Devil in the Deadline Read online

  “You have time to talk?” I tapped in a text to Kyle. “On my way home. I have a new theory.”

  The deli down the street from the office made the best club sandwiches in town, and amazing twisty fresh potato chips. The scent from the bag taunted me all the way home, my stomach burbling as I turned into my driveway. To find Kyle sitting on my porch swing.

  “Evening,” he called, crossing the lawn to take my computer bag. “I got your text. You want to tell me about your theory?”

  “After I get through picking a small bone with you.”

  “Bone? I thought we had a good time yesterday.”

  “We did. Until you got me in trouble with my mom.” I unlocked the door and bent to scratch Darcy’s ears. She ignored me and pawed at the bag of food.

  “Mine, sweet girl,” I said, setting it on the counter and glancing at Kyle. “If I’d known you were coming by I might have brought you dinner. Maybe.”

  “I’m so confused.” He snagged a chip from the bag and flipped one of my little bistro chairs around, taking a seat. “I haven’t talked to your mother since Christmas.”

  “You told your mom we went to Golightly’s place yesterday,” I said.

  “She’s always on my case about needing a church family because I’m so far away from my real one,” he said. “I was trying to get myself out of trouble, not get you in it.”

  The picture of Kyle’s petite, blond momma scolding her six-three ATF agent son shattered my scowl. “They don’t get that we’re grownups, do they?” I laughed, pulling two Dr Peppers from the fridge and offering him a glass of ice.

  “Are we? I don’t feel like it most of the time.”

  “Amen to that.” Watching him from the corner of my eye, I split my sandwich onto two plates and grabbed some Fritos from the pantry. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” I smiled, setting the plates on the table. “But I’m not sharing my chips. You get store-bought.”

  “Fair enough.” He bit into the sandwich. “And sorry. Damn, this is good. Where’d you get it? And why is your mom upset?”

  “Little deli by the office.” I crunched on a chip. “Your mother called mine and told her we went to Way of Life yesterday morning. Here’s the weird part: she lost. Her. Shit. Called me bawling her eyes out and ordered me to stay away.”

  Kyle sat back, his face telling me he would’ve sooner pegged Buffalo to win the Super Bowl.

  “You have the same WTF look I did,” I said.

  “Why would she give a damn?”

  “No idea. It’s not like she’s super religious, but she’s not opposed to religion. I’m stumped.”

  “But you’re not backing off.” He didn’t bother to inflect a question mark.

  “She’s in Texas. How’s she going to know?”

  “What if you break a story out there?” he asked.

  I paused, his Captain Supercop brow furrow throwing a heavy feeling into the pit of my stomach. “You know something,” I spaced the words out, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “Let’s hear your theory first.”

  “Money laundering. How much do you figure they took in yesterday? Not counting the mail and online donations?”

  “Thirty grand?” He shrugged. “I’m guessing, but it’s an educated guess.”

  “They reported less than a million in donations on last year’s tax return. So either they’re lying and you’ve got tax evasion, or they’re not and the rest of that money isn’t theirs.” Joey’s flinch at the mention of guns bubbled back to the surface. “Or they’re buying something illegal with it. But which one?”

  “How do you know that? About the taxes?” Kyle asked, skirting my question.

  “I have connections of my own, Special Agent Miller.”

  Kyle nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich.

  “What do you have?” I asked when he swallowed.

  “Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell you. I talked to a couple of guys who are interested in that outfit.” He bobbed his head from side to side. “Nothing official. But if you insist on pursuing this, it might keep you out of trouble.” He grinned. “If you’re speaking to me and you still want my help.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re forgiven. What’ve you got?”

  “In a minute. I want to go back to this thing with your mother.”

  “Why?”

  “You said yourself, she doesn’t freak out. Can I ask you something without getting myself invited to leave?”

  “Probably.”

  “Have you thought about calling your grandmother?” His eyes softened as mine filled with tears. I blinked them away, shaking my head.

