Friday Edition, The (16 page)

“That’s right,” she said, the firmness in her voice matched his. “I tried two times to call you and Wyatt for comment, not to mention the text message I sent you seeking comment, but you guys weren’t available and it’s not like you don’t know the drill, Jonathan. You’re the department’s public information officer, for Christ’s sake. You of all people should know what to do when a reporter calls wanting comment. You know the immediacy of that kind of call. I gave you plenty of time to get back to me. It posted to the website just before I left the office tonight.”

“Couldn’t the story have waited?” he asked.

Sam felt a sense of irritation prickle at the back of her neck. “What? For someone at the
Post
to write? You think they’re going to reach out to you anymore than I did? I don’t work on your timetable, not when I have a deadline to meet.”

Jonathan turned and headed for the kitchen. “That story is going to make us look like shit.”

Sam collected her bag and followed him. “Is that my problem?”

She noticed Jonathan had started dinner. Chicken breasts were on the cutting board, along with russet potatoes and sugar-snap peas. For a fleeting moment she hoped for an invitation to stay for dinner. “Where’s April?” Sam asked.

“In her room,” Jonathan said and began to trim fat from the chicken.

She felt his coldness all around her. It made her resentful.

“You can drop the pissed-off routine,” she said, her irritation rising a little. “I’m sorry the story will be in tomorrow’s paper without your comment. But I gave you every opportunity to respond and, just to let you know, it’s not like we can’t add your comments to the article on the website.”

“Like I said, makes us look like shit.”

“Sorry, Jonathan, like I said, not my problem. And what the hell were you doing driving that car anyway?” Sam asked, her tone demanding.

He stopped cutting the chicken and glared at her. “That’s none of your goddamn business, Sam.” His tone was sharp.

“Why are you so defensive? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Don’t be a fool. I don’t have a clue how those drugs got there. But I sure as hell am going to find out. And until I do, I won’t speculate on anything for an article you want to write for that quote, unquote newspaper you work for.”

Sam remembered her conversation with Wilson and felt a sudden need to defend her newspaper. “The
Perspective
is just as important to its community as the
Denver Post
is,” she said.

She waited for a response, but he continued to cut the chicken in silence.

“I’m going to talk to April,” she said and left the kitchen.

April’s door was ajar when she reached it. Sam hesitated. The tightness in her chest was more pronounced and she waited a minute and felt slightly better. She peeked in April’s room. She was on the floor coloring. A country western song played on the portable CD player beside her.

She took a deep breath and gave a soft, hesitant knock on the door. There was no answer. Sam waited a few moments and tried again.

“Come in,” April said.

Sam pushed the door open. “Hi, sweetie, it’s me.”

“Hi, mommy,” April said, but she did not get up to hug her mother.

Sam took her place beside April and selected a crayon. “Can I color, too?” she asked.

April slid another coloring book in her mother’s direction. They colored for a time and the only sound in the room between songs came from the crayons scratching against paper. “Did you have a good birthday?” Sam asked.

April nodded.

“Daddy said you were sick Sunday and the rest of the week. Do you feel better?”

April looked at her mother. “I wasn’t sick, mommy.”

Sam nodded, feeling the tightness in her chest expand a bit at April’s revelation.

“Want to see what mommy brought you for your birthday?”

April nodded and Sam handed her the presents. “Go ahead open them,” she said, moving closer to April. As she did their knees were touching.

April opened her Denver Broncos baseball cap first. She looked at it, but registered no emotion. She set it down and began to open the other gift. April had always loved all sports and the Denver Broncos. Like Robin had been at her age, April was starting to show a knack for sports and would, like her aunt, probably excel in any one she tried.

The smile fell from Sam’s face, but she forced another one in its place. She did not want April to see her disappointment.

April kept her stoic stature as she unwrapped the football jersey. She let the box fall to the floor as she held up the jersey with Peyton Manning’s number 18 on it. “Maybe Daddy will let you wear it to school tomorrow,” Sam said.

