Front Page Fatality Read online

  Wow, that was a long way of saying a fat lot of nothing. I scribbled anyway. I was long-since fluent in cop doubletalk, and figured it would serve me well if I ever made it to covering politics.

  “So you’ve stepped up police presence on Southside?”

  “Yes. The number of uniformed officers on the streets of that particular neighborhood has been doubled and will stay that way until this is resolved. We don’t want our residents living in fear.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t much, but I had two dead guys killed with the same gun. Not exactly Son of Sam, but worthy of a little space.

  “Anything else?” Jerry asked.

  I finished my notes and asked for the report, looking for contact information for the victim’s next of kin.

  “Thanks for your time, guys,” I said as I stood up. “Aaron, you’ll call me if anything comes up?”

  He nodded. “Always a pleasure, Nichelle. Have a good weekend.”

  Not even my favorite CD could get the dead drug dealers out of my head on the way back to the office. I wondered if the victims knew each other as I sat at a red light, my mind attempting to order the jumble of information by creating a puzzle. A lot of the pieces were blank, though. Two drug dealers, living in the same part of town. It wasn’t such a stretch. I reached for my phone, but before I could hit the speed dial for the PD, the startling effect of the beeping horn behind me sent my Blackberry clattering into the fissure between my seat and the console.

  Gunning it through the green light I hadn’t noticed, I managed to worm my hand through the narrow space to retrieve the phone just as I parked in the office garage, where there was never a signal. I rushed to my cubicle, drummed my fingers on the desk through the hold music, and blurted my question at Aaron as soon as he picked up.

  He chuckled. “Nichelle, have you ever thought about a career in law enforcement? Jerry’s on his way out there now to look for family members and neighbors, trying to figure out if they might have been friends—or enemies.”

  I laughed, and not just at the idea of the police uniform shoes. “I don’t particularly care for people shooting at me.”

  He promised to call if Jerry managed to find anything interesting and reminded me about our deal.

  “Oh, I won’t forget,” I said. “Just don’t go getting amnesia when it’s time for you to make good, okay?”

  “I have a mind like a steel trap.”

  I killed the line momentarily, my laughter fading as I dialed the number on the report for Darryl’s mother. I hated bothering people who just lost a loved one. It was the only thing about my job that felt like a burden. I let it ring a dozen times, sighing with equal parts relief and disappointment when I didn’t even get a machine.

  Turning to the computer, I started typing.

  Richmond detectives are investigating the shooting death of a second convicted drug dealer in three weeks on the Southside, stepping up patrols in the area until an arrest is made.

  “The number of uniformed officers on the streets of that particular neighborhood has been doubled and will stay that way until this is resolved,” RPD Detective Jerry Davis said Friday. “We don’t want our residents living in fear.”

  The latest victim, Darryl Lee Wright, Jr., was found early Friday morning in his home in the 2900 block of Decatur Street.

  Wright, 25, was released from Cold Springs Penitentiary 18 months ago after being convicted of possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute in 2009. Ballistics analysis found that Wright was shot with the same gun as Noah Leon Smith, who was found dead in his home last month.

  I sketched out the few details I could and mentioned Wright’s family wasn’t immediately available for comment. Reading back through it twenty minutes later, I sighed. It would only amount to about an eighth of a page after they added a headline, but it was all I had. I pushed the key to send it to Bob for approval and went hunting for caffeine.

  Wrinkling my nose, I strolled into the break room in the back corner of our floor. Proximity to the darkroom made the air in the narrow space perpetually reek of chemicals, even in the age of digital photography. Too many years of the smell seeping into the walls, I guessed. The old darkroom had become the photographers’ cave, outfitted with computers and high-definition monitors for photo editing. They didn’t seem to mind the smell.

  I stared at the soda machine, debating between diet and not, then decided to save the sugar consumption for margarita mix. A third of the bottle was gone in one gulp. I was too thirsty to notice the artificial-sweetener aftertaste.