  My grandparents disowned my mom for embarrassing them by keeping me. And then tried to make up for it by paying for my Syracuse education, no strings. I’d taken them up on the last part—I sent a thank you note, but I hadn’t tried to contact them beyond that. I wondered if that was the right choice so often, the letter with their phone number was taped together and worn to tissue. I could recite it in my sleep.

  “About seven million times.” The words strangled around the lump in my throat.

  “This week?”

  “No.” I shook my head, dropping my chin to my chest. “I can’t do it. I always chicken out.”

  “I think you might have found a reason to face your fear, Nicey. Something’s not right about this. I don’t need detective experience to tell you that.” Kyle’s face was somber when I looked up. “You want me to sit with you?”

  My lips tipped up. “Thanks, but no. I’ll think about it. I want to talk to my mom again. Now will you tell me?” I crossed my legs at the knee and bounced one foot.

  “I kind of like this knowing something you don’t know thing.” He grinned, popping the last bite of sandwich in his mouth.

  I offered my sternest glare.

  He swallowed, leaning his elbows on the table. “We are off the record?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The house isn’t bugged.”

  “Just have to ask.”

  “Of course,” I said, my fingers working a thick lock of my hair into a knot. “So?”

  “We’ve been tracking a weapons ring through twelve states for two years.”

  “Guns.” I stuffed my mouth full of sandwich to keep from saying anything else. Of course Joey knew what was going on. Damn damn damn. “What does the church have to do with a weapons ring?”

  “My buddy is pretty sure you’re right about money being laundered through Way of Life. And maybe more than that. He said a few of the other guys have the place on watch lists, but he didn’t want to let me in on someone else’s case without permission.”

  All that money. It was the perfect cover for anyone looking to clean up massive amounts of cash. And not a casino or a garage, which are typically associated with the criminal underworld. Who would think to look behind Golightly’s perfect hair and rows of Stepford Bible students?

  Kyle’s friend, evidently. “But knowing it and proving it are two different things,” I said.

  “Indeed. Especially with someone so well-connected. They’ve got quite a legal firewall over there.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “We’re not sure of anything. Reasonably convinced it’s someone in his outfit? Absolutely. But can I tell you who, or if the good reverend knows anything about it? It’s a big place. A lot of employees. And we can’t get close enough to find out.”

  “I don’t exactly need a warrant.” I half-smiled.

  “What you need is a gun of your own.” Kyle’s voice dropped and he leaned across the table and grabbed my hand. “Listen to me, Nicey. These are not people you want to fuck with. The mob is in this up to their necks.”

  I squeezed Kyle’s hand and fixed him with my most capable stare. “I can’t walk away.” And I couldn’t even tell him the whole reason why.

  “I suppose I knew that when I came over.”

  “Then why talk to me?”

  He shook his
head. “The phrase ‘too damned smart for your own good’ mean anything to you? You would have gotten it anyway.” He balled up his napkin and drained his soda glass. “I didn’t want you stumbling into the middle of this without knowing what you were getting into. You want to make a conscious choice to dig around? I might not approve, but I can’t stop you. I couldn’t live with the idea that you might happen in and get hurt, when I knew how dangerous it was the whole time. So here I sit.”

  “That which doesn’t kill us makes us superstars, right?”

  “I think you took some poetic license.” He smiled, folding his arms across his chest and not-so-subtly flexing a bicep.

  I met his eyes to find the blue lasers half-lidded, underlined by a grin that made my palms break out in a sweat. Oh, boy. “Thank you.” It came out a touch too bright as I scrambled to my feet and moved toward the door. “Really. It looks like I have more research to do.”

  He shook his head almost imperceptibly and stood, smoothing the creases out of his khakis. “I’m around if you need me,” he said as he stepped out the door.

