Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (3 page)

“I’ll send you a link.”

I pulled the messages up on my screen and handed him my phone.

His baby blues scanned the screen at least four times before he spoke.

“I feel reasonably safe that this person isn’t threatening you. But these sure border on threatening someone.”

“I know. But who? Why? When? There are so many variables. I started a list of possibilities. I’m kind of hoping the handle is initials.”

He snorted. “Surely not. But if you’ll email me the list I’ll run them.”

I smiled at the waitress as she set platters of cheese fries and soft pretzels in the center of the table. “Thanks, Aaron.”

“No promises, but maybe we’ll get lucky. Someone DMing a reporter isn’t trying to keep but so much of a secret.”

“I’d just like to stay ahead of him if I can. Figure out what he’s up to before someone gets hurt.”

“Yes, please. I’ve enjoyed the quiet lately.” The looked that flitted across his face told me his quiet was over the second he stepped into that condo.

I changed the subject to personal stuff as he finished his first beer and let him get a third of the way into his second before I asked about the victim again.

“Did the coroner give you a window on time of death?” I toyed with the straw in my ice water.

“Nichelle.” Aaron’s tone held a warning edge. “I swear I’ll give you what I can when I can, but lay off.”

“Lay off what?” I feigned innocence.

He plunked his mug down on the table. “You know what. Even if they had offered a guess—which they have not—I couldn’t give it to you. Not today.”

Why the hell not? I bit my tongue to keep the words from tumbling out, shaking my head. “You know you’re just making me more curious.”

“I’m aware of the dangers of that. Frankly, I’m hoping your internet friend will keep you busy for a few days.”

“Possibly.”

“I’ll remember to thank him if we have to arrest him.”

I handed the server my MasterCard, then took Aaron back to the high-rise to get his car. Watching his broad shoulders disappear across the parking lot, my brain flipped into hyperdrive. No time of death. No cause of death. No name.

Whatever was going on up there, it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill murder.

I stepped out of the car and surveyed the building in the deepening twilight. The front right corner of the next-to-top floor blazed with ten times more light than any other unit, beams streaming out the windows like used car lot beacons.

A glance at the door told me Jeff had been replaced by an older man with stooped shoulders and a rumpled uniform. Flirting likely wouldn’t get me anywhere. I climbed back behind the wheel and jotted down the floor and location of the investigation scene.

First up: find the condo’s owner. All I needed was a place to begin.

3.

Complications

My headlights bounced off a silver Lincoln logo when I turned into my driveway, and my heart flipped clean over before it began hammering.

I dabbed on some lip gloss and ran a hand through my hair before I hustled to the door, pushing it open to find the sexiest man I’d ever personally touched sitting at my little bistro table. One candle, two glasses of wine, and a vase holding a long-stemmed rose dotted the tabletop.

My face split into a grin. “I could get used to coming home to this on random Tuesday nights.”

Joey stood and pulled me into his arms. “And I could get used to doing this whenever I feel like it.” His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he lowered his lips to mine.

Butter-soft cotton slid under my fingertips as I ran my hands up his chest and over his broad shoulders, muscle hard under the fabric. His lips were gentle over mine, moving slowly as one hand crept up to cup the side of my face. He pulled back a millimeter, his fingertips skating sparks across my cheekbone. “How was your day? You said it’s been slow, so I thought it was a good time for a surprise.”

I stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him again, flicking the tip of my tongue at the crease of his lips and smiling when his arm tightened around my waist. “Any time is a good time for this sort of surprise,” I breathed when I pulled away.

“Noted.” He flashed a smile and turned, handing me a glass of wine. “I’m still learning the rules. I haven’t done anything like this in a pretty long time.”

“That’s nice to know.” I moved to take the chair across from his, but he sat down and pulled me into his lap before I got it away from the table.

“What’s nice to know?”

“That you’re not…” I sipped my wine, fumbling for words that wouldn’t sound insulting.

“Not some sort of man-whore?” He chuckled and I felt my cheeks heat.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You did a little bit.”

