Devil in the Deadline Read online

  I turned into the parking garage at the office and checked the clock. Almost five. Which meant it was after lunch in California. Maybe the sweet woman at the paper there had found the photo I needed.

  I rushed off the elevator and almost walked into Eunice. She stepped to one side and laughed. “Breaking news?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Have anything to do with your secret admirer?”

  “Um. No?” I scrunched my brow into an explain-please look.

  She smiled. “Go see. You got a present.”

  Huh?

  She shuffled onto the elevator and waved as the door closed. I whirled for my cube, stopping short when I turned the corner.

  A large crystal vase barely contained what looked like too many dozen red roses to count. I could smell them from ten feet away, and the arrangement covered most of my desk. I dropped my bag, my face stretching into a goofy grin, and reached for the card.

  “We will indeed figure something out,” it read. I flopped into my chair and kicked off with one foot, spinning and rereading the words several times.

  Day. Made.

  Tucking the little white rectangle into my top drawer, I fished my BlackBerry out of my bag and punched the speed dial.

  “Hello, beautiful.” On the first ring, too. I clamped my lips down on a squeal.

  “Hello yourself. I’ll tell you what’s beautiful—these flowers. They have brightened this crazy Monday considerably. Thank you.”

  “Always happy to make your days better.” Joey chuckled.

  I sat back in the chair and sighed, butterflies flapping around my middle. “I wish you could have stayed, you know.” I dropped my voice a full octave.

  “Me, too. You get any work done?”

  “I think I might have found something interesting, but it’s too soon to tell for sure,” I said. “I’m waiting for a photo.”

  “You’re also being careful, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cross my heart. I still didn’t give them my real name when I went by Way of Life today.”

  “Went by? Like it’s not fifty miles out of the way?”

  “I met a girl who goes to the Bible school.” I breezed past his accusatory tone. “And a teacher, too. Got some interesting stuff.”

  “When can I see you again?” he switched the subject smoothly, an urgency in his voice that set those butterflies in motion again.

  “Do you have plans for the weekend?” I asked.

  “Sounds like I do now. If I have to wait that long.”

  Holy. Crap.

  “Might save you some driving to bring a bag with you.” My voice shook on the last word.

  “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

  “I think I’m inviting you.” My very own audacity cocktail: one part lack of sleep and two parts frustration, shaken well and served over Joey’s warm voice. I felt positively brazen.

  “You think?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll see you Friday. Don’t get shot before then.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He hung up.

  I dropped the phone, staring at the roses. What was I getting myself into? It wasn’t like I could settle down and raise a pack of little Armani addicts with great hair and chiseled jawlines.

  Could I?

  I shook off the fantasy and lifted the flowers to the shelf above my desk before I flipped my laptop open and clicked into my email.

  Fifty-eight new messages. One from my prosecutor friend DonnaJo, three from other lawyers, and one from California were all I cared about.

  I held my breath as I clicked the line for “[email protected].”

  Dear Nichelle,

  So lovely to talk to you this morning. I wish you the best of luck with your story and your career. The only photo I was able to locate of Edwin Wolterhall was this shot taken as he left the courthouse. It’s a profile, but I hope it helps you.

  All best,

  Dina

  I pulled the image up on the screen. Oh, jeez. A digital shot of an old newspaper page. A yellowed black and white page, at that. I could sort of see the lines of the guy’s face, but not really. “Of course,” I mumbled, my shoulders slumping.

  “Of course what? Please tell me our blogger friend isn’t back at it,” Bob’s voice came from behind me. I smacked the laptop shut and spun my chair to face him.

  “Just another dead end, chief,” I said. “They seem to like me.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Your track record is hard to argue with.”

  “I didn’t have Girl Friday to chase after last time around this track,” I said.

  “I keep hoping the PD will figure that out.”

  “So does the PD.” I grinned. “Here’s an interesting twist for you: Shelby bought me a latte this morning and begged me to let her help. She says she doesn’t care for me, but she loves the paper.”

  He raised one bushy white brow. “We’re sure it’s not her? Not that you’d mind if I fired her, but she’s the best copy chief in three states. I don’t like the idea of having to replace her. It’d take at least two newbies, and Andrews will bitch about the money.”

  I laughed. “While that would be an excessively clever cover, I don’t think so. You said she had an alibi, right? And I can’t see Shelby crawling around that switch house taking video of gore. Not her thing.”

  Bob nodded. “You’re right about that. I never thought I’d see the day you and Shelby teamed up. But have at it. You have anything else for me tonight? I’m thinking of going home if you’re done. Metro is finished, barring something breaking.”

  “I have a couple of emails I haven’t read. Give me five minutes and I’ll let you know.”

  He glanced at the flowers and offered a softer smile. “Those are nice.”

  I nodded, unable to keep the grin off my face. “He’s nice.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He wouldn’t be glad to hear any more of it, wearing his Pa Ingalls face. The memory of his horrified gasp the last time we’d discussed Joey was fresh even a year later. I turned back to my computer.

