Alex had stayed behind his desk, listening, as she demonstrated how she’d tried and failed to scope out whether the caller was someone she could identify.
“It seems so Hollywood cliché,” she went on. “Talking like they’d think a bad guy would talk. It sounded so phony I almost didn’t tell you. On the other hand, it wasn’t random. So, here I am.”
Alex started spinning his iPhone on the flat of his battered old desk, watching the black case pinwheel on the polished wood. It stopped, and Alex pointed it at her. “I’m supposed to call Tay Reidy, you know, when these things happen. And he’ll certainly call the cops. No question about that. But this close to deadline, I’ve also got to think about another question: Do we go with the story?”
“Well, of course we do.” Was he kidding? Kill her scoop? Jane dragged her voice back to a lower register.
“What if we make the phone call part of the story? You have to admit it’s compelling, someone threatening us. Now it’s not just a-Well, I don’t mean just a murder. But it’s possible that the killer called me. And I’m not sure that’s ever happened to me. Has it happened to you?”
“It could be some nutcase, Jane.” Alex spun his phone again like a toy top, the plastic case clicking against the wood. “Someone with an agenda we know nothing about. It’ll be impossible to characterize it in a story.”
“Then we won’t characterize. We’ll write the facts.” Jane stood, then turned toward Alex’s power wall. Yale diploma. One from Columbia J-School. A couple of Polk Awards. A blank place where she remembered seeing his wife’s photo. Ex-wife now.
Deep breath. “We can say I got a call, the caller said x, y, z, we let our readers draw their own conclusions. I’ll try to confirm the victim’s name with the police. Then we’ll go with what we got. That’s what they taught you at Columbia, right?”
Alex took off his glasses, polished them on the tail of his flannel shirt. He seemed very interested in the glasses.
She had him. She knew it. One more push should clinch it.
“How long do you want the story?” She’d assume her victory. Ten column inches would be a nice chunk, guarantee good placement on the front of the Metro section. She stood, ticking off her points on her fingers. “After I call the cop shop, I’ll start with the news about the victim’s name, then see what else I can come up with. I have a whole hour or so to write it. I have the info on the foster care system. We can use some of that, a tease of what’s to come. Once we break this, the other newsrooms won’t touch it. We’ll own the story.”
Alex, glasses back in place, swiveled his chair toward her.
She didn’t like his expression. What did Jake say his Grandpa Brogan always told him? A good cop doesn’t need easy? A good reporter didn’t, either. But it looked like this was about to get tough.
“Ah, it’s a no,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Sorry, Jane. Good job, good hustle. I like your perseverance. But it’s only a murder victim’s name, you know? Not worth the risk. We can afford to back off this time. Okay?”
“You’re kidding me,” Jane said. She leaned over his desk, palms flat, trying to keep her tone light. She took a step back, semiretreating. He was still her boss, even though he was wrong. “If you were still on the street you’d have pushed your editor to run with it. You know that.”
“And he’d have told me the same thing, Ryland. I’ve got to go by the book, and that means talk to the publisher first. If Mr. Reidy wants us to report that phone call to the cops, we’ll do that. If he wants us to run the story, I’ll let you know that, too.”
Alex stood. In two steps, he was next to her. He touched her, briefly, on one shoulder, then leaned on his desk, his dark eyes level with hers. “But Jane…”
Hot Alex, her brain said. She took a step back, out of his force field.
“Jane,” Alex said again, his voice softening. “What’s important is-whoever it was, whatever the motive, he threatened you. Flat-out threatened you. No story is worth that. You see what I’m saying?”
She tore her eyes away from his gaze. She did see what he was saying. And she didn’t like it. He was spiking her scoop.
“What if he’s calling everyone? What if it’s not only me? What if he called all the TV stations? And said the same thing? What if they go with it? Listen, all we have to do is bang it out for the online edition, and we win.”
Ha. She got him with that one. Holding a story was one thing. Getting scooped was another. Especially when the Register’s circulation was verging on abysmal. Breaking big news was the paper’s only ammunition.
“But you’re the only reporter who knows the name Brianna Tillson, right? That’s how you sold me the story, remember?” Alex raised one eyebrow, his eyes almost twinkling behind his wire rims. He had laugh lines, too. The beginnings.
Her shoulders sagged. Alex was right.
“So that’s that,” Alex said. “But I do have one question. How’d the caller know your cell phone number?”
Jane blinked at him, silent for a moment. She hadn’t thought about that. She plopped back down on the couch, considering the possibilities. Oh.
Her eyes widened as she talked, realizing the implication of what might have happened. “I handed out my business card to all the neighbors I interviewed yesterday. Remember?” She looked at her watch. Pushing seven. Outside Alex’s window, the night sky bloomed with snow-filled clouds, making it seem much later.
“It must have been someone on Callaberry Street. Someone I already talked to. One of them lied to me. Someone I interviewed knows what happened to Brianna Tillson. Whoa. Now I have to go figure out who.”
“No. Jane. Do not even think about going there.” Alex made the time-out sign. “It’s dark, and it’s dangerous. Go home. Be careful. I’m sure Mr. Reidy will want to call the police. You and I will talk about this tomorrow.”
“Hec,” Jane said.
“Heck?” Alex smiled, looking perplexed. “Is that expression left over from your on-air TV days? I mean, saying ‘hell’ is okay. It’s just us.”
“Not h-e-c-k. H-e-c. Hec Underhill.” This day was becoming a lot more interesting. “Remember, Alex. Hec got photos of everyone we interviewed. I have their names. That means we may have an actual, identifiable photo of the murderer. Right downstairs in our very own photo lab. All we have to do is get Hec to show us his pictures and figure out which one is the bad guy.”
Alex narrowed his eyes, considering. “But I need to call-”
“But nothing.” Jane opened her tote bag. “I’ve got my notebook right here. All the names. Calling Tay Reidy can wait. You coming with me?”
Niall Brannigan didn’t care about the crime scene tape draped over Lillian’s front walk. That was for outsiders, and he was the opposite of an outsider. The key Lillian had given him at the beginning of what she insisted on calling their “relationship” gave him the right to be here. Now it was necessary that he get inside.
His gloved hands clenched his steering wheel. Poor Lillian. He hoped her death had not been painful. He hoped-Oh well.
He unclicked his seat belt, flipped up the collar of his heavy coat. Dark out. The green numbers of the dashboard clock read 7:32. Eventually, Ardith would wonder where he was. But not quite yet. Tonight was her book club night, if he remembered correctly. Or perhaps yoga again. There was always something these days. He’d be home soon enough to suit his dear wife.
The yellow plastic tape looped around the dimly glowing cast-iron lanterns at each side of the walkway, then stretched across the flagstone path. There was no police tape sealing the door. It would take him all of two minutes. He’d go in, get what he needed, come out.