Devil in the Deadline

Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries

  

DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)

 

“Walker's journalistic background fuels her snappy dialogue, thrill-of-the-chase plotting, and A-List fashion sense. Headlines in High Heels is a top-notch cozy mystery series readers will enjoy slipping into.”

– Julia Spencer-Fleming,

New York Times Bestselling Author of
Through the Evil Days

 

“Nichelle proves herself to be a standout. She has the cynicism of jaded police officers but also the hope of a champion and advocate for justice. Of course, a healthy sense of humor always helps. Readers who enjoy the outstanding novels of Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Edna Buchanan will find themselves similarly entertained by this stellar series by another award-winning journalist.”

–
Kings River Life Magazine

 

“When the answers are all revealed, they come together in a nice little package that is wrapped up neatly for the reader. Even so, it leaves questions for Nichelle, which, I am sure, will be carried into the next book in this series. Recommended.”

–
Any Good Book

  

SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)

 

“A riveting mystery with big ideas and wonderful characters.
Small Town Spin
is a treat not to be missed, a fantastic addition to the Headlines in High Heels series.”

—Duffy Brown,

Agatha-Nominated Author of the Consignment Shop Mysteries

 

“Nichelle Clarke jumps headlong into any situation with courage and tenacity, not giving up until she gets the answers she wants.”

—Maggie Barbieri,

Author of
Once Upon a Lie
and the Murder 101 Mystery Series

  

BURIED LEADS (#2)

 

“Mafia hotties, corrupt politicians, old flames and murder… all this in her incisive exposés and her aubergine Manolo Blahniks. A smart and sassy heroine.”

—Patricia Smiley,

Bestselling Author of
Cool Cache

 

“Intrepid reporter Nichelle Clarke is back again, tracking down a killer, sniffing out political corruption, and juggling studmuffin boyfriends—all in impossibly high heels. Very smartly written and cleverly plotted, with a nifty surprise ending!”

—Laura Levine,

Author of the Jaine Austen Mystery Series

 

“This book has a great mystery, a ton of humor (I know I've already said that, but it was worth repeating) and really wonderful characters...I really hope there are more books in this series.”

— CriminalElement.com

  

FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)

 

“Nicey's adventure kept me guessing. Goes down as smooth as hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

—Alice Loweecey,

Author of the Falcone and Driscoll Investigations

 

“
Front Page Fatality
is delightful, with engaging characters, a crackling good mystery, and of course, high, high heels. LynDee Walker writes with wit and intelligence and the confidence of a newsroom insider. What fun!”

—Harley Jane Kozak,

Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-Winning Author

 

“Fast, funny, [and] action-packed.”

—The
Virginian-Pilot

Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series

by LynDee Walker

 

Novels

 

FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)

BURIED LEADS (#2)

SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)

DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)

COVER SHOT (#5)

(November 2015)

  

Novellas

 

DATELINE MEMPHIS

(in HEARTACHE MOTEL)

Copyright

  

DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE

A Headlines in High Heels Mystery

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

 

First Edition

Digital epub edition | January 2015

 

Henery Press

www.henerypress.com

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

Copyright © 2014 by LynDee Walker

Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

Author photograph by Sarah Dabney-Reardon

 

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), book club recommendations, amateur sleuth books.

 

ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-62-4

 

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

  

For Avery.

You are truly my sunshine, and you make me proud every minute.

I love you all the way to the moon. And back. Always dream big.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  

I stand by my assertion that it takes a village (or at least a decent-sized neighborhood) to create a book. As always, I'm terrified as I type this that I'll forget someone who had a hand in this one, so if it's you, know it wasn't intentional, and accept my eternal thanks.

 

I had a blast writing this book. Loosely based on events I covered as a reporter many years ago (and later had the opportunity to learn more about through a welcome twist of fate), it was great fun to send Nichelle to do things I wish I could have.

 

First up, the details wouldn't have been possible without the help and honesty of the fabulous Jane Deer. Thank you for trusting me, and for sharing.

 

As always, I owe thanks to my brilliant forensic biologist friend Jody Klann for her help with the science behind a murder investigation.

 

My books wouldn't be the same without my eagle-eyed beta readers, who help me see the story so much more clearly: thank you hugs to Gretchen Smith, Larissa Reinhart, and Julie Hallberg.

