Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (4 page)

5.

Leads

Jeff the doorman was standing at his post when I pulled up, but the RPD uniform between the parking lot and the front door was twice as broad—and ten times as prickly—as Officer Palmer from yesterday. I tucked my notebook into my bag and touched up my lip gloss before putting on my best haughty expression, channeling Percival’s owner as I strode purposefully toward the door.

“Miss?” The barrel-chested police officer took two steps toward me as I crossed the opposite end of the driveway, but was waylaid by an agitated man in a four-thousand-dollar suit who gestured toward the door and then the top of the building as he talked.

I didn’t stop walking until Jeff moved to open the door.

“Percival in that much of a state, or did you miss me?” he asked as he pulled on the heavy steel handle, and I returned his smile. He was cute, and probably not too used to being turned down.

“I’ll never tell.” I stopped just inside the door, shooting a glance at the elevator. Hopefully Landers was occupied, if he was around.

“Then I choose to believe the latter,” he said. “Nothing wrong with a Wednesday morning ego boost.”

My smile widened into a grin. “I am here on business.” Every word true. I leaned on the wall and feigned innocence. “There are still police cars all over the place. What’s that about?”

He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Someone died.”

I popped my mouth into an O and widened my eyes. “How awful! Who was it?”

“Dr. Maynard. Great man. Nice. Really smart. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.”

“Hurt him? Surely they don’t suspect…” I let it trail off and he nodded. Bingo. I arranged my face into an appropriately sorrowful expression.

My brain flashed through what I could safely ask without looking too interested. It’s a tricky line, getting someone to talk about something sensitive. “What kind of doctor was he? Did he work at one of the hospitals?”

“A long time ago, I think,” he said. “But he had his own office for the whole time I’ve known him. Retired to pursue his passions, he said.”

Kyle’s jealous wife theory flashed through my head, but I couldn’t start picking at the good doctor’s personal life without making Jeff wonder why I wanted to know.

“That’s so sad.”

“It is. I heard building management last night, trying to convince the cops he’d had a heart attack. Don’t want to upset the other residents. Might affect their income or something. But the detective said there were marks on the doc’s neck.”

Jackpot. No one else would have that yet as long as the coroner’s office didn’t put out a press release before the end of the day.

“How wretched.” I shook my head. “On both counts. A man is dead, and people who knew him are worried about money.”

“They liked the doc fine, but the dollar is king, for sure.”

“The police going to be around much longer?”

“I hope not. People get stopped out there and then bitch to me for twenty minutes about freedom and why the cops have a right to stop them from entering the building. I like this job because folks are mostly pleasant. I get to chit chat with them about their lives as they come and go.”

I nodded, looking him over again. “What did you do before this? Or have you always dreamed of being a doorman?”

“I have not.” He chuckled, turning to push the door open for a petite woman with silver hair and a fox stole. At eleven in the morning on a warm October day. “Mrs. Eason, you look lovely, as always.” Jeff smiled. “Anything exciting happening today?”

She shook her head, a disapproving eye on the RPD officer twenty or so feet away. “I’m afraid not, Jeffrey.” Her voice quavered as she pulled the stole a millimeter tighter. “I’m on my way to Blythe and Rogers to start arrangements for David’s services.”

I shrank back into the ficus decorating the corner, mouth shut and ears open, eyes on Mrs. Eason. Chanel blouse, Stuart Weitzman shoes, Louis Vuitton bag—she was a walking Saks billboard.

“I don’t understand why this whole business has to be so unpleasant,” she said, shooting another something-I-stepped-in look at Officer Surly. “Why can’t they go away and let him rest in peace? Do you know, they won’t even let me set a date for his funeral until they’re through with this nonsense?”

“I’m pretty sure they think someone killed him, ma’am.”

Jeff’s eyes flicked to me as he spoke, and I cast mine down and tried to blend in with the papered wall behind me.

Mrs. Eason waved her hand. “Preposterous. Who would want to hurt my David?” She shut her heavily made-up eyes for a long second, sniffling as she reopened them. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He had such a gentle soul. Brilliant mind. Kind heart.”