  “Any more dead people pop up in your day?” Grant Parker’s voice caught me by surprise and I inhaled part of my second mouthful of soda. Dropping the bottle on the orange laminate next to the sink, I grabbed the edge of the countertop for support while I tried to clear my lungs.

  “Are you okay?” Parker stepped forward into my line of sight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I nodded as I coughed up the last of the soda, tears streaming down my face. I took a deep, hitching breath.

  “I didn’t assume you did,” I croaked. “I just have the one corpse today. How about you? That column represent your A game, Mr. Baseball?”

  “My A game, yes. That woman is amazing. I hope I did her justice. Your A game is probably in a whole different league, though. I’ve been reading your stuff on Barbie and Ken all week, and it was good. Really good. No matter what Shelby says. She’s just bitter. She’s been after the crime desk since the first time she set foot in this building.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis and flashed me the million-dollar grin.

  I wiped my cheeks one last time and faced him, vaguely remembering a couple of the sports guys bantering about Parker banging a brunette from copy a while back.

  “Well, thank you. And I know. About Shelby, I mean. It took me forever to figure out what she had up her ass when I first came here, but I finally caught on. I’ve read some of her stuff in the archives. Her writing is solid. Given a chance, she might be good at this—if she could handle the crap and jump through the hoops. But I’d like for her to keep those skills at the copy desk for now.” I tapped the bottle on the countertop and smiled. “Keeps me on my A game.”

  He nodded. “So, just the one dead guy? Is he an interesting dead guy, at least?”

  “Yeah, there’s something,” I said, deciding to skirt the details of the deal I’d made with Aaron just in case Parker and Shelby still had a thing going. It didn’t really sound like it, but better safe than sorry. “I’m not exactly sure how interesting it is, but I can do a little digging.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed as he listened to a synopsis of what I had on the presses that night, which anyone could have pulled off the server and read.

  “So all the drugs and money were still in the house?” He laughed, but it wasn’t the relaxed sound I’d heard in the meeting that morning. There was an edge to it I couldn’t place. “That sounds kinda suspicious to me, but what do I know?”

  “How many RBIs did Jeter have last season?” I grinned, pushing the subject away from my story. I wasn’t in the habit of sharing the down-and-dirty of what I was working on before I finished an article. People talk, sometimes to the wrong person, even when they don’t mean any harm.

  “Hey, speaking of Jeter, do you like baseball? The Yankees are in town tonight.” Parker’s once-pitching-hero status and blinding grin had landed him the cushy star sports columnist gig, and though it didn’t require evening hours, he still loved baseball and chose to spend his summer nights at the stadium covering the city’s big league team. Bob, not surprisingly, didn’t object. “Want to hang out at the ballpark with me and a bunch of over-opinionated sports guys?”

  “Tempting.” I laughed, not sure if I was lying or not, but relieved to have a better excuse than sitting at home with the dog and one of my ridiculously monochromatic puzzles. “But I have plans. It’s girls’ night. Margaritas and Mexican food.”

  He nodded. “Some
other time, then.”

  Not likely, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. Parker was the kind of guy who dated the kind of girls who starred in beer commercials. And I generally preferred men who spent less time on their hair than I did on mine.

  I smiled instead and turned toward the door.

  “I need to go see if my story’s set before it gets too much later,” I said. “Nice talking to you.”

  “Back at you. Have a good time tonight.”

  “You, too. I hope they win.”

  I hurried to Bob’s office and tapped on the doorframe.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t turn from his computer monitor.

  “Did you need me to make any changes to my piece before it goes?”

  “No. Not a lot of bite, but it looked like you didn’t have much to share. What happened to the vigilante?”

  I kept my eyes on my shoes. “They didn’t have it. Not yet, anyway. Maybe Monday,” I said, making a mental note to come up with a plausible story to put him off again before then. “The cops are trying to figure out if these guys were connected. Hopefully they’ll get lucky this weekend.”

