Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) Page 10

  I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

  He stared at me for a second and then patted my arm. “It’s not your fault. And we will find her. The good thing about this place being out here is that we’re not near a freeway or in a shitty neighborhood like a lot of nursing homes. That’s part of the reason they specialize in the care of Alzheimer’s patients. K-9 says the dog has a scent. It’ll be okay.”

  I tried to smile as I nodded. Stories can have unforeseen consequences. It was a lousy byproduct of reporting. And Billings wasn’t allowed to leave his neighborhood, so he couldn’t even come help look for her. Given my suspicion that he hadn’t actually killed anyone, that seemed particularly craptastic.

  “So, what did you make of Billings?” Aaron asked.

  “How come Grayson’s security system didn’t trip up the intruder?” I countered. “Possibly because it wasn’t the cat burglar?”

  “Off the record?”

  I pretended to consider that for a few seconds. Normally, off the record on a breaking and entering case wouldn’t help much. But he didn’t need to know I wanted information on Grayson for another reason.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Possibly,” he said. “A couple of things were unusual about this particular break-in. But we don’t know anything for sure yet, and I’ll lose my ass for talking about it right now.”

  “We can’t have that. You wouldn’t do well sitting on your boat with no ass,” I said, my brain spinning through the reasons I could imagine someone would break into Grayson’s house. Billings came to mind first because of Joey’s comments, but he’d been in jail that night.

  What if it was Watergate? And did that make it Trudy’s story or mine?

  Aaron’s radio beeped and he stepped away to talk to the officers in the field. My thoughts wandered back to Grayson. I pulled out my Blackberry and tapped my browser open, searching for information on the new tax law I’d talked to Kyle about the night before. Between what he’d said and Joey’s ominous warning, I wondered if Joey and his friends were the bad guys Kyle was looking for. I also wondered exactly what the new Virginia law was poised to do to tobacco sales.

  “Bingo,” I whispered when the results flashed up on my screen.

  I was no marketing genius, but given the information in front of me, I’d say the tobacco companies had to be pretty desperate to keep the federal tax from going up. In five states (including this one with the new state tax), the proposed doubling of the federal rates—from forty-seven cents to a dollar a pack—would have people spending $3.50 a pack just on taxes. In this economy, that would price a lot of people out of smoking.

  And Grayson was the chairman of the committee holding up the federal bill.

  It wasn’t a leap to think folks had paid him to stop the bill. It wasn’t even a long jump. But I had no proof. And no real idea who killed Amesworth, either.

  I looked back inside the grand foyer of the nursing home where Billings’s mother spent her days. Marble floors gleamed under elaborate crystal chandeliers that were probably worth more than my car. Whoever said money was the root of all evil was pretty smart.

  So, the million-dollar question was: what did Grayson need more money for? If I could find that, it might give me enough to take the story to Bob. I considered my gambling theory. How could I find out if Grayson was a lousy poker player?

  A hand on my elbow broke my concentration.

  “They found her,” Aaron said. “Dressed in her Sunday best, complete with hat and gloves, plodding through the pasture. On her way to the courthouse, she said. But she’s fine. All’s well that ends well.”

  I smiled at him, relieved. When I turned for the doors to the building, a round little man with a bad comb-over and a navy suit was taking questions on the front steps. I joined a small huddle of reporters that included Charlie, the still-relatively-new girl from Channel Ten whose name I couldn’t remember to save my life, and Erica from the local talk radio station.

  I pocketed my Blackberry and dug out my notebook and pen again, jotting down his answers to the standard questions about security, the age of the patient, and the frequency of such incidents.

  “Does Mrs. Lansing have family in the area?” Charlie asked.

  I looked up.

  “Her son,” administrator Harvey Butters said, pulling at his collar. “He couldn’t be here this morning.”

  “But he was notified?” Charlie asked, perking up. I cringed slightly, knowing she’d picked up a scent. I’d hoped no one else would connect the dots, since Billings and his mother didn’t share a last name.

  “We called him, of course,” Butters said. “He’s very concerned, and was happy to hear his mother was safe.”

  Charlie let it go, but made a beeline for Butters when he was finished, asking, I was sure, for a way to get in touch with Mrs. Lansing’s next of kin.

  He waved his hands helplessly as he talked, gesturing to the newspaper on the front doormat. Charlie shot me a glance and picked up the paper after Butters hurried inside. I watched as Charlie read, a small smile playing around my lips. She looked up and offered a nod. I waved, calling a goodbye to Aaron and checking my watch. I still had time to get to the gym if I hurried. And then I had a story to write and some answers to find.

  The early body combat class on Saturdays was more advanced than my weekday class, but since I’d missed two during the week, I figured a little extra burn was in order. Particularly after the two (okay, five) of Eunice’s white chocolate macadamia cookies I’d smuggled out of the break room on Monday afternoon.

  With faster music, quicker punches, more jumps, and a new hooked side kick the perky brunette instructor called a “cheerio chagi” in an unmistakable lowcountry drawl, I felt about as graceful as a grizzly in stilettos.

