Devil in the Deadline (23 page)

She blinked. “You can't get me fired.”

“I have no authority over PD human resources, but if you think they won't can you when they find out it's you who's caused so many headaches this week, you are not as smart as I thought you were.”

“You thought I was smart?” Something that looked like a smile touched her lips for half a blink.

“Anyone who can keep up with me and Charlie on a story this big isn't stupid,” I said. “But you have an awful lot to learn about ethics.”

“Get me fired.” She lifted her head, glaring at me. “I'm not going away. Blogging is the next evolution of journalism. Newspapers will continue their slow death, and someone has to fill that void.”

“And you're going to make a living at this...how?”

“Ad sales,” she said, glancing at her watch. “My break is over. Are you finished lecturing me now?”

Twelve years and a hundred thousand subscribers in, the
Telegraph's
website only made a paltry amount from ads.

I glanced at Shelby. “We're done here,” I said, flashing a smile at Alexa. “Good luck with your ad sales, Friday. You'll need it.”

We walked further down Grace toward the car as she turned back to the PD.

“You're not going to see your detective friend?” Shelby asked.

I unlocked the car. “I'm going to think about it,” I said. “She is causing trouble, but I want to make sure I'm ratting her out for the right reason—not because I'm tired of her constantly hanging over my head.”

Shelby nodded. “You're a decent person, Nichelle.”

I started the engine. “You're not so bad yourself, Shelby.”

“When I'm not trying to get you killed,” she muttered.

“I wasn't going to say it.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I deserve it.”

I spent the drive back to the office wondering if my epic war with Shelby Taylor had reached a peace accord.

  

I let Shelby out and sped to the courthouse, standing through the morning arguments thanks to the packed gallery in DonnaJo's courtroom. I wrote the first half of the day two when we broke for lunch, emailing Bob a request for fifteen inches in Metro for the trial. I ran
back early to snag a seat, then opened a text to Kyle.

“Wondering if you've had a chance to read background on your new assignment.”

I tapped one finger on the edge of the screen, hoping he'd reply.

“Working on that now. Anything I should look for?”

“Edwin Wolterhall might have an interesting file,” I said. “If you can lay your hands on a court transcript from his trial in California, I'll kiss you.”

“Tempting. FOI?”

“Case is years old. Records sealed bc it involved a minor.”

“Won't be easy. Let me work on it.”

I grinned as the gallery started to refill, and DonnaJo winked at me from the Commonwealth's table. “Anything good?” she mouthed.

“Could be,” I replied.

She nodded and turned as the judge called the court back to order.

I spent the next three hours trying to focus, but mostly taking notes on autopilot.

Speeding back to the office, I guessed it would take less than an hour to finish and file my story, which meant I could call Aaron about Girl Friday before I was supposed to meet Kyle. If I wanted to. Which I still hadn't decided.

Until I got to my desk and found a box sitting on top of the pile of press releases and messages in the center.

A camera. One of those little flat HD video ones. With a note from Andrews on
Telegraph
letterhead.

  

Our editor isn't interested in moving the paper forward, but perhaps his favorite reporter might be. Just try it. For Bob's sake
.

  

I plopped into my chair, wadding up the note and tossing it in the recycle before I snatched the camera from the box and plugged it in, cursing Alexa Reading and her video.

Damn Rick Andrews. He wasn't getting rid of Bob if I could help it.

I texted Aaron. “Girl Friday works in dispatch on your first floor. Day shift. Alexa Reading.”

Three seconds went by. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I talked to her,” I tapped. “I feel a little stoogey, but thought you deserved to know.”

“She signed a confidentiality agreement. Not your fault she violated it.”

“Thanks.” I added a smiley face.

Aaron did, too. “You just made my day.”

I flipped open my laptop and banged out the rest of the trial day two, which included a lot of expert testimony on bullet trajectories and ballistics reports. This kid would spend the best years of his life behind bars before DonnaJo was through with him.

I sent the story to Bob as my BlackBerry burst into Disney classics. Unknown number. I frowned.

“Clarke,” I said.

“Miss Clarke,” the man whispered, and I covered my free ear and strained to hear him. “My name is Richard Galloway. I just wanted to—” His breath hitched in. “I don't know. You called about my little girl, and I had to call back. Thank you for caring about her.”

My tongue was super-glued to the roof of my mouth. Landers said the mom was a nutcase.

“Hello?” he whisper-shouted.

