Chapter One #2
“Rita, the man confessed,” he says, his voice hardening. “You know that. There was blood all over that caretaker’s cottage,” he adds. “It was everywhere. There were hair samples. Hell—”
The phone shuffles, and Debby says, “Hon, this is Debby.” I shut my eyes a moment. Who else would it be? “Your dad and I are eatin’ supper. He’ll have to call you back. Okay?” Her voice is calm, but I recognize the undertone that tells me however I answer, we’re done here.
I exhale. “Sure.”
“Okay, bye-bye,” she says in a chipper voice and ends the call.
I open my phone again and look at the second name on my short favorites list. The other man in my life.
Carl Frost answers on the second ring.
“I was wondering when you were going to call me. Dom said you got a lead.”
The adage “News travels fast” was never more true than in a newsroom.
“You didn’t need me to tag along?” he says.
“No.” My answer came out quicker than I intended. “I mean, I think you coming along would spook my source.” I don’t need to drag Carl into this if at all possible.
“Do you have a wireless mic?” he says. “Just in case the source agrees to talk on camera.”
“Of course.” Even though I’m not sure I want Laura Sanders talking on camera, I’ll still ask. If she is going to talk, I want her talking to me. I even packed the pounds of makeup I need to be camera ready. Fail to plan, plan to fail.
“Rita, what’s the safety factor?”
Be careful, Rita.
“It’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of that.”
He sighs. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s not Broken Bayou, Carl. I’m not even in Louisiana. I’m in Florida.”
“Now I really want to tag along. I could use a little beach time.”
“Not that kind of trip.”
“Never is.”
“It’ll be okay. If anything feels off, I’ll bail.”
“Promise?”
Carl is a former NFL offensive lineman who was sidelined after a devastating leg injury.
He was paid to see threats coming, protect his quarterback.
Those instincts have bled over onto me on more than one occasion.
But he wasn’t there to protect me in Broken Bayou.
Something I think he’s not forgiven himself for yet.
I glance down at my crossed fingers. “I promise.”
“You’re crossing your fingers, aren’t you?” Carl says.
I can’t help but laugh. Carl knows me better than anyone.
My work husband who is actually more like a work brother.
That happens in this business. Years in the trenches covering death will bond you to someone, but we never once crossed that professional line.
It’s always been just a friendship. Carl is married, has two daughters he adores, and does this job for the same reasons I do, to bring justice for women who’ve become victims. I know Carl’s wife is not my biggest fan, though.
I understand. Even though Carl and I are completely platonic, I’m still the other woman in his life.
A woman he spends a lopsided amount of time with.
A woman who is constantly leading him toward danger.
“You okay?” Carl says when I don’t answer him.
“Yeah. Just tired. I feel like I haven’t slept in six months.”
“Nightmares?”
“Carl.”
“Rita.”
“I’ve told you how many times? I’m fine.”
“My mom used to say fine stood for ‘fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.’”
“Ha ha,” I say.
“You haven’t slowed down a day.” He pauses. “You almost died.”
“What do you think about a possible Emmy nomination in July?” I say, diverting us to a safer topic.
“A few at the party last night even mentioned an Oscar nod next year.”
“I don’t want an Oscar,” I say. “Even Pete Major has one of those.” I sit back against my barstool. “I’m thinking bigger.”
“Yeah, I know,” Carl says.
And he does know me, but he doesn’t know what’s been rattling around in my mind since hearing from Laura Sanders.
The memories, the articles, the mementos I packed into a suitcase and tucked away in my childhood bedroom at my father’s house.
Articles about a missing girl named Heather Hadwick.
Ones I’d cut out when I was in J-school, learning how to be a journalist. Articles about a man sent to Angola despite his recanted confession and a plea from his sister for leniency.
A sour taste fills my mouth. As much as I’d love to keep all of it packed away, at the same time, I don’t want some other journalist coming in and unpacking it.
With chaos comes opportunity . . . if you’re brave enough.
“Rita?” Carl says.
“I want a Pulitzer,” I say.
Carl chokes. “Jesus, Rita. What happened to wanting the George Polk?”
I bite my bottom lip, then say, “The Polk is mashed potatoes. I want the fucking steak.”
Carl clears his throat, and I can picture him doing his signature eye roll. The one I’ve seen dozens of times. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Careful what you wish for’?”