  The insecurity bred like bunnies on pheromones, until the footwork that had earned me a spot as one of the best in my regular class was a distant memory. I stumbled sideways into the mirror twice, threw the wrong kick, ap-chagi’ed the girl in front of me, and came close to falling too many times to count. I also worked up a sweat that would do a football player running August two-a-days in Texas proud. How much of that was exertion and how much was embarrassment was a tough call, though.

  By the time I shoved my gym bag into the back of my little red SUV, Grayson and his reason for needing extra income had pulled my attention from my Three Stooges imitation.

  I stopped at my house to shower and toss on a quick face. Then I pulled on some jeans and a turtleneck, jammed my not-so-dainty feet into a pair of pink Manolos, and grabbed a pack of strawberry Pop Tarts out of my tiny pantry on my way to the office.

  I stepped out of the elevator, rolling my eyes when Shelby Taylor came out of the hallway that led to the managing editor’s office. Her fling with Les had been nothing but a pain in my ass since it began.

  “Nichelle!” She grinned and folded her arms over her ample chest, which did not go with her tiny everything else. Shelby reminded me of a pixie Barbie with black hair. But jealousy had no hand in why I disliked her. She gave me plenty of reasons that had nothing to do with her appearance. Like the Splenda that coated every word she spoke to me, for instance. Shelby didn’t know how to make a comment that didn’t have razor edges. “Trying to get a jump on Charlie by sneaking in on a Saturday? She thumped you pretty good on the burglary yesterday. Did your scanner break?”

  “My scanner was working fine yesterday, and this morning, when it tipped me to a missing person call at five-thirty. You really ought to be careful what you wish for, Shelby. I don’t think my hours would be good for your boinking the boss. But good morning to you, too. Nice to see you’re as sweet and sincere as ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a story to write. You remember what that’s like, don’t you?” I imitated her fake smile.

  “I remember doing it better than you have l
ately.” Shelby sneered, turning toward the copy desk. “Keep losing to Charlie, and I won’t even need Les.”

  She sashayed off before I could say anything else, and I hurried to my cube, fuming and more determined to find out what the hell was going on with Grayson.

  Today’s deadline first, though. I flipped my computer open, digging in my bag for my notes from the nursing home. The woman’s identity was definitely the most important thing about the story, given that her son had been arrested for murder less than forty-eight hours before.

  I checked my notes and started typing.

  Richmond police found an Alzheimer’s patient who wandered away from Jefferson Meadows Assisted Living before dawn Saturday in less than an hour, returning Elizabeth Lansing to her home without incident.

  Lansing’s son, James Billings, was arrested Friday in connection with the murder of Henrico attorney Daniel Amesworth, twenty-nine. Officials said when Mrs. Lansing learned of her son’s situation, she was determined to see him, even if it meant going on foot.

  “They don’t know how she slipped past the staff,” Det. Aaron White, RPD public information officer, said at the scene.

  Harvey Butters, the chief administrator at Jefferson Meadows, said Mrs. Lansing was unharmed and resting in her room by sunup Saturday.

  I read back through the story twice before I sent it to Les, sure he’d find something to complain about anyway. And if he didn’t, Shelby would.

  “Can’t please everyone,” I mumbled, trying to channel my mom’s bubbly self-confidence as I clicked my web browser open.

  I didn’t even have time to figure out what I was looking for before Les emailed me back.

  “It’d be nice if I hadn’t seen every word of this on Channel Four twenty minutes ago. Charlie’s up by two in two days. Don’t worry about the typos. Shelby will catch them.”

  “At least he’s consistent,” I muttered, turning my thoughts back to Grayson.

  Before I could type Grayson’s name into Google again, I had an idea. I checked the files I’d saved on him already and dialed my prosecutor girlfriend’s cell number.

  “It’s Saturday,” DonnaJo said when she answered. “I have fuzzy pink flowered pajamas, coffee, and a new mystery novel. Unless you want a coffee book club meeting, I’m not talking to you.”

  “I wish,” I said. “I’m at the office. Your Saturday sounds much more relaxing. One quick question?”

  “Go home, Nichelle. The bad guys will still be there Monday.”

  “I will. I just need to ask you something first,” I said, clicking my pen and fanning my notebook to an empty page.

  She sighed. “What?”

  “Do you know anyone who knows Ted Grayson?”

  “Not anyone who can get him to talk to you about that break-in at his house.”

  Perfect.

  “Damn.” I tried to sound convincingly disappointed. “What about someone who can get me some background on his political opposition?”

  “Can’t your D.C. reporter get you that?”

  “She’s not here today.” It came out a little too quickly.

  “Uh-huh.” DonnaJo was quiet for a minute. “I have an old friend who served in the House of Delegates with Grayson. He used to be a prosecutor. I’ll give you his number, but leave me out of this. Ted Grayson has a lot of friends, and if you’re nosing around, I don’t want to be caught in the fallout.”

  “Got it.” I smiled as I jotted the guy’s name and number down. “Thanks, doll. Enjoy your book.”

  I dialed the number I’d just written down. Leon Casey picked up on the second ring.