I sipped more wine and studied him over the rim of my glass. Thick, jet black hair, olive skin, a strong jaw and straight nose—he was a beautiful man. No way there was a shortage of women throwing themselves at his…pick an appendage. He was sweet, sexy, and still more than a little mysterious—hence my uncertainty. We’d been seeing each other pretty often (and sharing a bed on a regular basis) for months. But I knew next to nothing about his life. And for all that my livelihood was questions, I was terrified to ask him the simplest ones.

He bounced a knee under me. “You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Care to share?”

I put my empty glass on the table, feeling a bit tipsy with that on top of the Moscato I’d had with Aaron. Turns out, they call it liquid courage for a reason. “What are we doing?”

“Having a perfectly wonderful Tuesday night,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck.

I sighed and tipped my head back as his lips explored my collarbone. “Is that all?”

He paused at the hollow of my throat and raised his head. “That’s not enough?”

I sat up straight and pushed his shoulders gently. “Not what I meant. I’m just wondering how this is supposed to go. I mean, what are we? Can you call someone a boyfriend when you’re almost thirty? And does that apply? Are we not seeing other people? Can this ever go anywhere, really?”

The questions tripped out of my mouth so fast he furrowed his brow trying to keep up.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing the wineglasses and moving toward the fridge. “Maybe we should have another drink.”

“No apology necessary.” He leaned back in the chair and loosened his tie. “I knew this was coming. I thought about broaching it last weekend, but my nerves got the better of me.”

My hand froze in mid-pour. “What do you have to be nervous about?”

“Are you seeing him? Miller?”

His voice was so soft, I would’ve missed that if there’d been a car speeding down the next block over.

“He won’t even return my calls when I have a stalker.” I laughed. “So I’m going with no.”

“You have a what?” Joey’s expression flipped from tentative to annoyed in the space of a blink.

I waved a hand. “That’s a dramatization. Somebody who wants an audience for their crazy, probably, but my lack of anything better to poke around in got me curious. I tried to call Kyle to ask his opinion. He didn’t answer or call back.” I heard a tinge of sorrow in the last words. Part of me would always love Kyle. But he wanted me to be in love with him, and I just wasn’t. Not now. Didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss having him around.

Joey sat back in his chair. “What brand of crazy are they selling?”

“Not sure. Someone has to pay for something, they say. Aaron’s working on it.” I pulled the other chair out and sat, crossing my legs at the knee and putting the glasses on the table.

He nodded. “Nothing else interesting going on?”

“Murder in some ritzy condos down on the river.”

He smiled. “I guess that’s what you get for saying it’s been slow.”

“Karma.” I paused, letting myself wonder for two seconds why Joey was in my kitchen when there was a wealthy, older man on the way to the local morgue.

No. He wouldn’t. I didn’t even need to ask.

While I knew just enough about Joey’s involvement with organized crime to know I didn’t want to know more, I also knew he wasn’t a bad guy. I have an infallible creep detector—close to a decade covering crime will do that to a person. Fifteen months after he’d shown up in my living room with a story tip and a sexy smile, I could safely say he might be a lot of things (good cook and better kisser among them) but he wasn’t a murderer.

“Stay out of the middle of this one?” He pushed his chair back and stood, locking the door and pulling me to my feet. “Though if you must snoop, I make a decent bodyguard.”

“I’m doing my best to stay in the safely-nosy zone. But maybe my body could use some guarding, anyway.”

I spent the next hour completely unconcerned about mysterious victims or internet creeps.

My only regret as I kissed him goodbye in the pink-purple predawn shadows the next morning was that I still didn’t know what was really going on between us.

Save for the amazing sex—that one I was clear on.

“Call me later?” I asked as he backed toward the front steps.

“Count on it.” He turned for the car and I smiled as I watched him walk. Damn, he was gorgeous. And from the way he’d sounded the night before, there was a decent chance he was mine. I shushed the whisper that this was a rainbow-colored fantasy road to nowhere and shut the door, considering a plan for the day.

Shower, gym, dead guy.

My BlackBerry binged from its spot on my nightstand as I twisted the hot water handle. I frowned and scooted around the corner to the bedroom. Who was texting me at six thirty?

Kyle.

Sorry, been crazy here. Just got your message. Coffee this morning?

Complicated. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated?

I bit my lip, the uncertainty in Joey’s strong voice when he’d asked about Kyle the night before running around my thoughts. But Kyle was my friend—just my friend—and I wanted his help.

