Chapter 13
Ryker pulled away from the curb and drove down the street, circling back so they could park in an alley down and across the street from the police station.
“What the hell was that about?” Lori asked him.
“Not a clue, but it felt weird.”
Lori nodded. “So, what are we doing sitting in an alley watching the station?”
“I’m not sure, but I just want to see when Annette comes out, what she does, and where she goes.”
“Do you think she’s involved in some way?”
“I don’t know. The reporter in me doesn’t like not understanding something. Middleton’s an ass, but why is he grimly determined to let Cobain’s murder go unsolved? I mean, Cobain had a certain level of fame, and yet I haven’t seen anything come across the wire.”
“It’s like Middleton is trying to sweep it under the rug, which doesn’t make sense if he wants to raise his profile either here in town or in the larger police network.”
“Exactly,” said Ryker. “If he wants to be the next police chief, he needs to show at least a certain level of competence in his job.”
“Heads up,” whispered Lori, as the door to the station opened, ducking down so only her head might be seen over the dashboard.
“Babe, they can’t hear you from here, and they could only see you if they were closer and really looking,” Ryker laughed.
She sat up, looked at him and grinned. “Give me a break. I’m new at this cloak and dagger stuff.”
“You can’t do cloak and dagger in Bleak Ridge. You need a world capital—some place like London, Rome, Amsterdam, or Moscow.”
“Said the man who’s obviously played that game.”
“On more than one occasion,” he admitted, “and not always well.”
“Look,” she said, pointing toward the station.
Annette came out of the station and stopped when Detective Middleton emerged. Taking her elbow, he walked her to her car. They stood by the driver’s side door and chatted for a few minutes.
“That looks a bit intense,” said Lori.
Ryker nodded. “Intense, but quiet. Like he doesn’t want to draw attention to them.”
“Is the detective married? I didn’t see a ring, but that doesn’t always mean anything.”
“No. There was a time he kind of thought of himself as a big deal, but he got passed over when the town council brought the current chief in. He tried undermining the chief with the council. The chief got wind of it and shut him down. My guess is when the chief moves on, Middleton will be passed over again.”
“Do you think he’s holding back on calling in the MCU because he’s trying to show the council that he could be chief?”
“That’s exactly what I think. The problem is he’s going about it the wrong way, and if the rumors are right, this is absolutely the wrong time to play that kind of game.”
“What are the rumors?” she asked.
“That the chief is being courted for another position in a bigger town, so there will be an opening. But if Middleton bungles this, which it sure looks like he’s doing, they’ll write him off, and he’ll never be more than he is now.”
“Holy shit,” exclaimed Lori as Middleton leaned down and kissed Annette, who then got in her car and gave the detective a little wave as she drove off.
“From weird to weirder,” said Ryker.
“So, the guy in charge of the investigation is dating the woman who could have supplied the murder weapon—deliberately or inadvertently? There may not be anything specifically illegal about that…”
“But it sure does make you wonder exactly what is going on.” He put the car in gear and headed back to the hotel. “So, my super sleuth girlfriend, what’s our next move?”
“Me? You’re the Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist. I just write about this stuff.”
“I just report on it. You’re the one who is a rising star novelist who writes whodunits for a living.”
“True, but Middleton told us to back off.”
“So?” he laughed. “If I had backed off every time some cop or official told me to, I never would have won the Pulitzer.”
“So even though it is a small town, we’re going to do some cloak and dagger.”
“I am going to plan something for us in Europe where we can do some kind of cloak and dagger adventure game.”
“I’ve heard about those. I think it would be fun.”
“Me, too. Kind of like an extended version of those murder mystery dinner parties.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I need to get you back to the hotel. I don’t think we need to be calling attention to the fact that you aren’t there.”
“And here I was hoping you wanted to go back to the hotel and indulge in some decadent afternoon sex.”
“Much as I’d like to do just that, I think the typewriter ribbon, Middleton, and Annette are key components in whatever’s going on.”
