10 Lethal Black Dress (19 page)

“Zanna? Nowhere in particular. She’s a pinch hitter, been
there a couple of years trying to get a toehold.”

“I haven’t noticed her on TV much.”

“She gets on-camera occasionally. You know, filling in for
reporters on vacation.”

“She was friends with Courtney?”

“Yup. Courtney’s little puppy dog. Zanna wants a TV career
bad.”

“What are her chances at that career?”

“Please. Many are called, but few are chosen. Everybody in
broadcast wants a shot at being on air. And on-air talent would kill for a shot
at being an anchor. Lifetime gig, if you do it right. Once they get their feet
behind that desk, that’s where they die, man. If they can age gracefully
enough. Zanna? She’s lucky to get the occasional on-air story. She dreams of
being an investigative reporter. ”

“Why not? She’s very pretty.”

“Pretty, but she shrinks in the lens. I don’t know how to
explain it. She becomes forgettable. Cold. She has a small mouth and a small
head, that’s part of it.” He shook his head and took a moment to swallow some
coffee. “She can work her butt off behind the scenes, but she doesn’t have what
it takes to be on air. I don’t know if you can quantify the magic it takes, the
presence, the whatever, but you can see it in someone or you can’t. Courtney
had it. Zanna doesn’t. She bores the camera.”

Lacey digested this. It echoed something Zephron said. “How’s
she been since the funeral?”

“Quiet. Everyone’s been quiet. The ghost of Courtney haunts
us all.” Eric slurped his macchiato. “Listen, I bet you don’t know this.
Courtney and Zanna and I all lived in the same big group house right after
college, six years ago. Went our separate ways after that, and then we all
wound up back together at Channel One.”

“That’s curious.”

“Well, maybe not so odd. We all went to U of Maryland to
study broadcast. Knew each other in school. Reconnected in D.C. after the cap
and gowns bit. We were all going make it big in the Nation’s Capital, man.” He
laughed again. “We fell into these rigid little roles in that house. Like a
sitcom or something. Strange times.”

“Courtney was the queen?” Lacey was sure of that. She looked
like a prom queen.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Queen bee of the hive. She was always
leaving messes and I was always cleaning them up. Literally, I mean. That woman
wouldn’t be able to tell you what a vacuum does. Except make her run away like
a cat.”

“So she’s the queen, you’re the sidekick and all-around
fixer. And Zanna, what was her role? The jester? The puppy dog?”

Eric mused for a moment before answering. “She wanted to be
queen too. Same ambition, but not the same talent. She was prettier than
Courtney, or she certainly thought so. But not as smart, not as magnetic. Zanna
had this strange conception of herself.”

“An example?”

Eric stared into the distance. “I keep thinking of this one
thing. All that time ago, Courtney was sort of invited to an exclusive cocktail
party once with some major D.C. celebrity journalists. You know the type, old
dudes like Bob Woodward. Watergate. All that. Courtney knew one of the
organizers, so she had an in. No big deal for me, not being invited. I didn’t
need to hear that old gasbag pontificate.”

“Who does? The man interviews dead sources!
I mean,
allegedly.”

“ ‘Graveyard Bob,’ they call him. Zanna wasn’t invited
either. The minute Courtney walked out the door, dressed to kill, Zanna had a
fit, a total crying jag, about how it should have been her. How she was the one
who cared about Washington politics, not Courtney. How she, Zanna, was just as
qualified. More qualified. She was prettier, she was smarter, she was going to
be a Major Investigative Reporter, with capital letters, and Courtney was
nothing but a face. On and on. I never saw anything like it. Crying and
screaming, totally out of control. Zanna and I, we were friends at school, we
were housemates, but I didn’t know what to do. I tried to talk her down. All
that drama for not being invited? She was acting like Woodward and Bernstein
broke her heart or something. She didn’t even
know
the old dude.
Apparently he was her hero and maybe this was her one and only chance to, like,
kiss his phony investigative feet. Go figure.”

“Sounds really embarrassing. For both of you.” Especially for
a guy like Eric, who seemed so easy-going and good-natured.

“I was mortified. For her, for me, for everyone.”

“She probably was too. Afterwards.”

“No idea. I finally left. Slammed the door. Went to some
movie. When I got back, she was still at it, her ‘I’m the best, why can’t I get
noticed’ tirade. By then she was drunk. Made a pass at me before she passed
out.” He blinked a couple times. “I moved out pretty quick after that. I didn’t
want to get caught between the two of them in whatever psychodrama was going
on.”

“Cinderella goes to the ball and Cinderella’s forgotten step-sister
has a meltdown,” Lacey offered.

“Never thought about it like that, but you’re right.” He
checked the café as if making sure Zanna wasn’t around. “I used to think maybe
Zanna had a thing for Courtney, romantically, you know. But I’m not sure that
was it. I think it was just—”

“She wanted what Courtney had,” Lacey said. “What Courtney was.
Her career, her clothes, her men, her looks?”

