Small Town Spin (22 page)

“I need to go inside,” I said, my breath coming so fast my vision blurred. When had Kyle gotten to be such a great kisser? Never mind. I probably didn’t want to think about that. I was having trouble thinking about anything except wanting to lie down, and wanting to kiss Kyle some more. And how to reconcile those two things.

I fumbled a key out of my bag, handing it to him and leaning my head back against the wall, willing my pulse to slow.

It refused, a fine sheen of sweat frosting my skin in the cool night air. I gulped for breath as the lights in the house across the street wavered and then blinked out. From far away, I heard the door open. Darcy barked.

Then Kyle was saying my name with a don’t-walk-out-in-front-of-that-bus urgency, and everything went dark.

19.

Crash

I opened my eyes to the brightest light this side of the pearly gates, groaning and waving it away as I clamped them shut again.

“Nicey?” Kyle still sounded far away, and it was so bright. What the hell?

“Where are we?” I asked, not opening my eyes. “And who turned on the high beams?”

“The ER,” he said. “And the nurses did. While they were hooking you up to machines and trying to get your blood sugar back up.”

“My blood sugar? Why would it need to go up?” Everything seemed sticky and hard to analyze.

“Because you haven’t eaten all day and we danced for an hour and a half?” he asked. “You passed out and your skin was so clammy when I picked you up, it scared the shit out of me. I thought maybe you’d been faking your recovery and you had pneumonia or something. But I brought you here and they said your blood sugar crashed. It was forty-two when they checked it.”

I shook my head, slitting my eyes open against the bright light. “I have never once in my life had a problem with my blood sugar. Am I getting diabetes or something?” That sounded scary.

The door opened on the end of my question and a balding man with a lab coat, a kind smile and large, seventies-style bifocals answered. “You are not diabetic,” he said. “But you do have to take better care of yourself. Agent Miller tells me you’ve been working even though you’ve been sick, and you don’t eat properly. No case is that important.”

He checked an IV bag of yellowish fluid hanging over my cot, marked something in the chart, and had just turned back to me when the loudspeaker paged Dr. Gandy to the nurse’s station. “Be right back,” he said, darting out the door.

“Case?” I looked at Kyle, who was hunched over in a chair next to the cot, rubbing his temples.

He raised his head and grinned. “I might have flashed my badge and let them think you were my partner. They would’ve kicked me out to the waiting room, otherwise, and I didn’t want to leave you back here alone.”

I reached through the bedrail for his hand. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Someone should.”

“I do all right when I’m not unconscious.”

He smiled. “Mostly.”

“So. Blood sugar?”

“You said you were starving when we got food at the dance, but then you ran off to talk to the girl without eating, and I didn’t see you go back to get your food. I assume from what the doctor said that you didn’t eat it?”

I opened my mouth and then clamped it shut. “I got waylaid by Morris, and then talked to Luke’s mother,” I said. “And then I was so tired and we left.”

“Another symptom of low blood sugar. So is being off balance and clammy skin.”

“Well, hell. I didn’t mean to.”

“You need to stash a Powerbar in your purse,” Kyle said.

The door opened again and a nurse came in. “There you are.” She smiled. “Feeling a little better?”

“I think so.” I glanced at Kyle, remembering suddenly what we’d been about to do when I’d passed out. “Compared to being unconscious, anyway.”

“You need to remember to eat,” she said, hanging a new IV bag and taking down the empty one.

“So I’ve heard. But this has never happened to me before. It’s not like there haven’t been plenty of days when I got busy and forgot to eat. So why now? Does this mean I’m going to get diabetes?” I had a hard time letting go of that worry. I hate needles.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Low blood sugar levels can be caused by a combination of things that have nothing to do with diabetes. Illness, poor sleeping habits, inadequate nutrition. Any of that sound familiar?”

I grimaced. “Maybe. But I’m a little freaked out because I’ve never had this problem before.”

“Aging makes things in your body work less efficiently, as a general rule.” She winked, noting the time on the chart and turning back for the door. “It only gets worse.”

