Nowhere to Run (22 page)

The persistent banging awakened him from his fitful sleep. He threw back the covers, pulled on a robe, and stumbled, bleary-eyed, to the front door.

“Who is it?”

“FBI. Open up.”

Damn.
His mind searched frantically for his options. There were none. Resigned, John Lee undid the double locks.

“You have the right to remain silent…” began the warning. “I want to call my lawyer,” Lee protested. “You’ll have that chance. But first, you’re coming with us.”

From the control room, Linus ogled the monitor as the Rockettes strutted their stuff. Dressed as Santa’s reindeer, those dames just oozed sex appeal. A little sex in the morning never hurt anyone.

“Get a look at those legs.” One of the technicians whistled.

“Camera Two, pan down the dance line,” ordered the director.

It was getting near the inevitable. The part that everyone waited for: the famous precision kick line. As the shapely legs rose high, shouts went up in the control room.

“Go, baby. Go.”

“Take it home, Momma.”

Linus enjoyed the bawdy comments of the workers he made sure were assigned to his control room as he scanned the other monitors to see what the competition was doing. None of them—
Today, Good Morning America, The Early Show
—had anything that was as mesmerizing as this. He smiled with pleasure. This morning’s broadcast was damn fine television, up to his exacting standard. It didn’t happen by accident. But then, not much worthwhile did.

Inside,
KTA
might be in a state of flux, but the viewers at home sure couldn’t see it. They couldn’t see the solemn expressions on the staffers’ faces or hear the worried whispers. They couldn’t know the executive producer was relieved that Jerome Henning could pose no future threat.

Linus’s ghostwriter was now truly a ghost.

It had been a deadly weekend.

The metal vaults were filled, and the county morgue was understaffed and overworked. The medical examiner checked his list of bodies destined for the autopsy knife.

Clara Romanski was going to have to wait her turn.

After the show at Radio City, Annabelle took a taxi to the Broadcast Center and found, as expected, her office sealed shut. She wanted to see if she had any messages and used one of the phones at the central news desk to check.

“Hi, Annabelle. This is Peter Henning. Just wanted to let you know that I am flying back to California this morning. The funeral home is taking care of the arrangements for Jerome. His body is being cremated. We’re not having a formal funeral. Jerome never liked them. Maybe we’ll arrange a memorial sometime later.”

Peter recited his home phone number. Annabelle jotted it down.

“You look pale, Annabelle. Are you feeling all right?” Still wearing her coat, Beth had come into the newsroom.

“That was Jerome’s brother. Jerome is being cremated, and there won’t be a funeral,” Annabelle said softly.

If she had expected Beth to share her upset, Annabelle was disappointed.

“That doesn’t surprise me or distress me,” Beth replied, her voice flat. “Jerome shouldn’t have a church funeral. It would be hypocritical.”

“Oh, Beth. How can you say that?” Annabelle asked with dismay.

“Easy. Jerome didn’t respect the sanctity of human life.” Beth turned and walked away, leaving Annabelle slack-jawed.

The second message was from Yelena Gregory’s office. Annabelle called the extension and was told by Yelena’s secretary to report to the news president’s office as soon as possible. The two FBI agents who had questioned her last week were with Yelena when she arrived.

As Annabelle took a seat, Yelena gave her the headlines. “Dr. Lee has been taken into custody, Annabelle, as has the laboratory employee who admitted to helping smuggle out the anthrax.”

“We’re trying to figure out the connection between Dr. Lee and the anthrax found in Jerome Henning’s home, Ms. Murphy,” began Agent Lyons. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us with that.”

Annabelle waited for a question. She felt heat rising to her face and wondered if the agents noticed it. Would it make her look guilty of something?

“Do you know of any reason why Mr. Henning would have had the anthrax?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any reason Mr. Henning would have wanted to obtain anthrax as a weapon?”

“Certainly not.”

“Would Mr. Henning have wanted Dr. Lee to look stupid? Would he have wanted to embarrass Dr. Lee for any reason?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Agent Lyons looked squarely at Annabelle. “Well, Dr. Lee was certainly humiliated when the container he claimed on national television to be anthrax turned out to be sugar. Could Mr. Henning have switched the test tubes in order to make Dr. Lee look foolish?”

Annabelle answered with conviction. “Look, Jerome didn’t care for Dr. Lee. That’s no secret. But I can’t believe he would have gone to such lengths, taken such a risk, just to make Lee look like an ass.”

Without expression, Agent Lyons flipped through her notes. “Joe Connelly tells us that you had a copy of a manuscript Mr. Henning had been working on. One that depicted members of the
KTA
staff in a less-than-flattering light.”

Annabelle glanced at Yelena. The reputation of KEY News was everything to her. Annabelle shuddered to think what Yelena would do if she read Jerome’s manuscript.

“Yes, that’s right,” she answered.

“And that manuscript was stolen from you on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t report that to the police.”

“I didn’t think it was important, at first,” Annabelle explained. “I’ve had my purse stolen before. I know from experience that it’s not a police priority to track down a petty thief. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me the target might have been the manuscript rather than my tote bag. As soon as I realized this, I called Joe. He told me he would let the appropriate authorities know.”

The FBI agent nodded. “Yes. Mr. Connelly informed us, and we understand you were going to write down what you remembered of the manuscript.”

“I have, in longhand. I can type it up for you as soon as I leave here.” Annabelle was aching to get out of this stifling room. But the agents weren’t done with her yet. The male agent took up the questioning now.

“Leo McGillicuddy, Ms. Murphy.” He identified himself for her again. “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to poison Jerome Henning and then plant the anthrax at his home?”

Annabelle considered her response. “I suppose there were reasons in that manuscript of his, if someone was desperate enough not to want to see an unflattering portrayal of him-or herself published. That’s why I think I should go type up my notes for you.”

She started to rise from her chair.

“Wait a minute, Ms. Murphy. We’re not through here yet.”

Annabelle sat back down.

“We’re curious. Why do you think there were anthrax spores found in your office?”

Oh my God. They’re looking at me as a suspect.
Annabelle’s heart raced.

“I think I should get an attorney.”

“Do you have something to hide?”

“No. But I think
you
may think I do.”

Annabelle wasn’t taking this seriously enough.

Wearing the rubber gloves he’d found under the kitchen sink, Mike searched through the bedroom closet, trying to remember what Annabelle had worn to work last week. She would be furious that he was throwing out that cashmere sweater he’d given her, but he’d buy her a new one for Christmas. He threw the yellow sweater into a large black plastic garbage bag, along with her black slacks and the gray suit he thought she’d worn on Friday. Two pairs of black leather shoes went into the bag as well. He tied the bag up tight.

As he reached the front door, he thought of something else. That navy wool coat. Annabelle had been complaining that it was worn out anyway. Might as well get rid of it too. Mike took it from the foyer closet and stuffed it into the reopened bag.

He felt a sense of satisfaction as he took the elevator down without his usual panic of late. He really was getting better. Mike whistled as he walked the few blocks it took to find a Dumpster.