Sure
, I tapped back.
Thompson’s at nine thirty?

Bing.
See you then.

Sigh.
Thanks.

Bing.
No problem.

Somehow, I had a feeling coffee with Kyle could lead to a big problem for my new…whatever Joey and I were doing. But as much as I knew Aaron cared, he had a murder, which meant my creeper messages would get attention when he had some to spare. Kyle was more friend than colleague, therefore more likely to make my issue a priority. Surely, if Joey needed to know we’d seen each other, he’d understand that.

Wouldn’t he?

4.

Old flames, new friends

I
took extra care with my outfit, the sundress, sweater and four-inch peep toe Louboutins a look I knew Kyle would appreciate. I just didn’t admit it to myself until I was running out of the gym for the morning news budget meeting.

Tapping my foot through the sports rundown, I tried to pay attention when my boss moved on to Metro. Bob had inherited the section after the editor quit, and his “temporary” fill-in was going on two years. Not that anyone minded. Bob’s place among journalism’s elite was secure—and he had the Pulitzer on his wall to prove it.

“Anything new on your dead guy this morning?” he asked, raising one bushy white eyebrow in my direction.

“Not yet, but I’ll find something.” Even if I had to go back and bat my lashes at Jeff the doorman to do it.

He nodded. “Of course you will. I’ll save a hole—just try to let me know if you think it’s page one or metro front, and how much space you need.”

“I’ll call you by three.”

My friend and favorite southern cook, Eunice Blakely, had a Sunday feature coming on a breast cancer survivor for awareness month. I smiled as she went over the story, my mom’s battle with the disease fresh in my thoughts even six years into remission.

“Everyone said she was going to die,” Eunice finished. “And Kim talked to three doctors who said flat-out that she should have.” She held up a photo of a striking redhead with gorgeous skin and a smile to match. She didn’t look much older than me. “Her husband calls it a miracle. She credits willpower and a determination to see her kids grow up. Divine intervention or no, she’s been cancer-free for two years.”

“TV doesn’t have this?” Bob tapped a pen on his desk. “She’s pretty. They should eat it up.”

“She told Kimberley she’d never talked to a reporter. Their husbands work together. When I told them last month I wanted the breast cancer story to beat all breast cancer stories for October, she went to these folks. Took her weeks of begging to get them to sit for an interview, from what I understand.”

Team coverage of the early flu epidemic was leading Metro, with a rural school district that had closed for two days to disinfect buildings and overcrowding at the local hospitals. “Do I need to ask again if everyone’s had their flu shot?” Bob’s dad-knows-best voice made me smile as I nodded.

Half-listening to the business rundown, I scrolled through the emails in my BlackBerry with one eye on the clock. Three lawyers who wanted to plead their cases in the paper instead of a courtroom, and a patrolman who’d worked a DUI I’d written up the week before (I said it was slow). With the dead guy, the drunk driver would move to the back burner, and the attorneys could wait ’til I’d talked to Kyle and done some digging on the body in the condo.

“Nice. Perfect weekend ahead—murder on one, feel-good angels and miracles inside.” Bob leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head, every ear in the room waiting for the dismissal he’d used each day of my eight-plus years at the
Telegraph
. “My office is not newsworthy, so get out and go find me something to print.”

I hopped to my feet and whirled for the door, just enough time left to make my coffee date.

“Nichelle?” Bob’s deep voice carried over the chatter of our section editors.

“Yeah, Chief?” I paused in the doorway and looked over my shoulder.

“Stay ahead of Charlie. It’ll keep Andrews in his cave.”

I nodded, the reminder of our publisher’s push for Bob’s retirement unnecessary. It had kept me running on coffee and Pop-Tarts until I’d beaten every reporter in town on the daily for five months. Bob had never let me down, and I wasn’t about to sit by and watch Rick Andrews take away his only reason for getting up in the morning.

Maybe finding my creeper would lead to an exclusive that could be good for both of us.

Kyle was already there, head bent over his iPhone, a latte cooling on the table in front of him.

“You let your hair grow back out,” I said as I walked up behind him. “I thought the buzzcut was part of the hotshot federal agent uniform.”

“I’m a rebel.”

He grinned, tucking the phone in his back pocket as he stood and reached to hug me.