“I'm here,” I managed. “I'm surprised to hear from you. The detective I saw this morning said your wife was...” I trailed off, no clue how to finish inoffensively.

“She is.” His hushed tone took on a hard edge. “I'm not. She holds her money over everyone like a noose. But I will see my baby have a Christian burial.”

“I can let the police know that,” I said. “Would you like to tell me a little about your daughter?”

I got only a muffled sob in response. “I loved her,” he said. “I'm sorry I wasn't stronger.”

A clatter in the background was followed by a shout and the line went dead.

I dropped the phone and grabbed a pen, scribbling.

He certainly sounded sincere. And didn't seem fond of his wife. But Landers was sure a man had killed Ruth and Cecilia both, and I was inclined to agree. Unless Wanda Galloway was unusually buff, she'd have had a hard time inflicting that kind of damage. I typed the Galloways into Google and found photos from the local paper in Wallingford. Wanda's flat scowl could wilt a whole garden, but neither of them looked like they'd been inside a gym in at least a decade. As I stared at the woman, my BlackBerry binged again.

Kyle: “I earned that kiss today. Check your email. And meet me at your place to get the dog in an hour.”

I grabbed my bag and went to fill Bob in on Girl Friday before I headed out. Between Wolterhall's court transcript and Elise's plan to get me into Way of Life the next morning, my weekend was looking good.

2
6.

  

Showdown

  

I
saw the car first.

It took half a second for cold to spread from my free-falling stomach to my fingers and toes. No.
Nononononono.

Joey.

Who was invited for the weekend.

Joey.

Who I'd forgotten was coming.

He paced the length of my front porch with long, agitated strides, his shoulders coiled under his tailored navy jacket.

I slowed the car, still out of his sight line, my brain racing for what I could tell him. Certainly not that I was spending the weekend at Kyle's—even if I did intend (really) to sleep on the couch. Hello there, disaster waiting to happen.

Joey raised his phone to his ear, and my BlackBerry commenced buzzing in my bag.

I kept my foot on the brake, any semblance of a plan failing me.

The phone went silent and he pulled out a key and opened my front door, disappearing inside. To where the bullet holes were. I sped into the driveway.

Bolting for the porch and through the open door, I stopped short when he stepped into the foyer, Darcy snuggled under his left arm. “Nice shotgun scatter patterns someone left on your wall.” His tone sounded almost conversational, but I caught the undercurrent of fury.

“It was an interesting Thursday.” I leaned against the wall and tried for nonchalance, folding my arms across my chest.

“Dammit, Nichelle!” Beach glass trembled on the shelf behind me, and I flinched. I'd never heard Joey yell. He reached for me and froze, pulling in a deep breath before he set the dog deliberately on the floor and stood, his voice under tight rein, muscles standing out all around his collar. “You can't keep dismissing this like it's a game. When the other team has guns and knows where you live, you stop playing.”

“I'm not playing at anything,” I snapped. “And I'm more than a little offended at the insinuation. This is important.”

“Why? Why is it so important you figure it out? No headline is worth this.” Again with the yelling. Darcy scooted behind the coat rack. I kept flashing eyes on Joey, annoyed because I was excited to see him even with him treating me like I was five.

“I have several reasons, none of which I'm inclined to describe in detail for you right now,” I said. “But the top of my list is that scatter pattern on the wall. I'm not backing off the story because they shot at me. If you don't already know that, you don't know me at all.” I blinked, the telltale pricking in the backs of my eyes that went with tears just making me madder. Damn PMS.

He stepped toward me, his voice softening, and ran his index finger lightly over the bandages Kyle had put on my face. “Let the cops do their job.” He tried to smile, catching me by the shoulders and pulling me to his chest.

I held my whole torso stiff.

“Why must you be so stubborn?” His arms tightened around me, his face buried in my hair. “I just want you to be safe.”

I sighed, tension leaking from my body as I let the solid wall of his shoulders take the weight I'd been carrying all day. My arms looped around his waist. “My mother was here,” I said into the butter-soft fabric of his jacket.

“What?” His chin thumped into the top of my head.

“She was here. She came to talk to me about…” I paused, his happy family story from Sunday rolling around my thoughts. “Something. And she just left this morning.”

“After this happened? She didn't take you with her because why?”

“She was sleeping. Pills and earplugs block out drive-bys, it appears.”

“Drive-by. That's what the cops think?”

“That's what it was. I was on the couch. The window exploded, there were a few more shots, and a car sped off. RPD found a couple of guys a few blocks down who gave them a good description of the vehicle.”

