Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (25 page)

36.

In pictures

I
sat in Lindsay’s big black leather chair, rubbing absently at the friction burn Larry’d left on my wrist in all his hurry. His fat fingers fumbled with the cord that attached his Nikon to his MacBook.

A gorgeous portrait of Carytown’s resident one-man band popped up on the screen. The photo was striking, and perfectly executed, but it didn’t scream “cover shot” to me. I furrowed my brow.

“I don’t understand. Lindsay said—”

“That I had something amazing?”

Larry nodded, moving his hand to the trackpad.

I squinted at the screen.

Oh, shit.

“Larry, when did you take this?”

He looked up, his wide face spreading into a slow grin. “This morning.”

“Out—” My head swam, the room wavering in front of me. “Outside Thompson’s?”

“Just up the street. I heard a muffled crack and I turned in time to get this.” He clicked the trackpad and my breath stopped.

The screen filled with cornflower blue October sky, the sun lighting the bakery rooftop across from the coffee shop. And in the center, behind the air condenser, was a crouching figure. Holding a rifle.

“You see it, right?” Larry asked. “There’s the asshole who shot your friend.”

“Jesus, Larry,” I breathed, my fingers drifting toward the screen on autopilot. “Talk about the right place at the right time.”

“I’m just sorry I was looking for a feature. I had the wrong damned lens. If I’d been on my way to the racetrack, we could count his nose hairs. I tried to get over there before he disappeared, and then I talked to people for hours, but I couldn’t get anything better than this.”

“Telephoto on this one would’ve been amazing, but let’s not be greedy. You got him. How much can you enhance this?”

“Not enough for an ID. He’s doing a pretty good job hiding his face.”

“And the one I brought you last night?”

He clicked a couple of windows and Benny’s photo appeared on the screen. Sharper relief around the figure in the doorway—or maybe just looking at it differently, bigger, on the other screen—made every hair on my arm stand straight up.

“Jiminy Choos. Larry, go back to the other?”

“What?”

“The photo you took. Pull it up.”

He did. “What is it?”

“Can you get closer in on this?” I put one fingernail over the rifle.

“Closer, yes. Close enough? Dunno.”

I paced, my brain racing, while Larry hunched over the keyboard and worked his magnifying and filter magic.

Dammit, what if it had been right under my nose since day one?

I yanked my BlackBerry from my pocket and scrolled back through the photos, turning to look over Larry’s shoulder.

Yep. How could I have missed it?

Because there wasn’t a motive, that’s how.

Not one I knew about, anyway.

Twenty-three of the longest minutes in the history of the world later, Larry looked up. “This is the best I can do. What are you looking for?”

I closed my eyes.

Please.

Crouching in front of the monitor, I let my breath out in a long, slow sigh. The sun had hit just right, and Larry’s wizardry brought it up sharp enough to tell me everything I needed to know.

Right. Under. My. Nose.

Damn, Nichelle.

I jumped to my feet, pulling Larry into a hug. “You are a genius.”

“I know. But what am I getting credit for today?”

“Just keep working on that. And the other one. I’ll let Bob know to hold the cover open—those photos are the answer to the story of the year, my friend. I just have to get the rest of it.”

I bolted for my desk before he could ask any more questions.

M
rs. Eason didn’t answer on the first try, and I didn’t dare leave a message.

Should I go over there?

No. There’s chasing the story, and then there’s just stupid. I like to think I’m not the latter.

I tapped a finger on my phone.

Aaron was the other person I’d usually call.

Kyle? He was annoyed with me.

Landers wasn’t in a place to look.

I dialed Elizabeth Eason again.

“Yes?” she snapped, answering on the second ring. I breezed right past the prickly tone.

“Mrs. Eason, it’s Nichelle over at the
Telegraph
,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even a shade under panicked. “I need to ask you something.”

“I didn’t help you enough yesterday?”

“Just one more quick thing. Please?”

She offered a put-upon sigh. “What is it?”

“Was Dr. Maynard particularly close with Jeff?”

“Who?”

“The doorman.”

“Oh. He used to help David with letting people in and out to clean and service things.” She paused. “I never thought…”

I waited, but she stopped talking. “You never thought what?”

“I never got the idea he liked David. Nothing I could put my finger on, you understand, but just that old reporter gut feeling.”

“He never said anything?” My breath came faster.

“Not an impolite word. He’s a nice boy, really. Just seemed to have flashes of stress, or anger, or something.”

Just like Tom Ellinger.

Felicia Lang’s voice floated through my head. Someone died during her study.

The files. They flashed up on my screen when I woke my laptop.

“Mrs. Eason, do you happen to know Jeff’s last name?”

“Moseley.”

I blew out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Thank you. Have a nice evening.”

“Why—”

I clicked off the call before she could finish that question.

I had the who. The sharpened version of Benny’s cell phone photo showed a relaxed at-attention stance. The same one Jeff employed at the door to Maynard’s building, in the photo I’d taken of Percival’s old mistress that first day.

And Larry, God love him, had honed in on the rifle barrel enough to show me the swords on Jeff’s watch.

Landers and Kyle would need more. Especially with the weirdness around who was giving their orders being so desperate to make Tom Ellinger look guilty.

I clicked into the window for the USB drive and opened a search. All Files. Word or part. Moseley. Find.

The little wheel that meant the computer was thinking popped up and a dialog box told me it would take thirty-one minutes to search the entire drive. I leaned back in the chair, my head spinning. How did I miss it?

Because who cares about a random dog’s welfare while they’re killing people? He was so nice. There had to be something in these files that would make this make sense.

Twenty-nine minutes left. I checked the clock in the corner of the display.