“I like it,” I said, squeezing his shoulders briefly before I stepped toward the counter to order my caramel white mocha.

The cryptic DMs pinged through my head again as the barista put the finishing touches on my latte. Dropping a dollar in the tip jar, I spun back for the table and pulled out my phone, still not sure how concerned I should be.

“I don’t think this person’s pissed at me, but I’m worried that someone might end up getting hurt,” I said, opening the thread and handing Kyle my BlackBerry.

He bent over the screen, his mouth twisting to one side as he read.

“This is all you’ve gotten?”

I nodded. “Bizarre choice for a creeper. He can’t write a manifesto in 140 characters.”

“True. But he’s also harder to trace.” His fingers moved absently over the bristles of his auburn goatee. “They have so many users, who are all online at different times, that the site is damned near impossible to police.”

I sat back. “Fantastic.”

“Why you, though? And why haven’t you blocked this,” he looked back at my phone, “LCX12?”

“I don’t have the first damned clue why me. And because I want to see what they’re going to say next. Duh. If I block it, how am I going to figure out what it means in time to help?”

“Help who?”

“Whoever ‘they’ are.”

“That’s a mighty big umbrella you have there, Nichelle.”

“I’m hoping you can help me shrink it.”

He twisted in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, his left hand still worrying the goatee.

“I think you’re right that you’re not in immediate danger. But if you insist on getting into this, you could piss them off. Which is never wise with someone who’s unstable.”

“Of course,” I said.

“White know about this?”

“I showed him last night. He said he could try to trace an IP address. But he has a dead rich guy giving his homicide unit heartburn.”

“I saw your story this morning. What’s up with that?”

“Nothing you’ve heard about?”

“Subtle.”

“Just checking.”

“I haven’t heard a word.”

“So it’s probably not a dead shady rich guy. That puts my money back on a bad business deal or a pissed-off girlfriend. Aaron did say he wasn’t married, so it wasn’t a wife.”

“Not his wife, anyway.” Kyle arched one eyebrow.

“Oooh, I hadn’t thought of that.” I pulled out a notepad and pen and jotted it down. “I like the way your brain works.”

He grinned. “Cause of death?”

“They haven’t released it yet.”

“Huh. Obvious trauma?”

“Yes, but they won’t say what kind.”

He tipped his head to one side, picking up his cup. “I wonder why not? Historically, you can manage to wheedle almost anything out of the PD.”

“This is what I get for saying ‘it’s been slow’ out loud. Dead people shrouded in too much mystery, surly detectives, and a crazy person who likes my Twitter photo.”

“Maybe you should change it.” Kyle pulled out his phone. “Do I even follow you? What’s your handle?”

I rolled my eyes. “RT underscore crime NC.”

He poked at his screen. “There you are.” He shrugged. “Just a publicity shot. Nice one, but nothing come-hither-y about it.”

“Because I’m the come-hither-random-Twitter-guy type. They have another app for that.”

His blue eyes widened. “You have an account there?”

“Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

“As if.” I snorted. “Speed dating via surface judgement. Not my thing, but thanks for asking.”

“Your surface judges just fine from where I sit,” he said.

“I appreciate your opinion, though I think it’s clouded by your knowledge of my brilliant personality and sharp wit.”

Kyle laughed. “Not clouded. Enhanced. But we should probably stick to business. Your new guy might not like you coming to see me otherwise.”

I dropped my eyes to the table, biting down on the “he’s not the boss of me” because it was childish, and also because Kyle was right. And were the stiletto on the other foot, I couldn’t blame Joey, because I’d feel the exact same way.

Nodding slowly, I raised my head. “We okay?”

“Fine.” The word was clipped, and he ran a hand through his hair, mussing the curls attractively.

Handing back my BlackBerry, he sighed. “Send me what you have. I’ll see what I can turn up.”

“Thank you.” I tucked the phone away and smiled. “Anything interesting going on in your world these days?”

“Nothing I want to talk to the media about.”

“Off the record.”

“Still tracking down the rest of that gun ring. Monitoring Caccione activity.”

I swallowed hard, keeping my face carefully blank. But how much longer until Kyle figured out Joey had ties to the crime family he was investigating? His refusal to talk to me for the past few months either meant he was on the trail, or he was too pissed to worry about it.

