Friday Edition, The (9 page)

Sam cut him off, “Or push you off your balcony.”

Her comment sent them into a long silence.

“That day at the seminar,” Rey said slowly. “I don’t know why, but something about that case was bothering me. I felt I could trust Robin. So I told her.”

Sam could not help but smile. “Your instincts were right, Rey.”

Rey smiled too and Sam saw it was sincere. “What did you tell her?” She asked.

Rey had finished eating. He pushed his plate away, and folded his arms over the table. “The money in the van, remember?”

Sam nodded.

“It turned up missing, but Robin didn’t know until I told her. Then she dropped a little bomb of her own.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “What did she tell you?”

“She had gone to property and evidence to sign out the kilos of the cocaine taken from the bust …”

Rey’s voice trailed off and he looked around the restaurant as if to make sure no one was listening. He turned to Sam and studied her. “There were only four bags of cocaine cataloged into evidence, not six.”

“How do you know the money was missing?” Sam asked.

“Let’s just say I know.”

Rey smiled and thanked the waitress when she set their check on the table and cleared their plates. He studied the check a moment before looking at Sam. “There was one thing my grandfather always tried to instill in me. He used to tell me, ‘You’re not above the law. You are the law, but you’re not above it, and don’t ever think you are, because it’ll always come back to haunt you.’”

They didn’t speak again until they were in the squad car and heading toward the police department. “What changed your mind, Rey? Why help me now?”

He slid a sideways glance in her direction. “I guess that fear of what would happen to her if she continued to go forward wasn’t enough to make her stop. I admire Robin for her courage to continue. She knew she could end up dead. I told her often that they’d kill her without batting an eye. She’d look at me with those big blue eyes and I’d feel them reaching right to the core of me.”

Rey drove in silence. It surprised Sam when she looked at him and saw him wipe a tear from his cheek. “Your sister was murdered, Sam.”

Her face felt hot and she could hardly manage her own tears.

“Since Robin’s death, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what my grandfather told me,” Rey said in a soft, reflective voice. “The law is black and white to me and I go by the book. You break the law, you go to jail. It’s all cut and dried. It was that way for my grandfather and my father and it’s that way for me. When I heard about Robin I didn’t know what to do. I’ve hated myself for not being there to help her.”

Sam interjected and there was pain in her voice when she spoke. “How do you think I feel, Rey? At least you knew what was going on.”

“Don’t be angry with Robin for not including you, Sam. She knew it was dangerous and she didn’t want to involve you.”

Sam snorted. “What kind of talk is that? I’m her sister, goddammit. There wouldn’t be a choice. I’d been there with her from the beginning.”

“Robin wanted to tell you, but she loved you, Sam. She said you had done so much for her all her life. She said she could never repay you for what you did.”

Sam bit her bottom lip, but it did nothing to stop her tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Robin didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Sam pursed her lips into a thin line. She could only nod.

They reached the police department parking lot. Rey checked his watch: 2:15 a.m. “Let’s go,” he said and was about to open the door.

“Wait,” she said and grabbed his arm.

He looked at her.

“Does the name Roy Rogers mean anything to you?”

Rey didn’t answer immediately. The blank look on his face convinced Sam that the name did not register with him.

“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not important.”

Inside the police department, Rey and Sam headed for the communications area. The room was cast in semi-darkness, and most of the light came from the area around the dispatcher’s terminals.

There was a woman in the room when they entered, that Sam guessed was Shari. She was a petite woman who Sam figured was fresh out of college. Shari nodded at Rey as if to tell him the coast was clear. Rey and Sam disappeared behind a door that led to the records room. When they reached it, Rey stood at the door with his hands straddling his holster. The room was dark, but the light from the hallway gave enough brightness inside for her to see that the entire area was lined wall-to-wall with files.

“Let’s go,” he said.

As she followed him she was surprised that she felt little fear of getting caught. She guessed it was the calming effect Rey seemed to have on people that put her at ease. Rey pulled a penlight from his shirt pocket and she followed the light along the files he scanned. The penlight stopped on a group of files near the end of the back wall. She watched as he studied the batch of case numbers, before pulling one of the files from the shelf. He used one of his business cards to mark his place.

Rey handed Sam the penlight and she directed the beam of light over the open file. “This is the file I told you about,” he whispered.

Sam studied the document with Rey. He pointed to the section where it listed the amount of cocaine taken. “Amount seized,” he whispered. “Four kilos. That’s bullshit. I was there. I counted each bag as I handed it to another officer.”

