Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (10 page)

Here’s where journalism gets tricky. And why it’s best not to get involved in stories with friends or relatives. Discovering that the deceased was a secret and successful author of erotica suddenly made her murder more interesting than it was an hour ago, when she was merely a dead medical transcriptionist.

I wouldn’t be so cruel as to debate the rule of on the record versus off the record with Laura. But this bit of information about her sister was more than just a news scoop for me. It could be a clue to finding her killer.

“Laura, you have to take this to the police.”

She shook her head, sat in the office chair, and put her hands over her face. “Absolutely not. Clearly my sister felt guilt or she’d not have kept this hidden.”

“I know you’d like to keep this hush-hush. But it’s not the kind of thing that can stay quiet. For one thing, you have to tell Kate’s publisher that she’s dead.”

“No way. I’m not talking to those freaks.”

She grabbed
Black Angel Lace
from my hands and threw it against the office wall. As the book hit the floor, the binding appeared to tear. She repeated the exercise with three more paperbacks before calming down.

I picked a book called
Beyond Passion
off the stack and held it in her face to make my point.

“Laura, this information about Kate could be vital to the homicide case. What if this ends up being an important clue to finding her killer?”

“How could that happen?”

“You can’t ever tell where an investigation might lead,” I said. “But not letting the cops in on this development could hold back justice for your sister.”

Laura was quiet. She seemed to brood over my words. Then, without looking up, she mumbled, “Fine.”

Years of interviewing people has taught me that saying something and meaning it are very different. And avoiding eye contact with me was evidence that Laura was still not completely swayed.

“What are you going to tell the police?” she asked.

“Me? No, I think it best if you’re the one who goes to the cops first. Show them the check and the books. They can take it from there.”

That’s when she told me that she’d had enough of the police. She’d already talked to them plenty about her sister’s murder. This would just lead to more questions she couldn’t answer.

“You don’t understand, Riley. She was more than my sister. She was my closest friend. It’s hurtful she deceived me like this. I don’t want to have to discuss it with them.”

She flung two more “Desiree Fleur” books against the wall. Because of the tears on her cheeks, I resisted the temptation to remind Laura that I once considered her
my
closest friend.

“Laura, those are feelings you’re going to have to come to terms with eventually. In the meantime, if her publisher confirms
Kate Warner and Desiree Fleur to be the same person, that’s not something I can sit on. I’m breaking it as a news story.”

She glared. “Well, I’m not going to do any media interviews—not even with you, Riley.”

That didn’t matter. I could tell this story without interviewing Laura. The script would be simple, and I warned her the police would probably contact her after it ran.

((ANCHOR LEAD))
NOW WITH AN EXCLUSIVE UPDATE
ABOUT THE LATEST MINNEAPOLIS
MURDER IS CHANNEL 3
INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER RILEY SPARTZ.

((RILEY STANDUP))
MURDER VICTIM KATE WARNER . . .
WHO LIVE AND DIED IN THIS
HOUSE LAST WEEK . . . LED A
SECRET LIFE.

The word “secret” is always an attention getter. The newscast producer would probably fight me to let the anchor read that line, but I was determined to hold firm. After all, it was my story.

((RILEY VICTIM PIX))
SHE HAD AN IDENTITY NOT KNOWN
TO THE POLICE, HER NEIGHBORS,
OR EVEN HER FAMILY.

I suspected if the cops had known such a juicy tidbit, it would have leaked out already. Or they would have released it publicly, in hopes of tips.

((BOOK COVER PIX))
KATE WARNER WAS A BESTSELLING
AUTHOR OF EROTIC FICTION
UNDER THE PEN NAME “DESIREE FLEUR.”

Then the director would probably cut to a double box shot of me and Sophie and Sophie would ask what erotica was and I would essentially explain the facts of life to her—and all of Channel 3’s audience. Sophie would blush. And the producer would order news control to go black. Then Noreen would storm onto the set.

I shook that scenario out of my mind, admonishing myself to concentrate on the problem in front of me: Laura.

“I have to report this anyway, Laura.”