I rolled my eyes as the door closed behind her. “Aging. I’m not even thirty yet.”

“I’m coming up on it quick,” Kyle said. “I feel it some days, too. I can’t lift as much at the gym as I could when I was twenty-four.”

“I don’t think I care for this getting older business.” I plucked at the threads of the blanket across my lap.

“Beats the hell out of the alternative.”

I sighed. “I always thought I’d be in a different place at thirty. Thirty was old. Dentures and walker old. Remember?”

“We were going to rule the world,” Kyle said, squeezing my hand. “Have it all.”

“Maybe we do.” I said. “You’re a bonafide hero—I mean, your career is shooting off into the stratosphere.”

“I guess. I feel like it’s been stalled lately. After my last big case, there’s been a shortage of giant operations to run. I’ve been doing a lot of little one-off busts.”

“You’ll land another big fish soon. Aren’t you, like, the youngest special agent big shot they’ve ever had, or something?”

“Haven’t you, like, caught a couple of murderers and won some pretty impressive awards?” he countered.

“I guess.”

“Thirty’s not old. We’ll pin that one on forty. ’Til we get there. We can move that line forever.”

I smiled at the thought of turning forty with Kyle. Which gave me a warm-fuzzy and made me wonder again what the hell I was going to do about my love life. Such a massive mess required more brainpower than I had to spare.

“I know one thing: I wouldn’t go back to being twenty-one for all the Manolos in the Saks warehouse. There’s something to be said for that whole age and wisdom thing.” I rolled my eyes up toward the bag of yellow fluid. “Is that the magic blood sugar juice?”

“I suppose.” He sat back in the chair. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“I’m sorry I ruined our evening.”

“Eh. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, but I’m more glad you’re okay. Raincheck?”

“When the time is right.” I closed my eyes. “I’m sleepy.”

He kissed the back of my hand. “You rest.”

I did.

The doctor pronounced me balanced and ready to go home at a few minutes after two, and Kyle delivered me there without further comment on our missed encounter. I knew him well enough to know that took immense self-control, and I kissed his cheek and thanked him for everything. I shut the door and fell into my bed, wanting nothing but to sleep off my crazy week.

20.

Where there’s smoke

Peter Pan flitting around the room wasn’t usually part of the dream where I got offered a job covering the White House for the
Washington Post
—yet there he was, Tinkerbell hot on his heels.

Around the time the editor in my dream (who looked much more like Christian Bale than a newspaper editor ever actually would) began belting out “Second Star to the Right,” dream-me figured out my real-life phone must be ringing.

Groping for my Blackberry, I cracked one eye enough to see that my bedroom was pitch-dark.

Had I slept all day? I turned my head and groaned when I saw the clock. I hadn’t even slept three hours.

“Money or shoes?” I mumbled into the phone, turning my head so I could hear. The only acceptable reason for this call was to tell me I’d won one of those things.

“Pardon?”

“Aaron?” I sat up and pushed my tangled hair out of my face. “It’s four-forty-five. In the morning. On Saturday.”

“You’ll thank me when you’ve had some coffee,” Aaron said. “I know you’ve been sick and I figured your scanner was off.”

Aaron hated working weekends and almost never called me at home. Which was the only reason I didn’t hang up and dive back into my pillows.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got a hotel fire that will make a hell of a headline if you feel up to dragging yourself over here.”

I shook the haze out of my head. A hotel fire? Andrews was still pissed at me, best I could tell. I needed all the brownie points I could get. “Thanks, Aaron. My scanner didn’t even make it out of the car last night. I owe you one.”

“Bring an extra cup of coffee. It’s cold out here.”

“Text me the address and give me twenty minutes.” I clicked off the call and threw my sage duvet back. Darcy growled at me from her bed.

“I know. But what can I do?” I put my feet on the cold wood floor and wondered why I didn’t have a rug for the bedroom.