  I kissed his stubbly cheek and promised to do my best to avoid getting dead. Leaning against my side of the door after I shut it on the deep indigo gloaming outside, I considered the five million nine hundred ninety eight thousand ninety four questions clamoring for my attention. Following the money was a good strategy. As long as there was a trail.

  Large glass of Moscato in hand, I snapped up my laptop and padded to the living room, propping myself on the couch.

  I didn’t know a huge lot about money laundering or the illegal weapons trade, but if that’s what the ATF thought Golightly was into, I’d learn.

  The sketches of Jasmine flashed up on my screen when I opened my web browser. We’d run them every day for a week, and they’d spread through the wires to TV stations and newspapers all over the east coast. Still nothing. Why?

  Elise’s voice floated through my thoughts. “All Jesus, all the time.”

  Of course. If no one at Way of Life was allowed to watch TV or see the paper, how could anyone ID her? One more tick in the “Way of Life is shady” column. Which was getting longer by the day—and the PD hadn’t released anything beyond basics about the second victim yet. I made a note to call Aaron about that first thing and flipped my thoughts back to Golightly, money, and guns.

  Joey’s face flashed on the backs of my eyelids and my stomach tightened.

  Illegal arms trafficking puts weapons in the hands of murderers every day. How many people had died already? How many more would before Kyle could get a warrant?

  Whoever was behind this—Golightly, Wolterhall, Jenny of the disdainful glare, the whole damned lot of them—was going down.

  No matter who they were in cahoots with.

  Or how good he might be in bed.

  I clicked into the Google bar on my screen.

  Information is a reporter’s best friend.

  17.

  Confessions

  Aaron’s blue eyes sported weekend-getaway sized bags when he stepped onto the dock where his boat was tethered at five-forty-five on Wednesday.

  “Trouble sleeping, detective?” I asked from my perch on a bench in the corner.

  I’d spent two days mired in a mess of court cases, phone calls, and copywriting. And being avoided by the only cops I really wanted to talk to. Which I did not appreciate.

  I filed my fourth story of the day at a quarter to five and headed out into a perfect June afternoon, too frustrated with the lack of time to dig around my biggest story to enjoy seeing the sun. Larry was still working on Wolterhall’s photo, and the Internet hadn’t coughed up anything new on Way of Life—though it was helpful in explaining the finer points of how to launder money.

  As far as I knew, both murder victims were still unidentified.

  Add all that to Aaron’s sudden scarcity, and my tolerance well was tapped out.

  As such, I’d lost my ability to care if I annoyed my generally-favorite police officer. Turnabout’s fair play.

  Halfway home, I turned for the freeway and drove south to the marina where Aaron kept his boat on the Appomattox River. I knew he liked to fish when wrestling a tough case, and the evening was perfect for it. Clear, warm, and not a hint of a breeze.

  He didn’t even look surprised to see me.

  “You want a Coke?” he asked. “I don’t feel much like beer today.”

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “No.” He waved me aboard the Alyssa Lynne, named for his daughters.

  “You’re not playing fair, Aaron,” I said.

  “I really am sorry.” He disappeared into the belly of the boat and returned with two cans.

  I opened mine and sat on the bench opposite the captain’s chair. Aaron started the engine.

  “This whole thing stinks, Nichelle.”

  His words, his haggard appearance, and Girl Friday’s Monday post clicked puzzle pieces into place.

  “Who are they arresting, Aaron?”

  “Her friend.” He sounded somewhere between beaten and disgusted.

  “The boyfriend? Or the jealous chick?” Crap. Maybe I was farther off than I thought. Someone who knew her—but the obvious choice, not the crazy mystery one? I wondered if Charlie had anything yet.

  “The one who called it in.”

  No. My eyes fell shut. “But he didn’t do it.” I didn’t bother with a question.

  Aaron just shook his head, his eyes on the open river.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I asked.

  “There was something in the autopsy report we didn’t tell you,” he said. “We didn’t tell anyone.”

  “You going to tell me now?”

