Deadly Messengers (19 page)

Kate Wilker didn’t even remotely fit a killer profile. His preliminarily interviews at the scene told a different story to the results of her actions inside the house. So far, everyone who knew her was vehement in her defense.

Kate’s a perfectly normal mom who loved her children and family
.

Kate’s the very last person to be violent.

Kate wouldn’t do this. It must be a mistake.

Somehow, though—and it was his job to work out
how
—this normal, non-violent, loving mom suddenly transformed into a killer and shot four innocent people and a dog dead. Just like Toby Benson. Just like Benito Tavell. Kate Wilker had suddenly morphed from good person into a killer.

O’Grady drew deeply on the cigarette, breathing in and out slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing, the wild kicking in his stomach fading. Holding out the glowing white stick, he stared at it. He needed to get hold of his emotions.

He dropped the half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement and rubbed it out with his sole. The smoke left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he instantly regretted breaching the promise he’d made to give up the stinking things.

From behind, he heard the sound of footsteps. Thinking it was Trip come to find him, he turned, smiling. When he saw who it was, the smile faded instantly from his face.

It was her, the journalist, Kendall Jennings.
What the hell was she doing here?
The last person he would appreciate sneaking up on him during a moment of vulnerability. For the second time that day, his anger flared. She was just about all he
didn’t
need right now. They were all the same, journalists. Half the time they got things completely wrong, and the other half they purposely made things up.
Their
truth was usually a long way from the
real
truth.

Interacting with this woman, piled on top of these crimes, annoyed the heck out of him. She was a liar, a manipulator, and what really needled him: Trip seemed a little sweet on her. That wouldn’t ever end well.

He turned on her before she could utter a word, “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

She looked taken aback.
What had she expected?
A kiss and a hug.
She clearly couldn’t take a hint. Add dopey to the list.

“I’m sorry. I saw you leave that house, and I wanted to apologize. You know, for what happened at the café. We got off on the wrong foot.”

O’Grady shook his head.
Self-involved. There’s another trait.
Fumes of indulgence wafted from her.

He would admit—if you stuck bamboo shards under his fingernails—she was attractive. Her pale-blue eyes—he’d never seen eyes that color—struck him the first moment he’d looked into them at the café. Trip’s interest in her was understandable—unprofessional, but understandable. As she shook her head during her apology, he hated himself for noticing the way her golden-brown hair bounced on her shoulders. So when he spoke, he tried to ensure his tone was as unfriendly and mocking as he could manage.

“You know, here’s a little fact. The world doesn’t revolve around you, so no need to apologize. The minute I left the café, I’d forgotten you. Actually, I’d like to thank you.”

Her blue eyes widened, puzzled.

“Yeah, I do appreciate you following me while I’m working and reminding me how much I don’t like journalists.”

Her smile instantly wilted. Her eyes narrowed and darkened, changing from their light blue to dark gray.

Good, she’d gotten the message.
Now slink away, writer girl, and never cross my path again
. If Trip wanted to encourage her, good luck to him. It would take more than a pretty smile to change his mind.

“Now, if you don’t mind, could you please go back to whatever rock you live under and let me do my job. I won’t forget your name, either, Miss Jennings. If I see you again—

She didn’t let him finish. Instead of retreating, she surprised him by squaring her shoulders and facing him full on, her eyes boring into his.

“You know, you’re just rude. I haven’t done anything that warrants your disrespect to this degree. For a start, I’m not a journalist. I’m a freelance writer. There’s a difference. Okay?”

O’Grady was about to reply based on her behavior, he couldn’t tell, but as he opened his mouth, she put her hand up to indicate she hadn’t finished.

“Look, I’m just trying to pay my bills. I don’t even want to do this story. Somehow, I ended up interviewing that witness from Café Amaretto. Then Beastie wanted another story. Really, I’m just doing what I’m told. You being an asshole won’t stop me. I
have
to do this.”

O’Grady felt an unintentional smirk lift one side of his mouth.
She was pretty when she was angry.
Fire touched her eyes, her skin reddened and flushed, only accentuated the gold in her hair. It rankled him he was looking at her as anything but another parasitic scum. Nobody who did her type of job was a decent person. No one.

“If you only knew the dangers in what you do, you wouldn’t hang your hat on
I’m just doing my job
. Innocent people die because
you’re
just doing your job. Innocent people like my brother.”

Shit, what did he just say?

He didn’t want a snoopy journalist knowing about his personal life, about his brother Jack. The past two weeks of no sleep and stress made him clumsy.

Her brow furrowed; the anger on her face faded. Even as her lips parted, he saw the next question on them:
What about your brother?

O’Grady did the only thing he could do to avoid the question. He shook his head and took off at a pace, back toward the crime scene, back where he should have stayed.
Damn,
he wished he still had that cigarette. Anger bubbled in his gut as thoughts of Jack filled his head. Damn, damn,
damn
her, bringing it all back now, when he didn’t need it, when he needed to concentrate on doing what he did best. His job.

He walked faster and harder, his footfalls sounding loud on the empty street, the vista of a normal neighborhood fading away to
that
night and
that
phone call.

He heard his brother’s voice.
“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

His voice had been empty and hollow down the phone line that night. If O’Grady could have replied across time, he would have said: “Neither do I, big brother. Neither do I.”