Shuffling to the bathroom, I stretched out of sleep and pulled a pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater from the dryer that sat across from my bathtub. I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth, yanking my hair back into a hasty ponytail since I didn’t have time to wash it.

While Aaron’s coffee brewed into a plastic Starbucks cup, I ran back to the bedroom and jammed my feet into a pair of lavender silk Manolo Blahnik sandals. An absolute eBay steal at less than two hundred dollars, because of a tiny pull in the fabric. A quick dot of clear nail polish, and it wasn’t even visible.

Darcy raised her head, squinted at the overhead light, tucked her tiny face back under her paw, and resumed sleeping.

“Lucky dog,” I mumbled, moving back toward the kitchen.

I put a lid on Aaron’s coffee and punched the button to brew a cup for myself. The coffeemaker burbled, and I spooned half a can of Pro-Plan into Darcy’s footed silver dish for when she got up.

I added a shot of sugar free white chocolate syrup and a little milk to my cup, then grabbed my bag and the coffee and headed for the car.

Flipping the scanner on, I listened for something about the fire, but it was eerily quiet. A hotel blaze should warrant a fair amount of beat cop and dispatch chatter, which meant someone had told them to shut up. Why? I checked my Blackberry for a text with the address and my jaw dropped. Not just any hotel. The poshest hotel in town. I owed Aaron more than a coffee for the wake-up call.

Slamming the gas pedal to the floor accomplished two things: it got me to the grand whitewashed building with the knot of police cars and fire engines out front faster, and heated up the car a little quicker. By the time I got off the freeway, I was positively toasty, which was good since I was likely to spend the next couple of hours freezing my ass off. It would warm up quickly after sunrise, but early spring still carries winter’s chill in the pre-dawn hours.

“Your coffee, detective.” I presented the cup to Aaron with a flourish and he smiled.

“Thanks.” He sipped it, staring at me. “You okay?”

“Do I look that bad?” I shook my head.

“You look a little peaked, as my momma would say.”

“I managed to crash my blood sugar and earn myself a trip to the ER last night,” I said. “I didn’t get home ’til after two, and now here I am, awake and freezing with you.” I looked around, spotting a gaggle of teenage girls in dreamy gowns and smeared makeup, huddled under a ratty wool blanket near the back of a fire truck. “What’s going on, anyway?”

The front of the hotel didn’t show signs of damage, and the firefighters milling about meant the blaze was under control.

I hoped I wasn’t about to get really irritated with Aaron for dragging me out of bed. But he knew what was news and what wasn’t.

He grinned and shook his head. “Debutante ball meets Girls Gone Wild. The St. Mary’s prom was here last night. Most of the kids got rooms, that being what kids like to do after the prom.”

I nodded to the frocked group. “That them?”

“They’ve been begging us not to call their folks since I got here,” he said. “Their boyfriends went on a drugstore run, and the girls had set up dozens of candles in the suite. Trying to set the mood, I guess.”

“Wait.” I tried not to laugh. “A bunch of teenagers trying to create a sex scene set fire to one of the most beautiful buildings on the eastern seaboard?”

Aaron nodded. “Told you.”

“This will get blasted all over Facebook and Twitter,” I said, a lead already whirling through my head. “And I need a few points with the big bosses right now. I could kiss you,”

“My wife probably wouldn’t care after twenty-five years, but I’ll take an owed favor.” Aaron laughed. “I’m sure there’ll be something I won’t want to tell you sometime soon. You let it go when the time comes and we’ll call it even.”

I nodded. “Has Charlie been here?”

“Not yet, but she doesn’t go on the air until six, and I’m pretty sure she sleeps with her scanner under her pillow,” Aaron said. “She’ll show.”

As if on cue, the Channel Four van pulled up and parked right behind my car.

I watched as Charlie stepped from the passenger seat, her petite frame clad in a gorgeous camel wool peacoat and black pants, her makeup and blond bob flawless.

“Detective White.” Charlie flashed a Colgate-commercial smile at Aaron. “Nichelle. You get bored out in the sticks?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes were way too curious. Scooping each other would always come first with Charlie. But I could live with that.