 

A big thank you to the wonderful team at Henery Press! Erin, Kendel, and Rachel, thanks for making this a better book, and Stephanie, many thanks for giving it such a pretty face. Special thanks to Art for staying on top of the best, most innovative ways to help my work reach readers.

 

The months when I created this book were not the easiest of my life, and you wouldn't be holding it if my girlfriends hadn't been there to prop me up and keep me sane. Julie Hallberg, Sarah Dabney-Reardon, and Nichole Dwire: I am thankful every minute to have such strong, amazing women to brighten my days. Love you girls.

 

Last, but always first in my book, is my wonderful family. Thank you, little monkeys, for understanding when mommy needs time to hang out with Nichelle. To my best friend, my partner, and my biggest fan who doesn't like to read: thank you, Justin, for making it possible for me to chase this dream. I love our life together, and all my crazy adventures with you. Many more await—the best is yet to be.

1.

  

Something wicked

  

Near-bot
tom on my list of ways to spend a Saturday night: going to work dressed like an extra from
Flashdance
. Criminals have such little respect for reporters' social lives.

I ducked under crime scene tape and glanced around a decaying concrete building, the holes left by missing sections of wall offering moonlit views of the colossal boulders of Belle Isle.

Boulders I was out of breath from scaling in heels and a miniskirt.

And it looked like I wasn't through climbing yet.

“Did I miss a memo about Halloween moving to June?” Aaron White, the Richmond police spokesman, called from ten feet above my head.

“Aw, c'mon, Aaron—all the cool kids are wearing Lycra and leg warmers.” I put one Manolo on the bottom rung of a circus-length extension ladder. “One step at a time, don't look down,” I muttered. Ladders and stilettos aren't really meant to mix.

“I'm firmly out of the loop on two counts, then—no one's called me a kid in at least a decade.” Aaron chuckled.

“One count. You're the coolest not-kid I know.” Stepping into the loft, I shot a bracing hand out for the graffitied wall when my foot slid under me. “Do I want to know what I'm walking in here?”

“Not blood. I make no guarantees beyond that,” Aaron said, a snicker slipping through his teeth as RPD floodlights illuminated my racing-stripe plum blush and the cloud of White Rain and frizz surrounding my head. “What are you supposed to be? You look like a h—”

“Shut up,” I said, shooting him a warning glare that'd probably be more foreboding minus the four layers of neon eyeshadow. “No, don't. But lay off the costume—haven't you ever seen
Flashdance
? I bailed on my best friend's eighties night in the middle of her margarita-fueled performance of ‘Material Girl' to come out here and climb rocks in four-inch heels.”

“You match the scene, anyhow.” He walked down a narrow hallway lined with tiny stalls, waving for me to follow. “This looks like something out of an eighties movie. Just not one with dancers.”

The coppery tang of blood—a lot of it—smacked me in the face as I followed Aaron around a corner. My stomach tightened around bites of hors d'oeuvre, making me wish I was back at Jenna's house. Two sips into my Midori sour, my scanner had started squawking. Combine the body-discovery chatter with Aaron's text (c
ome across the rocks—have exclusive for you
), and the party didn't stand a chance.

I paused when Aaron turned back, his wide shoulders blocking a brightly-lit corner of spray-paint-tagged loft. I'd worked with him long enough to know that look. Probably a good thing I didn't have much in my stomach.

“Stay back here,” he cautioned. “Forensics is still working. I've got a uniform out by the bridge keeping the cameras at bay, but I wanted you to get a look at what we're dealing with here.”

“At the risk of getting myself thrown out after I played Frogger across the rocks in this getup, why?”

His lips disappeared into a thin white line. “People who won't talk to us will talk to you. We need your help, Nichelle.”

He stepped to one side and ice washed over me in the balmy summer air, a scream sticking in my throat.

“Evil. Evil is the only word I've got.” Aaron's low voice barely crossed the blood pounding in my ears. “I've been a cop for twenty years, and I've never seen anything like this.”

My eyes fell shut—not that I'd ever get the blood-splashed walls and makeshift sacrificial altar out of my head. The young woman's matted hair and glassy eyes were the stuff of nightmares. I turned away.

Aaron laid one hand on my shoulder and stepped around me, bending his head to catch my gaze. “Sorry. I should've warned you.”