Rey went back to the file. “That’s wrong,” he said, tapping it hard with the tip of his index finger. Before they left the room, Rey showed Sam a dozen examples of similar discrepancies in other police reports relating to arrests for drug possession. “The only pattern to these reports is that there is no pattern,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, her brow drawn in a tight knot.

“All the drugs confiscated aren’t listed accurately in these reports. All drug arrests happened on different days. Different officers handled all the cases. All amounts of the drugs seized vary. There just doesn’t seem to be a connection.”

“Unless Robin figured it out,” Sam whispered.

Rey nodded. “I have no doubt she did.”

He returned the file to the shelf. They left the police department and were back on the streets within the hour. “My grandfather also always told me that there are three things that could bring a police chief down just like that,” Rey said and snapped his fingers.

She looked at him, her eyes wanting to know.

“His secretary, his departmental budget and a sloppy property and evidence vault. My grandfather had an officer working for him who was tops when it came to his property and evidence vault. He used to say, ‘If someone comes here and they want somethin’ and I can’t produce it for ’em in ten minutes or less, then we got us a real problem.’”

Rey frowned.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“About Chief Gilmore. He’s a great guy.”

Brady Gilmore popped into her head and she replayed the unpleasant scene at Robin’s funeral over in her mind.

“I know how much Chief Gilmore cares about his officers,” Rey went on. “He’d do anything for us and I’d hate to see anything happen to him because of what’s going on here.”

Rey brought Sam back to the police department by 7 a.m., as the eastern horizon was turning pink with the anticipation of the rising sun. He stopped his squad car in front of her Mustang. When he saw it, he was impressed. “Nice,” he said. “Did you have it restored?”

Sam nodded and welcomed the chance to show it off. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, beaming.

Rey nodded. “I have an old jeep in my garage I want to restore some day.”

“Rey, have you ever heard of Tim’s Place?”

“Sure, it’s a bar on 44
th
Avenue. Why?”

“Robin’s AA sponsor said that Robin had been going there a lot the last few months. Did she ever say anything to you?”

“It never came up,” he said.

“What’s the bar like?” Sam asked.

“It’s a hole in the wall, but quiet. We’ve never had any trouble there.”

“I need to see for myself,” Sam said as she rummaged in her purse for her keys.

“There’s more,” Rey said.

“Yes, I know, you said.”

“We’ll have to wait for the right night.”

“When?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s up to them, but when they’re ready, you’ll hear from me. And like I said, you’ve got to be ready to go the moment I call.”

She nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

Sam hesitated before opening her car door and looked at Rey.

“One more question,” she said.

His dark eyes were intense.

“Last night when you came out with those other officers to start your shift, you gathered in that small circle. Remember?”

Rey nodded.

“What were you doing?”

The concentrated look in Rey’s eyes yielded to softness. He studied her a moment, deciding whether to answer. Then he smiled and laughed a little as though what she had noticed had embarrassed him.

“We were praying,” he said simply.

Sam was in a deep, dreamless sleep when her alarm sounded at 6 a.m. The buzzing noise jarred her slumber, dragging her unwillingly from the sanctuary of the unconscious. She immediately thought of Rey and the ride along the other night. She showered and was at work by eight, early by her standards.

“You’re here before everybody,” Nick Weeks said, making no attempt to hide his surprise.

She acknowledged him with a slight nod while her attention flickered toward her publisher’s office. It was still dark. “Will Wilson be in today?” she asked Nick.

He glanced at his watch. “Around one,” he said, not looking in her direction.

Her heart sank. The hours would seem like an eternity, but Sam could do nothing except wait for the time to pass.

Nick was looking through the mail at the front desk when Wilson Cole Jr., publisher of the
Grandview Perspective
, finally walked through the office doors a few minutes after one p.m.

“Hi, Wilson,” Nick said. “Sam wants to see you. She said she has some important information she wants to run by you for a story, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

Wilson flashed Nick a brief look of irritation as he sifted mindlessly through mail. He entered the newsroom a few minutes later and saw Sam on the phone. He walked to her desk and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. He was smiling at her when she looked up to him. She returned his smile and waved slightly. Wilson motioned toward his office. She nodded and turned her attention back to the conversation.

He was typing on the computer when she knocked hesitantly. “Wilson?” she said.

He removed his silver reading glasses and looked at her. “The door’s open,” he said. “Come in.”

He was a tall, handsome man with a head of thick silver hair. His midnight blue shirt and light print tie made him look more distinguished. Mail, file folders and other assorted paperwork covered his desk. Press association and other writing awards decorated the wall. He had spent his career with the wire services covering events worldwide. Five years ago, he retired, returned to Denver, and did what he always wanted to do: purchased a community newspaper.