The look on his face said it could be either, or something else entirely.

“How’s that coming?” I kept my tone light.

“They haven’t chosen a new leader,” he said. “However that goes down these days. It’s less
The Godfather
and more a business—but we’re having a hard time getting any dirt on who might be in line for a promotion.”

“You’ve been watching for three months and have nothing?” I couldn’t decide if that was shocking or relieving—or both.

“It’s one of the biggest, best-connected syndicates in the country. Maybe in the world. You don’t build that kind of empire without a talent for keeping secrets.”

Joey’s stoic, drive-Nichelle-batshit-crazy expression flashed through my thoughts. Ain’t that the truth?

“How about you?” Kyle asked.

“The publisher wants Bob to retire. I’m determined to stay ahead of everyone else in town, because as long as we’re winning the news wars, they can’t force him out.”

Kyle nodded. “Anything for a noble cause. Totally you.” He paused, his eyes softening. “Since you’re clearly not going to offer, I have to ask: whatever happened with your grandparents?”

Ah, my crazy family: my grandfather was kind of a medium Hollywood bigshot, and my mom got pregnant at sixteen and refused to get married. Plus, she insisted on keeping her baby. This was a point of so much contention, they disowned her. Seventeen years later, they sent me a big fat check and an I’m-sorry letter, but it took eleven more years for me to pick up a phone and call them. Kyle had witnessed much of the angst involved.

I smiled. “My grandmother’s nice. We talk on the phone a couple times a month. She’s been following my work online since college, and she likes to hear about the behind-the-scenes parts.”

“Have you met them?”

“Even if I could take the time off, I’m not sure how I want to handle that. But all in all, it’s certainly better than I thought it would be. I was afraid and resentful for so long.”

“I’m glad.” 

“And?” I prompted.

“And what?”

“You have something-I’m-not-saying face. What’re you thinking?”

“That I want to know if she told you anything about your father.”

The hundred-thousand-dollar question.

That I was still a little chicken to ask. Even when my mom poured out the whole story, I didn’t get a name—she didn’t offer, and I didn’t pry. I called my grandmother for the first time fully intending to find out, but it’s a funny thing: when your throat closes around a question every time you start it, it never quite gets out there.

“I haven’t gotten around to that.”

“Afraid of the answer?”

“It seems.”

His lips tipped up in a sad smile. “I know the feeling.”

I put one hand over his. “I’m sorry.” It was just above a whisper.

He nodded, patting my hand before he ran one of his through his hair again and stood. “I’ll work on this and let you know what I find. You watch yourself. And call me if you need me.”

“Thank you.” I stood, hefting my bag onto my shoulder. “I appreciate that. And I’m glad you’re doing well.”

I waved as he pulled out of the parking lot. I hated that Kyle was sad because of me. Surely I was smart enough to figure a way to help him—as soon as I dug up a little more on Aaron’s mystery murder victim.

Journalism in the age of the Internet 102: part of the reason newsrooms have smaller staffs is because computers make it possible for me to accomplish in a half-hour what would’ve taken my 1979 counterparts three days of hunting through files.

Back at my office, I flipped my laptop open and pulled up the website for the condo complex. I copied the architectural firm’s name into my Google bar, and in ten minutes, I had a set of blueprints for the building on my screen.

The bright as noon unit from last night? Number seventeen-oh-four.

Clicking open another window, I pulled up the city’s property tax record database. A few keystrokes and three clicks later, I had a name.

David Maynard. I jotted it in my notes and tapped the pen on my blotter.

Journalism in the age of the Internet 103: the computer can only get you so far.

While the odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Maynard being the victim, I couldn’t print it. Could be him. Could also be the landlord (Maynard was the seven-year-old condo’s original owner). Or maybe the victim didn’t live there at all. What if it was a guest, a friend, a relative? The information was handy, but without confirmation, its usefulness was limited to one sentence that would mostly fill space and show Andrews I’d done my homework.

I also knew Charlie well enough to know if she hadn’t finished this particular task, she would before the end of the day. So I needed something she couldn’t get before six. Where could I find it?

The cute, flirty doorman.

Let Aaron keep his secrets. A way around the answer was there for the taking—I just needed the right source.