“Right. Because she deserved them.” Eric’s phone rang. He
answered it. “Showtime! The new Queen commands. Long live the new Queen. Gotta
go.”

“I appreciate you talking to me.”

“No problem. This was fun. We should do it again. Next time
I’ll buy. Don’t wear any poison dresses.”

Eric shouldered his gear, saluted her, and left.

CHAPTER 24

Back at the office, Johnson
ratcheted
up the hostilities. It was war.

Lacey didn’t know it until Mac marched to her desk and told
her to pull up the editing queue on her computer screen. Mac pointed to her
latest story. After calling Granville briefly to clear the few comments that he
made on the record, she had written a brief update to his reaction to
Courtney’s death, and the aftermath of her story on him.

“This doesn’t make any sense. None,” Mac said. “Did you write
this glop?”

Impossible. What glop?

She read the story that carried her byline. The Granville
story was full of mistakes. It was garbled. Lines were missing, others were
turned inside out. Names were swapped and misspelled. Crucial words like “not”
had been deleted. It was full of idiotic sentences she never would have
written. She felt ill. She glanced up to see Johnson peeking around the corner,
looking smug. As the substitute political editor, Johnson had access to the
editing queue. Lacey suspected Johnson didn’t know that she knew that.

“This is not what I wrote, Mac.”

“It’s not?”

“Barely a word of this is mine. Maybe the words ‘and’ and
‘the.’ ” She marched over to where Johnson lurked. “You changed my story! You
colossal jerk!”

He shrugged. He didn’t deny it, nor did he admit it. He
merely looked victorious. “Why would I bother? You write crap. Just look at it.
And you’re milking this story to death.”

“Mac. Take a look at this.” She pulled up her original draft
on her screen to show her editor. Some reporters routinely deleted their old
drafts after filing. Lacey never did. “He messed up my lede. He put in false
information. And he misspelled Thaddeus and Granville. He deleted lines, he
added things that make no sense at all. Look for yourself. This is what I
wrote. I’ll send you a fresh copy.” She faced Johnson. “You’re sabotaging me
and you know it.”

“I’m trying to improve you. Maybe someday you’ll learn to
write a good story.”

If I had fangs, I would rip your throat out.

“You are pathetic. You are slime. And you couldn’t write your
way out of the
Federal Register
.” He flinched. Other reporters stopped
typing, deciding the floor show was more interesting than their stories. Mac
stared at Lacey’s screen. He grunted. His eyebrows knit together in storm-cloud
formation. Thunder and lightning were in the forecast.

“Smithsonian, resend your original story. Johnson, you and I
are going to have a chat. Right now. My office. Move.”

Johnson blanched and followed Mac meekly, while Lacey refiled
her story.

She was so angry she was sure she was glowing red-hot.
How
could he think he would get away with that stunt?
Peter Johnson was
becoming more than a pain, he was an enemy. He wanted her to look like a fool,
and he was reckless enough to try something that stupid. He was trying to
undermine her work, her confidence, her reputation. She had apparently
committed the sin of turning the media social event of the year into her
personal scoop. The sin of being a better reporter than Peter Johnson.

As if that would be hard to do.
Johnson was a hack,
hanging on by sheer seniority in a possibly terminal industry. Sooner or later,
he was going to find himself out in the cold.

“Mac ought to just fire his bony ass.” LaToya had walked into
the middle of the action and watched it all like a hawk.

“Dream on.” Lacey was so angry her hands were shaking.

“Listen, girlfriend, it’s not you, it’s him. He’s about to
snap. If it wasn’t you showing him up, he’d be after someone else. I just hope
we don’t find him up on the roof one day with an AK-47.”

“You’re serious? I’ve worried about the very same thing.
You’re saying it’s not just me?”

“Goes way deeper than you. You’re just the red flag. You’re
the match to his deadwood. And that book thing you and Mac and Tony got going
on, that’s got to sting Johnson’s sorry butt.”

“
Terror at Timberline
, or whatever it’s going to be
called?” Lacey had been worried about that, since the night of the Correspondents’
Dinner. Any mention of the book-to-be made Johnson turn purple with suppressed
rage.

“Exactly. Johnson’s been blowing smoke for years that he’s
working on a book.”

“Him? What kind of book?”

“Who knows? Something boring. Something political. Or—” She
lowered her voice. “Maybe even poetry. He’s mouthed off about that. Can you
imagine the dreck he’d write?”

“Poetry?” Lacey made a face. “That figures.”

LaToya shook with laughter. “Yeah, poetry about Herodotus.”

“Rhymes with hippopotamus.” Lacey shook her head, trying to
force the thought out of her brain. “Herodotus the hippopotamus?” Nope, it was
stuck there now. It was viral. “If only he would trotamus. Oh, the very
thoughtamus!”