“I’m not surprised, Riley. All you care about is news.”

I ignored the dig on how our relationship ended, reminding myself that our discord was her fault, not mine. I also reminded myself to be skeptical of what she told me because she had proved capable of lying before.

Then I walked over to the books scattered on the floor, picked one up for an on-set prop, and left. But not before admiring what a nice job the biohazard team had done cleaning and repairing the living room. If I didn’t know it, I never would have guessed a woman had bled to death days earlier where I now stood.

I
drove straight to the station because I wanted to make the call from a land line. Not wanting to risk losing a cell tower signal just when the interview became important.

I entered through the back alley door by the Dumpsters. Security buzzed me in. This way I wouldn’t bump into Noreen and be grilled about what progress I’d made on whatever Kate Warner story she’d slated for that night.

Online, I found numerous references to Desiree Fleur—a bestselling and award-winning author of erotica. Much of her popularity seemed to come from her anonymity. Speculation ranged widely as to her identity—some fans certain she was a reclusive Hollywood actress, others thought her a conservative politician with a wild streak.

No one guessed her a mousy writer named Kate Warner.

“Every man and woman craves the satisfaction my characters discover,” Desiree wrote once in an early blog. “A few might chance upon it in real life. But most will have to find it in my writing.”

I dialed her publisher, Lascivious Press, and asked to speak to the editor of Desiree Fleur.

“Who’s calling?” The switchboard operator sounded more annoyed than helpful.

I identified myself as a member of the news media and was immediately transferred to the publicity department. There it was explained to me that Desiree Fleur never did broadcast interviews to avoid being identified by face or voice.

“Sorry, but we can’t even put your name on a waiting list,” I was told.

“It would be a long wait,” I responded.

That’s when I told them she was dead.

Her editor, Mary Kay Berarducci, would not confirm that Kate Warner’s pen name was Desiree Fleur. She seemed to think my claim that Kate was dead was a tacky media ruse to learn the author’s true identity.

“Your strategy won’t work,” Berarducci said. “We’ve had experience dealing with your kind. As long as she is one of my authors, Desiree Fleur will remain incognito.”

“Well, tonight on our late newscast,” I said, “I’m going to report that Kate Warner and Desiree Fleur are the same person. And the word ‘murdered’ is going to appear multiple times in that story.”

She gasped. “I will have to call you back.” Berarducci’s breathing seemed forced. Rather than a powerful wham, even her telephone hang-up click sounded feeble.

At my desk, I opened the cover to
Black Angel Lace
. It was Desiree’s most recent book, and the title page contained an inscription followed by an illegible signature. “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”

I had no idea what the words meant. Or whether it was even Kate’s handwriting. So I shrugged and read on.

Chapter one introduced a young woman yearning for something, just unsure what. Chapter two told us, in graphic detail, how her ardor was fulfilled. The story then introduced an element
of danger amid sex as she begins to feel haunted by a deadly angel, whose existence is dismissed by those around her. I jumped to the end where she dies mysteriously and becomes part of a legend.

Just then the phone rang. Lascivious Press was back on the line to confirm that Kate Warner aka Desiree Fleur had been their top-selling author.

“Her prose captured the silent fantasies of readers around the world,” Berarducci said. “Writing sex is much more difficult than having sex.”

She explained how the ebook publishing phenomenon made Kate’s work, translated into eleven languages, an Internet sensation on electronic readers for fans too shy to flash hard copies of her book covers on the bus or beach. “Her prose brought desire into their lives.”

Meanwhile, I texted Malik that if he was in the building to bring a camera to my office ASAP.

“While Desiree Fleur is not a household name like Danielle Steel, and doesn’t top traditional bestseller lists, her success is much envied across the industry,” Berarducci said.

“Why did she keep her identity secret?” I figured the answer was obvious—that kind of art might attract weirdos—but wanted to hear it for myself.

Her editor wasn’t that overt. “Kate wanted her professional life separate from her personal life. That’s not uncommon in erotica. Many of her readers also keep their hobby private. Hers weren’t the kind of novels book clubs tended to discuss or the
Today
show liked to feature. So there was no real advantage to going public for her.”

