The Friday Edition (A Samantha Church Mystery) Page 17

  On the other end of the phone Wilson smiled at her determination.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon,” he said. She heard the click in her ear.

  Sam jumped out of bed, showered quickly and fed Morrison. She was in the office by eight o’clock and subject to Nick Weeks’ usual ridicule.

  “On time the past two weeks, Samantha, I am impressed,” he said.

  “I’ll have a story for Friday’s paper, and Wilson will want to play it out front,” she said, letting his comment slide off her.

  There was a firm directness in her voice, something authoritarian about the way she felt, and it surprised her. Nick stewed where he stood. She envisioned wisps of black smoke coming out his ears and had to stifle a laugh. She knew he didn’t like her and why. It had always bothered her. Until now.

  She thought of the ribbons Robin had won at field day and smiled. As she did something within her changed. Nick Weeks could never say another thing that could bother her. She would stand taller and no longer cower in his presence. She was just as good a reporter as any with the Perspective. There was a time when she was better. It would take time to return to that level, but she would.

  “Yeah, out front. Wilson will fill you in. Excuse me, I have a story to write.”

  Sam squared her shoulders and pushed her way past him toward her desk. When she reached it, her heart was beating as if she had run her own 100-yard dash.

  It was early afternoon when Wilson arrived at the Perspective. Nick was at the front desk sorting mail.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said when Wilson had reached the desk.

  “I had to go to a meeting,” Wilson said.

  “What kind of meeting?” Nick asked.

  Wilson had busied himself sifting through mail and didn’t answer the query. When it was apparent that Wilson had no intention of sharing with Nick, he changed subjects.

  “Sam says she’s got a hot story you know all about?”

  Wilson nodded when Nick looked at him.

  “Are you going to let her write it?” Nick asked.

  “I am. Come on, we need to talk about it.”

  Wilson turned and headed down the stairs and Nick Weeks followed. When they reached the newsroom, they saw Sam typing at her computer. She looked up at Wilson when she heard her name. He motioned her to his office. She didn’t bother to exchange glances with Nick when she entered Wilson’s office.

  Wilson smiled and greeted Sam and said, “What have you got so far?”

  “You can call it up on your screen, Wilson. The story is slugged drugs.”

  Wilson motioned for Nick to close the door.

  They stood behind Wilson as he called her story up on his terminal. Each scanned the headline:

  Drugs Found in Police Chief’s Cruiser

  Nick looked from Sam to Wilson. “Is this what you two have been discussing behind closed doors?”

  “Part of it,” Wilson said, keeping his eyes fixed on the computer monitor. “We’ll fill you in as soon we look through Sam’s story.”

  Their attention returned to the story:

  “A Grandview city mechanic made an unexpected discovery late Wednesday while working on a police vehicle.

  Five bags of a substance believed to be cocaine were found under the driver’s seat of the sedan, a Chevrolet Caprice, which is registered to Grandview Police Chief Wyatt Gilmore.

  The city’s service shop mechanic found about 17.5 grams of the suspected powder that sources close to the investigation said was cocaine. The mechanic was working on the sedan when he made the discovery.

  A street value for the drugs was not immediately known.

  The neatly packaged bags had been stuffed under the driver’s seat, according to the source. The substance was discovered late Wednesday after the vehicle was sent to the shop for repairs.

  Gilmore could not be reached for comment Thursday, but sources said the police chief had not driven the vehicle for at least the past two weeks.

  The source said Grandview Police Comdr. Jonathan Church had been driving the car. Church was also unavailable for comment Thursday.

  The drugs were taken to the police department’s property and evidence vault, where they will be destroyed …”

  When they finished, Wilson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his index finger over his lips.

  “Good story so far, Sam,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said, modestly receiving his praise.

  Nick Weeks agreed, surprising Sam when he concurred with Wilson.

  “How do you want to play it, Wilson?” Nick asked.

  Wilson thought a moment, giving them time to settle in the chairs facing his desk. He looked at them over his reading glasses.

  “Once this story is out, the dailies will be on it,” Wilson said.

  Sam’s rival at the Post came to her mind. She spoke up quickly. “The last thing I want is for W. Robert Simmons to get the rest of the story before I do. I can’t let that happen”

  “We don’t either, Sam,” Wilson said. “When your story comes out tomorrow we’ve got to be ready to go with the rest by next Friday.”