  “Just as long as Charlie Lewis doesn’t have it Sunday.” Bob’s eyes never left the screen—I’d bet he didn’t even lose his place in the story he was editing. “Have a good weekend, kiddo. See you Monday.”

  Not even sticking around to chat with Melanie at the city desk as I normally would, I called a goodnight to anyone who happened to be listening as I unplugged my laptop and slid it into my bag. Striding to the elevators, I waved at our features editor, a grandmotherly woman whose home cooked treats could’ve come straight out of Aunt Bea’s kitchen. She carted in batches of various baked and fried goodies at least once a week (twice, if she was stressed or there was an upcoming holiday) and was thereby solely responsible for any widening of my ass that might occasionally occur.

  “Have a good one, darlin’.” The “g” disappeared into Eunice’s native Virginia drawl. “Enjoy your Friday night.”

  “Friday night, hell, I’m out of here until Monday,” I stepped into the elevator with a grin. “See you then.”

  The promise of a whole weekend with nothing to do was thrilling all by itself. I parked my little red SUV in the Carytown shopping district and melted into the collection of people who made up the city I had come to love in the six years since a stinging rejection from my dream employer brought me south to look for a job.

  There were impeccably-dressed mothers pushing babies in hip strollers along the sidewalks, teenagers still high on the excitement of school letting out the week before, and couples walking hand-in-hand looking in the shop windows. The eclectic storefronts beckoned passersby with everything from toys and Christmas decorations to maternity clothes and jewelry.

  A cobblestone sidewalk led to the heavy oak door of Pages, so picturesque it could have been conjured from the narrative of a nineteenth-century novel. The shop was housed in an old stone cottage, the door flanked by mosaic stained glass windows half-hidden behind climbing roses and jasmine vines, growing thick in twin shoebox-sized gardens and making the summer air sweeter with their perfume.

  I turned the brass knob and shoved the stubborn old door, instantly overtaken by a very different fragrance. The smell of ink and paper and aged leather inside the little shop bordered on intoxicating. There were no maps, no sections, no pretty directional signs. Just tall shelves stretching from wall to wall and floor to ceiling in the small space, cluttered and piled with a fantastic collection of great stories. Jenna was the store’s buyer, and she spent hours each day hunting down rare volumes and first editions. Pages was no generic bookstore; it was a book lover’s haven.

  “Hey.” My friend waved from behind a stack of books perched on the sales counter. “You’re early! How’d you manage that?”

  “There was annoyingly little to be written of the story I spent the whole day chasing. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

  Shoving her reddish-brown curls out of her face, Jenna turned back to the MacBook that was the only evidence of the twenty-first century in the room and scooted her square, blue-rimmed glasses down the bridge of her nose.

  At least she’d remembered them. I was convinced Jenna was going to go blind or kill some random blotch that was actually a person with her car, she forgot her glasses so often.

  “Dying to hear all about it,” she said. “Just let me finish one thing and we’ll go.”

  I nodded and surveyed the nearest shelf, picking up a fat brown hardcover. My eyes widened when I checked the copyright page: MacMillan Books, May 1, 1936. A first edition of Gone With the Wind.

  “Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were,” I recited the first line under my breath as I flipped the book closed and trailed my fingers along the cover, noting the missing dust jacket. But still, an actual first edition. I couldn’t believe Jenna didn’t tell me she’d found it. There were only ten thousand of these printed, I thought as I made a mental note to check the asking price with her. I was no rare books expert, but I knew enough about the one in my hands to land a guess in the ballpark, and that park had expensive seats. Even a thousand dollars—which might be a lowball for this one—was usually way above my price range, given that it was more than my rent. But it was Gone With the Wind. Maybe I could survive on Ramen for a few weeks.

  I laid it on a high shelf and picked up a thick leather-bound Dickens tome. Shopping at Pages was like perusing some great collector’s personal library. Every visit was an experience.

