Billings’s hearing would shed some light on what was fast becoming a tangled mess of a story.

Dressed in unobtrusive neutrals right down to my most practical square-toed cream heels, I stepped out the door at seven-oh-one for the eight-mile drive to the John Marshall Courts Building on the east side of downtown Richmond. Traffic here was nothing compared to trying to get the same distance on Dallas’ clogged roads, but I wasn’t taking chances.

I sipped coffee from a tumbler with a hot pink Texas emblazoned across the silver—a gift from my mom—as I watched a jogger cross in front of me at Monument and Malvern. I was excited about the prospect of Billings being the killer. A powerful executive engaging in corporate political hijinks now a suspect in a murder? It was a hell of a sexy news story. And all mine.

I pressed the gas pedal and the legendary statues of Arthur Ashe, Stonewall Jackson, and Robert E. Lee that sat in the middle of the road blurred past. I barely noticed them, a moral conundrum worrying around my head. The story would be even sexier if Grayson really was involved. And while the “sexier” factor was definitely there, I was having trouble convincing myself that my intentions were completely honorable. Did I want the story because it was rightfully mine, or because it might give me a taste of covering politics?

While getting ready that morning, I’d spent a good deal of time brainstorming a way to sell Bob on the idea that the murder should trump the senator’s involvement, if he was involved.  

It was a valid point, but one that made my skin tighten with self-directed anger because it reminded me too much of Shelby Taylor, the copy editor who was perpetually after my beat. Resolving to talk to Trudy if I needed to, I parked at a meter in front of the courts building, forty-five minutes early. I flipped the sun visor down to avoid the glare of the perfect September morning and texted Jenna, “Happy Birthday! Tell Chad feel better. You stocked with frozen peas?”

Finishing my coffee, I watched bailiffs and attorneys enter the thick glass doors. Getting into the courthouse was a bit of an ironman event, involving heavy lifting to open the door and quick reflexes to avoid losing the hide off an ankle.

I wished for an arrest report to read, but I wasn’t even sure if the arrest had been made by the Richmond PD or the FBI or the ATF. For all I knew, Batman could be bringing Billings to the courthouse.

I reached for my Blackberry and dialed Aaron’s cell number.

“I thought you went to the gym in the mornings,” he said when he answered. “Didn’t you tell Anderson Cooper that’s where you learned how to fight?”

“I usually do, but decided the courthouse would be more exciting than body combat today.” I coughed off the throat closure that came when I thought too much about how close I’d come, in June, to dying. At least the nightmares had dialed back from nightly to weekly. “You have an arrest report to email me?”

“For something going on down there this early? Not that I know of,” he said. “Whose arrest are you nosing around?”

“James Billings.”

“Who?”

So not the PD. I hoped whoever picked Billings up had at least notified someone at the PD, or I was about to find myself smack in the middle of a jurisdictional pissing contest.

“He’s a big fish over at Raymond Garfield. And about to go before a judge on a charge of murdering the lobbyist those kids found in the woods the other night.”

“Oh, really?” Aaron tried for interested, but annoyance bled through in his tone. “And do I get to know where you heard that?”

“From the FBI,” I said, scrunching my nose apologetically even though he couldn’t see me. “But, you know, maybe they called someone else and you haven’t gotten the memo yet.”

“Not likely. Damned irritating, them waltzing in and arresting people without telling anyone what the hell they’re doing. If you’re down there, every other reporter in town will be looking for information on this before I finish my second cup of coffee. You know who they’re going to call? Not the goddamned FBI, that’s who.”

“Well, thank me for the heads up later then,” I said. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not counting that as a favor,” he grumbled. “Have fun with your hearing. I’m gonna go find out what the hell’s going on before my phone starts really ringing.”

I clicked the end button and dropped my press credentials over my head, stepping out of the car as the parking lot across the street started to fill up. No TV trucks. Not yet, anyway. I wrestled the door open and scuttled into the lobby.

Laying my bag in a battered plastic bin on the conveyor belt, I waited my turn before shuffling through the metal detector, offering the bailiff a smile and a good morning as I grabbed my x-ray inspected tote.