Malik stuck his head in my office and I pointed at my computer and motioned him to set up the camera.

“Could she have been killed because she
was
Desiree Fleur?” I asked. So far, I hadn’t found a motive for anyone to murder Kate
Warner, but her alter ego might hold a whole different set of enemies. Crazed fans or competitors, perhaps. “How many people knew her beyond her pen name?”

“I don’t know those answers. In the publishing industry, some pseudonyms are widely known. For instance, Nora Roberts also writes as J. D. Robb. But I assure you, Desiree Fleur’s true identity was shielded, and anyone seeking to locate her would encounter difficulty.”

She expressed regret at having lost such a creative writer; I gave her my condolences and asked if she’d mind doing an online video interview.

“Mary Kay, I’d like to include someone who recognized Kate’s talent in my story.”

“As her editor, I would feel honored.”

I started to explain the mechanics of how we’d see each other by camera on our computer screens, but she was familiar with the technology. So Malik rolled video and within a few minutes we had our choice of sound bites eulogizing Kate’s life and promoting Desiree’s writing.

After we wrapped, Kate’s editor told me they’d be going back to press for more print runs of her books. “People are going to want them for souvenirs. I only wish she could have signed them.”

Now it was time to pull Noreen into the story.

I carried
Black Angel Lace
to my boss’s office, handing it to her while she was on the phone. One glance at the racy cover—not fit for television audiences—and she pushed it away. She told the caller she’d get back to them and hung up.

“Why are you bothering me with this garbage, Riley?”

“It’s tonight’s lead story,” I said.

And when I spelled out the specifics, her eyes got bright and shiny as she sensed a blockbuster.

We debated whether I should seek police reaction before or after the news aired, because it would be too easy for our competitors to get a piece of the story from their own cop sources. We decided law enforcement response would be an excellent day-after report.

“But there is
one
person you are going to tell, right?” Noreen asked. “Don’t forget.”

And I knew who she was talking about.

Chuck Heyden seemed clueless as to why I was waving a paperback of naked people in his face and ranting about his girlfriend’s writing career.

He insisted Kate worked at home as a medical transcription-ist. “She called it boring but stable work. It was something we had in common. What are you talking about?”

I kept our conversation outside, telling him I had to hurry back to the station to finish the story, but I wanted him to understand that I would be reporting Kate was also Desiree.

“Unless you already knew?” I asked, watching his face carefully as he answered.

Again he denied knowing anything about Kate having a covert career. “You’re wrong.”

I warned him that with this new lead, other media might come looking for him. And he shouldn’t be so friendly.

“It might be best for you, Chuck, not to answer the door for the next couple days.”

Malik was in the back of the van, shooting us through tinted glass, in case Chuck became important to the story. And because I didn’t want to talk about erotica with a possible murder suspect out of eyeshot of anyone else.

As our chat became more explicit, Chuck became more agitated. Especially when I blundered, asking about Kate and kinky sex.

“She was a nice girl!” he shouted, before slamming the door.

Remembering Noreen’s priority, I pounded and called his name. “Chuck, FYI the story is running tonight at ten. Channel 3.”

He didn’t answer, but I was sure he’d be watching the newscast. Malik assured me Chuck’s eyes were following me from between the window blinds as I drove away in the van.

And that’s how Channel 3 went from having to make up news about Kate Warner to having to beat the competition off with microphones for the story.

H
e forsook the couch to sit mesmerized on the floor in front of the television screen, hanging on the nuances of audio and video.

((RILEY DOUBLE BOX))
NO, SOPHIE, THERE’S NO
INDICATION YET WHETHER
THE BOOKS THE VICTIM WROTE
HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH
HER MURDER . . . BUT THAT’S
CERTAINLY AN AVENUE FOR THE
POLICE TO INVESTIGATE.

He turned off the television immediately after the reporter finished speaking. The story couldn’t have lasted more than a couple minutes, but the words felt like infinity.