“I never thought I'd see the day I minded an exclusive.” I gripped a pen like a tether to my sanity. “Jesus, Aaron. When? How?” I leveled a what-the-everloving-hell gaze at him. “Tell me the story.”

“I don't have to be a doctor to tell you she hasn't been here long. Couple of vagrants who sleep here sometimes called it in from a pay phone at the 7-Eleven on the corner,” he said. “If they hadn't, we might not have found her until the trail runners started complaining about the smell.”

Ah-ha. That's why he'd called me. Street people wouldn't tell the cops the grass was green, much less anything about a murder.

“Where'd they go?” I asked, my feet itching to put as much distance as possible between me and the Wes Craven gore-fest the forensics crew milled around. “Can I talk to them tonight?”

He nodded. “Hopefully. I had a squad car take them to St. Vincent's for a psych eval,” Aaron said. “They'll get a shower and a clean bed for the night, plus some food. And Lord knows they need to talk to a shrink. I think I even need to talk to a shrink.”

“Me, three.” I took a half-dozen steps back toward the ladder and smiled. Sending witnesses to the hospital wasn't standard police procedure. “You're a good guy, you know that?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners with the ghost of a smile as he laid one finger across his lips. “Shhh. We'll keep that between us.”

“Can I get a room number?”

“I'll text it to you as soon as I have it. And I'll let the nurses know you're an approved visitor. I put them in the locked ward.” His eyes strayed back to the bloody scene. “Just in case whoever did this was watching.”

I shuddered, shooting a glance at every dark corner. “I'll call you if I get anything useful.”

“And I won't share what you give me until you print it.”

“Fair enough.”

Aaron gave me the specifics of the discovery and early forensic findings before he walked me out. I scribbled down every word, my mind racing ahead through a lead and wondering if there'd still be anyone in the newsroom when I got the story written.

With this kind of a jump on everyone, I wanted it on the web five minutes ago.

“Thanks, Aaron,” I said. “I owe you one.”

“I think we're even. It only took me a year.” He grinned. “All access, right?”

“You do know me,” I said. “This is worth playing my favor card.”

“Have fun pissing Charlie off. I'm sure I'll hear all about it tomorrow.”

Charlotte Lewis from Channel Four was my biggest competition in Richmond. Pissed didn't cover how steamed she'd be when this story went up. More reason to rush.

“Sorry.” I wrinkled my nose at Aaron.

He waved a hand. “I can handle it. I can't let anyone film this. I don't have to say I trust you to leave out the gory details?”

“I don't want to write them, much less make people read them over their oatmeal,” I said.

“And if anyone saw or heard anything—”

“Complete anonymity. You want your number instead of Crimestoppers?”

“Please.” He nodded.

“Thanks, Aaron.” I put one foot on the ladder.

“Thank you. We need all the leads we can get, and time is not our friend. The chief called in every detective we have. We're all running on donuts and Red Bull until further notice.”

He flagged down a uniformed officer who escorted me through the trees to a splintered footbridge that probably dated to Belle Isle's days as a Confederate POW camp. I was almost as thankful for the bridge as the story access. I'd call crossing the boulders after dark a small miracle—especially given the stilettos on my feet. No way I could do it again with my knees still jelly from the crime scene.

Thanking the officer for his help, I ducked out of another ring of yellow tape, far enough down from the tangle of reporters waiting for a comment that no one noticed me. Not that any of them would have recognized me.

Back in my car, I locked the doors and peeled out of the park's tiny lot, my hands gripping the wheel to keep from shaking.

  

My hea
rt stopped pounding before I made it to St. Vincent's, but the blood-splashed walls and spent candles flashed on the backs of my eyelids with every blink.

I checked my BlackBerry for the room number Aaron had promised and found it, plus two texts from my closest friend, Jenna, and one from my ex-boyfriend/still favorite ATF agent, Kyle. I replied to both with a promise to return to the party if I could, cringing at the thought of him alone in a roomful of strangers. Probably not what he had in mind when he accepted Jenna's invitation. Which she sent him without asking me. But I didn't have time to worry about her not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts at the moment. I stowed the phone in my bag and stepped into the elevator, pushing the button for the eighth-floor psychiatric ward.

It had been a while since a story brought me to this part of the hospital. Stark white and gray walls greeted me as I stepped off the elevator, a jarring departure from the high-end home decor in the rest of the building.