“What’re you looking for this early, Nichelle?” Hurley asked over his shoulder as he waved a pinstripe-suited gentleman with salt and pepper hair through the detectors. “I haven’t seen Charlie this morning. And when she’s late she always gives me a hard time about security. Is she fixin’ to holler at me because she got stuck in traffic?”

“Not sure, Hurley,” I said, already striding toward the courtrooms and realizing I had no idea whose docket Billings was on. “Sorry.”

I was about to stick my head into the clerk’s office and ask when an auburn head in the middle of a throng of suits outside number four caught my eye. I stared at the profile, fear of smudging my makeup the only thing keeping me from rubbing my eyes. Kyle Miller. My old flame had grown up to be some Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives supercop. But he was supposed to be in Texas. What the hell was he doing here? I didn’t have time to find out, but I walked over to the edge of the huddle anyway.

I cleared my throat and touched Kyle’s shoulder.

“Nicey!” He pulled me into an unexpected hug when he turned and I lost my balance, clinging to his broad shoulders such that we drew a couple of snickers from his entourage. He still wore Eternity. Same old Kyle. Except for the biceps. The arms I remembered were skinny. The ones crushing into my ribcage were not. I pushed away memories of some very nice evenings spent in those arms as I gathered my wits.

I kept one hand on his arm and straightened myself, then smoothed my flared navy skirt and smiled.

“Nice to see you, too,” I said.

He turned to his colleagues, all of whom also sported gun-bulges under their jackets. “This is Nichelle Clarke. She’s the cops and courts reporter at the
Telegraph
.”

“We’ve heard.” A barrel-chested man with cocoa skin and a voice that belonged on the radio offered his hand, his teeth flashing stark white when he grinned. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Clarke.”

I shook his hand firmly and turned back to Kyle, one eyebrow up. “Some reporter I am. I wasn’t aware you were back in town.”

He ducked his head. “Busted. I was going to call and ask you to dinner. I got a transfer to the Richmond office. Meet your newest local ATF special agent.”

I stared in silence for a full minute, my brain in hyperdrive. Once I’d thought Kyle Miller was the love of my life. It had taken me a decade to stop thinking it, actually. And now he decides to move halfway across the country to my city? Fabulous.

“Well, welcome to Richmond,” I said finally.

His eyes told me that wasn’t the reaction he hoped for.

The other three men laughed and introduced themselves as members of Kyle’s new team.

“What brings you to the courthouse this morning, Miss Clarke?” Agent Silky Voice asked.

“I’m covering a bond hearing. James Billings. I need to go find the courtroom before I miss it. It was good to see you, Kyle.” I turned back to the clerk’s door.

“The courtroom is right here,” Kyle said. “Billings is my collar. How the hell did you find out about this hearing? His lawyer got him set for bond before the ink on the arrest report was dry.”

Interesting. I glanced around at Kyle’s team, and everyone had the same casually-curious expression. Something told me it was a face they practiced in front of the mirror. Possibly as a group.

“I’m just that good.” I winked and brushed past them, opening the massive cherry-paneled door and nodding to the agents. “Gentlemen first.”

Kyle brought up the rear, pausing on his way in. “No reporter is that good. Who tipped you off?” he asked in a low voice.

“If I wanted you to know that, I’d have told you.” I returned the no-nonsense tone and flat stare syllable-for-syllable. “If you don’t mind, this door isn’t as lightweight as it looks.”

He narrowed his ice-blue eyes and looked like he wanted to say something else, but turned on the heel of his Justin ostrich dress boot and took a seat in the front row instead.

I slipped into the back and pulled out a pen and notebook as the bailiff called the court to order and announced the Honorable Reginald S. Davidson’s entrance.

Sure enough, Corry was at the prosecution’s table, dark blond head bent over a yellow legal pad. He wore a tan suit that fit his lanky frame well, his wire rimmed glasses pushed up on top of his head as he studied his notes.

A petite bailiff who didn’t look strong enough to restrain a schoolyard bully led Billings to the defense table. In his wrinkled Hugo Boss, with a silver-flecked shadow beard playing across the angular planes of a face that had aged well, he looked like a rumpled movie star. A haggard, terrified movie star who had not enjoyed the jailhouse experience.

Kyle thought this guy was a murderer?

I had seen stranger, I guessed. I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag.

Billings didn’t fidget or drop his head as the judge read the charges being levied against him.