The Friday Edition (A Samantha Church Mystery) Page 18

  “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 out loud, 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 not what concerns me now,” Captain continued. “The police department got calls from reporters at the dailies 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 lead to the main lobby. Luckily, he had propped one of the doors open. He was glad he would not have to open it now.

  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.

  Thirty-one

  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.

  “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 stiffly. 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 expression ‘I cover the West Side like a blanket.’ 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 do that,” 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 and 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.

  Thirty-two

  Sam arrived at the Wyatt Gilmore residence ten minutes before nine Saturday morning. Brady was sitting on the couch waiting when she rang the doorbell.

  The weather had cooperated. It was an unseasonably warm day, though typical for Colorado in winter. They left the house within minutes and spent the next four hours at the exhibit. It had been a long time since Sam saw Brady look so happy.

  They were in the Mustang now waiting to leave the airport. Sam kept her eye on the traffic and Brady kept his attention fixed on the sky.

  “I was gonna be a pilot like that once,” he said.

  He was still staring at the sky when Sam looked at him.

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. “I know, Brady. I remember.”

  “Me and Robin were gonna get married and have lots of kids.”

  Sam smiled, but his words pierced her heart.

  “Yes, I remember. Robin wanted that, too, very much.”

  “Wanna see a picture?” Brady asked, going for his wallet.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Sam knew the photo well. He had shown her countless times.

  “Here,” he said.

  It was a picture of Brady and Robin the day of their high school graduation, the day of the boating accident. They were standing together on a dock at the Boulder Reservoir. The sun was shining brightly on them and their young lives. They were wearing swimsuits and had their hands resting on their hips
. Brady looked like an Olympic swimmer, tall and trim. His dark hair was cropped closely to his head in the dated photo. His confidant, sweeping smile spoke of a bright future full of promise.

  Sam handed the photo back to Brady.

  “Robin looked so pretty in that picture,” he said, studying the photo a moment before he carefully returned it to his wallet.

  For a long time neither spoke. They watched the last of the cars leave the airport grounds as single-engine airplanes took off and landed on the distant runways.

  “Wanna know somethin’ cool about this airport?” Brady asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the runway.

  “Sure,” Sam said. When she turned to look at him she had to use her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  Sam nodded and Brady took that as her permission and he began to spew facts about Truman County Airport as if he was an encyclopedia.

  “This airport has two 8,000-foot runways with pilot-activated lighting. They just finished building that last runway in September,” he said, pointing in the direction of the new runway.

  Sam looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that a pilot can land at the airport anytime he wants even at night,” he replied, following an airplane with his eyes as it touched down and taxied toward a hangar.

  Brady’s comment stirred something in Sam that made her draw a breath involuntarily. It spoke volumes to her and thoughts skittered through her mind like dead leaves on a porch.

  “How do you know that, Brady?”

  “The airport manager told me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Brady shrugged his shoulders and looked at Sam. “Gary something.”

  Sam nodded and decided she’d have a conversation with “Gary something.”

  They didn’t speak again until Sam parked her Mustang outside Brady’s home.

  “Thanks for letting me take you to the show today,” she said. “I enjoyed being with you very much, Brady, it was fun.”

  When he looked at her, she smiled. Sam waited until Brady was in the house before she pulled away from the curb. She recalled what he said about the runways with the pilot-activated lighting. She would return to the airport hoping Gary something would be working. She had some questions to ask that could not wait until Monday.