“Agreed. The typewriter ribbon especially. It has to be significant to the killer, as they used it as a murder weapon. I’m frustrated and annoyed that Middleton has been so cavalier about it. Do you think he really sent it to a forensics lab?”
“Not a chance. The only one he wouldn’t have to pay out-of-pocket is the one associated with the MCU. And if he pays out-of-pocket and tries to get reimbursed, the chief is going to know about it and start asking questions. I don’t think Middleton wants that.”
He pulled up in front of the hotel. Lori turned to him. “There’s a break after the afternoon panel. It’s a meet-and-greet with the VIP readers. It starts at about three. Do you want to be my plus one again?”
He kissed her cheek. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do, except perhaps find some place I can ravish you before we go in, so I know that as you’re talking to some reader my cum is dripping out of your pussy.”
She could feel her cheeks turn pink. “As lovely as that sounds, we’re going to have to put that on the couple’s bucket list.”
“Do we have a bucket list?”
“Most definitely, and points for not questioning whether or not we’re a couple.”
“There’s no question in my mind about that. I told you, I’m in for the duration—and I don’t mean just until we find Cobain’s killer.”
She wasn’t sure which was the stronger emotion: arousal or the warmth of knowing he was feeling the same way she was.
“Am I okay as dressed or should I get a sports coat?”
“You’re fine. I’m going as dressed.”
She didn’t wait for him but hopped out of the car and rushed into the hotel lobby, only to be greeted by Jonathan Lockwood.
“I was worried you might not return,” he said.
Lori glanced at her watch. She had ten minutes until the panel started. “I’m ready to go, and the schedule said nothing about being needed for lunch. Mr. McKay asked me to go with him, as he’s writing an article about poor Antony’s murder.”
She used the term murder deliberately and was rewarded by Lockwood blanching.
“I hadn’t heard it had been classified as murder.”
“I saw someone who appeared to be strangling Cobain. When I ran down to see if I could help Cobain, he was dead, and it appeared his assailant had used a typewriter ribbon as a murder weapon. So I don’t much give a damn if that idiot Middleton has had it declared a murder or not. I know what I saw. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late to the panel discussion.”
She spun on her heel and headed for the room where the discussion was being held. It was a general question-and-answer session for people to be able to follow-up on previous presentations. As she sat down, she saw Lockwood slip into the room and take a seat at the back.
* * *
RYKER
Ryker watched her disappear into the hotel. There was something inordinately sexy about Lori in everything she did. He loved that she was wearing his sheepskin coat. It was distinctive, and a lot of people would recognize it as his, which he liked far more than he thought he should.
He drove back to the paper, went inside, and answered messages and emails. Most of the work of getting out the paper was done, so he hopped on his computer and began to research companies that created cloak and dagger games that involved more than one city in Europe. They weren’t cheap, but he could afford it. It would be worth it, especially if they did that for a honeymoon.
Honeymoon? Where did that thought come from?He realized it had been lurking at the back of his mind, probably from the time he had met her. There had been something magnetic about her. Like he was a compass, and she was true north. If she didn’t want to live here in Bleak Ridge or in Maine, he could move to Chicago and sell the paper to one of the media conglomerates. He knew his uncle would roll over in his grave, but Ryker didn’t care. Being with Lori and making sure she was happy came before anything else. And if Chicago didn’t suit them, they’d find someplace else to live and work.
He booked the trip for the fall—far enough away to give him time to persuade her that they were in love and should get married, but close enough to satisfy him and let her plan whatever size wedding she wanted.
That settled, he hopped on the internet and downloaded a copy of Cobain’s latest book, called Liar’s Game. For some reason he didn’t just jump to the first chapter, but read the dedication:
For all those who are
awaiting Karma’s bite…
Rest assured; it’s coming.