I look down the ivory bar and make eye contact with the bartender. “Nope, never heard that one,” I say to Carl. “I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.”
I end the call and swig my scotch as a headache blooms behind my eyes. I reach for my tote, pull out my migraine prescription, and shake out the last pill. I look at the label: no refills. I’ve stretched this one out for six months. I knock back the pill with my remaining drink.
I tell myself I haven’t lied, to Dom or to Carl. I’m just waiting to tell them everything. Laura Sanders could turn out to be a crackpot. This whole thing could be a waste of time. But the fine hairs on the back of my neck say otherwise.
The bartender makes her way back to me. “Anything else?”
Her smile is effortless and tells me she hasn’t been at this job long. Her long hair is as dark black as her top and pants, and I don’t see any indication on her young face that she’s jaded. Maybe she’s just a good actress.
“Actually there is,” I say. “Ever heard of Marshall Sanders?”
I’d done a deep dive on Laura’s husband. He is a prominent analyst at a private equity called Grey Wolf Capital. He has a splashy social media presence, unlike his wife.
“Of course, everyone around here knows him.”
She studies me, but so far she hasn’t recognized me. Not surprised. I’m not wearing makeup, and I’m in jeans. Without my war paint and expensive clothes, I look like any other woman sitting at a bar. Although, considering this clientele, maybe I should have opted for the expensive pantsuit.
I debate about my next question but decide it’s safe.
“What about his wife, Laura?”
“What about her?” She wipes the bar in front of me and seems unfazed by the question. Good.
“I follow her charity work, and I’ve tried to reach out to her about an auction I’m hosting, but it’s hard because she’s not on social media.” I take a chance and add, “I saw on his social that they were here recently, so I took a chance and thought I’d run into her here.”
“Yeah, she’s not really the bar type. When they’re here, it’s usually to eat or meet up with friends at the pool. They have a standing cabana available. All the VIPs do.”
“Oh well, guess I should have gone to the pool,” I say, then take a sip and smile.
She smiles back. “Even if you had found her, I doubt she’d like to be approached like that. She’s the type who wears her sunglasses inside. Kinda shut off, you know what I mean? All I can tell you is she’s a salon blond—I mean a high-end salon blond—who is a great tipper.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “Good to know.” That’s a pretty generic picture painted by a young woman who was astute enough to offer me eighteen-year-old Macallan before I had to ask, but I say, “Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
I shake my head, and she walks down to another customer.
I sign my check and head to my room, where I cover my head with a pillow and fall into a fitful sleep filled with images of laughing girls and zip ties.
The next morning, I still haven’t received a message from Laura Sanders.
I pour a cup of coffee from the coffee bar in the lobby.
The hotel is quiet. A vacuum whirs somewhere down a hall, but I have yet to see any carpet in this place.
I find a chair by the front desk and sit.
It’s six in the morning, but I send a text anyway.
When and where would you like to meet? Will need to be a public place.
I debate calling the number, too, but that could scare her off.
Texting adds a layer of distance. If she hears my voice, she might bail on me.
Reporters have to be careful with their sources.
It’s a delicate balance: Too much contact can scare them off; too little can give them time to change their mind about talking with me.
An hour after my last text and after catching up on all my emails, I send Laura another message.
Are we still a go?
The front lobby is louder now. Lots of hushed, quick whispers coming from two staff members behind the front desk.
A woman and a man, leaned in close to one another like the waitresses last night, the woman’s hands moving in fast animated gestures.
I make my way back to the coffee bar next to them.
Eavesdropping is an art, one I’ve perfected, and these two are telling me to pay attention.
I stir cream and sugar into my to-go cup as I hear the words: Ritz-Carlton, Key Biscayne.
I pull out my phone and pretend to read messages as I sip my coffee.
The woman says, “My friend works there and said everyone is freaking out. Lots of police activity there.”
I move a step closer.
The woman lowers her voice. “My friend said it washed up on Hobie Beach.”
“What?” the guy next to her says so loudly other guests stop to look.
Both front desk attendants smile, but I catch the look from the woman to the guy.
The other guests move on, and the guy says in a quieter voice. “What washed up?”
I move another step closer, but I know what she is going to say. I know it before the words:
“A woman’s body.”