I grinned and shook my head. “No comment. Charlie, how is it that you don’t ever have circles under your eyes? Are you a pod person, or something?”

“Just handy with a makeup brush, honey,” Charlie smiled, arching an eyebrow at my ponytail and blotchy skin. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to worry about the camera.”

I rolled my eyes. “I got to sleep later than you did, I bet.”

“Now, ladies.” Aaron held up both hands in a peacemaker gesture. “Anyone want particulars on this incident?”

Charlie waved her cameraman over and handed Aaron a wireless mic. While he attached the unit to his belt and clipped the tiny microphone to his collar, I rummaged in my bag for a notebook and pen.

Charlie flashed Aaron a smile and he gave the camera a more official version of what he’d told me. “A group of teenagers started a small fire on the fifth floor with candles,” he said. “The hotel’s fire alarms alerted security, and the first crew from the Richmond Fire Department was on the scene in less than five minutes, containing the damage to three rooms.”

“Was there any structural damage?” Charlie asked.

“The structural engineers haven’t been here yet, but it doesn’t look that way,” Aaron said. I jotted down his answer.

“Have any of the hotel guests been evacuated?” I asked. Charlie could dub the audio to put in her own transition and use Aaron’s comment, anyway.

“Six other rooms on that side of the fifth floor were evacuated because of the smoke,” Aaron said. “But the hotel had empty rooms to move those guests to.”

“The Washington’s historic decor dates back to the city’s earliest days,” Charlie said. “Anything in the lobby damaged by smoke?”

“No,” Aaron said. “And the hotel’s management has assured us that at this time, there are no plans to close anything other than the affected rooms.”

“Are the students being charged with anything?”

“I’m not taking them to jail, if that’s what you’re asking,” Aaron said. “Whether or not they’ll face charges will be up to the fire marshal and the CA.” I jotted that down, the abbreviation for Commonwealth’s Attorney still a teensy bit funny-looking after half a decade of writing about the Virginia prosecutor’s office.

“Thanks, Detective,” Charlie said, waving the cameraman toward the fire trucks that sat in the large circular drive in front of the hotel.

Aaron handed the microphone set back and nodded. “Of course.”

She followed her cameraman to the fire trucks, grabbing a firefighter to interview.

“Why do I have a feeling there’s something you’re not saying?” I smiled at Aaron, glancing at the girls huddled under the blanket and wondering if they’d tell me anything.

“Because you know me too well?” He grinned. “Charlie didn’t ask me what the kids were drinking. Or, planning to drink. But I have a feeling it might be of particular interest to you, since you were asking me about the ABC police and moonshine last week.”

“No way.” I stared at the debutantes. “These kids?”

“Teenagers are the perfect market for people making back-door booze. Everywhere, it seems.”

“Did they say where they got it?”

“One of them has an older sister who bought it off someone in her dorm. They claim, anyway. But I ran the labels when the fire guys first handed it to me this morning. It’s not a legal brand.”

“It has a label?”

He nodded, turning around and opening the trunk of the cruiser. “Here.”

We didn’t need gloves because the kids had confessed to possession, making fingerprinting unnecessary. I took the full jar he handed me and turned it over. Triple X White Lightning.

“Son of a bitch.” I tapped my foot, studying the label. It was faded across the middle, too.

“Look familiar?” Aaron asked.

“Indeed it does.” I handed the jar back. “What are the chances you can have a lab analyze this stuff in some sort of timely fashion?”

“Why? They didn’t drink it, and it didn’t combust.”

“Because the sheriff in Mathews has closed his investigation, which I know isn’t your problem. This is what those kids were drinking, though. Someone poisoned them, I’m almost positive, but I don’t know how. This label is weird, like the one on the jar the dead girl had. I want to know what’s in it.”

“Cause of death?”

I smiled. Aaron was a good detective. “Liver failure. The boy. The girl’s isn’t back yet.”

