Deadly Messengers (16 page)

Marianne Best,
Scoops Magazine’s
editor—Scoop being one of the biggest magazines in the country—had contacted her directly and given her the idea.

In the media business, Marianne Best was known as Beastie Best. She was one of the worst editors. Beastie wanted everything
last
month
.
Most editors wanted articles
yesterday,
but
Beastie
actually signed off every email and phone call with that phrase. “By the way, I need this
last
month
.
”

She meant it, too. If an article wasn’t turned in by her ridiculously short deadlines, it ran a risk of cancellation with barely an apology. The only reason Kendall or any other freelancer worked for her was that
Scoops
paid considerably more than other magazines and enjoyed national distribution.

This story had wide appeal: international interest. Lucky for Kendall, Beastie needed her insight from the original articles on Beverley and the Amaretto Café murders. So, for a change, her grandstanding was minimal, which must have been hard for Beastie. Now, with this second mass murder spotlighting their city, she treated Kendall like a long-lost sister.

Who would have thought Kendall would hold initial exclusive with the only witness to see everything that night in Café Amaretto?
Thank you, Beverley.

Kendall had herself been interviewed on two morning news shows and one syndicated evening broadcast.

Thanks to those five minutes of fame, she’d managed to swing access to a few of the relatives of the fire victims. Beastie, though, was pressing her for more than their statements, none of which
were
particularly exclusive. She wanted another Beverley story, another eyewitness.

“What I want, Kendall,” she’d said, “Is something new, a theory or insight from the investigating detectives. Yes, get me that.”

She’d said it as though Kendall possessed a magic key to open any door or a pass to speak to anyone she chose. It wasn’t just accessing these witnesses that troubled her. These were doors Kendall was uncertain she wanted to enter. She wasn’t sure how much strength she still possessed to keep listening to these tragic stories.

Money.
She hated that it influenced her, controlled her, but the opportunity was just too good to ignore. She’d decided that for this one and only story, she would play hard-nosed investigative journalist, even though she was the furthest from that type of person you could find. It showed, too.

Her inexperience meant when she’d tracked down one of the detectives handling the Kenworth Home fire, a Lance O’Grady, the contact turned out badly embarrassing. Thinking about it now, she still cringed.

“I hear there’s a theory the two cases are connected,” she’d said, even though she hadn’t heard anything of the sort. She’d just thought they
seemed
connected, and it was worth a shot.

Detective O’Grady worked out quickly she wasn’t telling the truth, when he asked for her source and she froze. He didn’t mince his words just before he hung up: “If you ever pull this little number again, pretend to be anything but the fucking bottom-feeder you are, then I’ll personally ensure you are charged with perverting the course of justice.”

When she’d reported to Beastie the investigating officers were a “no go,” that hadn’t worked out well, either.

Her frustration level grew hourly. She needed to find a way to get the story she needed or who knows how that might impact her work. Beastie knew a lot of other editors. One word from her Kendall was unreliable and the work could dry up for good. She’d promised Beastie a story and she had to deliver one. So for the past two days, she’d wracked her brain on how she could locate a contact inside the police squad handling the cases.

The attitude of this Lance O’Grady had rankled. She hadn’t really done anything quite worthy of his anger.
And
she wasn’t a bottom feeder, either. She was about to apologize and tell him that when he hung up on her.

Maybe she’d do a little bottom feeding investigation of Detective Lance O’Grady.

She Googled his name and found articles mentioning him as an investigating officer on several cases. Seemed over the past five years, he’d handled quite a few major crimes. She found him on LinkedIn, too. Nothing, though, on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or any other social media site. That made sense. When you worked in crime you probably needed to keep a low profile.

Kendall enlarged the picture of O’Grady attached to his LinkedIn account. He looked nothing like she’d imagined. He wasn’t a dried up, worn down cop, with every year and every case etched in creases on his face. No, he actually had a warm, gentle look to him, trustworthy and familiar, the kind of face more suited to a pediatrician or a counselor. It was the thick, wavy, black hair and deep brown eyes; they reminded her of someone she felt she knew well. She chuckled, when she suddenly realized who it was. He had quite the actor
“Mark Ruffalo look”
going on, casual, but sexy. Basically, he was a good-looking asshole.

As interesting as it was to research Detective O’Grady, this wouldn’t pay her bills. She closed her browser window. The time to capitalize on this story was ticking away. A week in the media industry was a
long
time, and Kendall couldn’t be sure if she was riding the crest of a wave or about to be dumped and left high and dry.

Then a silly idea entered her head. She brushed it away, but it flew right back.
She
knew what Detective O’Grady looked like, but
he
didn’t know what she looked like. Maybe, just maybe, if she had the courage, she could
accidentally
run into him, start a conversation about something, and maybe charm him.

It couldn’t possibly go worse than the phone call. Even if it did, surely he couldn’t arrest her for being a
bottom feeder?
She laughed out loud at the idea
. Her
? Some amoral, hard-nosed journalist? Kendall, with the softest nose in the business. That
was
funny.

For want of a better plan, was she seriously considering a bump-into-the-detective-and-see-how-it-goes plan? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. First, though, she’d sleep on it. Hopefully overnight she’d come up with something better. Surely she could
think
like a bottom feeder just for a few days.

KENDALL DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. THE witness interviews had invaded her dreams with rolling images of that night, ten years ago. In the shadows of this nightmare, though, instead of her mother sitting beside her in the car, it was Lance O’Grady.

He turned to her and said, “It’ll be okay. They’re just bottom feeders, and I’ll protect you.”