April put it on the floor. “Daddy got me Peyton’s jersey for my birthday, too. I already wore it.”

Sam collected the jersey, feeling as if she would never again be able to gain her daughter’s love and approval, and put it back in the box. “Can I go now? Me and Daddy are gonna eat and watch somethin’ on television.”

April moved slightly and their knees were no longer touching.

“Sure, sweetie. Mommy will bring you the new jersey this weekend, all right?”

“Okay,” April said, but there was no emotion in her voice.

April got up and when she reached the door, Sam called to her.

“April, sweetie, don’t you want to wear your cap?”

Her back was to Sam, but she didn’t turn around. April considered her question.

“No, Mommy,” she said and left the room.

Sam stayed on the floor and gazed numbly at the crumbled wrapping paper then to the door. Another song started to play on the CD, the singer crooning about the hard rock bottom of the heart. Sam hit the stop button so hard that she almost knocked the CD player over. Replaying the sting of April’s rejection, her mind balked. Sam felt herself retreat deep into a bunker in her skull, much the way she often did when her father made his nightmarish visits to her room.

She felt as if she were looking at the wrapping paper through a narrow, armored slit. She forced herself to pick up the paper and roll it into a tight ball. She picked up the ball cap by the bill. She felt all of her weight and it took what strength she had to pick herself off the floor.

She set the cap gently on April’s pillow. She left the bedroom and turned out the light. As she walked down the stairs, she heard the sound of the television coming from the living room, but couldn’t tell what they were watching. She looked in the room and saw them sitting next to each other. There was no space between them and April was cuddling into him. He had stoked the fire and the room glowed with warmth, rich in the smell of wood. The chicken was simmering on the stove, potatoes in the oven. Sam forced herself to look away. The thought of stopping at the liquor store on the way to her apartment forced its way into her mind. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t, because she wanted nights at home like this with April. And going to the liquor store wasn’t going to help her have them.

She got her coat from the rack in the foyer and let herself out of the house without saying good-bye. Outside, a clear night sky spread out before her. She felt as empty as the sky was vast.

Her heels echoed on the cold concrete.

Tears fell as she walked to her Mustang.

They turned to ice against her skin.

It was 5:35 p.m. when Brady made the last rounds at Grandview City Hall with his mail cart. The Martin Luther King Jr. holiday made for a larger volume of mail and he was in the city manager’s wing making his last delivery. He approached the last office at the end of the hall and heard the muffled sounds of voices. The low voices became more pronounced as he neared the office door. Brady stopped pushing the mail cart a moment to listen, turning his head to one side. He heard two men’s voices.

One man spoke with directness. It was a sharp sound that made Brady think of barbed wire. There was something arctic about it that made him shiver. He wanted to turn the mail cart around and make the delivery in the morning. But he couldn’t. He never left a job undone. He glanced down the hallway and saw all the other offices were dark. Something kept him where he stood.

He gripped the smooth handle of his mail cart and listened intently. He began to feel hot beneath his flannel shirt. Something familiar about the man’s voice spoke to Brady. He thought it was him, but couldn’t be completely sure. This was not his usual office. And Brady did not know why he was here.

The other man spoke, apologizing for the mistake. Brady heard him say it was careless and stupid. He spoke in a buoyant voice Brady did not recognize. The other man spoke again sharply, keeping the level of his anger apparent.

“…That’s not going to cut it. How could you possibly forget those baggies under the driver’s seat? You were supposed to account for everything. Didn’t you double check what the hell you were doing?” the man growled.

“Yes, Captain, we did.”

Captain snorted. “Like hell you did. Not only did a mechanic find the drugs, but a goddamn reporter wrote a story.”

“I saw it,” the man with the light voice responded. “But how could she know?”