  “She’d been pregnant, but she’d never delivered a baby,” he said. “The coroner found significant injury to her uterus.”

  “A miscarriage?”

  “Nope. Poorly executed abortion.”

  Holy crap.

  “Like, coat hanger poorly executed, or backwoods doctor poorly executed?”

  “Who knows? I don’t even know if there’s a way to tell. Just another piece of this freaky puzzle.”

  “When?”

  “A year or so ago, based on scarring.”

  So right before she turned up on the streets of Richmond. Which meant it wasn’t Flyboy’s kid. “Anything else?”

  “The damage was easy to spot, seeing as how the killer removed the organ for us.”

  I flinched. It didn’t take a leap to get that Golightly’s congregation probably wasn’t the most pro-choice bunch of folks. Her family might not be, either—that could explain why she’d been on the streets.

  Picasso’s voice pinged around my thoughts, followed by Kyle’s. Family.

  Church family.

  Maybe my gut hadn’t failed me.

  Aaron eased the throttle forward, and I shifted mental gears. “I went back three times and looked for her friends this week,” I said. True: I wanted to return the journals. I kept photocopies of several pages, but didn’t want to break my promise. “You won’t find him.”

  “We already did,” he said. “Landers picked him up at the scene an hour ago. He was drawing it. In horrifying detail, considering it’s been cleaned up.”

  “There’s no way he did this, Aaron. I’d stake my shoe closet on it.”

  He nodded. “I know that. You know that. But the public doesn’t know that. And with this blog drawing attention to the gorier aspects of the case, the brass wants you to splash an arrest across the front page. Settle people down. Stop every wacko in the city from calling in confessing. They say it’ll give the guy a place to sleep.”

  “In jail? They’re not seriously convincing themselves they’re doing him a favor.”

  “They’re sending him to psych. For as long as a court order will keep him there.”

  Deep breath. “If they want me to ‘splash it across the front page,’ why have you been giving me the brush-off for two days?”

  “They w
anted him in custody before we announced an arrest.” He sighed. “I may not agree with their method. But they’re doing it anyway, and I like my job. So there it is. You showing up here saved me a phone call.”

  Whatever, I guess. “On the subject of things you’re keeping to yourself, do you have an official ID yet?”

  He shook his head. “It’s the weirdest damned thing I’ve ever seen. Every media outlet in three states is running the sketches on a loop. We get a dozen nutjobs a day, but nothing we can work with.”

  I nodded, spearing a chunk of something that looked like one of Darcy’s treats onto my hook and casting it. My feet itched to run the fifty miles to Way of Life and broadcast the sketches on their in-house TV.

  Time to come clean. I sighed.

  “Aaron, I have a hunch.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and spilled my guts for a good fifteen minutes. Journals, doodles, Golightly, money, weird cultish Bible school.

  “She was out there,” I finished. “I’m sure of it. I just haven’t found her real name, or why she ended up here. I think I’ll take the sketches with me and see what they turn up.”

  “A TV preacher, huh?”

  “They have lawyers coming out their ears,” I said.

  He nodded. “The simplest thing would be to grab Landers, ride out to have a talk with the local law enforcement, and go question a few folks. But say you are onto something. If we go flashing badges, how fast do you figure any evidence of the victim will disappear? Especially if someone there had something to do with her death?”

  He turned the crank on the fishing rod and pulled his line back a little, his face lost in a storm of thought as he stared over the water. “And if they’re as lawyer-happy as you say, interrogations won’t get me anywhere.”

  “You could drive out and pop into the service on Sunday.” I grinned. “I might’ve done that last weekend.”

  He nodded. “I’ll talk to Landers and see if he wants to ride along.”

  “Blend in,” I said. “They don’t seem to like outsiders much.”

  “Noted.”

  I paused. “Anything on the other murder?”

  “Waiting for the dental. Forensics is paranoid after the clusterfuck with the first one, and the state police have them elbow-deep in some cemetery relocation business this week.”