“You know anything else?” His voice sharpened again. I raised my head and pulled back. Guns, money, and the Mafia danced on the edges of my thoughts.

“I think the sheriff out in Fauquier is in Golightly's pocket.”

“You're not wrong.” The safe circle of his arms dropped, and he resumed prowling my little wood-floored foyer like a caged panther, one hand raking through his hair on repeat.

“I went by there when I got the ID on the victim yesterday, looking for a missing person's report. They were pretty uncooperative. I didn't flash my press credentials or anything, but the deputy followed me out and looked a little too long at my plates. This happened a few hours later.”

He paused midstep, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on a clenched fist.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit.” The last one carried rock-concert decibels. He straightened and slammed his fist into the wall. A hairline crack ran up the plaster from just above his hand to the ceiling.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my adrenaline levels down. Joey never lost his cool. Twice in five minutes was enough to rattle me.

“This would all be a lot easier if you'd just tell me who killed—” The rest of the sentence stuck in my throat when Darcy darted out onto the porch, bouncing and yipping.

At Kyle.

He grinned and bent to scratch her ears. “You ladies ready to go?”

“Go where?” Joey threw me a questioning glance, and Kyle's grin vanished quicker than Eunice's armadillo eggs at the sports desk, his blue eyes settling on the scene before him.

I watched them both step closer to me, questions flashing in neon across their faces.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

  

Everything moved through Jell-O.

Kyle's eyes hit on the leather overnight case at Joey's feet before they flew to mine. “I see.”

Crap. I'd been perfectly honest about wanting to be friends, but that didn't stop the hurt in his blue eyes from stabbing me in the gut. “Kyle, it's...complicated.”

“Looks pretty self-explanatory to me.” He set his jaw, one foot edging back toward the door.

“But… I don't think…it's not…” I fumbled for words and found none, so I laid one hand on his arm. “Please don't go away mad.”

Joey stayed in the doorway to the living room, keeping his mouth shut. Thank God.

I tossed him a please-don't-leave glance and ushered Kyle out onto the porch.

“The last thing in the world I want is for you to be hurt, Kyle.”

“That's the same guy. The one who was here wanting to go for a walk last fall.” The ice in his voice could've frozen the ninth ring of Hell. Which was currently located on my front porch. “He's the reason you're not ‘feeling it' with me?”

“No!” It came out too fast, with too much force. He shook his head and I threw up my hands. “Not entirely. I'm at least sure of that. I came to pick up Darcy and you weren't here yet, but he was. The window and the shotgun holes freaked him out. We had plans I forgot about in all the trigger-happy bumpkin insanity.”

Kyle slumped against the wall under the coach light and hauled in a deep breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching. The air whooshed back out and he turned serious blue eyes on me. “So, are you coming with me?”

Time stopped.

I didn't know.

But I couldn't tell him that. I turned back for the door, my brain racing for a solution that wouldn't leave someone with hurt feelings.

Total blank.

Joey's wingtips echoed across the floor inside, and he pulled the door open.

“I take it you knew about this?” He gestured to the boarded-up window, his eyes on Kyle.

Kyle stood up straight, the two of them practically nose-to-nose. “I was here when it happened.”

Joey tipped his head to one side, his dark eyes flicking to me. “I see.” The words were crisp. “At least you didn't let her get killed.”

“She tries way too hard.”

Lord save me. Where was a good plague of locusts or lightning strike when I needed one?

Kyle moved away from the wall, hands in his pockets affecting a casual pose. Joey stepped onto the porch, folding his arms across his chest. They moved in orbit around me, sizing each other up, both of them watching me like I might grow another head. If the physics had worked out in my favor, I would've. Anything to stop this testosterone fest.

“Miller, right?” Joey asked. My eyebrows shot to the top of my head.

Kyle nodded. “Special Agent,” he hit that hard, “Miller. ATF. I'd like Nicey to stay at my place this weekend. I can keep her safe there.”

He reached a hand toward me, then pulled it back when I glared at him. The words were sweet, but his motive had less to do with protecting me than it did beating Joey. And I wasn't too stupid to realize that.

Joey nodded, pretending to think that over for an endless minute. He turned his dark eyes on me. “If you'd be more comfortable at home, I'm happy to stay here with you,” he said, the corners of his mouth edging up in that sardonic grin that usually turned my knees to gelato. “That was the plan anyway, right?”

I shot Joey the same watch-yourself glare I'd just thrown at Kyle. He wasn't lying. But he was being unnecessarily cruel, and that struck me as beneath him.

