Devil in the Deadline (16 page)

I turned Emily's last words over in my thoughts, sifting my fingers though Darcy's fur. A friend on the inside. Elise and Ben were the only people who hadn't been rude, and she'd seemed less drink-the-kool-aid than him. I set Darcy down and went to pick through my wardrobe for pants that covered my ankles, a tunic, and some flats. I'd found two of the three when my doorbell rang.

Nine-thirty. I checked my hair and lip gloss in case it was Joey and rushed to my teensy foyer.

A glance out the windows along the top of the door put my heart in my throat. I fumbled with the locks and threw the door wide.

“Mom?” I swooped her into a fierce hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”

1
8.

Revelations

  

M
y mom is a walking ball of energy—five-seven in flats, she only looks short next to me. She's the picture of grace and confidence. In my almost-thirty years, I'd seen very few things rattle her.

Certainly nothing enough to make her fly halfway across the country unannounced. In June. She's a wedding planner—that's like a CPA taking off on a lark in early April. My stomach clenched, and I squeezed her tighter.

She stretched on tiptoe and clung to my shoulders like she might never hug me again.

I knew the feeling, a thousand memories of her frail, chemo-weakened frame barely filling my arms making me thank God for the seventy billionth time I still had her to hug.

I held on for a long minute before I stepped back and took in the makeup-free face half-hidden behind her sunglasses. In the dark.

“It's always good to see you,” I said. “But, um...”

She put a hand on my face, not removing the shades.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Indeed we did.

I grabbed her stuffed-to-the-seams overnight bag and ushered her inside, Darcy sniffing her ankles.

She bent and fluffed the dog's fur, then followed me to the living room, smiling at the half-empty wine bottle. “I think we need another glass, love.”

I settled Mom on the sofa and scurried to the kitchen to fetch one, stopping short when I stepped back into the living room. Her beautiful blue eyes were barely visible through puffy, scarlet-rimmed slits in her face.

I poured wine into both glasses and handed her one, a thickness in the air between us.

She opened her mouth, then shook her head and closed it again, dropping her eyes to the floor.

Puzzle pieces rained into place.

Of course.

How could I be so stupid?

“I got it.” I put a hand on her shoulder.

Amazing, the things we can miss if we don't want to see them.

“No, I have to tell you something, sweetie.” She pulled in a hitching breath. “I came here to talk to you, and I'm not chickening out this time.”

“It's about my father, right?”

Tears sprang up and spilled over in the same instant. She nodded. “God, I hoped I was wrong.”

“Back up. Wrong?”

“About you finding him.”

“Finding—I didn't find him.”

“Then how did you know that's why I was here?”

I raised one hand to my temple. “Why do I feel like an Abbott and Costello routine? Can we start at the beginning?”

She shook her head and squeezed my hand. “There's not enough wine in Virginia for that, baby.”

I laughed. “I don't want to hear the details of my conception, thanks. But I just clicked a few puzzle pieces here. I always assumed I'd never met him because he was a deadbeat, or maybe because he was young and had grown up and had another family.”

The tears about the ATF raid in Waco. The absolute freak-out that led to the hot mess in front of me.

“I was wrong, huh?” I asked.

“He wanted to get married.” She drew another shaky breath. “He was older than me, and so sure the money would never dry up. Parts would never run out.”

I furrowed my brow. “I thought you met him at school?”

“I lied.” She hid her face in her hands. “Please don't be mad. You were always so curious about everything. I didn't want you to go looking. Protecting you has been my first priority since the first time I saw you.”

“Questions about everything except him.” I shook my head. “How'd you miss that?”

“I suppose I took it as a gift from God and went on with my life,” she said. “Always, with seven million questions every day, from the time you could talk. I could have picked your career path when you were in kindergarten. Reporter or therapist. But now that you mention it, why didn't you ask?”

I threw my hands up. “We never even got a Christmas card. Why should I give a second thought to anyone who could treat us that way? We didn't need him, right?”

I worried, growing up, that it hurt my mom. My father not being around. My grandparents disappearing. She never let it show, never said a word—but that didn't mean she didn't feel it. I decided if I loved her enough, they wouldn't matter. We took care of us. We didn't need anybody but each other.