Her David? My fingers itched for a pad and pen. On so little sleep and so much caffeine, I hoped I could trust my brain to keep it all straight until I could write it down.

Jeff patted her thin shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She blotted the corner of one eye with a lace handkerchief, squaring her shoulders and squeezing Jeff’s hand. “You’re a good boy, Jeffrey. Thank you.”

“Drive carefully, ma’am.”

She strode to the parking lot, folding herself behind the wheel of a Jaguar parked in the first space. Brow furrowed, Jeff watched until her taillights disappeared. I stepped forward, another glance at the elevators telling me I was safe to chat a bit more.

“Wow. What an awful way to have to spend your day,” I said.

“She’s a tough old bird.” Jeff smiled. “Lived through more than most people I know, and that’s saying something.”

“Sounded like she was close to the doctor.” I held his gaze with one of friendly concern, nothing more. I practiced that look in the mirror at least a couple times a month.

“They were friends. Getting to be closer, maybe. Her husband passed on last Christmas. She took up going to the opera with the doc. And now he’s gone too.”

That piqued my news radar, though I couldn’t see that frail woman strangling any sort of grown man. But if the husband was dead, too…

“How heartbreaking. How did her husband die?” I was so curious, I forgot to be indirect.

“Heart stopped.”

“Was he ill?”

Jeff eyed me a little warily. Oops.

“Just curious,” I said hastily. Still true. “You might call it a bad habit.” I widened my eyes and flashed a grin for effect.

He smiled. “No worries. There was a tangle of reporters out front all afternoon and evening. I imagine they’ll be here again today. Too damned nosy for their own good.”

I held the smile and nodded. Oh, boy.

“It was a sudden thing,” Jeff said. “Mr. Eason. He was pretty fit, for an old guy. Vietnam veteran, retired CEO—he ran every morning along the river. Early.”

My brain ticked back ten months and change.

“They found him down there. Just off the jogging path,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

His eyebrows went up. “That’s some memory you have there.”

“I must’ve read it somewhere,” I said dismissively. “Things I read get stuck in my head.” Things I hear, too, but not as readily. I needed to go make some notes.

I took a step backward. “I just remembered something I have to do.” Lame.

He pursed his lips, his eyes flicking from his watch to the elevators. “What about Percival?”

Think fast, Nichelle.

“It’s for him,” I said. “I forgot to bring his favorite treat with me. He does better when he gets rewarded.” Two steps back. I needed a notepad, and I needed to not get any further into this hole with Jeff. He looked suspicious enough already.

A shrill “You have GOT to be kidding” came from the far end of the drive, and we both turned toward it. Ms. Social Network, Percival being dragged behind her on a rhinestone-studded leash, screeched a full-throated “go away” at the police officer, trying to shove past him to get to the door.

Captain Surly spun her around and folded one arm behind her back, saying something I couldn’t hear. Jeff took a step toward the scene, then turned to look back at me. “You said—”

“So nice chatting with you, Jeff,” I blurted, spinning on one Louboutin and sprinting for my car.

So. Close.

I didn’t even check the rearview to see if snotty Clarice was headed to jail.

A block up, I squealed the tires pulling into the Virginia War Memorial parking lot. Throwing the car into park, I snatched a pen and pad out of the console.

David Maynard. Doctor. Single. Possible girlfriend with a dead husband. A funky, suspicious dead husband if I remembered right.

My hand flew across the page, my brain replaying the conversations of the past half-hour and hoping like hell there were no details left out.

Private practice. Maybe the office website had a photo of the doctor. I made a note.

Pulling my BlackBerry from my bag, I texted Bob an
I have something
. Maybe a big something, if Charlie didn’t get it before eleven.

I opened a new message, my fingers still hesitant to type the name “Shelby” into my phone.

Our copy chief and I had the longest-running feud in
Telegraph
history, fueled mainly by the fact that she’d always wanted my job (still did), and wasn’t above any means of getting it (until recently). We were at a peace accord of sorts these days. Maybe.

I stared at the screen. How to ask without tipping my hand? Shelby and I might not be out for each other’s blood anymore, but the quickest way to lose an exclusive is to blab it all over, even in your own newsroom.