Kyle stiffened. “I'm a trained sharpshooter,” was all he said. Crap.

“I'm pretty handy with a gun myself,” Joey replied, his voice dropping ominously. I knew that tone. Double crap.

“And why would that be?” Kyle asked, his eyes going to Joey's midsection in search of a gun bulge under his jacket. There wasn't one. “It seems you know quite a bit more about me than I do about you.”

“I do my homework,” Joey said.

“I wasn't aware there was an assignment.” Kyle's eyes flashed.

“I don't think that's my fault,” Joey's voice kept the dangerous heaviness. “Or my problem. Agent Miller.”

My eyes dropped to Kyle's calf, where I'd never known he carried a gun until last night. Not that I thought he would start shooting at people. But the tension in the air would've withstood a chainsaw.

“Why don't we rectify that?” Kyle's words had a hard edge. Commanding. I'd only ever heard it once before. My thoughts flashed back to a gasoline-soaked warehouse and a very different standoff. “Starting with your name.”

“I don't think that's any of your business. I'm sure Nichelle will tell you anything about me she thinks you need to know.” Joey's fingers curled into a fist at his side, his eyes cutting to me as he stepped toward Kyle.

“I'm sorry, did it sound like a question?” Kyle put one foot forward, his nostrils flaring. “It wasn't.”

Joey's arm twitched.

My eyes ping-ponged between them for half a heartbeat. No matter who swung first, Joey would wind up in handcuffs for decking a federal agent, and Kyle would waste no time with fingerprints and a background check that would produce everything including Grandma's lasagna recipe.

And that was only the first reason I didn't want them in a brawl on my porch.

Profiles tense and fists balled, they each took another step.

I jumped into the middle.

“That's enough,” I said, wriggling around so I had one hand on each chest. Their heart rates would've convinced any doctor they'd just run a marathon.

“Go in the house, Nichelle.” The words slid through someone's teeth, so low I couldn't swear who said them. So I lost my temper with them both.

“Did I stutter? That's enough!” I stomped one Manolo and shoved with both arms. They each staggered back half a step, tight jaws going slack. “While I think you both have honorable intentions—or you did when you got here, at least—I feel a bit too much like that baby in King Solomon's court. So I'll thank you to take your hormone overdose elsewhere.”

Kyle looked like I'd slapped him. “Nichelle—” he began.

I kept my hand up. “Not right now.”

“You're not safe here,” he said.

“I assure you, she's perfectly safe with me,” Joey said.

I whirled on one heel, my head verging on explosion. “Stop. It.” I bit out.

“You can't stay here alone.” Kyle stepped to the door, laying a hand on the knob. “If you don't want to come with me,” his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow, “at least let your friend here stay.”

“The one who offers to give up the baby keeps her in that parable, yes?” Joey murmured, glancing between me and Kyle. He arranged his face into the stoically unreadable drive-Nichelle-batshit-crazy look, his armor of composure settling back around him.

“This isn't about winning,” Kyle said, his eyes on me. “It's about keeping you from getting killed.”

“If that's the objective, I suggest we consider the possibility our friends with the shotgun could be the least of our worries,” Joey said, pulling a folded newspaper from inside his jacket.

Kyle and I both turned questioning eyes on him. He opened the paper to my story on Jasmine's (Ruth. Whatever.) identity, and folded it back, holding up the photo Larry had sharpened and enlarged.

“Say the cops are right and this is a serial,” Joey said, his gaze flicking between me and Kyle.

I opened my mouth to object, and he raised one hand. “I'm not agreeing with them. Just asking you to consider it. Maybe a serial with ties to your televangelist, even.”

“I'm listening,” I said.

“You don't see it?” That was directed at Kyle, whose sharp intake of breath told me I was out of the loop.

“She's pretty,” I said, snatching the paper and studying the picture. “She looks happy. Friendly.”

“She looks...” Joey exchanged a glance with Kyle, who turned horrified eyes on me.

“Like you.” Kyle finished, barely above a whisper. “She looks like you. Nichelle, please come home with me.”

Joey leaned against the porch railing. “Your call, sweetheart.”

My brain reeled, my eyes flashing from one of them to the other and back to the photograph in my hands. She had long dark hair. A straight nose. Nicely-almond-shaped green eyes. With their words rolling around my head, she didn't look unlike me. Cecilia Erickson's Facebook photo skated through my thoughts, and my stomach plummeted to my knees.