“How the hell do I know?” Captain replied. “We’ve got a leak somewhere. After this many years I can’t imagine this happening. Someone’s getting sloppy and Roy’s not happy.”

“Is the same thing going to happen to them like it did Robin?” the man asked.

“I don’t know, we’ll see what Roy wants to do,” Captain said.

Hearing Robin’s name almost made Brady gasp loudly, but he managed to control his outburst. His eyes widened and he leaned closer as he listened. He could feel his heart begin to beat hard in his chest.

“But that is not what concerns me now,” Captain continued. “The police department got calls from reporters at the
Post
and the TV stations, but their questions were fielded.”

“What were they told?” the man with the light voice asked.

“The drugs were downplayed. They were told the baggies accidentally had been left in the car from a previous drug bust. They were told the only thing that reporter Sam Church got right was that the cocaine had been taken to property and evidence. We’ll be able to shrug this one off, but we won’t be so lucky next time. If this carelessness happens again, you’ll share a fate much worse than Robin’s.”

“It won’t happen again,” the man assured Captain.

Brady decided to finish delivering the rest of the mail in the morning. Something was telling him to turn around and get out of there, that he couldn’t be seen or heard outside this door.

Brady stepped back slowly. His tongue protruded slightly between his lips as he pulled the mail cart slightly. He hoped desperately that the front wheels wouldn’t squeak. Slowly he pulled. One wheel turned and then another and the cart did not squeak. Brady closed his eyes and breathed a small sigh of relief. He loosened his grip slightly on the handle. Only then did he realize he had been squeezing it so hard that perspiration had oozed between his stubby fingers.

He backed slowly down the hall, putting one tennis shoe behind the other, pulling the mail cart as he went. The wheels stayed silent, but Brady continued to hold his breath. He reached the double doors that led to the main lobby. He eased the cart into the lobby and accelerated his steps toward the mailroom. He looked behind him as if he felt he was being followed. When he reached the small room, he quickly pushed the mail cart inside and locked the door. His heart was galloping like a racehorse and there were diamonds of sweat on his brow. He sat as still as he could until the fear subsided.

Brady wanted desperately to look inside the office to see who was talking. He was so sure of the voice. He had heard it countless times and had encountered him almost daily on his mail runs throughout city hall, but he did not know who the other man was.

Overhearing the conversation frightened Brady. But when Captain referred to Roy, Brady’s entire body cringed.

It was
Roy
Rogers
who gave instructions to kill Robin. That made Brady’s fear dissolve to anger. A rage began to burn, boil like the surface of the sun.

Roy Rogers could only be one person. Brady knew who that one person was.

And he had to tell someone.

Sam answered the call holding. She sounded distracted, her attention directed to the story she was trying to write.

“Sam, it’s Wyatt Gilmore. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

She immediately stopped typing and centered the receiver in front of her mouth.

“Wyatt, hi. No, now’s fine.” Her mind began to race. Had something happened to Brady? “Is everything all right?” she asked quickly.

“Sure, everything’s fine,” he replied. Wyatt cleared his throat before he began to speak. “I was wondering what your schedule looks like for Saturday morning?”

She stared at the empty space in her daytimer and tapped it with her index finger. “I have the entire day open, what did you have in mind?”

“There’s the annual airplane exhibit at the Truman County Airport this Saturday and, at breakfast this morning, Brady announced he didn’t want to go with me.”

“I thought that’s something you guys did together,” Sam said.

“Well, we did. In fact, we’ve never missed a year. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s been so distracted lately because of Robin. He said he wanted to go with you.”

Sam was caught off guard. “Me?” she said and laughed slightly.

“Could you take him?” Wyatt asked. “The show’s in the morning. I had set aside the time to take him and told him that, but he wants to go with you. It’s kind of short notice and I’ll understand if you have other plans.”

“I’d love to take him.”

“Thanks. I’d really hate for him to miss the show. He doesn’t get to do much, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. Sam noticed Wyatt sounded relieved when she accepted.