I half-shouted my name into an intercom just as the buzzer sounded and one door clicked open to reveal Chris Landers, a homicide detective I'd met only a few times since he joined the department last summer. He blanched at my outfit, but straightened his face into an all-business look in a blink.

“Aaron said he'd send you,” he said, shaking my outstretched hand.

“How are they doing?” I asked, stepping through the doors when he waved me inside.

“The guy is a mess. Malnourished, psych issues, maybe drugs. No idea how long he's been on the streets.”

“He won't tell you?”

“I'm not sure he remembers.” Landers ran one hand through his curly brown hair. “He keeps babbling about his ‘safe place.' I feel bad for him, but I can't get a damned thing out of him, and right now what I need is information.”

“Age?”

“Early to mid-twenties if I had to guess,” he said.

Aw, jeez. “That's young.”

Landers shrugged. “We've seen an uptick in the twenty-something homeless population in the past couple years,” he said. “People graduate college with a mountain of debt and no job prospects—the ones who can't go home to Mom and Dad end up on the streets.”

I nodded understanding and reached for a notebook and pen, arching a brow at him. “Do I get any of this on the record?”

“I'd rather the rest of the local media not spend the next three days hounding me for statistics on vagrants.”

He had a point—his work had to come first. I could find the same thing in twenty places online, anyway.

“Aaron said there were two callers,” I said.

“White female, about the same age. Practically catatonic. Can't say anything. Or won't. She just stares.”

“Well, these should be fun and productive interviews.” I sighed. Not that I could blame them. I'd seen some nasty stuff in almost eight years at the crime desk, and I was more than a little freaked if I let images of the scene into my thoughts.

The scene. “You have an age estimate on the victim?”

He shook his head. “From looking? Early to mid-twenties. But I'm sure we'll have an ID tomorrow. We got clean prints.”

I nodded.

He gestured to the nurse's station and turned for the door. “I've gotten all I can here for the moment, so I'm going to see if I can run down any more leads.” He paused, staring hard at me for a moment. “Aaron trusts you.”

I smiled. He also owed me a very large favor. “I have a good handle on what folks need to know and what they don't. I won't compromise your case. Maybe I can even help.”

“I hope so.” He put a hand on the crash bar and closed his eyes. “I've never seen anything like that. Not in real life.”

“They walked me in. It's...utterly horrific. Go. Find him.”

“Him?”

“Statistically speaking, you're looking for a thirty-something white guy, right? She was...on display. That's Ted-Bundy-type stuff.”

“You know your serial killers.” He nodded approval. “First rule of police work, by Christopher Landers: follow the easy trail. Rule number two: never discount anything.”

“Noted. I think we're going to get along, Detective.”

“Thanks for coming, Miss Clarke.”

“It's Nichelle. And I should be thanking you.” I smiled, wishing I could see Charlie's face when she read my story.

He disappeared to the foyer, and a stoic nurse with a gray bun tight enough to double as a face lift directed me to two rooms at the end of the hall. “They won't be here more than eight hours,” she said. “State law says we keep them at least that long, but I'm going to need those beds in the morning.”

I bit my tongue, thanking her and turning for the end of the hallway. It wasn't her fault there weren't enough beds in any psych ward in the state. But letting myself wonder how much easier Landers's job would be with a better mental healthcare system wouldn't get me anywhere but pissed off.

Information. These folks had it, Landers needed it. And if I could pull it out of them, I'd help the investigation, and win a bigger headline than everyone else had as a bonus.

I tapped on the first door and poked my head in when no one answered. A skinny guy with sun-ravaged skin and shaggy, greasy hair sat in the floor in one corner, his long arms trying to pull his knees through his chest.

“Hey there,” I said gently.

“Safe. Safe. Bloodeverywherenotsafeanymore,” he muttered into his thighs.

I stepped into the room and shut the door with a click that might as well have been a gunshot. He jumped three feet, a small scream escaping his lips.

I turned mine up into a friendly smile. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Who are you?” He flattened himself against the wall. “Hookers part of the treatment here now?”

I swallowed a laugh, widening my smile and shaking my head. “Fair question. I'm a reporter. Who was at a costume party when this call came in. One of the interesting things about my job is I don't get to say when news breaks. I think this is officially the most ridiculous outfit I've ever come to work in, though.” I inched closer. “I'm Nichelle.”