Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) (11 page)

“It’d be nice if I hadn’t seen every word of this on Channel Four twenty minutes ago. Charlie’s up by two in two days. Don’t worry about the typos. Shelby will catch them.”

“At least he’s consistent,” I muttered, turning my thoughts back to Grayson.

Before I could type Grayson’s name into Google again, I had an idea. I checked the files I’d saved on him already and dialed my prosecutor girlfriend’s cell number. 

“It’s Saturday,” DonnaJo said when she answered. “I have fuzzy pink flowered pajamas, coffee, and a new mystery novel. Unless you want a coffee book club meeting, I’m not talking to you.”

“I wish,” I said. “I’m at the office. Your Saturday sounds much more relaxing. One quick question?”

“Go home, Nichelle. The bad guys will still be there Monday.”

“I will. I just need to ask you something first,” I said, clicking my pen and fanning my notebook to an empty page.

She sighed. “What?”

“Do you know anyone who knows Ted Grayson?”

“Not anyone who can get him to talk to you about that break-in at his house.”

Perfect.

“Damn.” I tried to sound convincingly disappointed. “What about someone who can get me some background on his political opposition?”

“Can’t your D.C. reporter get you that?”

“She’s not here today.” It came out a little too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” DonnaJo was quiet for a minute. “I have an old friend who served in the House of Delegates with Grayson. He used to be a prosecutor. I’ll give you his number, but leave me out of this. Ted Grayson has a lot of friends, and if you’re nosing around, I don’t want to be caught in the fallout.”

“Got it.” I smiled as I jotted the guy’s name and number down. “Thanks, doll. Enjoy your book.”

I dialed the number I’d just written down. Leon Casey picked up on the second ring.

“I’m working on a story about Senator Ted Grayson,” I said in my most earnest tone after I introduced myself. “I ran across your name in my research. You’re a former colleague?”

“You could say that,” Casey said, his voice so smooth I expected honey to drip from the receiver. “Ted and I go way back. But I’m not in the loop about this election, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m just trying to find general background information,” I said.  “Do you have time to answer a couple of questions?”

“If I can,” he said. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

I asked about how they knew each other (school, and then the state house) Casey’s career (prosecutor, politician, now private attorney handling mostly family cases in a poor part of town) and Grayson’s family (married, one son studying computer science at William and Mary) before I got to the restaurant smoking bill.

“That was some fancy footwork on Ted’s part.” Casey laughed. “Can you imagine? He announced he was going after tobacco in Virginia and I thought he’d just sunk his political career.”

I nodded. “I’m sure you weren’t alone.”

“That’s for sure. The whole capitol building was in an uproar. Ted even got death threats. They had to hire bodyguards,” Casey said. “It was crazy. But he was determined, and he’s a charmer. He talked people whose great-grandaddies used to farm tobacco into voting for that bill. You ever heard the saying ‘he could sell ice to eskimos?’ Ted Grayson could sell heroin to Nancy Reagan.”

My hand flew across the page, not missing a word. Something I’d seen online tapped at the back of my brain.

“Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Casey,” I said. “I have one last question: what’s your favorite non-work memory of the Senator? Is there a house of delegates guys’ night?”

The question was vague to avoid raising suspicion, but I crossed my fingers under the desk. Boys’ night and poker games go together like coffee and cream.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Casey said. “We didn’t know each other well in school, but we had some mutual friends. We did play cards occasionally. Just friendly games, but Ted was pretty good. He has that way about him. You can’t even be mad at him when he’s taking your money.”

I wouldn’t bet on that. Maybe Casey couldn’t, but plenty of people could. Maybe mad enough to make the senator desperate. I thanked Casey for his time.

I pulled up the Internet research I’d done on Grayson and scrolled through the voting lists on the tobacco-related bills again. Opening a new window, I went back to the story about the committee trouble with the cigarette tax bill.

Three other senators were listed as swing votes in the
Post
’s article on the tax. They were all on Grayson’s committee. And they had all voted in favor of the tobacco industry on bills Grayson had skipped out on.

Charming and popular.

“He’s very charismatic,” Allison had said.

“Are they paying him to deliver votes?” I mused, tapping a pen on the desk. “He skips out to escape questions about why his record has flipped, and then he gets the other guys to vote the way he wants them to on the bill?”

I shook my head at the screen. Maybe, but I needed solid proof.

Before I could figure out how to go about getting that, the phone rang. Who knew I was here on Saturday morning? I was tempted to let it go, but I have a mental block that renders me unable to ignore a ringing phone. I raised it to my ear.

“Crime desk, this is Clarke,” I said.

“Remember how you went poking around in our body dump site the other night?” Aaron.

“Yeah,” I said. “You still haven’t told me why Officer Charming felt the need to tattle on me.”

“Officer Charming?”

“Oops. Was that out loud? Sorry,” I said. “He was…less than thrilled to see me. Didn’t even thank me for pointing out that paper scrap.”