  “You work too much,” Bob said. “Don’t you know it’s after five?”

  “Funny how the news doesn’t care about clocks.” I didn’t turn around. “And I don’t see you going home yet.”

  His chuckle drifted in the direction of his office.

  My thoughts back on Wolterhall, I shot quick replies to a few emails and copied the grainy photograph onto a flash drive before I went hunting for our photo editor. I found Larry in the break room, leaning against the orange laminate countertop while the aging Mr. Coffee burbled.

  “Just the man I need to see tonight.” I grinned, grabbing my cup from the cabinet.

  He tipped the Richmond Generals ball cap I’d never seen him without and smiled, the lines in his face deepening. “You only want me for my brains. But helping you is always interesting. Is it this blog everyone’s trying to not talk about? I’m not much good for tracing online, but I might have had a peek or two at her photos and video. Just for grins.”

  “Actually, not what I was going to ask.” I laughed. “But let’s come back to it. I have a picture that’s not really discernible.” I pulled the flash drive from my pocket. “I’m hoping there’s some magical enhancer thingy that can help me make out this guy’s face.”

  He took the drive and turned it over in his thick, callused fingers. Larry had started taking pictures for the Telegraph as a real-life Jimmy Olsen, freelancing with his Canon on the weekends from the time he was fourteen. In almost fifty years since, he’d stayed on top of photo technology better than a lot of guys half his age.

  “Who are we trying to ID?” He winked. “Anyone I should watch for around dark corners?”

  “I’d rather not say what I’m trying to find just yet.”

  “So, Bob told you to stay out of it.” Larry nodded.

  I laughed. “Something like that.”

  He turn
ed for the photo cave. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Twenty minutes of magnifying and filter application later, Larry leaned his bulk back in his chair and sighed. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he looked up at me. “You’re lucky I like you. You can be a pain in the ass.”

  “You love a challenge,” I said.

  “True. But this is more of one than I have time for at five-thirty on Monday. When do you have to know something?”

  “The sooner the better, but whenever you have time to get to it, of course.” I managed to keep the frustration from bleeding into my voice. It was sweet of Larry to help, and no one’s fault the photo quality sucked.

  “Good luck,” he called when I spun for the door.

  “Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.”

  16.

  Deductions

  Journalism in the age of the Internet 103: the answer to almost anything can be found online. But only if you know where to look. And the guy you’re stalking isn’t crafty enough to cover his cyber-tracks.

  Golightly had filled in his so well it had the opposite of his intended effect—the Swiss-cheese history had me way more convinced he was shady than I would’ve been if I’d turned up an arrest record. When I hit a third dead end on the reverend, I focused on Wolterhall. Was Way of Life’s accountant really an almost-convicted armed sex criminal?

  Another search engine and fifteen dollars to a private records service got me one teensy tidbit: he was born in Montecito, California in March of 1970.

  Google Maps said Montecito was twelve miles from Redway.

  I noted that as promising and closed my laptop at six-thirty. My back and neck popped loud enough to make me flinch when I stretched my arms over my head.

  “Long Monday?” Mel’s voice came from the other side of the cube wall.

  “You can say that again.” I stood, peering over. She smiled up at me and pushed her hair out of her face.

  “Hey, that’s happier than you’ve looked in a while,” I said.

  She nodded. “Grant and I talked for—God, hours. About everything. Then we did other stuff for hours.” The grin threatened to crack her face open.

  I laughed in spite of the TMI factor. Her giddiness was infectious. “I’m very happy for you two.”

  “I owe you big time,” she said. “Funny how words are my life, but I didn’t want to talk to the man I love about important shit, isn’t it?”

  My left eyebrow shot up. “The man you what?”

  Her grin softened to a serious, non-fangirly smile. “I do. He’s perfect. Well. As close to perfect as I’ve ever seen. Thank you, Nicey.”

  Aw. I stood up straighter. Having a hand in making someone as happy as Mel looked was pretty cool. “Anytime, doll.”

  “Anything I can do for you? I can’t afford those shoes you wear, but if you need dirt on City Hall, I’m your girl. No holds barred.”

  I chuckled. “City Hall would be easier to crack than what I need dirt on right now,” I said.

  “Try me.”

  “I’m not—” I paused. “Wait. Didn’t you tell me once your college roommate works in DC?” I left the question deliberately vague, crossing my fingers.

  “She’s a case investigator at the IRS,” Melanie said. “Something about the look on your face tells me you remembered that, too.”

  “Guilty. I was going for subtle.”

  “Not your strong suit. What’s up?”

  “How close are you?” The collection plates filing into the inner chambers at Way of Life and Elise’s dismissive snort when I’d mentioned the prayer meeting collided in my thoughts and I sagged against the wall. They were counting money. All day on Monday. I’d bet my prized newsprint Louboutins they were hiding some of it, too.

  “She’s like the sister I never had.” Mel put a hand on the phone. “You’re off the record?”

  I nodded. “I won’t get her in trouble. But part of what I’m looking for isn’t covered by Freedom of Information.”