“We usually leave the house about nine. I have a parking pass you can use to avoid the long lines to park.”

“Great, I’ll be there. Maybe we could grab some lunch after the show.”

“Sam, thanks.”

When she hung up she stared at her day timer. Her Saturday was filled and she smiled. Then she noticed Saturday’s date and the smile fell from her face. A month had passed since Robin’s death. And Sam still couldn’t prove she had been murdered.

Sam could hear Nick Weeks gloating that he knew she wouldn’t come through as promised.

“Got a second?” she asked, standing in the doorway of Nick Weeks' office.

Without a greeting, Nick motioned for her to the chair next to his desk.

“I won’t have a follow-up story for Friday’s paper on the drug operation,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

Nick tossed his pencil on the desk. “This is going to get away from us,” he said, looking at her as if to say ‘doesn’t surprise me.’

She swallowed hard to keep her anger at him to a minimum. “I followed up on a few leads, but nothing panned out,” she said. “So nothing’s changed since last week. I’ll let Wilson know.”

“Will you have anything for Friday?”

“Just a small story from the city council meeting Monday. They finally approved that controversial residential development.”

“Can you cover the airplane exhibit at the airport Saturday morning?” Nick asked.

She didn’t want to tell him she was already going. She replied, “Nope, can’t do it, I’ve already got plans that I don’t want to cancel.”

Nick’s reply was unintelligible and he returned to his work without giving Sam a second glance. She left the office feeling defeated, but determined not to let him get the better of her. Wilson’s approval came more readily and she told him about Wyatt’s call.

“That’s odd,” Wilson said. “I thought Brady was angry at you.”

“He was and the change of heart is puzzling, but with everything that’s happened in this last month, I know he’s having a hard time. And I did tell Wyatt just the other day if he needed help with Brady, I’d be available. He called to take me up on it, so I couldn’t say no.”

Wilson nodded. “Keep me posted.” She nodded and left Wilson’s office.

It was 6:30 p.m. when Sam finished and was clearing off her desk. Her phone rang and she snatched it up on the first ring. “Sam Church.”

“Samantha! How are you?!”

It was the sing-song voice she recognized and detested immediately. “I’m fine,” Sam said tersely.

“Samantha, Samantha, I can feel the ice dripping off your words. Is that any way to talk to an old friend and co-worker?” W. Robert Simmons asked.

“I’d hardly call you either,” Sam said curtly. She picked up a pen and began to scribble hard on her desk calendar. There was a moment of silence on the phone before Sam spoke again. “What can I do for you, Walter?” she asked, knowing he detested his first name.

“I’m calling to compliment you on your story,” Simmons said.

She knew what he meant, but decided to play dumb. It’s what he thought she was anyway, a dumb blonde. “What’re you talking about?” she asked coolly.

“Come now, Samantha, surely you jest. The article in your little paper.”

Sam couldn’t help her smile. She knew W. Robert Simmons must have stewed all weekend over the
Perspective
scooping him on the story. Denver’s West Side had been his beat for years. He had always used the tired expression ‘I cover the West Side like the sunshine.’ It was so trite that whenever Sam heard him say it she rolled her eyes.

“How’d you get the story, if I may inquire?” Simmons asked.

“You can inquire, but it’s none of your business.”

“I suspect there’s something else going on,” he said finally. “I talked to your ex, and he said your story was full of holes. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. He tipped you, didn’t he?”

She laughed. “You’re fishing, Walter.”

Simmons grunted a reply Sam couldn’t understand, but she didn’t ask repeated.

“Whatever you say, Samantha, but I suspect there’s something more going on beneath the surface. Drugs don’t just happen to end up in a police chief’s cruiser and I intend to find out what happened and why.” Simmons waited for her to respond, but she remained silent. “Your story wasn’t bad for a drunk. I’ll give you that. But you’re a pariah, Sam, and every newspaper and television reporter in Denver knows it. You’re a hack reporter, doing a shoddy story for a weekly rag. And remember who you’re up against.”