When you have a sec, I need a file from you. Filling in holes.
Good. Vague. Send.

I tapped a pen on the notepad in my lap, my thoughts racing. Sex and money are both great motives for murder, but little Mrs. Eason as the Black Widow? Not a lock, but I’d seen stranger.

Bing.
Which one?

The philanthropist CEO guy they found down by the river last Christmas
. I’d read the story on my laptop while munching cookies at my mom’s kitchen counter, and the memory of being annoyed at Shelby filling in for me on a body discovery was pretty fresh ten months later.

Bing.
Old guy. He had a heart attack. That’s what the ME said.

That’s what I thought I read.
I chose careful words.
Updating my files. Do you still have the ME’s report, by chance?

Tap tap tap.

Bing.
Yep. Want me to put it on your desk?

I shook my head at the screen, hearing a helpful tone in her high voice as I read the words. So. Weird.

That’d be fabulous. Thanks!

I clicked the phone off and dropped it back into my bag, staring out the window at the white marble walls of the memorial. Bruises on the neck were certainly a pointer to strangulation, but it wasn’t definitive. The best I could do was suspected cause of death.

And I was on the fence about printing the name. Did anyone else have it? Probably not. So why not sit on it for a day or two? Keeping it quiet would score big brownie points with Aaron, and it might keep the family, if there was one, from hearing it on the news before the cops could track them down. Andrews wouldn’t know—or care, as long as I had it first when it did go out. Plus, it kept my research under wraps if I didn’t put the victim’s name in the paper when the PD wasn’t releasing it. I could maybe stay one up on everyone else by digging up everything I could on Maynard before they even knew who he was.

Solid plan.

I started the engine and checked the clock: eleven thirty. Four hours until Bob would want to know how much space I needed.

Thank God for the internet.

6.

Dead end

Journalism in the age of the Internet 104: the World Wide Web knows all. The trick is where to look. I found a photo of Dr. David Maynard in thirteen seconds.

Then hit a cinderblock wall trying to find out anything else about him.

My inner Lois Lane found that fascinating. The rest of me found it damned frustrating.

I tapped my fingers on the edge of the keyboard. No yellow pages listing for a practice. No white pages listing for a home or a business. No results in the galleries of physicians on the local hospital pages.

After an hour of spelling his name nineteen different ways (yes, the image result came up on the first try, but there are at least nine ways to spell Smith), I was no closer to anything resembling a bio.

No Facebook.

No Twitter.

I clicked back to the photo. Maybe this wasn’t the same guy Mrs. Eason was mourning. Twisting a lock of hair around my index finger, I stared at the screen.

An attractive, if a little plain, gentleman stared back, his round face comfortable in its smile. It was a headshot, so I had no point of reference for height or size except average shoulders and full cheeks. The age was maybe a little off too. My chin dropped to my chest.

“So who are you? Where did it pull this from?” I muttered, clicking to the source page.

Holy Manolos.

From us. The photo was in the
Telegraph
database, on the local server. I logged in and searched the offline archives.

Fifty-nine hits. I clicked into the most recent article, which turned out to be no kind of recent at all.

Nine years ago, Maynard retired from the RAU Medical School. And from the hospital, where he was the chief of oncology. His career change had warranted a feature on the society page because of the gala the hospital’s board threw for him. No one could say enough good things about him. Brilliant, caring, patient. A true loss to the local medical community.

The man himself was quoted as saying he’d miss the bustle of the hospital, but looked forward to pursuing his true passion.

“Which is?” I scrolled down, but that was it. Either the reporter didn’t ask, or they didn’t print it.

So I still had a big fat question mark over where he’d disappeared to. Almost a decade later, his doorman said he’d been in private practice, but not for how long or where. And the internet, usually my best friend when researching a story, had nothing for me. Why?

I tapped more. The furrow in Jeff’s brow when I bolted told me asking him more questions about the doc would blow my dog trainer cover wide open. But someone had to know.

I scrolled back to the top of the article and checked the byline.

Elizabeth Herrington.

