“I’ve heard that one before.”
“It’s true,” she said. “I’m the one who covered the murder of her child five years ago, so part one is basically done already.”
“Which is exactly the part of the story that isn’t news anymore.”
“The rest won’t be as much extra work as you think. For some reason, I’m a beneficiary under her will. For my own good, I have to investigate this anyway, so why not do a story about it?”
He made a face. “That’s the more fundamental problem. Call me old-fashioned, but frankly, I don’t like stories written by reporters who are part of the story.”
“I’m really not part of it. I’m incidental. I think the only reason she made a reporter one of her beneficiaries is so that this story would be written.”
“And you think that’s a reason we should do the story?” he asked, incredulous. “Sounds like a creative form of checkbook journalism to me.”
It was downhill from there. Deirdre didn’t like his answer, but she didn’t want to push so hard that she’d spend the next two months covering the likes of chili-eating contests and high school student government elections.
Deirdre laid her fingers on the keyboard. One option was to simply start writing, churn out a few compelling pages, and go over his head. That was risky, but it was impossible to succeed in this business without taking risks. Newsrooms across the country were filled with talented reporters. No one ever won a Pulitzer Prize by cowering in the face of rejection. Especially when the guy doling out rejection slips was an idiot.
She let her fingers start dancing, tapping out words, only to be interrupted by the ring of her telephone.
“Meadows,” she answered.
“Want to know who killed Sally Fenning?” said the man on the line. It was a deep, mechanical voice. He was clearly speaking through one of those voice-altering gadgets that were sold at spy stores and electronics shops on just about every other block in downtown Miami.
Deirdre didn’t answer right away. The steady drone of a newsroom full of countless other conversations hummed all around her. She plugged her open ear, as if to make sure she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“I think you heard me.”
“Who is this?”
“Would I be altering my voice if I was going to tell you who I am?”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because I have a story that needs to be told. How’d you like to tell it for me?”
Her heart was thumping. She cradled the phone with her shoulder and scrambled for a pen and paper. “I’m listening.”
“I was at the on-ramp to I-395 where she was shot. I saw it happen.”
“What did you see?”
“Everything.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing there?”
“No, let’s start at the real beginning. What’s in this for me?”
She paused to choose her words. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Look, I can’t pay you for a story.”
“As a reporter for the esteemed Miami Tribune, that’s true. You can’t. But simply as a curious heir to Sally Fenning’s estate, what’s wrong with compensating someone for their time and inconvenience?”
Her grip tightened on the telephone. She wanted this. Bad. “Why should I believe anything you say?”
“Because I can show you the four-karat-diamond wedding band that Sally Fenning was wearing when she was shot-and that she wasn’t wearing when the police found her body.”
Deirdre felt chills. Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder, a subconscious confirmation that her supervisors wouldn’t approve. “We should talk about this.”
“You want to see the ring, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“Then we meet on my turf, not yours.”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Where?”
He chuckled. “Not so fast. Give me your cell phone number. I’ll call you and tell you where to go.”
She gave him the number, then asked, “When should I expect your call?”
“I work till midnight. Have your phone on then.”
“Midnight, tonight?”
“Yes. Unless you want to put this off. Or maybe you just want to forget the whole thing, and I’ll call someone over at the Sun-Sentinel.”
“No,” she said, checking her eagerness. “That’s fine. Tonight’s fine.”
“One last thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t want an audience. This is just you and me. Got it?”
She swallowed hard, then said, “Got it.”
He said good-bye. The line clicked, and her caller was gone.
Fifteen
Jack was driving his Mustang, ten minutes away from Kelsey’s house, when his cell phone rang. It was Nate.
“You have to speak up, buddy. I can hardly hear you.”
“I can’t,” said Nate. “Mom thinks I’m asleep. I’m under the covers.”
“Then maybe you should hang up and go to sleep.”
“No, no, wait. I have to ask you something.”
Jack stopped at the traffic light. “What?”
“Are you and my mom going out on a date?”
Jack could hear the hopefulness in Nate’s voice, the very thing that had kept Jack from even thinking about an attempt at romance with Kelsey. Dating the mom was a huge no-no in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. If it didn’t work out, it was always the kid who suffered.
“No,” said Jack. “This isn’t a date. This is work.”
“Then why did she try on fifteen different dresses?”
Jack recalled the cleavage debate, but he definitely wasn’t going to go there. “That’s just what women do, Nate. You’ll see some day.”
Nate tried to pursue the dating issue further, but Jack put a stop to it. “I’ll see you this weekend, okay, buddy?”
“Oh, okay,” he said, grumbling. They said good night and hung up.
Jack slowed as he approached Kelsey’s house, but he was a few minutes early. He waited in the driveway, giving her enough time to try on dress number sixteen, then at precisely 10 P.M. he walked to the front door and knocked. Kelsey answered with a smile.
“Ready?” she said.
“Yup.”
She was wearing red, a good color for the South Beach club circuit. Rather than blatant sex appeal with a heaping helping of cleavage, she’d opted for a more tasteful, striking look, and she’d hit a home run. Her hair was up in a twist, and the dress was strapless, which let the beauty of her long neck and sloping shoulders play out. Jack had never really noticed before, but she had great arms, beautifully sculpted. Her walk was clearly that of a dancer, poised and graceful, perfect posture without a hint of stiffness.
“Nice dress,” said Jack.
“This? Oh, thanks. Just something I threw on.”
Jack smiled to himself, deciding not to tell that Nate had already ratted her out.
It was a fifteen-minute drive over to South Beach and a thirty-minute wait at the valet entrance to Club Vertigo on busy Washington Avenue. By the time they got inside it was after eleven, which was like the early-bird special in this sleep-till-noon, party-till-dawn neighborhood.
It seemed like forever since Jack had done the South Beach club scene, even longer since he’d done it with a woman who turned heads the way Kelsey did. One thing that never changed about South Beach was the utter lack of subtlety in the way people checked each other out. There was nothing casual about it. This was the stuff by which one’s clubbing worth was measured. If South Beach were in Silicon Valley, people would be wearing the high-tech equivalent of Web site counters around their necks. Naturally, the ones with the most hits would vault to the head of the line behind the velvet ropes.
“See your bodyguard friend anywhere?” asked Kelsey.
“I’m not even sure what he looks like.”
“Just look for the guy with the thickest neck.”
Jack chuckled. “He said to give our name to the woman bartender. She’d call him over.”
The line was moving slowly, and they were nearing the entrance. Each time the doors opened, Jack was hit with a flash of swirling lights and a blast of music, and he could feel the vibration in his feet. He suddenly had an unnerving thought, one that made him glad this wasn’t a date. He was entering a dance club with a professional dancer. Sort of like going to bed with a sex therapist. No, no, no. Your hips go this way. Who needed that?