JACK WAS ONLY TWENTY-SIX AT the time, and Lance, twenty-four. So close in age they’d shared most of their childhood adventures. They had very different personalities, so the usual sibling arguments and rivalries were there, but they’d matured into friends. Jack was cavalier, fun loving, with a quick wit, while Lance quieter, the thinker of the two, who knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life. Inspired by the cop shows he loved to watch, he wanted to join the police force and become a detective.

Jack spent his later teenage years and early twenties searching for
his calling—
as their mother labeled it. Straight after high school, he’d traveled to Europe, fallen in love with dozens of girls, and tried his hand at any work not requiring study. Despite his world travels, he remained too naïve and trusting.

Jack had returned from a three-month trip around Asia, and in order to save for his next adventure—always a next adventure—he took a job as a general laborer at the construction site of a twenty-story apartment building. Jack’s job that day was to secure a concrete slab with chains so it could be lifted into place by a crane. Maneuvering slabs and building material was an action completed on hundreds of sites across the country every day.

On an ordinary day that should have ended as an ordinary day, one end of the slab came free from the chain without warning, swinging the flat block into the building’s metal frame. The impact dislodged the other end of the slab from the chain’s hold. Forty feet it fell, too sudden for anyone below to react. Two workers died, including the poor guy on the walkie-talkie guiding the crane operator. A workplace investigation ruled Jack had failed to properly secure the chains. Knowing he’d caused two deaths landed enough guilt on Jack to crush him. What he didn’t need to compound that guilt was some lousy journalist stirring up a story on workplace accidents and digging into Jack’s life.

When finding muck is your goal, you’ll find it, all right. The slaphappy investigation turned up that Jack had visited a bar the night before. An unknown source was quoted—as if that made it credible—that Jack’s breath smelled of alcohol the morning of the accident.

Poor Jack, tried, convicted, and condemned in the media, was declared a reckless drunk, a killer, and every bullshit name you could call someone. In the public eye, Jack suddenly bore the sole responsibility for what was
just
an accident. He was treated like a murderer. The headlines called it “a triable crime.”

Jack admitted to being at the bar. To Lance and his family he explained,
“I swear I left early. I thought I was coming down with something, the flu I thought. The only thing on my breath was the smell of menthol cough-lozenges.”
His brother tried to tell his side of the story, but none of it made the news. They already had their story, and they were sticking to it.

Poor system kills man on worksite

Drunk laborer found to blame

The fatal drink that killed two men

Broadcast news journalists hounded him, chasing him in the street.
“How do you feel about causing the death of your workmates?” “How do you live with yourself?”
Vans sat outside their family home for three days, until they all felt like prisoners, trapped and set upon if they even walked out their front door.

Jack was never charged, the allegations, investigated by police but found untrue. It was just a dumb accident, plain and simple. Jack found no relief after he was cleared of responsibility. He still wore the guilt like a neck clamp, the notoriety from the headlines already burrowed deep into his brother’s fragile soul. Lance’s carefree, grab-life-by-the-balls brother was now a shadow, broken, and lost.

Jack slipped into a deep depression, left his job, even though management did support him through the entire thing.
He couldn’t face the risks,
he said.
What if he killed someone else?
The prescribed anti-depressants didn’t help. The doctors said they would, but they were wrong. The dosage wasn’t right. Jack sank further and further into himself like he was made of tinfoil, easily crushed.

Despite the passage of fourteen years, the night of the phone call was always fresh in his mind. He could still see the time on the wall clock. Eleven-ten. He’d checked that clock as they’d talked, calculating if he went over to his brother’s and talked it out, whether he’d still catch enough sleep to avoid feeling shattered the next day. There and back with an hour or so of talking, would probably see him climbing into bed after two a.m. He had an early seven a.m. meeting. Yeah, he’d be shattered.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“You can, Jack. We’ll get through this.”

Lance’s heart hurt for his brother, but Jack needed to pull himself out of it. Lance had begun to think Jack was almost enjoying the attention.

“No.
They’ll
never let me get through this. Every time there’s any kind of accident at a worksite,
they
bring it up, again. This morning, did you see the headlines? Two pedestrians died when a partially-constructed brick wall collapsed.
And there it was.
My name. The accident.
Again.
It’s been nearly a year, for Christ’s sake. I will
always
be the drunken guy who killed someone.”

A tremor shook Jack’s last words. Lance knew his brother was close to tears. Hell,
he
was close to tears, but if he ran over there every time his brother broke down, would that really help Jack?

“Jack, you know it
will
blow over. I know it’s tough, but, brother, you’ve got to hang in there.
We
know the truth. You’re a good man.” Lance couldn’t help himself: “Look, do you need me to come over? I can be there in thirty minutes.”

Dead space filled the line, an empty silent divide hanging between them. All the conversations about the accident they’d had, Lance trying to encourage his brother, Jack nodding but not really listening, his mind somewhere else, mired in guilt, Lance knew it would be another one of
those
conversations. He knew that. But however many talks it took, that’s the number he would have. One day Jack would get better. Lance hoped with all his heart, that day was coming soon.

“Jack. Jack. Are you still there?”

Long, long seconds ticked by. Just when Lance had begun to think Jack had hung up, his brother answered. Several quick, deep breaths echoed down the line, then his brother caught himself. When he spoke, he sounded a little more solid.

“Nah, it’s okay. Really, it’s okay. I just get overwhelmed.”

Lance jumped in, “I want to come over. You know I don’t sleep until late. I don’t mind.” Then quietly, “Please, buddy, I’m worried.”