Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) Read online

  17.

  Secrets and dives

  Journalism in the age of the Internet 105: standing unobtrusively in odd places isn’t as hard today as it was in 1954.

  Why?

  The smartphone.

  Without my BlackBerry to feign interest in as I pretended to check email and football scores, I would have looked pretty silly leaning up against the side of the hospital, wedged between the wall and a crepe myrtle.

  With it, I looked like I had some kind of Facebook emergency I couldn’t put off for less prickly surroundings.

  Bonus: I had a perfect vantage point for who was coming and going from the building. And the likelihood that most of them would even notice me was next to none.

  Tapping my thumbs on the keys, I typed gibberish into a notes file as I people-watched. I scrutinized every guy in a suit worth more than my first car, figuring Doctor Decorator Office probably looked pretty GQ.

  I was so preoccupied with men’s fashion, I didn’t see her until it was too late.

  “Why are you hiding in the bushes?” The words dripped from a sneer, and I felt my eyes narrow behind my sunglasses. Really, universe?

  “Alexa,” I said, the frost in my voice hard to miss. “I’m standing on a public sidewalk, sending an email. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “An email. That had to be sent from inside a tree.”

  “I’m under the tree.”

  “You’re not fooling me. You’re chasing a story. What is it? No, never mind, I’ll find it for myself.”

  Deep breaths. Don’t draw attention.

  Throttling her would draw attention, wouldn’t it?

  Damn.

  I pasted on a smile instead. “Take your best shot.” She wouldn’t dig up any of this in a million years. I hoped.

  “I intend to. Should be easier with my new job in the hospital cafeteria. Thanks for that, by the way—I went from a polyester uniform to polyester with a hair net. And I owe it all to you.”

  “You owe it all to yourself, blasting confidential information all over the internet. All we did was unmask you. Which says something about detective skills all by itself, doesn’t it?”

  “You tattled.”

  “Because all the cops around here are so stupid they wouldn’t have gotten to you.” Sarcasm and annoyance sharpened the words. I looked over her shoulder at the sidewalk. Her prattling was distracting, and I didn’t have time to be distracted.

  “I bet I’d still be there today,” she said. “You don’t know how that department works.”

  “Because working there for what, forty-five days? You know more than I do?” I pinched my lips together. “Whatever gets you through the day, doll.”

  “You like them. Your piece yesterday was nothing short of PR for the damned detective squad that walked out of St. Vincent’s and left a murder suspect unsupervised.”

  “First, they didn’t leave him unsupervised. Second, he’s a person of interest, but they don’t have proof yet.”

  “Whatever gets you through the day, doll.” She rolled her eyes as she sing-songed my words back at me.

  I opened my mouth to reply just as I caught a glimpse of curly bronze hair and an Armani suit (I knew because Joey had one just like it) on the sidewalk at my eleven o’clock. I leaned forward and pushed a branch down. Dr. Goetze. I was as sure as my twenty-twenty eyes could be from forty yards out.

  Alexa narrowed her eyes and turned, and I shifted my gaze to a leggy redhead in scrubs that could’ve been painted onto her body-by-Les-Mills figure.

  “Gosh, would you look at the time? I have an appointment to get to, and I think we’re done here,” I said. “Just as nice chatting with you today as always.”

  I brushed past Alexa, trailing the redhead (and Goetze) into the parking garage and hoping Alexa wasn’t trailing all three of us.

  Why did I let her aggravate me into an argument? I needed to be following this guy alone. Dammit, Nichelle.

  No time for self-flagellation. I kept the corner of my eye on the good doctor as I tromped up the garage ramp behind the nurse. She turned down an aisle and I paused, stuck for what to do. I dropped my car keys, then spun a three-sixty to look for them on the floor.

  No Alexa in sight. Huh. Maybe her break was over.

  I turned toward my own car, still watching Goetze’s curls bob over hoods one row below where I’d parked. The lights flashed on a chocolate-colored BMW convertible, and he slid into the driver’s seat as I flung my door open and dove behind the wheel.

  I let the redhead and her green Honda get between us as we pulled out of the garage, then followed him left when she turned right onto East Broad. Hanging back far enough to be unobtrusive, I rehearsed an introduction in my head.

  Surely he wouldn’t really object to free publicity. The receptionist had probably been told to keep everyone who wasn’t a patient from sucking up his time. Right?

  I stayed behind him through nine lights, the buildings lining the street growing more aged with each one. Just when I began to wonder if his lunch date was in Charlottesville, he cut across three lanes and hung an abrupt left, then wound his way through a maze of side streets that held a mix of industrial buildings and postwar tract houses before he lapped back around to Broad and pulled into the parking lot at a greasy spoon that had obviously occupied the same real estate since 1950. Without a facelift.

  I parked in front of the shiny new French bakery next door and scanned the cars in the diner’s lot. Every one manufactured before I graduated college, save the Beemer and a Mercedes E250 coupe.

  I arched a brow. A pair of seventy-thousand-dollar cars fit in this part of town about as well as hiking boots at the beach.