Wilson changed everything about the
Grandview Perspective
, from format to news content. When he took over, the newspaper’s paid circulation was 20,000. Within three years, circulation had jumped to 55,000 paid subscribers. The paper went from fluff pieces to hard news and in-depth features and profiles.

Wilson Cole Jr. looked like any other businessman, yet managed to project something more comfortable. Perhaps it was his face. At fifty-eight, it had begun to fold softly. Perhaps it was his manner, described by those who knew him as very direct, but low key and, most of all, calm. People were attracted to Wilson because his style was thoughtful and methodical. He had tact and knew how, where and when to use it. Being overbearing, rude or callous were not part of his collective personality.

He was smiling as she reached the desk and leaned forward with interest. “Sit down,” Wilson said and pointed with his reading glasses to the chair in front of his desk. “Nick said you wanted to see me about a story.”

“Would you mind if I closed the door?” Sam asked.

“Not at all.”

Behind a closed door Sam told Wilson what she had done and learned since her sister’s death. When she finished, she stared at him hard waiting for his reaction.

“Are you sure you can trust this Rey Estrada fella?” Wilson asked skeptically.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Robin was a good judge of character.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I’d still be a little reserved. Let’s see what happens.”

Wilson quietly mulled over Sam’s revelations. He tossed his reading glasses over a pile of papers on the desk. “Roy Rogers, huh?” Wilson said. “That’s funny. I used to watch him and all the silver-screen cowboys when I was a kid. I used to order a Roy Rogers when we went to dinner.”

He rubbed a finger over pursed lips and looked at her. “Sam, do you think this is something you want to do on your own?” he asked in a reserved voice.

She planned to answer immediately, but then it struck her why he asked. She wanted to be hurt by his intention, but there was something pleasant, a naturalness about him that had a soothing effect on her. It made getting hurt or angry difficult. She knew from the short time she had been at the paper that Wilson was a good publisher who cared about his employees.

Her face felt hot with an embarrassment she did not want him to see. She kept her attention directed to the pattern in her pleated skirt. “I know what you mean, Wilson,” she said. “I know you’re good friends with the editor at the
Post
.” She flashed him a quick glance. His smile put her at ease. Wilson noticed that while Sam had been charged with energy when she entered his office, now she looked like a deflated balloon.

And he knew of her struggles with alcohol. Not because of what the
Post
editor had told him, but because of his own desperate battle with the bottle. Wilson Cole Jr. was a recovering alcoholic and had been for years. He recognized another alcoholic when he saw one.

Enough years had passed, but Wilson clearly remembered the morning he woke in his own vomit in a dingy motel room in Mexico City. The woman he vaguely remembered from the night before was gone. He didn’t know the name of the motel until he looked at a matchbook cover.

He was a foreign correspondent for United Press International and had missed a crucial deadline. They had every reason to fire him. Missing that deadline was just another in a series of blunders.

But Wilson wasn’t fired and he had only his bureau chief to thank, a man who shared the same compassion for his employees that Wilson now did for his. But the bureau chief offered the young Wilson a hard bargain. He wanted Wilson to succeed, not just as a journalist, but as a human being. He recognized Wilson’s potential and suggested that he enter a rehab program. If he was successful, he could keep his job.

In the early years of his sobriety, Wilson made a pledge. He couldn’t return the favor to his bureau chief, but if the opportunity ever came he would do the same for someone else.

Wilson practiced the “anonymous” part of Alcoholics Anonymous. He always had. Very few people knew his past and his intensions were to keep it that way.

He looked across the desk at Samantha Church and wanted to tell her why he knew about her struggles with alcohol. He knew her to be what he was at her age, a functional alcoholic, and, like him, a damn good one. But he elected to pass. He had no doubt that he would tell her someday about his past, but not today.

“Don’t you think I can handle the story?” Sam asked. She was surprised at the calmness in her voice. She didn’t feel as defensive as she might if she were having this conversation with Nick Weeks.

“It’s not that at all, Sam,” Wilson said and rested against the tall back of his chair. “I just think you should have help from another reporter.”

“It’s my story,” Sam shot back, pointing a finger at her chest.

Wilson nodded. “Of course, I know it is.” He could see the sense of desperation rising in her eyes. He knew the investigation and the writing of Robin’s story was all that remained for her. It was the only way she could redeem herself professionally as well as personally. The only way she could face her demons and conquer them.

“What my sister stumbled onto cost her life,” Sam said in a slow, deliberate voice. “And I am going to find out the rest of what she knew, who killed her, and write this goddamn story, even if it kills me. It’s the only way I know that she’ll rest in peace.” Sam was quiet for a moment, too overcome to speak. “Then she won’t have died in vain. And I can go on with my life.”