“And you don’t think the kid OD’d because why? That sounds like the most logical answer to me.”

“I’m not even sure I have the words to tell you that,” I said. “My gut says no. The parents say no. The coach says no. Good friend of mine who’s a master shrink says not likely.”

He nodded. “But the sheriff is done?”

“The sheriff has a cousin who’s making moonshine.” I shook the jar.

“A-ha.” He chuckled. “Oh, the joys of small-town politics. They’re not that different here, if you want to know the truth. People are just connected by friends and money instead of blood.”

“Right? But I can’t let someone get away with killing two kids because Sheriff Zeke wants to turn the other cheek to the criminal branch of his family tree, either.”

“No. That doesn’t seem right. But are you sure the moonshine had something to do with it?”

I snorted. “I’m not sure of a damned thing. There’s more nebulous crap around this story than the big bang, Aaron. I’m just trying to cover all the bases. There was moonshine at both scenes. I heard last night that someone gave it to the girl as a gift, and for all I know, they spiked it with arsenic. I’m pretty sure TJ’s invite to the party he died at was wrapped around a mason jar, too. TJ died of liver failure. I know too much rotgut could cause that eventually, but he was so young.”

I stopped.

Except TJ’s liver was already compromised.

“What if he didn’t know he was drinking it?” I asked, talking more to myself than to Aaron. “Could you mix this shit with anything that would mask the God-awful taste?”

“I’m sure if you put enough syrup or sweet stuff with it. But would he have had enough of it to do anything if someone mixed it?”

“I remember once when I was in school, the guys mixed up a batch of Hawaiian Punch and Everclear in a garbage can. One of the cheerleaders got so sick she had to have her stomach pumped because they kept telling her there was no alcohol in it and she drank a ton of it. You couldn’t really taste it.”

“I guess if there was enough sugar, you could pull that off. Maybe. I’m not a doctor, but I bet you know one you can run that by.”

“The Vicodin.” I nodded, thinking out loud some more. “Taking it with alcohol—this kind of alcohol—with a damaged liver. Could that do it?” I’d been trying for a week to figure out how someone could have given TJ an overdose of painkillers, but what if they didn’t? What if he just took one, and thought he was drinking fruit punch?

It made at least as much sense as any of my other theories, anyhow.

“Good luck,” Aaron said. “Can’t wait to read all about it. Just don’t go jumping ship for the big city if you scoop the
Post
’s guy out there.”

“They’ve been quiet for a few days. But I’m sure if I can figure it out, they can, too. I have to be faster and make sure I’m right.” I turned toward the fire truck. “Thanks, Aaron.”

I took down the particulars of the hotel damage from the fire captain on the scene and managed to get a useable quote from the least-smeary-eyed of the girls just before a line of European cars arrived to collect them.

“We just wanted it to be a night to remember,” she said. “That was the theme.”

“Where did you get the booze?” I asked, trying not to sound urgent and looking around for Charlie.

“Candy’s sister got it for us. From a friend in her dorm.”

“Where does she go to school?”

“RAU.”

I jotted that down. The last thing Richmond American University needed was more scandal. Three dead coeds in two years was quite enough. I contemplated calling the chancellor.

The girls were plucked up and ushered into cars, their parents cutting Charlie and me dirty looks. But she hadn’t interviewed any of them on camera, and I wasn’t using their names, so they’d get over it.

Back in the car, I cranked up my heater and headed for the office. It wasn’t even six yet. I could get done, grab a nap, and still meet Jenna for coffee on time.

Young love gone awry led to thousands of dollars in damage when three rooms on the fifth floor of the historic Washington Hotel went up in flames in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

“We don’t have an exact estimate on the damage yet, but there are a lot of antiques in this hotel,” Richmond Fire Captain Keith Richeleaux said at the scene. “One of the rooms was mostly gutted, and two others sustained heavy damage.”

Richmond Police Department Spokesman Aaron White said smoke damage forced the evacuation of four other rooms on the same floor.