“Well, consider yourself thanked,” Aaron said. “The report says the lab results were forwarded to the ATF, and it doesn’t say what the paper is, except that it’s not any ordinary kind of paper. I don’t know how our recovery guys missed it, but if you hadn’t seen it, it would still be out there in the dirt.”

“I think this is the first time in history that a cop has called a reporter to thank them for being nosy,” I said, scribbling his comment fast.

“Thought the heads up was the least I could do, since you found the thing. You scratch my back, and all that,” Aaron said. “It’s been added to the report, so it’ll be fair game in the morning, but if you can do anything with a half-day lead, you got it.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Have fun. I’m going fishing. Right now, before anything else can require my attention.”

“Have a drink for me.” I clicked off the call and dialed Kyle’s cell number, hoping he wasn’t still a fan of sleeping in on Saturday mornings.

“Miller,” he said, not sounding like I’d woken him.

“So, what kind of paper was that I found at the Amesworth body recovery site?” I asked.

“Good morning to you, too, old friend,” he stressed the last word. “Have a nice walk with your new friend last night?”

All right. I held my tongue to keep from firing back a smartass retort.

I needed him to tell me something no one else at the ATF would be willing to share, so I couldn’t afford to piss him off. I had a feeling a bruised ego and a touch of hurt feelings were behind the sarcasm I was hearing, so I tried to soften the blow.

“You were awfully territorial for a guy I haven’t heard from in a decade,” I said. “You know you’ll always have a special place in my heart, Kyle. But we’re different people than we were then. Slow, remember? Can’t we be friends? See where it goes?”

“Who was that guy?” He sounded less tense.

“A friend.” That I’m not telling you anything else about. “And I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Every word true, even if there were a few I’d carefully omitted.

“What do you mean, ‘paper you found?’ ” He sighed, a more conversational, if guarded, tone replacing the injured one.

“I mean, paper I found,” I said. “I was poking around after the coroner’s team left, and I saw something in the soil and waved over the RPD uniform in case it was important. A little birdie tells me that it might be. So what kind of special paper is it?”

“The kind that could be material to my investigation, and is not public information at this time,” he said.

That was just a shade shy of “no comment.” I sighed. I wanted to know what it was, but I didn’t want to get Kyle in trouble at work. “You wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t found it,” I said finally. “What if I promise that we’re off the record?” If he’d tell me what it was, it might lead me to something else I could print.

“I’m sorry, Miss Clarke,” he said, all business. “It’s evidence in an open investigation.”

“Didn’t you already make an arrest?”

“The investigation doesn’t have to stop when the arrest is made,” Kyle said. “How long have you covered crime?”

He was right, though that didn’t happen very often. Normal police involvement in a case almost always ends when an arrest is made. But in something like this, they spend the time between booking and trial shoring up the case for the prosecutors. Tagging a guy like Billings for murder would require Kyle to have all his proverbial ducks lined up laser-straight. Defense attorneys who make the right kind of money can unravel a case quicker than a kitten can tear through a closet full of cashmere.

“All right,” I said. “I give up. Thanks for your time. And for dinner last night. It really was fun.”

“It was.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “We should do it again sometime. When your other friend is otherwise occupied.”

“That could be nice,” I said. “As long as we have an understanding about expectations.”

“Such as?”

“Such as I’m not hopping into the sack with you because you buy me a steak and a nice bottle of merlot.”

“How about good enchiladas and a couple of margaritas?”

“Hardy-har-har, Kyle. Not even empanadas and tequila shots.” I leaned back in my chair. “But we could get to know each other again.” I couldn’t deny that I’d felt something the night before, at the dinner table. I wanted to know if it was first love nostalgia or leftover gratitude for saving my life or something else. Something that might be worthwhile. Kyle presented his own set of challenges, but they certainly weren’t the same ones I faced with Joey.

My heart didn’t race in close quarters with Kyle like it did around Joey. And technically, they had both killed people. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus. From the life of a nun with cuter shoes to raining sexy men in a matter of months.

I promised to call him later and cradled the phone.

Flipping through the stack of message slips on my desk, I found a number for Agent Evans at the FBI. If he’d known about Billings’s arrest, maybe he knew something about the paper scrap. But it was only his office number, and he wasn’t there. I left him a message and blew out a short breath, drumming my fingers on the keyboard and thinking of Grayson playing cards.

Where could I find information on card games—ones with the sort of stakes that a guy like Grayson would be interested in? I’d covered a couple of floating poker games that the police department’s major crimes unit had blown open, but I generally only knew about such things after they’d been broken up by the cops.

Aaron and the guys at the PD wouldn’t give me anything on a gambling ring they hadn’t busted. And while the Mafia was an obvious angle for information on illegal gambling, Joey had made it clear the night before that he wanted me to keep my nose out of whatever I was trying to stick it into.

It’s funny how hard it is to follow good advice.

10.