  “I’m working on a story about Senator Ted Grayson,” I said in my most earnest tone after I introduced myself. “I ran across your name in my research. You’re a former colleague?”

  “You could say that,” Casey said, his voice so smooth I expected honey to drip from the receiver. “Ted and I go way back. But I’m not in the loop about this election, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “I’m just trying to find general background information,” I said. “Do you have time to answer a couple of questions?”

  “If I can,” he said. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

  I asked about how they knew each other (school, and then the state house) Casey’s career (prosecutor, politician, now private attorney handling mostly family cases in a poor part of town) and Grayson’s family (married, one son studying computer science at William and Mary) before I got to the restaurant smoking bill.

  “That was some fancy footwork on Ted’s part.” Casey laughed. “Can you imagine? He announced he was going after tobacco in Virginia and I thought he’d just sunk his political career.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure you weren’t alone.”

  “That’s for sure. The whole capitol building was in an uproar. Ted even got death threats. They had to hire bodyguards,” Casey said. “It was crazy. But he was determined, and he’s a charmer. He talked people whose great-grandaddies used to farm tobacco into voting for that bill. You ever heard the saying ‘he could sell ice to eskimos?’ Ted Grayson could sell heroin to Nancy Reagan.”

  My hand flew across the page, not missing a word. Something I’d seen online tapped at the back of my brain.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Casey,” I said. “I have one last question: what’s your favorite non-work memory of the Senator? Is there a house of delegates guys’ night?”

  The question was vague to avoid raising suspicion, but I crossed my fingers under the desk. Boys’ night and poker games go together like coffee and cream.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Casey said. “We didn’t know each other well in school, but we had some mutual friends. We did play cards occasionally. Just friendly games, but Ted was pretty good. He has that way about him. You can’t even be mad at him when he’s taking your money.”

  I wouldn’t bet on that. Maybe Casey couldn’t, but plenty of people could. Maybe mad enough to make the senator desperate. I thanked Casey for his time.

  I pulled up the Internet research I’d done on Grayson and scrolled through the voting lists on the tobacco-related bills again. Opening a new window, I went back to the story about the committee trouble with the cigarette tax bill.

  Three other senators were listed as swing votes in the Post’s article on the tax. They were all on Grayson’s committee. And they had all voted in favor of the tobacco industry on bills Grayson had skipped out on.

  Charming and popular.

  “He’s very charismatic,” Allison had said.

  “Are they paying him to deliver votes?” I mused, tapping a pen on the desk. “He skips out to escape questions about why his record has flipped, and then he gets the other guys to vote the way he wants them to on the bill?”

  I shook my head at the screen. Maybe, but I needed solid proof.

  Before I could figure out how to go about getting that, the phone rang. Who knew I was here on Saturday morning? I was tempted to let it go, but I have a mental block that renders me unable to ignore a ringing phone. I raised it to my ear.

  “Crime desk, this is Clarke,” I said.

  “Remember how you went poking around in our body dump site the other night?” Aaron.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You still haven’t told me why Officer Charming felt the need to tattle on me.”

  “Officer Charming?”

  “Oops. Was that out loud? Sorry,” I said. “He was…less than thrilled to see me. Didn’t even thank me for pointing out that paper scrap.”

  “Well, consider yourself thanked,” Aaron said. “The report says the lab results were forwarded to the ATF, and it doesn’t say what the paper is, except that it’s not any ordinary kind of paper. I don’t know how our recovery guys missed it, but if you hadn’t seen it, it would s
till be out there in the dirt.”

  “I think this is the first time in history that a cop has called a reporter to thank them for being nosy,” I said, scribbling his comment fast.

  “Thought the heads up was the least I could do, since you found the thing. You scratch my back, and all that,” Aaron said. “It’s been added to the report, so it’ll be fair game in the morning, but if you can do anything with a half-day lead, you got it.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Have fun. I’m going fishing. Right now, before anything else can require my attention.”

  “Have a drink for me.” I clicked off the call and dialed Kyle’s cell number, hoping he wasn’t still a fan of sleeping in on Saturday mornings.

  “Miller,” he said, not sounding like I’d woken him.

  “So, what kind of paper was that I found at the Amesworth body recovery site?” I asked.

  “Good morning to you, too, old friend,” he stressed the last word. “Have a nice walk with your new friend last night?”

  All right. I held my tongue to keep from firing back a smartass retort.

  I needed him to tell me something no one else at the ATF would be willing to share, so I couldn’t afford to piss him off. I had a feeling a bruised ego and a touch of hurt feelings were behind the sarcasm I was hearing, so I tried to soften the blow.

  “You were awfully territorial for a guy I haven’t heard from in a decade,” I said. “You know you’ll always have a special place in my heart, Kyle. But we’re different people than we were then. Slow, remember? Can’t we be friends? See where it goes?”

  “Who was that guy?” He sounded less tense.

  “A friend.” That I’m not telling you anything else about. “And I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Every word true, even if there were a few I’d carefully omitted.

  “What do you mean, ‘paper you found?’ ” He sighed, a more conversational, if guarded, tone replacing the injured one.