Didn’t ring a bell, and the story ran nine months before my first day at work. I clicked through a few more articles, but the dates were positively ancient, the reporters’ names unfamiliar. Not much in the way of content, either—mostly side mentions in pieces on the medical school, though there was one headline about a drug breakthrough a dozen years ago. Maynard’s name popped up in that one thirteen times. Brilliant doctor. But I already knew that.

Strike one.

Damn, damn, damn.

I hopped to my feet and strolled to Bob’s office, tapping on the open door.

“Hey, Chief?” I poked my head around the corner. He waved me in, keeping his eyes fixed on his screen. I plopped into the Virginia Tech orange armchair in the corner near his desk. A glance at his borderline-obnoxious Hokies wall clock, hanging just above and to the left of his Pulitzer on the opposite wall, told me I was running out of time.

“What’s up, kiddo?” His chair squealed as he turned toward me, and I smiled at the affection in his voice. Bob was doubtless the closest thing I’d ever had to a father, and as such, I didn’t smack him for calling me kiddo.

“Elizabeth Herrington.” I paused when his face took on the distinct expression of a man who had, in fact, been smacked.

He closed his eyes for a long blink and tried for a smile. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while,” he said. “What brings her up?”

Yeah, no story there. Curiosity bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed hard and breezed into my next question. No time for reminiscing today.

“She did a feature story a while back—”

“Have to be a long while back,” he interrupted.

“It was.” Focus, Nichelle.

He nodded, raising his bushy white brows expectantly.

“About my murder vic. Turns out he was a doctor. Bigshot over at the RAU Medical campus.”

Bob sat straight up, the color vanishing from his face in a blink.

“Not David Maynard.” The words sounded choked, and I flinched. It had never once occurred to me I’d be the bearer of bad news when pitching Bob a story.

I scrunched my face and leaned forward, softening my tone. “I’m afraid it sounds that way,” I said. “Aaron hasn’t released anything yet, but I went back to the building this morning and had a chat with the doorman. Did a little eavesdropping. That’s the name I got.”

He slumped into his chair. “Damn.”

I pinched my lips together and looked out the window for a long minute. I hated the thought of upsetting Bob, but I needed to stay on top of the story to keep Charlie at bay and make sure his job was safe. Some days, ambition sucks.

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you like this, Chief,” I said softly. “The thing is, I was wondering if you knew how to get ahold of Ms. Herrington, because I’m hoping she remembers the story. I’ve looked and looked for some background on the victim—” Bob’s head snapped up and I stammered “—on, um, Dr. Maynard—and I can’t find anything.” Something clicked in my head. “Even her story.”

He braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“Huh?”

“Nothing came up in the search results. Nothing. Not even the story I read about his retirement.”

“Then how did you read it?” Bob raised his head slowly, a divot between his eyebrows.

“Rabbit trails. I found a photo.” I bounced my foot, puzzle pieces taking shape in my brain. “There was an image result for a picture of him from the article. But the article itself never came up. Nothing did. No matter how I tried spelling his name.”

“Maynard. M-A-Y-N-A-R-D.” Bob shook his head. “How is that possible? He was brilliant. Surely there’s stuff about his research all over the web.”

“Not a single hit.” I bit my lip.

“That’s odd.”

“No, it’s so far past odd, it can’t see odd in the rearview.” I jumped up. “Hold me a spot on one for an exclusive on possible cause of death. The coroner hasn’t released anything, but I have a solid ‘unnamed source close to the investigation’ that cited marks on the victim’s neck. Charlie’s head is going to burst into flames just at that. And I’ll see what else I can find. Andrews won’t know what hit him.”

“I appreciate the effort, Nicey,” Bob said. “But handle this with care for me? David was beloved—it’s going to hit a lot of important people pretty hard that he’s gone. Especially if the PD suspects foul play.”

“You got it.” I paused in the door and turned back. On one hand, I wanted to ask Bob how he knew the doctor, and how well. Maybe he had information that could help me. On the other, I didn’t want to make him sadder if I could talk to other people first. “I’m not using his name yet, but maybe I can get the inside scoop from our old society editor. Can you send me Ms. Herrington’s contact info, if you have it?”