  Wilson tossed his reading glasses on the desk and his gaze drifted from Nick to Sam, settling on her. “Can you do it?”

  A sudden tightness in her chest constricted her breathing. She closed her eyes. She wanted to make a fist and center it between her breasts and apply force, but she wouldn’t do it in front of Nick. He would see it as another sign of weakness.

  “Sam, are you all right?” Wilson asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Nick rolled his eyes.

  “No offense, Sam,” Nick said looking from her to Wilson, “But she’s not the right reporter for the story. The police department isn’t her beat. David Best has been working this beat since he started here. It should be his story. He’s got sources the Post and News don’t have.”

  Wilson shook his head. “If it hadn’t been for Sam, there wouldn’t be a story. She started with it and she’ll finish.”

  Wilson stared at Sam intently.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. The tightness had been replaced by anger at Nick Weeks.

  Offense taken, you bastard.

  Sam straightened herself in the chair and said, “I’m fine. You’ll have the story by next Friday, Wilson.”

  Wilson smiled and nodded at Sam, then directed his attention to Nick.

  “Put it on the Web site first and play it up big for the paper. Play the story above the fold on the top right-hand corner of the front page of the paper.”

  Nick Weeks nodded. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Wilson said.

  Nick left without comment. When they were alone, Sam looked at Wilson.

  “He hates me,” she said flatly.

  “Don’t worry about what he thinks, Sam. Just do what you have to do.”

  Sam nodded as she smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the fabric of her slacks.

  “Sam.”

  She looked up into his eyes. They were full of regard for her. She sensed his concern and made a small laugh.

  “I know what you’re thinking Wilson, so ask.”

  “How long has it been since your last drink?”

  “It’s no record of time by any means,” she said solemnly. “But I haven’t touched a drop since the night at Tim’s Place.”

  “A little over a week.”

  Sam nodded, feeling a sense of satisfaction, however small.

  “I want to see you succeed in this, Sam,” Wilson said. “I want to help you in any way I can. The offer still stands. Any time you need help, and I mean it. Including getting threatening text messages in the middle of the night.”

  Sam smiled and felt a small sense of relief that someone cared. She studied Wilson’s face. The level of his regard remained.

  “I’ll find out everything that Robin knew. I don’t give a damn how many threats I get.”

  By 5:30 p.m. Sam h
ad filed the rest of her story. She waited and watched over Nick’s shoulder as he formatted the story for the Web. “This should get their attention,” he said, as he posted the story to the newspaper’s website.

  Sam gathered the rest of her things and left the office. The tightness in her chest since the meeting in Wilson’s office had persisted. She knew why it was there. She was preparing herself for the coming evening. Her sense of triumph with her story had faded as she stood on Jonathan’s doorstep ringing the bell to a place where she had once lived. He answered the door. They eyed each other as she stood in the small circle of wan light cast by the porch light.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, feeling the cold night air swirling around her ankles.

  He stood to one side allowing her to enter. He had already built a fire and she could smell the inviting, safe scent of burning wood.

  Jonathan’s abruptness made that feeling vanish. They were in the foyer when Jonathan said without preamble, “I understand from your message today that there’s going to be a story in tomorrow’s paper.”

  She set the bag that held April’s birthday presents beside her on the floor and removed her coat. She took note that she hung it on the coat rack reserved for guests and sadness seeped through her.

  “That’s right,” she said, the firmness in her voice matched his. “I tried to call you and Wyatt for comment, but you guys weren’t available and it’s not like you don’t know the drill, Jonathan. I gave you plenty of time to get back to me. It posted to the Web 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? I don’t work on your timetable.”

  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.”

  “You could have waited,” he said coldly.

  “It doesn’t work that way, Jonathan. I called you both before 9 a.m. That gave you almost six hours to return my call for comment. Neither of you did, so the story went to press saying you were unavailable for comment.”

  “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’s 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 paper 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 to its,” 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.

  “Maybe daddy will let you wear it to school tomorrow,” Sam said.

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

  Sam collected the jersey with the number seven on it, 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 Dad 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 livingroom, 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. Jonathan had stoked the fire and the room glowed with w
armth, rich in the smell of wood. The chicken was simmering on the stove. Sam forced herself to look away. 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.

  Thirty

  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 to deliver on Tuesday 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?”