“How the hell did it get to be five twenty?” I dropped my head onto one hand, suddenly starving. Maybe Eunice had left something in the break room. That was still there with the sports guys lurking about? Not likely, but worth a shot.

I found a mostly empty pan at the back of the bottom shelf, only because I knew that’s where Parker stashed stuff he didn’t want the other guys to see. Why men won’t look anywhere but in the front of a fridge for food baffles me.

Croissants. I popped one in the microwave and bit into it to find ham, swiss, and béchamel sauce. I snarfed the entire thing down in twelve seconds and went back for another.

“No time for lunch today?” Parker’s voice came from behind me and I jumped and smacked my head on the fridge.

“Not even close.” I rubbed the back of my head with one hand and held out the pan with the other. “You want the last one? Sorry. I think I ate dinner last night, but I couldn’t swear to it. This story is trying to kill me.”

His golden eyebrows shot skyward. “Not literally, I hope.”

“Not this time.” I smiled. “But it’s trying to kill plenty of other people.”

“You making any progress?”

“I have a helluva lead for tomorrow’s front, if I can get it to come together in the next hour.” I elbowed him. “You making any progress?”

His trademark grin took on a goofy, lovesick edge that made me want to squeal just from being in the same room with it. “Tomorrow night. We’re going to a Halloween party.”

“As?”

“Cinderella and Prince Charming.”

“Naturally. Why did I ask?”

“I got a glass slipper. To put the ring in.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and puffed out his chest.

“And you’re not proud of yourself or anything.” I laughed.

“It’s the perfect surprise. She’s going to be all dressed up, she’ll love the pictures, and she gets the fairy tale.”

I nodded. “Well played. Can I be a fly on the wall?”

“It’s a benefit for the university. Get a press pass from someone.”

“On it.” I glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker and hurried to the door. Thrilled as I was for Parker, I had a murderer who needed my attention. “I have to run and catch a killer, but you’ve totally got this proposal thing. She’ll love it.”

I rushed back toward my little ivory cube, fingers crossed behind my back for every bit of good luck this day could muster. Less than two hours to drop deadline, and the answer to the biggest story in forever somewhere in my laptop. I looked at Bob’s door for the nine millionth time that day.

Closed.

Had I missed it opening? Surely to heaven Andrews had left my boss alone by now.

I started to turn that way, then paused. Andrews was gunning for Bob under the guise of what he thought was a slip on my part. I went back to my desk and texted Bob.

Have something huge. You done in there yet?

No. Send when it’s ready.

You okay?

No. But this is not your fault.
He punctuated that one with a smiley. Lord save us.

Andrews is an ass. Hang in there.
I tapped a wink and a heart.

I think he’s hoping if he talks long enough I’ll die of boredom.

I snorted.
He’s obviously never sat through a meeting with Beatman.
Our business editor was a nice guy, but the interesting gene had skipped him, two helpings of dry taking its place.

Another smiley. Two in one day from Bob meant the universe was trying to tell me something. I touched the trackpad on my laptop.

Three results.

Holy shit.

I clicked the first one up.

A Katarina Moseley was in the part of the spreadsheet Miss Emma said was a patient list.

Maynard treated the doorman’s—what? Mother? Wife? He certainly didn’t seem married, from the number of times he’d hit on me.

They knew each other. But neither of them had ever mentioned it to Elizabeth.

No. Way.

I went back to the spreadsheet and looked at the other columns, pulling the notes from my reading medical documents lesson with Emma.

Katarina Moseley had lung cancer.

I read the third column three times.

Maynard put her in the control group.

Oh, shit.

I didn’t even stop to think about why Jeff would try to frame Tom Ellinger, who was in the same damned boat. I had the photos. I had the woman’s name. I clicked the other documents.

She was the entire list of deceased subjects at the end of the third one. I scrolled up and found Felicia Lang’s name, and it all fell neatly into place. The woman who died in her study, who didn’t get treatment until it was past too late. The only patient Maynard lost.

Motive.

I snatched the BlackBerry off my desk and texted Kyle.

The doorman did it. Jeff. At Maynard’s building. Do your thing, SuperCop.

Nine seconds later:
You’re sure?

I have two photos, and Maynard let someone he loved die.

Bing
. Shit. White had the interviews with this guy and the drug company VP open on his desk, and a note that the building manager told him Shannon referred the doorman for the position when it came open last year.

My eyes flicked back to my screen. Of course. Maynard sent Shannon the study and Katarina’s name was right there. Three seconds of research brings up Jeff’s service record, and Shannon has the perfect plan—get Jeff close to Maynard and greenlight the kill when the doc won’t sell out.

My stomach twisted.

Their alibis?
I typed.

Bing.
Each other. Dammit. On my way.

Careful. He’s a good shot.

Bing.
Thanks. White is going to be okay.

I heard. Call me when you’ve got him?

Smiley face.
I believe you get the exclusive, ma’am.

I believe I’m going home to have a glass of wine and some chocolate while I wait.

I texted Bob that a late hold on the front would be worth it, stuffed my laptop and files into my bag, and shuffled to the lobby, the adrenaline drain leaving me slightly more erect than a wet dishcloth. Texting Joey, I stepped into the elevator.

Kyle’s on his way to get the bad guy. I’m on my way home. Open some wine.

Dropping the phone into my bag, I dug out my keys. His reply buzzed as I stepped into the garage.

I climbed into the car and locked the doors, letting my head fall back against the seat.

The rustle of fabric on leather came from behind me, and a cold circle about an inch in diameter dug into my temple.

“Evening, Miss Clarke.” Jeff’s voice was familiar, his breath hot on my ear. “I did hope I could avoid this, but you can’t seem to keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong.”

Crap. Hell.