Sam held her tongue and continued to scribble hard on her calendar. She had written his name and was now crossing through it with heavy dark lines. “Anything else, Walter?” she asked, working hard to control her temper.

“Nothing, Samantha, just remember if there’s another story out there, you’d better have your ducks in a row. If you think you’re going to scoop me on another one, you’d better think again.”

“I’ll remember, nice talking to you,” she said and hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

Despite her anger, she managed another smile. She wanted to be a fly on the newsroom wall at the
Post
the day the
Perspective
was delivered. Many
Post
employees knew of the differences between Samantha Church and W. Robert Simmons. They wouldn’t let him live down the fact she had beat him to a story on his own beat.

She detested Simmons, but had to give him credit. He was a good reporter. She knew his tenacity, his love of muckraking. If anyone could get the story, it was W. Robert Simmons. No doubt faster than she could. “Damn,” she said in disgust.

Wilson walked by at that moment. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

She looked up embarrassed that he had heard her outburst. “That was Simmons,” she said gesturing at the phone. “He saw the story.”

“Good,” Wilson said.

“It’s good and not so good. I know him,” she said. “If he smells another story, which he does, he’ll start digging and won’t stop until he finds something.”

Wilson nodded, but didn’t seem to share Sam’s concern. “We know what we’re up against.”

“Well, our only advantage is that Simmons is starting at ground zero. We still have a generous head start,” Wilson added. “Let’s keep it that way.”

“I intend to,” she said.

He studied her. She tried to sound convincing, but the worry lines on her forehead told a different story. He had to make sure she would not falter now, and keep faith that she could get the story before the dailies.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Wilson said and waited for her to collect her things.

****

Captain was in the records room at the Grandview Police Department. He was sifting through a row of files when something caught his attention. He stopped and pulled it from its place on the shelf to examine it in better light.

The business card read:
The Grandview Police Department.
Beneath the royal blue block letters was a shield. Next to it was the name,
Reynaldo Edward Estrada, police officer.
It listed numbers to call for emergency and how to reach Rey.

He studied the card through narrowed eyes, knowing he had found the little bird. He turned the card over, to see what was written on the back. He recognized the familiar script and felt his blood begin to speed through his veins. Captain checked the files around Rey’s card. He opened one file and examined it only a moment before muttering expletives under his breath. He shoved the file back in place.

He stuck the card in his wallet, turned and left the room.

Roy Rogers answered the phone on the first ring. “I need to see you right away,” Captain said.

When Captain entered Roy Roger’s office, he closed the door and threw Rey’s business card on his desk.

Roy picked up the card. “Where’d you find this?”

“In the records department,” Captain said. “It was between some files where it shouldn’t have been.”

“He’s our man,” Roy Rogers said.

Captain began to pace. “It makes sense now. Think about it. All of a sudden Sam Church shows up asking questions about drug smuggling operations and High Pointe Warehouse. The squad car comes in and the mechanic finds the drugs and Church shows up just in time to write the story. How do you think she knew all that? Robin and Rey must have been working together and of course he’d hook up with Sam Church.”

Roy twisted the business card through his fingers for a moment, silent as he thought. Then he tossed Rey’s card on his desk, sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. He looked from the card to Captain with dead eyes.

“Kill the cop, but make it look like an accident,” Roy said, there was no emotion in his voice.

“What about the reporter?” Captain asked. “She’s already had one warning.”

“Rough her up. Let her know you mean business. Between Estrada and what happens to her, she’ll damn well get the message.”

Roy leaned forward in his chair and picked up Rey’s card.

“And when you do, make sure Sam Church gets this,” he said handing the card to Captain. “That should send the message crystal clear.”

Captain nodded to confirm the instructions. He took Rey’s card and returned it to his wallet.