“The structural engineers haven’t been here yet, but it doesn’t look [like there was structural damage],” White said.

I ended with the comment I’d gotten from the girl about wanting the night to be memorable. Once I’d read back through the story, I emailed it to Les, who had spent the day before acting shocked every time anyone commented on his full head of hair. I couldn’t even make fun of him, I was so glad to have Shelby back at the copy desk and out from underfoot.

No one else was crazy enough to be in the newsroom at seven on a Saturday morning, so I got up and went to get more coffee from the breakroom. Walking back with a full cup, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Spencer Jacobs stepped off the elevator.

“Shit!” I gasped as the lava-hot liquid sloshed out onto my hand, switching the cup to my left and shaking the burned one.

“I’d say I was sorry, but I’d be lying,” Spence said. “Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

I rolled my eyes. “I think the most disappointing thing about this entire week, next to the tragedy of these children losing their lives, has been finding out that you are such a selfish prick. Have you stopped for three seconds to think beyond yourself and your ridiculous outrage about not being assigned this story? Which, by the way, you probably wouldn’t write, anyway, because you don’t write that much copy. So you’ve spent this whole time giving me shit because you didn’t get to assign this story to one of your reporters? Really?”

I walked to the reception desk and set my coffee cup on the edge of it, grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and wiping my hand.

“It should have been a sports story,” he said. “You don’t know that I wouldn’t have written it. It’s the kind of story that could make a career. Land me opportunities.”

“You want to leave the
Telegraph
?” I blanched. “I had no idea.”

“No one ever asks. Just because I’m a sports guy doesn’t mean I’m not as smart as you are.”

“I don’t think anyone ever said that, either,” I said. “I sure as hell couldn’t keep up with all the numbers you guys have to.”

“Why did you take this story?” His face looked pained. “It’s the kind of break I’ve waited for for years. You have the spotlight around here all the time. Cops and courts are the meat and potatoes of news.”

“Sports keeps the paper in business.” I said. “I never knew you weren’t happy writing sports. You seem to love it.”

“I do love it. I want to do it for the AP. But I’m never going to get there with my ho-hum resume. Something like this Okerson thing could get me noticed.”

I stared at him, my own goals of working for the
Washington Post
dancing around my head and melting at least part of my annoyance. “Why didn’t you just come talk to me?” I asked. “If you hadn’t been such a jerk, we could’ve found a way to work together.”

“Because I’m capable of doing it myself,” he snapped. “Why should I have to share a story that clearly falls under my beat with you? Wait. I know, because you’re the editor’s pet.”

I bristled at that.

“If I’m the editor’s anything, it’s because I’m good at what I do. And the fact of the matter is that you have little or no experience dealing with cops, and this has become a sticky mess of a story. I appreciate that you have goals beyond this.” I waved a hand around the newsroom. “But no one’s goals are more important than the truth. Particularly when we’re talking about a murder case the local cops are ignoring.”

“Awfully convenient that the
Post
is the only other news outlet that knew about that.” He smirked.

“You told them, didn’t you?”

“I did not. I assume you did. As feet in the door go, a lead like that is great currency.”

“I would never. This story is too important to me. For a number of reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the
Post
.”

“But scooping their reporter doesn’t hurt anything. Which is why you’re hanging onto the story.”

“I’m hanging onto the story because I think I can help these people,” I said, utter conviction in my voice. “I’m disappointed that the
Post
is poking around in it because I think it might be harder for me to do that with another reporter mucking things up.” Every word true. I’d thought a lot about it, and the Okersons were more important than an “attagirl” from the
Post
. Which wouldn’t turn into anything, anyway. Unless someone retired, no newspaper was hiring. “Thankfully, the TV folks seem to have dismissed it and gone on their way. Even Charlie hasn’t been out there in a few days.”

He shook his head. “No one is that noble. If you’re right and this turns out to have been a murder, or two, even, you’ll be the big superstar again. Keep it up, and the offer you want from the
Post
will come along sooner, rather than later.”