  “Of course not. Why would it be easy?” She snatched the handset up and dialed. “S’ok. This way I feel like I’m helping.”

  She rattled off a quick introduction to her friend Amy, who sounded sweetly guarded when Mel handed me the phone as Parker walked up and asked if she was ready to leave.

  Melanie gestured to her chair and handed me a pen, winking and waving as she kissed Parker and they headed for the elevator. I looked around the newsroom. Section and copy editors discussing space and material. They didn’t give a flying flip what I was doing. I scooched down in the seat and lowered my voice anyway.

  “I need to know what Reverend Simon Golightly and Way of Life Ministries report as income to the IRS,” I said, figuring someone who crunched numbers for a living would deal best with straightforward. “I know the church records are public, but I’d rather not wait the six weeks. And I’d like his personal information, too.”

  “Spell the last name,” she said. I obliged. Clicking of computer keys ensued, followed by a low whistle.

  “Not your garden-variety struggling man of God, is he?” she asked.

  “Nope.” The plastic edges of the pen bit into my fingers.

  “There’s a ton of stuff here,” she said. “Last year, the church reported two point three million dollars in other business income, and nine hundred seventy six thousand and change in donations.”

  I scribbled the amounts. “And the reverend?”

  “Just shy of six hundred grand in income. Plus housing. That’s another two hundred thousand. Nontaxable.” She read me the exact amounts, and I jotted them down.

  “Anything flagged in his tax returns?” I asked, wondering if my big break was about to turn into a dead end. It was a lot of money. But I knew that already. And it sounded like he was reporting it all to the government. Dammit.

  “Not flagged for an audit,” she said. “But there are several returns linked here, which means someone is watching for signs of fraud.”

  “What’s linked?”

  “His wife reported three hundred thousand in income from the church and speaking engagements last year,” she said. “They file separately, which keeps their income from being classified as uncommon for churches of that size.”

  “Huh?”

  “If a pastor makes significantly more money than most of his peers at similar-size churches, he loses his tax exemptions.” More clicking. “These folks have been very careful to skirt that. Meticulous, even. I don’t think my tax law profs could have put this return together better.”

  I jotted that down, Golightly’s army of lawyers making more sense with every word.

  She was quiet for a minute. “Hang on.” Still more clicking. “Clever dude. Or clever accountant,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “There’s a crapton of money coming in from book and video sales,” she said. “But it’s coming into an LLC that’s a subsidiary of the church.” Click clickety click. “And going to a charity that looks like it supports the church’s Bible college.”

  “I’m afraid my tax law knowledge begins and ends with the ten-forty EZ,” I said.

  She giggled. “You and ninety-five percent of the population. The only people who care about tax law work in this building, or have a lot of money they want to keep. This Golightly dude is the latter.

  “So, when a pastor writes a sermon, he does so in the course of his employment for the church,” she continued. “Just like you write stories for the newspaper.”

  Light bulb. “The church owns his sermons.”

  “Exactly. And if he wants to sell them as a book…”

  “The church gets the royalty money.”

  “In theory. Ministers often don’t understand that, and have a tendency to get upset if a lawyer points it out. This guy gets it. Really gets it. Not only does it appear, at least on paper, that he’s not profiting from the book sales, but the church is putting the cash into a nonprofit ministry.”

  “No taxes?”

  “N
o taxes.”

  “How much money?”

  “Last year? Three point four million dollars. Their students must be eating lobster and steak every night and driving to class in Ferraris. Sign me up.”

  I scribbled that down, the drab uniforms and pretty-but-not-fancy dorm dancing around my thoughts. “Huh. Thank you, Amy.”

  “No one knows where you got this?”

  “Not a peep, I swear.”

  “Then you’re welcome. Anything else?”

  “You don’t happen to see anything illegal that would make a great headline?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I see why Mel likes you. Not dancing on my screen, but your guy is interesting reading. I’ll take him home with me and let Mel know if I find anything.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up, staring at the numbers. She’d as good as said the guy was shady. But being crafty with a tax form and cutting up young women aren’t exactly the same thing.

  I shoved every note I had on Jasmine or Golightly into my bag and turned for the elevator. Leaning on the rail across the back wall, I let my thoughts wander. Halfway to the garage, I bolted straight up.

  Nine hundred thousand. Golightly reported nine hundred thousand in donations to Way of Life.

  No way all those trays full of cash times fifty-two weeks was less than a million dollars.

  Secret Monday meetings. Behind closed doors.

  A gruesome story I’d done about a tanning salon owner’s murder—and the drug money he was laundering—floated to the surface of my thoughts as I charged through the elevator doors toward my car. Businesses that deal in large amounts of cash are perfect for cleaning dirty money, because the intake is almost impossible to spot.

  And Joey had a “friend” who’d seen me the day before. A friend who could ID Kyle on sight.

  Was it the kind of friend who needed millions of dollars laundered?

  That sounded like a big “maybe.” And maybe was better than a dead end.

  My inner Lois said the money was the key to what was going on at Way of Life. I turned out of the garage and fished my BlackBerry out of my bag.