She smiled, tears still dripping down her blotchy cheeks. “Right.”

“He was an actor?” Among the few things I knew about my grandparents was that my mom's dad was a film producer. They lived in Malibu. They told my mother, who wanted to have a baby on her own at seventeen, that it was a mistake and I was an “embarrassment.” That was it. Oh, and my grandmother had nice handwriting.

If I knew little about them, I knew nothing about my father. Donor? I'd always thought that a more relevant term. Em offered “sire” once when I spilled my guts to her, but that sounded too much like I should be training for the Kentucky Derby.

An actor. Of course. My height, my crazy striking eye color.

“So, he asked you to marry him.” I spaced the words out, just as unsure I wanted to know as she seemed to be about wanting to tell me. I snatched my glass off the table and gulped a few swigs of Moscato. “But you didn't want to?”

“I didn't know much about anything except I didn't want an abortion, and I wasn't old enough to get married,” she said. “He went nuts. Totally off the deep end. His parents were very conservative. Ultra religious. I didn't know until you came along, but that's why he was with me. Didn't like the starlets because they were ‘impure.'”

“When you say ‘nuts'...?” I swallowed more wine, my throat suddenly rivaling the Sahara in lack of humidity.

Her face fell, her eyelids following. “He screamed. Called me...awful names. Words I don't say. Threw things. My father asked him to leave. It was the last nice thing Daddy did for me.”

Her shoulders shook with soft sobs, and I pulled her close, my cheeks heating with indignant anger. What an asshat. We were far better off without him.

“And he disappeared into religion?” I guessed when she sat up and swiped at her eyes.

She nodded. “I don't know where. I don't keep in touch with anyone who knows him. When you were born, I got a postcard from Colorado. It said Jesus knew what was best for us both.”

“So when the Waco thing was big news...” I trailed off.

“I was a basket case, wondering how I might explain it to you, hoping he wasn't there.”

“He wasn't?”

“No. I tracked down a woman who used to be a secretary at the studio, who talked to his mother and called me back. They wouldn't tell me where he was—fine—but they said it wasn't there. I've watched TV church productions for him for the past several years. He's handsome. Charismatic. Photogenic. It seems like a perfect fit for him. But if that's what he's doing, he's behind the scenes. I have yet to run across him on a program.”

The last piece.

“So when Mrs. Miller called and told you Kyle and I went to Golightly's church, you flipped.”

“Oh, Nicey.” She took my hand in both of hers and squeezed. “You look so much like him. I was terrified you'd walk into him. I called and bawled at you like a nut myself. Forbid you to go back out there. Forbid you!” She dropped her head back and laughed. “I raised you. I bet you've been back since I talked to you. If you went with Kyle, you're chasing a story, as much as I'd like to hope it was a social thing.”

“So you came to see me.” I felt the corners of my lips turn up in a soft smile.

“I had to warn you. And I couldn't do it over the phone. I've owed you this conversation for many years, baby girl.” She downed the rest of her wine and tipped the glass toward me.

I poured. “I appreciate the heads up. And I love any excuse to see you. I've missed you something awful lately. But can we talk about something else now?”

“Please.” She glanced around. “Your house is still the same.” Her eyes fell on the shelf in the hallway. “You have your beach glass.”

“Always.” I put an arm around her and leaned my cheek on her head.

“Want to tell me about your gentleman friend?”

“Pardon?” I sat up and raised an eyebrow at her.

“The one who was here Sunday afternoon when I called. Who's not Kyle.” She patted my knee.

“How did you—” I began, then waved one hand. “Never mind. You know all.”

“This is J of the extravagant Christmas gift, yes?” she asked.

I sighed. First Emily, now my mother.

Dear Universe, I get it. You can stop now. Love, Nichelle.

Standing, I turned for the kitchen and smiled over one shoulder. “We need another bottle.”

  

I slipped out the next morning with my gym bag slung over one shoulder, leaving a coffee mug and a note on the counter for my mom. She was staying until tomorrow. If I could knock my copy out early, I'd have time to run to Way of Life to look for Elise and still be back in time to take mom to dinner.