  “Almost done,” Jenna called, clicking her mouse and twisting up the corners of her lips, which were seldom more than a twitch away from smiling.

  I admired the flowing simplicity of the wine-colored linen dress she wore. Like most of her wardrobe, it well suited her true passion: Jenna was a great book-buyer, but she was a better artist. “The bookstore definitely pays better,” she said whenever I asked if she thought she’d ever buy the store from its retired owner, “and I love the thrill of the hunt in my job. But I will always be an artist at heart.”

  I owed her friendship, and by extension my sanity, to the abstract of a mother and child I’d talked her into selling me right off the shop’s wall on my second visit. The painting had given us a reason to start talking, and once we had, we’d never stopped. I loved not knowing what I’d find when I popped into the store, and as I built a collection of books rivaled in my heart only by my shoe closet, Jenna and I had gone from casual acquaintances to the best of friends.

  By the time her little boy came along the previous spring, I was planning the baby shower and driving her to the hospital when her water broke at a Friday night karaoke experiment (our unscientific method determined that lack of intoxication made singing off-key in front of strangers a lot less fun, and also that drunk people were surprisingly eager to help when you went into labor in a bar, some more appropriately than others). She was my non-newspaper family.

  “Ready?” Jenna appeared at my elbow with her straw bag on her shoulder and her keys in her hand.

  “Starving,” I said, laying the book back on the shelf.

  We were quiet for a half-block or so, until we reached the brick sidewalk to an old row house painted bright purple and converted into the city’s best Mexican food restaurant.

  “You ready to talk about your week yet?” Jenna asked. “You know I get all my thrills vicariously through you.”

  “My week started and ended with gross crime scene photos. I think that entitles me to at least one margarita, so I guess we’ll just have to force ourselves to stay for a while.”

  “Ah, to not have to be home by the children’s bedtime! Leave nothing out.”

  We followed the hostess up the narrow stairs to a square table covered in brightly-hued paint. The top was lavender and each leg was a different shade of the rainbow.

  “Did you have time to actually read the paper today?” I asked, sinking into a ladde
rback chair just as colorful as the table.

  She wiggled one hand back and forth as she popped a blue corn chip into her mouth with the other. “I started your story, but I only got through the part on the front page before I got busy looking through the ads.”

  Jenna found a lot of the bookstore’s inventory at estate sales. She usually spent Fridays combing through the classifieds for the weekend and calling all the ones that mentioned books.

  I filled her in on the gory details of the trial as we waited for our drinks. When I got to the part about the murderer confessing to his mom, the color drained from Jenna’s face.

  “So, this kid really just walked into his mother’s kitchen splattered with other people’s blood and sat down and told her what he did?” She gaped at me, her hand fluttering to her throat. “As a mother, you want your kids to trust you enough to tell you anything, but…Oh, my God. I can’t even imagine.”

  “I know. That was the most dramatic part of the whole trial for me, when his mother testified. I felt so bad for that poor woman. Here her kid has done this horrible thing and she knows he did it and she kept looking at the victims’ families and telling them she was sorry, but you know she still loves her kid and she’s worried about what’s going to happen to him, too.”

  “And she probably feels guilty,” Jenna said. “I know I would. I’d never stop wondering what I did wrong. How my kid grew up to be the kind of person who could murder someone. It would drive me completely batshit insane.”

  The first round arrived and we nibbled chips and sipped margaritas (well, I sipped, Jenna gulped) as we studied our menus, the usual hum of other diners’ conversations drowned out by the mariachi band that played on Friday nights.

  We smiled thank-yous at the striking Hispanic waitress when she dropped off another margarita for Jenna and a glass of iced tea for me. She turned to the next table after she jotted down our order, and I raised my eyebrows at my friend.

  “I wonder what it would be like to be one of those women people turn to look at when they walk by?” I asked, my eyes on the girl’s bobbing ebony ponytail.