“Do you think Robin started drinking again?” he asked.

Sam shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “I don’t know. I doubt it. She wasn’t that kind of person. Her sobriety and AA meant everything to her.”

Wilson nodded knowingly, in a way he knew Sam could not understand. At least now.

Sam smiled. There was something warm in it. Something ardent and moving in her smile.

“What?” he asked, his curiosity rising.

She shook her head, but her smile remained.

“I went with Robin to an AA meeting on her first anniversary. Everybody clapped for her. I was puzzled because she had been sober for longer than a year. It wasn’t until I heard her story that I knew why everyone was clapping.

“What did she tell the group?”

Sam’s face softened.

“She said ‘I know I’ve been coming here for well over a year now, but I’m saying this is my first year because I feel this is the first year that I’ve done everything right.’ Robin told me later that she had been going to AA, but couldn’t go more than two or three months at a time without messing up. But once she made it through a full year without a drink, she knew she’d never look back.”

Sam was silent a moment. Her smile had fallen, but her face remained smooth with the fond memory of that summer afternoon. “AA was important to Robin, but, I don’t know, Wilson, to me AA is a crutch.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“What’s all that higher power crap?” she asked and shrugged. “Some in AA are better off being a damn drunk. AA is sadder than being a drunk.”

The desire to tell her about his past rose fiercely in Wilson, but he resisted the temptation. He clasped his hands over the top of his silver hair and studied Sam. “Want to know my impression of AA?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied and leaned forward in her chair.

“There are some people, and, I think, we both know that those like Nick Weeks believe that drunks who go to AA meetings are losers. Bums, because they don’t have the strength to get through their own trials without a crutch. That’s not taking anything away from Nick, or people like him. They’re entitled to their own beliefs.” Wilson fell silent a moment in thought. “Then,” he said, continuing, “There are people like me who believe that drunks, or alcoholics, who go to AA to help them cope with their sobriety are heroic.”

“Heroes?” Sam said.

“Heroes,” he repeated. “It takes more strength than people realize to admit they’ve failed miserably. They know they’re nothing but a lousy drunk, but what makes them different is that they’re willing to admit it. They want to do something about it.” Wilson looked at Sam, who was listening attentively. “Think of the deer. In order to get to freedom, it had to jump the obstacle in its way, the fence. Soon after the deer jumped the fence, it ultimately got hit and killed by a car.”

“It was the deer’s need for freedom that killed it,” Sam said.

He looked intently at her his blue eyes blazing, and nodded at her response.

“Have you been to Tim’s Place yet?” Wilson asked, changing the subject.

“I’m going after work tonight.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Can I go forward with this?”

Wilson nodded.

“Alone?” she asked and their eyes met and locked.

“Yes, but keep me posted.”

Sam nodded. “I will.” She slumped in her chair as if to preface what she was about to say. “I know you’ve worked hard to build this newspaper, Wilson, but I wish we were a big daily to break this story.”

Wilson allowed a small smile. “I want to show you something, Samantha.”

He turned to the bookcase directly behind him. A framed standard broadsheet that depicted the
Grandview Perspective
before Wilson became the publisher was on one side. On the other was the same product, completely redesigned.

“That’s a Chevrolet. And that’s a Mercedes,” he said, pointing to the respective pictures. He kept his attention fixed on them. “You’ve worked for us, what, about a year?”

“Almost.”

“Now that you’ve been here, you should be able to see how much more of a story this will be published by us. When you worked for the
Post
, did you read our paper?”

Sam nodded. “Of course. The reporters on the beat covering the West Side suburbs read it all the time.”

“When we did scoop the
Post
on a story, how did your editors feel?”

Suddenly she knew what he meant. And she began to think how her own impression of a weekly community newspaper had changed after coming to the paper. “When I was a little girl, the
Perspective
was delivered to our house for free,” Sam said quietly. “I never read it, the only thing I remember was stepping over it in the yard. I don’t mean that in a bad way, Wilson.”

“None taken,” he said and he smiled genuinely. “Allow me to give you a little history lesson about people’s perception of weeklies, or the lack thereof. When people think of newspapers, they tend to think dailies. But there’s lots of competition that happens between dailies and non-dailies. Weekly journalists have always called their work community journalism and community journalists are just as committed as the reporters who work for the wire services, or dailies. I know I have a staff full of committed reporters.”

Wilson’s voice was more animated than Sam had ever remembered. She knew by the inflection in his voice that he was passionate about his paper. “We covered the suburbs, Wilson, and so did the
Rocky
when it was still around,” Sam said as if for some reason she felt she had to defend the dailies.