Her dream—nightmare—felt so real, yet she had an overwhelming feeling he was wrong. Somehow she knew he shouldn’t be there. She wanted to warn him, draw her gaze away, to look beyond his smiling face, through the car window. They were coming. In her dreams, they were
always
coming.

Kendall began to reply, to tell him nothing would ever be okay again, when suddenly he was gone. Now her mother sat there. She smiled at Kendall as though this was just another night, even as a flood of tears streamed down her cheeks. Kendall felt her heart break as her mother looked deep into her eyes and said: “Please don’t hurt my daughter.”

Kendall reached for her mother, hugging her in an attempt to comfort her. She whispered in her ear, “I’ve found Detective O’Grady. We’re safe now.”

She laid her head on her mother’s shoulder and luxuriated in the feeling of closeness, soaking up the smell of roses and frangipani—the way her mother always smelled.

The moment dissolved, and Kendall knew instantly something was wrong. Her skin suddenly felt itchy and sore. She pulled back quickly to stare at her mother. It wasn’t her mother anymore. Some kind of half-dead thing leered at her. Maggots and small, black beetles climbed in and out of its eye sockets and nose, a mass of white and brown pulsing horrors. The thing’s mouth opened and closed as if laughing at her, but there came no sound.

She screamed, forcing herself awake. The last thing she remembered from the dream was shouting, “Detective O’Grady, please save us.”

Kendall lay awake for hours after, her pillow uncomfortably wet with sweat. Lying there, she made herself a promise. This was the end of it. The very last story she would write on any kind of death. No more suicide or accident stories and definitely no more murders.

She needed to face facts. She would never ever get over that night and the tragedy of her mother’s death. The best she could hope for was in the coming years the emotions would fade. This assignment had churned up everything all over again. Her decision was made—she would finish this last story and that was positively, absolutely it!

Several hours later when she hadn’t managed to fall back asleep, she arose early and readied herself for the day, the dark mood of the nightmare hanging over her. She had a plan. It wasn’t good, and she wasn’t sure if she could carry it out. How
real
investigative journalists tracked down people, she didn’t know.

So without any better ideas, she found herself waiting outside the modern glass and gray-steel Central Police Offices for O’Grady to come out. It wasn’t a grand master plan. In fact, she felt kind of silly, but maybe she would get lucky. Surely, she reasoned, detectives came and went often in the process of investigating crimes.

Kendall had waited across the road from the building, sitting at a conveniently positioned bus stop for nearly two hours. Now at eleven-thirty, Kendall seriously considered giving up. She’d even begun to compose the email to Beastie Best explaining the story was a no-go. When she saw
him
come out of the building, it was like winning a prize.

She recognized Lance O’Grady instantly. It was the hair. In real life, it was even thicker than in photos. The detective could definitely pass for a taller version of Mark Ruffalo.

Kendall was surprised to feel a warm flush spread across her face as she watched him walk confidently from the building, talking earnestly with another man. The memory of him in the car in her dream and the way he looked at her felt so intimate. Somehow, it had translated into a feeling of connection with him. It was a ridiculous thought—a connection to a man who’d threatened to arrest her—but there it was, and she couldn’t shake it.

He wore the scowl she’d imagined he’d have after he’d hung up on her. The memory of the anger in his voice was enough to remind her the man in her dreams was imaginary.

Straighten up your mind, Kendall Jennings
.

The bald-shaven man walking beside him, smiled and gestured and seemed to be doing most of the talking. Kendall put him at around mid-thirties. Unlike O’Grady’s oddly gentle-looking façade, he looked like a real detective. She guessed he could be O’Grady’s partner.

“Please. Please. Please. Don’t get into a car,” whispered Kendall under her breath, as she followed them, walking along the opposite side of the street. She hadn’t considered what would happen after they’d left the building, so had left her car parked a block away, the nearest space she could find.

The two detectives continued for several blocks, the bald man still talking, with O’Grady simply nodding. Her gaze never left the pair, which caused her to collide with several people as she followed. Each time she apologized, then quickly double-checked if the men were still in sight. They were, and Kendall began to feel at least some luck was going her way.

After four blocks, the detectives turned down a small side street. Kendall was forced to wait for a break in the traffic before crossing. Here’s where she could lose them. Finally, she rushed across the street, dodging between the two lanes of stopped traffic. Several drivers honked their annoyance at her.

She entered the smaller street, jogging, but immediately realized luck
was
still with her. Even though they’d disappeared from sight, she
hadn’t
lost them. The street had only three businesses: a flower shop, a tailors, and a small café. Kendall’s only knowledge of police behavior came from television shows, but she guessed the café must be their destination.

She stood outside the eatery, doubts nibbling at her plan, which wasn’t really a plan at all, but more an exercise in wishful thinking. What would she actually do should she run in to O’Grady? This wasn’t a movie. She wasn’t Jennifer Aniston or some other confident, sexy character, who could strike up a casual conversation with two strange men, and instantly have them divulge their secrets. Especially, if those men were cops. Even if she could somehow connect with them, how would she steer the conversation around to the murders? How long before Lance O’Grady realized who she was? Confrontation was not her strong suit.

She stood outside the café; chatting patrons passed her by to enter, as every elapsed moment caused her to lose more of her nerve. This was
really
a stupid idea. She actually began to turn away, when she realized one of the exiting patrons was holding the door open for her. Before she had time to think of
all
the reasons she should leave, and not walk through that door, she’d entered and was inside the bustling room.