Two hours later I'd ap-chagi'ed off all of last night's wine, showered, and bounced my foot through the news budget meeting. Staring at the blinking cursor on my blank computer screen, I waged a silent battle with myself. Emily was right. I'd never knowingly printed anything untrue, and my skin felt a size too small at the thought of the story the PD's command staff wanted me to write.

But Girl Friday had hinted at it since Monday, so surely she'd be all over the arrest. Aaron had warned me it would go to all the TV stations first thing this morning. Charlie, who was desperate to have something I didn't about this case, would blast it from here to Timbuktu. The right thing, or the easy thing? I didn't want Andrews bitching at Bob because it looked like I'd fallen down on the job. Enough tension already stretched between the two of them for an acrobat to do cartwheels across.

I huffed out a sigh and grumbled a few of my favorite swearwords.

Laying my fingers on the keys, I stuck strictly to the facts.

  

Richmond police continue to search for leads to the identity of a young woman found brutally murdered in an abandoned building at Belle Isle Historical Park last week.

Detectives made an arrest in the case Wednesday, holding the young man who originally called in the body discovery as a person of interest in the investigation. RPD Public Information Officer Aaron White didn't release the man's name, but in an exclusive interview with the
Richmond Telegraph
last week, the suspect said the victim was his friend.

The coroner's report lists massive blood loss due to stab wounds as the cause of death
.

  

I quoted Aaron about the unusual difficulty IDing the victim, especially in the age of computers and online records, added statistics for violent crime perpetrated against homeless people, and sent it to Bob for immediate posting online just in time to dash for the courthouse and snag the last seat for day one of DonnaJo's juvenile murder trial.

I wolfed down a sandwich at my desk as I wrote up the trial, then stuck my head into Bob's office.

“You have email,” I said. “And I have some stuff in the works I'm going to go check out.”

He turned from his screen to the door, leaning back in his big leather chair. “Anything interesting?”

“Could be.” I shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

“Larry said he's working on a bear of a photo restore for you.”

“I'm anxious to see what he can do with it.”

“As anxious as I am for you to let me in on your new lead?”

“Let me see what I can find.”

He turned back to his computer. “Don't get shot.”

“Not on purpose.” I grinned and turned for the elevator.

Shelby rounded the corner from the break room as I punched the down button.

“Hey, Nichelle,” she called brightly.

I fought the natural urge to bolt and turned a smile on her.

“Hey there,” I said. “How are you?”

“Frustrated with this blogger. I'm following every footprint she has online, but they're all carefully cloaked. I don't know how anyone's going to find out who she is.”

“I haven't had time to look at anything not strictly related to my copy for today. Is she getting more followers? Or pissing Aaron off more?”

“Her followers aren't exploding, but I've found several forums in my searches where people are linking to the blog and saying she's not beholden to the PD.” She made air quotes around the last words and rolled her eyes.“She's up to two hundred fourteen subscribers.”

“From eighty-five a week ago?” I didn't like the sound of that. “That's more than double.”

“But still a relatively small group. And a niche, if you read the comments on her site. Conspiracy nuts, mostly. She had a piece this afternoon questioning the validity of the arrest that she herself reported on for the past two days. Got a ton of comments about the cops being corrupt. One guy wrote a thesis about patsys. Compared this homeless dude they picked up to Lee Harvey Oswald.”

I swore under my breath. Who was this person?

Shelby arched a brow. “I kinda thought that was funny.”

“She's right, Shelby.” I sagged back against the wall, barely noticing that the elevator came and went without me. “The whole thing stinks to high Heaven. I interviewed that guy. Twice. He's not a murderer.”

“So how does she know that?”

“She has an in at the PD. The question is who? And why hasn't Aaron figured it out yet?” I knew the answer to the last one was simple—he had more pressing matters that needed his attention.

If I was honest with myself, I was most annoyed that Friday had likely written the piece I would have if I didn't care so much about keeping my good relationship with my cops. Politics and playing by the rules sucks sometimes.