  I grabbed my bag, plus a copy of Cosmo from the backseat for camouflage, and strolled inside.

  The sign on the menu rack invited me to seat myself. I kept my sunglasses on and scanned the tables, spotting Goetze in the far corner. Ensconced in a booth with Maynard’s protégé was a wiry man with horn-rimmed glasses, a graying comb-over, and a Rolex that cost more than I made in three months weighing down his wrist.

  A fat manila envelope lay on the table between them.

  I checked corners for Rod Serling. Had I walked into a gangster movie?

  I took the table catty-corner from them and opened the magazine. Sixteen articles on pleasing your man and four on fashion. I flipped to a random page, not processing a single word for flicking my eyes to the back of Goetze’s head every twelve seconds.

  He turned to the waitress and barked an order for ketchup I had no trouble hearing from where I sat.

  I ducked behind the magazine and rolled my eyes. I’ve always thought you could tell a lot about a person by the way they treat servers, dogs, and kids. Dr. Goetze was joining Percival’s owner on my list of Least Favorite People I’ve Encountered This Month. And I deal with murderers and politicians on a fairly regular basis.

  “What can I get you, doll?” The waitress (the blue nametag pinned to her pink uniform read Kari) stopped at my table, popping gum and poising her pen over her ordering pad.

  I smiled. “Can I have a BLT with fries and a coffee, please?”

  “Sure thing.” She jotted it down and smiled, nodding to a fashion spread on the hottest fall boots. “I like the tall ones.”

  I smiled. “They’re great, aren’t they?” I stuck a foot out from under the table, my Kate Spade suede boots with button-up sides poking out of the hem of my pants. “I have a thing for shoes.”

  She sighed. “I wish I could. I’d never make it through a shift in those.”

  “They’re not easy on the arches.” I checked Goetze. He was shaking his head, and his friend sported a brow so furrowed you could hide trinkets in the folds.

  She turned for the counter. “I’ll go put this
in. It’ll just be a sec.”

  “Thanks, Kari.”

  “No problem.”

  I returned to Cosmo, but kept my ears on the argument at the other table. Goetze snapped at Kari three times (once for forgetting the ketchup, twice for failing to read his mind) before I finished my sandwich.

  Pulling out my BlackBerry, I clicked it to silent before I snapped a couple of photos of the doctor and his friend. Just in case. Dawdling over my food, I skipped my eyes over the doctor’s lunch meeting as often as I dared. Goetze kept his voice low, but the discussion was obviously heated. I counted three times someone put a hand on the envelope in the center of the table.

  Captain Rolex finally grabbed it and strode for the door, leaving Goetze to fume, toss one last sharp retort at poor Kari, and slam some cash on the table before he stalked out. I stared openly after him.

  Of all the things I’d expected, this hovered near Goetze riding a unicorn to lunch with Tinkerbell on my list. Any doubt I had about why the receptionist had shooed me out of his office vanished like thirty-dollar Louboutins on the Saks clearance rack.

  “I really wish that guy would find another place to argue with people. He’s an ass, and he never leaves a decent tip.” Kari’s voice came from my left as she refilled my coffee.

  I whipped around to face her, then took a sip—the place had good coffee and better fries—trying to downplay my interest.

  “He comes here a lot?”

  “Couple of times a month. Always with that dude.”

  “Any idea why? The car, the clothes…” I shrugged and looked around. “He seems like he’d be a better fit somewhere downtown.”

  She laughed. “I can’t tell if they like our food or if they’re trying to hide something. They sit back there and whisper like they’re plotting to take over the world, then they leave. Then they come back and do it again.”

  I’d watched for long enough to know Goetze and his friend paid her less than no mind.

  “Do you know what they’re talking about?” I asked, going for casual.

  Either it worked or she was bored enough to share anyway.

  “Money. Numbers. Mostly a lot of stuff that makes no sense. Sometimes I catch big words that sound like they made them up. There’s usually one of those envelopes, but the other guy always leaves with it.”

  The hairs on my arm pricked up. Try as my saner half might, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom Ellinger was right about David Maynard. At least partly.

  My gut said Goetze knew something. But who was Captain Rolex and why were they arguing?

  I sighed. All roads led to new questions.

  One answer. That’s all I wanted.

  I thanked Kari, tipped her more than my check total, and headed for the car.

  “Come back anytime,” she called, grinning as she pocketed the twenty I’d left on the table.

  “I had fun chatting with you,” I said.

  I started the car and pointed it in the direction of police headquarters. Aaron couldn’t “no comment” his way out of this.

  18.

  Gift wrapping

  “What do you mean, he’s not giving interviews? That’s his job, Sam.” I stared openmouthed at the desk sergeant, still trying to process his words. “He’s the Public Information Officer.”

  “He said no reporters.” Sam smiled apologetically.

  “But he is here?”

  “In his office all day.”

  “And I can’t see him. What the hell is going on?”

  Sam shrugged. “Rough week. Two murders in three days—that hasn’t happened in a while. Even if one of them is pretty cut and dried, everyone seems all hot and bothered over it. They don’t give me the details, though.”

  “Me either,” I grumbled, backing away from the desk.