He had to admit, Cobain could write. The man had a knack for storytelling, but his language was a little flowery and his books had become formulaic. He found himself getting lost in the story and was intrigued by the premise. The plot was captivating and grabbed the reader from the first paragraph and didn’t let go. Ryker read far more of it than he had intended. Its popularity was evident in the sales and accolades that had been heaped on it, but at the same time it wasn’t at all what Ryker had thought it would be.
For one thing, the protagonist was a strong, intelligent woman, which seemed an odd choice for a misogynist like Cobain. The story had a distinctly feminine voice and point of view. It centered around a scorned author, a pseudo ‘editor’ who ended up basically writing a book for an author and was then never given the promised credit or acknowledgement. The author was depicted as rich and famous and clearly using the protagonist. One phrase that caught his attention was the editor and the author being at a book convention and the editor seeing how rich the author had become using her work. It was a realization of how wealthy he was and how wealthy she wasn’t.
The book had a feel of having been written as a pale and thin imitation of something real, and Ryker wondered if that might be the truth, and if so, who? Was Cobain talking about himself in the guise of the editor or the rich author? And what the hell was up with that dedication?
Glancing at his watch, he realized the afternoon had gotten away from him. He checked his look in the bathroom mirror, brushed his teeth, and headed for the hotel, but more than that, he was headed to Lori. He arrived just in time to slide into the casual party of VIP readers and the authors they obviously followed.
Ryker, seeing Lori surrounded by adoring fans, realized she had a real knack with people. She was warm and genuine, and they all clamored for her attention. It occurred to him that she really was an up-and-coming star in the literary world. He slid in behind her, wrapping both arms around her and kissing the top of her shoulder as she sagged back against him. She was tired. Last night, the murder, and everything else that had happened had taken its toll.
“Ladies? Would you all mind if we moved over here to this large table? I think Lori needs to get off her feet for a few minutes.” They all gathered closer, offering sympathy and assistance.
“I’m fine. Ryker’s just feeling guilty. He’s largely responsible for my not getting much sleep last night.”
Her readers all laughed with her.
“As I recall, you were a more-than-willing participant.”
“As I will be tonight,” she teased.
He led her over to a large round table and made sure she was comfortable. “Let me go see what I can do about getting some refreshments brought in for all of you.”
Ryker walked out to the front desk and got hold of the sales and event people. He arranged for snacks and cold drinks to be delivered to Lori’s table. He entered the room with the catering people, pointing towards Lori’s table and heading Lockwood off.
“I didn’t authorize this,” Lockwood started.
“No. I did. I made it very plain that I was responsible for the bill.”
They could hear Lori laughing, and her reader group was continuing to grow. One-by-one, readers and then the other authors joined her until they were all having animated conversations. Ryker pulled up a chair beside her.
Leaning her head back to rest on his shoulder for a minute, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“No problem. Have you read Cobain’s newest book?”
“No, have you?”
“I skimmed it this afternoon. I think he may have had a ghostwriter or unacknowledged co-author…”
“That’s what authors who don’t want to acknowledge they have a ghostwriter call their ghostwriters,” said Lockwood.
“Did Cobain have a ghostwriter?” asked Lori, clearly surprised.
“Oh, don’t look so askance,” answered Lockwood. “Some of the people who do rapid release or have been writing for a long time have ghostwriters, and most people know that. Not all, and maybe not even most, but some most certainly do.”
“Do you think Cobain had one?” asked Lori.
“One? No, my dear, I suspect he had more than one. If you read his novels carefully you can start to pick out the differences.”
“Like the use of a woman protagonist in a book that has a distinctly feminine voice?”
“You’ve read Liar’s Game?” asked Lockwood with a malevolent chuckle.
“I skimmed it this afternoon,” answered Ryker.
“Then you have your answer. And if you want to know more about ghostwriters and typewriter ribbons, you might want to talk to Ezra Kane and Annette Hart, who owns a vintage shop here in Bleak Ridge and specializes in vintage typewriters and ribbons—both used and unused.”