“I mean, have you ever read his stories? Herodotus the
Hippopotamus would be so much better. But then Mac comes up with this book idea
and it’s really happening, at lightning speed, and guess who’s right at the
center of it? Why, Lacey Smithsonian. Again. One thing about Johnson, he talks
all political correctness, he’s Mister Liberal Social Consciousness. All peace,
love, and brotherhood. But he is not about sisterhood. He can’t stand it when
one of the
women
, especially one Lacey Smithsonian, bests him at his own
gig.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Broadway Lamont.”

“Probably because we’re soul mates. Detective Lamont just
doesn’t know it yet. Here’s the deal, Lacey. You keep me in the loop about
Broadway, I’ll watch your back with that lunatic, Peter Johnson. And my
fingernails are longer and sharper than yours, girlfriend.”

“Deal,” Lacey said. “There’s a lot to be said for being
fierce.”

“Pinky swear,” LaToya demanded, raising one perfectly
manicured pinky. Lacey raised hers and they linked them in that ancient
playground oath.

Lacey’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
LaToya strutted off and Lacey answered.

“Hello, Lacey. This is Veronica? From Killer Stash? You left
me your card?”

“Hi, Veronica, what’s up? Did you think of something else?”

“Not exactly. I was reading
The Eye
today and I
realized you’re not the only one looking into the dress. I thought you should
know you got some copycats on your trail.”

“Really? Who?”

“Don’t know, but after you left the other day, like maybe
half an hour, a couple people came in asking about the Madame X dress. Course I
didn’t tell them anything.”

“Can you describe them?”

“Not really. They were, I don’t know, boring looking. Like,
in suits.”

“Like cops?”

“Nah. Not that boring. Like, I don’t know, good looking but nondescript,
kind of? Not from Baltimore, that’s for sure. But they wanted to know what you
knew about Courtney Wallace.”

“Men or women?”

“One of each.”

“Like reporters?”

“Yeah, maybe. But they didn’t seem that smart. And you were
here first and I respect that.”

“Do you think it was someone from the
National Enquirer
?”
Lacey had seen their stringer at Courtney’s service. The guy could have a female
partner.

“That would be so cool! Don’t know. But I’ll be watching the
stand at the grocery for sure, now. Just thought you should know.” Lacey
thanked her and Veronica hung up.

Lacey knew it was possible someone was simply on the same investigative
track she was, trying to fill in the blanks in the story about Courtney after
her funeral. Or could it be a coincidence? She didn’t know what to make of this
news flash, but she didn’t like the other possibility: Someone had followed her
to Baltimore.

#

“Have a seat.”

Before she could leave for her next destination, Mac called
Lacey into his office. Both of his extra chairs were filled with papers,
reports, and stacks of old
Eye Street Observers.
She moved the smaller
stack from one chair to the other, dusted the chair with her hand, and sat
down.

“What’s up, Mac?”

He coughed and cleared his throat. “This thing with Johnson—”

“I don’t know what it is with him,” Lacey interrupted. “He
sees me and he goes berserk.” She noticed her front-page story on the cause of
Courtney’s death was on Mac’s desk. It looked as if it had been crumpled and
then straightened out. She suspected it was the paper Johnson had crushed it
into a ball, and Mac had restored it.

“I know, I know.” Mac nodded. “His last stunt is a firing
offense. But I can’t summarily fire him. Much as I’d like to. Nobody plants a
false story or sabotages a colleague at this paper. That includes Johnson.
However— ”

Here it comes
. “The Newspaper Guild contract?”

“The Newspaper Guild contract. I have to go through the
proper channels.”

Her heart sank. That could take forever. “But what about
Johnson?”

“He’s taking a ten-day leave. At my
suggestion
.” That
meant it was an order. “Starting immediately. He needs a rest.”

“A rest? He needs a padded cell.”

“We’ll be discussing matters with the Guild. Claudia agrees
with me. I just thought you should know.”

“Who’s going to cover his beat?”

“There’s Kelly Kavanaugh.”

“Heaven help us.” Lacey could just picture Kelly storming the
Hill in her shabby khakis, with her overabundance of enthusiasm and deficit of reporting
ability. “On the other hand, she can’t be worse than Johnson.”

“You might want to tell her how reporters are expected to
dress on the Hill.”

Lacey knew talking to Kavanaugh about clothes was like
talking to a puppy, but the Capitol Hill press galleries had certain dress requirements.
No shorts, no flip-flops, and definitely no jeans. Jackets, dresses, or suits were
expected, and no bare sundresses without a jacket or sweater.

“Yeah, that ought to be fun. Maybe I should take her shopping
too. At Goodwill.”

Mac smiled for the first time since the Johnson incident.