  I made a show of shuffling back out the door, my brain clicking through how I could get to Aaron. Sam was a decent roadblock for most reporters, sure, but I’m not most reporters. Or I don’t like to think I am, anyway.

  I turned left out of the front door and ducked into the parking garage. I’d never intentionally memorized Aaron’s plate number, but knew it by heart all the same, thanks to my brain’s weird total recall for things I’d read.

  I searched all five rows twice.

  His car wasn’t there.

  That was actually a good thing, provided he was where I thought he was. Getting past security and into the PD when you don’t have permission to be there isn’t easy.

  Aaron and Landers had been incognito since the shooting at the hospital.

  Maybe they were overwhelmed, like Sam said.

  And maybe I’d take up big game hunting in my spare time.

  I started my car and whipped a U-turn on Grace Street, heading for Rockett’s Landing.

  Whatever was going on here was all tied up in Maynard’s research—and in his murder.

  Aaron could run, but he couldn’t hide.

  Between a Tesla and a Mercedes SUV, I found Aaron’s car. Directly across from Landers’. In his office all day, my ass.

  Faltering when I saw Jeff, I bent to remove an imaginary pebble from my boot. Pretty sure he knew I wasn’t a dog trainer after my display with Mrs. Eason. Could I convince him he was wrong without outright fibbing to him? Probably not.

  Did I care about lying to him in the grand scheme of things?

  Probably not. I just didn’t want to if I could help it.

  If he found out I was a reporter, though, my chances of getting into the building would tank faster than a line of Christian Louboutin baseball cleats.

  Straightening, I pasted on my most confident smile and strode to the door.

  “What can I do for you today?”

  The friendly tone covered suspicion well, but the undercurrent was still there.

  “I—” I paused, everything I planned to say running clean out of my head. “Percival!” My eyes fixed on the makeshift pen behind the column to the right of the front doors, and the Chihuahua curled on a blanket in one corner of it.

  “You still supposed to be training him?” Jeff looked doubtful.

  Think fast, Nichelle.

  I scooped the dog out of the pen and put my bacon-scented fingers under his nose. He began licking them happily, and I scratched behind his ears.

  “We have a date today, don’t we, boy?”

  “He’s never that affectionate with anyone,” Jeff said, his eyes wide as he watched the dog.

  Sure. Anyone who doesn’t smell like food.

  I just smiled and continued petting Percy.

  “I’m not sure she’s going to pay you,” Jeff said. “She dumped him on me this morning with an order to get rid of him. I guess pet relocation has been added to my job duties. I didn’t have any place to put him, and the building director wants her happy, so he had maintenance rig that up. He’s just been chewing his toys and sleeping.”

  “Probably enjoying the vacation,” I said.

  “You here to take him off my hands?” He looked hopeful, his earlier doubts seemingly forgotten.

  “For a bit.” Every word true. “Can I take him inside and work with him for a while?”

  “Please.” He pulled the door open and flashed a grin, patting the dog. “Good boy, Perce.”

  I swear I heard him say “lucky dog” as we passed, but I pretended I didn’t. I barely kept myself from breaking into a run on my way to the elevator. Percy worked better than a clipboard. Anyone who wrinkled a brow my way smoothed it right back out when they saw him flopped over my right arm, one paw tucked under his chin, his eyes closed blissfully as I petted him. If he were a cat, he’d be purring.

  I took the elevator to the next-to-top floor and peeked around both corners before I got off.

  N
o cops.

  Deep breath.

  The doors started to close and I poked the “open” button. I wouldn’t get a chance like this again. I might piss my detectives off, sure, but they wouldn’t arrest me. And I was pretty pissed myself. Everything I’d done to help Aaron, and he wasn’t giving interviews?

  Um. No.

  I called up the tax records in my crazy photographic memory and strode off the elevator looking for Maynard’s condo.

  Rapping on the door, I took a step backward, just in case Aaron decided to shout.

  My jaw dropped when Kyle pulled the door open.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” tumbled off my tongue as Kyle barked, “How did you get up here? Secured building my foot. White, what kind of show are you running here, man?”

  Kyle moved to shut the door and I stuck a foot in it. “No way, Kyle. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You will if I have someone come up to escort you out.”

  “What was that, Miller?” Chris Landers appeared in the hallway across from the door with a furrowed brow, then rolled his eyes when he saw me.

  “Goddammit, Clarke, we said no comment. Active investigation.”

  “I went into the hospital for you the other night. You don’t get to blow me off this week.”

  “I didn’t take that crazy asshole to jail because you asked me not to. We’re even.”

  I opened my mouth to snap back and Kyle stepped between us. “Now children, let’s not squabble.”

  “I’m not squabbling,” I huffed. “And I’m not leaving here until you two tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “I’m not telling you a damned thing about an active investigation.” Landers’s volume dropped, but his voice took on a sharp edge.

  “Funny how you don’t have that reservation when I’m risking my neck helping you out.” I pulled myself up to my full height, hugging Percival so tightly he wriggled. I stroked the dog’s fur, trying to keep hold of my temper.