“I don’t know—or give the slightest shit—how to get in touch with that…” Bob’s eyes fell shut and he took a slow, deep breath, “…woman. Nor do I have any interest in you pulling her into anything to do with this newspaper. Find another source.”

I sighed.

Nothing’s ever easy.

Thirty minutes of cursing at my laptop later, I stirred my third latte of the day and smiled across the table at my best friend’s husband. Chad was a computer geek through and through, head of network security at one of the banks that occupied a tower a few blocks from my office.

“Thanks for coming to meet me,” I said.

He raised his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Kids doing okay?”

“They’re great. But you could ask Jenna that.” The hazel eyes behind his square glasses were curious. “What’s up?”

“Ever direct.” I smiled. “That’s okay. I like direct. I have a computer problem.”

“You have to update your antivirus stuff, Nichelle.” Chad groaned. “How many times have we been through this? Do. Not. Dismiss. The little box. That’s going to cost you more than a cup of coffee.”

“I didn’t,” I protested. “Well, I did, but I swear I’ll stop, and that’s not why I’m here.”

He tipped his head to one side.

“How could someone get erased off the internet?” I asked. “Like, no results. Nothing, not one. And on a guy who should have plenty of hits.”

“You spelled it right?”

“Double and triple checked. There’s nothing there.”

He pulled out his laptop. “Spell the name for me.”

I obliged. “Doctor. Shining star of the RAU Medical faculty and Richmond’s best oncologist.”

Oncologist.

Bob’s wife died of cancer. Shit.

“Spell it again,” Chad said.

I did. “Nothing there, right? Except one photo in the image results.”

“That’s not possible.” He tugged at his left earlobe. I knew him well enough to know that meant he was annoyed. “My grandmother has five hits, for Christ’s sake. Everyone has a search history.”

“Everyone but this dude,” I said. “What I need to know is how.”

“Not a clue,” Chad said, typing furiously. “But I’ll find out. If someone wiped him off the web, it’s the greatest hack in history. I want to know how they did it.”

Me too. But more than that, I wanted to know why.

Besides Bob, who had been at the
Telegraph
longer than me?

Eunice and Larry topped the list. And while Eunice was the current queen of Features, nine years ago she would’ve had more chance of knowing a Saudi insurgent leader than the society editor. Her days as a war correspondent were cut short by a helicopter crash in Iraq that earned her a dozen pins in her hip and parked her at a desk.

Larry wasn’t in the photo cave, but his monitor was on, so he hadn’t gone far. When I didn’t find him in the break room, I went to the elevators to wait. He was likely outside smoking.

The smell that preceded him off the car three minutes later confirmed it.

“Those things will kill you,” I said, falling into step beside him.

“I’m too stubborn—” Pause. Cough cough cough. “—to die.”

I snorted. “I’m glad you think so.”

“What’s up? Need another photo enhancement for one of your crazy stories?” Larry raised his eyebrows, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“Careful, I’ll stop buying you beer if I get the notion you like helping me,” I said.

He scowled. “Hate it. You’re a pain in the ass, you know it?”

I grinned. “You love me anyway.”

“What do you need this time?”

“To know if you remember a society editor named Elizabeth—”

“Herrington,” he said flatly. “No one who’s been around for long enough could forget her.”

“Why not?”

He waved me into the photo cave, dropping into his chair and glancing around the empty room before he whispered so low I had to lean in to hear. “Why are you asking about her?”

“She wrote a story I’m having an issue with, and I’m hoping to find…”

I broke off. What was I looking for? No one she’d told about Maynard’s sendoff would remember anything a decade later, right?

Right.

There had to be something, even if I wasn’t sure what the something was.

Larry shook his head, his mouth popping open like he was going to speak, then snapping shut again.

“What is the story with this woman?” I threw up my hands. “Bob won’t sa—”

“You asked Bob? Don’t ask Bob!” Larry barked.

Good Lord. “Why?”

“Nothing good will come of it.” Larry sat up, his eyes solemn. “Leave him out of it, you understand?”

“What the hell did she do?” I had to start the sentence twice to keep my volume down.

“She destroyed his hero. Bob was so idealistic back then, it damn near killed him.”