Cold case

I was hauling a case of canned Purina Pro Plan into my grocery cart when it hit me.

If I wanted information on gambling, I didn’t need to talk to the cops. I needed to talk to a gambler.

I scrambled to keep hold of the dog food, so startled by my epiphany I nearly lost my grip on the 24-can value pack—and a toe to my furry princess’s beloved beef and carrots.

I hefted Darcy’s food into the cart and took off for the checkout, tossing in a couple of cans of soup on the way so I wouldn’t starve. Groceries stowed in the back of the car, I sped toward the office and ran to my desk, where I pawed through my file drawer in search of information on a trial I’d covered back in March.

I wriggled the manila folder free and flipped it open, paging through the police reports on a gambling ring that had been operating in basements on the Richmond American University campus for years, aided by a former professor, a baseball coach, and a security guard.

I checked the dates and clicked my laptop on, searching the
Telegraph
’s archives for my story. The security guard had only been taking cash to keep his mouth shut and look the other way. He’d been fired, but wasn’t in jail. The professor and the coach were a different story.

I scanned the text for something I thought I remembered.

“Bingo,” I mumbled.

The coach, one Peter Esparza, age forty, had also been nailed for fixing games for local bookies. And bookies were the kind of folks who might have dirt on high-stakes card games.

A quick search of the department of corrections website told me he was in cellblock six at Cold Springs, which was a little more than an hour away. I nearly lost a heel off my shoe sprinting back to the elevator.

The September breeze and just-turning leaves made it a lovely day for a drive. Halfway to the prison, I was still wondering how to get Esparza to talk to me. Fishing my Blackberry out of my bag, I dialed Parker’s cell phone.

“What’s up, Lois?” he said when he answered.

“What do you know about Peter Esparza?” I asked.

“That he got fired and he’s in jail,” he said. “Which I believe I learned from a story you wrote, didn’t I?”

“C’mon, Parker,” I said. “You know everyone involved with sports in this town. You have nothing to offer me on this guy?”

He laughed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m not sure I know anything that’s useful to the crime desk. Has there been a new development in that case? I thought Esparza was convicted and serving time.”

“No, there hasn’t been, and yes, he was,” I said. “But I need to talk to him. Tell me what he’s like. Is he a dick, or am I going to get anywhere with him?”

“What the hell do you need with a mediocre has-been baseball coach?” he asked.

“I have a hunch,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later if I’m right.”

There was a pause so long I wondered if I’d passed through a dead zone.

“Parker?” I said finally.

“Yeah. Sorry,” he said. “Esparza’s all right. Not the guy I would have pegged for fixing games and helping kids get into gambling. He’s pretty full of himself, but he’s not an asshole.”

“Anything that might make him inclined to talk to me? Other than the fact that he probably doesn’t see many breasts these days?”

“That could be enough,” Parker said.

“Thanks. Tell Mel I said hi.” I clicked off the call.

I pulled up outside the gates of the prison and handed my identification to the guard in the little stone shack. I gave him Esparza’s name and he directed me to the visitors’ parking area.

By the time I made it through security, issued a placard that told me which hallway to take and told them where I was supposed to be going, visiting hours were growing short. I tried to subtly adjust my bra as I walked, Parker’s words ringing in my ears. A bra can only work with what’s there, though. Maybe Esparza was a leg man.

I passed the placard through a thick plastic window at the end of the hallway. The guard on the other side looked at it, plucked a phone handset from the wall, and said something I couldn’t make out into the receiver. Two minutes later, a buzzer worthy of a game show set sounded in stereo and the heavy steel door to my left clicked and swung open. Silent Jim the prison guard waved me inside.

The gray hallway smelled so strongly of ammonia, my nostrils stung. I followed it to a tiny interview room where a series of three little desks mirrored each other on a wall of the same thick plexiglass the guard sat behind. A slight man with olive skin and bushy, graying hair sat at the desk in the middle. The other two were empty. When I walked into the room, he stood. That was new. I’d been to Cold Springs a few times, though usually I was down at cellblock nine interviewing a killer who was some flavor of crazy and about to be put to death by the good people of the commonwealth for his (or her, once) crime. The murderers usually didn’t stand when I came into the room.

Esparza watched me walk to the desk on my side of the glass.

I lifted the telephone receiver, wishing I had a Clorox wipe. I don’t generally worry about germs, but the handset was nothing short of slimy, a film over the black plastic consisting of God-only-knows-what making me reluctant to put it near my face. The thing was heavy and there was no way to hold it gingerly. Esparza picked up his handset and I tried to forget about the sticky, bacteria-laden plastic, pressing mine to my ear and pasting a smile on my face.

“Have we met?” he asked in a light Spanish accent before I could introduce myself.

“We have not,” I said, betting that Parker knew the guy at least in passing and hoping a little name-dropping would help. “I’m a friend of Grant Parker’s, actually—I work with him at the
Telegraph
. I’m working on a story I think you can help me with.”