Triple Threat Page 16

  “Negative. It took a great deal of searching but I finally found the piece online. It’s a limited edition, made almost entirely of gold. Limited because the young, up-and-coming artist was tragically killed after just five were made, which significantly increased its value.”

  “To what?”

  “About half a million dollars.”

  Charlie whistled, picked up the picture to study it more closely. “Hardly looks like it would be worth that much.” He placed the pic back inside the folder and slid the folder across the desk.

  “I’d like to title the month’s piece either ‘March Murders’ or ‘March Memories,’ a play on March Madness, which will bridge February’s focus on Christian and basketball with this new piece.”

  “I don’t see the connection, and even with the pregnancy information, which, since confidential, was probably illegally obtained and therefore impossible to print for fear of a lawsuit, I don’t see much new in the way of Leigh’s death.”

  “Just the title,” Mallory calmly replied. “March Murders. March Madness. I know, a stretch, but one that segues back into the types of stories that those who read my column have come to expect.”

  “Yes, and it was ruled a suicide.”

  She placed her palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Leigh did not kill herself, Charlie. I would bet my life on that. She was murdered, and the fact that she was pregnant offers a possible motive as to why. The news of her pregnancy can easily be attributed to an anonymous source but if pushed to defend the content, I have solid proof. Sharing this information with the public might put enough pressure on the NYPD that they reopen her case and go after her killer.”

  “If you feel that strongly, take what you have to the police. That’s where what you’ve uncovered belongs, not in this paper. I’m fine with you returning to what you do best, but you’re going to have to find a subject other than Leigh Jackson. I know she was your friend, but she’s dead. And so is this topic. I know that’s tough, kid, but that is the hard, cold fact. Don’t bring it up again, all right? I won’t change my mind.”

  Mallory left Charlie’s office and headed for the exit. Paparazzi or no, she needed fresh air. She was angry, spent, her mind was in turmoil. Bypassing the elevators, she took the stairs, thinking so hard she felt her brain might explode. She’d always thought Leigh killing herself was impossible. But was it? What if Charlie was right? What if the father had rejected the baby and ended the relationship? Leigh was a hopeless romantic who’d been excited and happy about her secret love. She’d even alluded to having caught a big fish. Had she thought a baby big enough bait to reel him in? Had she been wrong? Could he have ended their affair and sent her into a downward spiral that resulted in suicide?

  She exited the building through a side door, ignored the frigid temperatures and the fact that she’d left her coat in Charlie’s office, and walked up one block and down the other. No way could she go to the police. She’d watched them in action. Been at the scene of Leigh’s death, one that for them pointed to suicide but to Mallory screamed foul play. By the time she returned to the front of the building her head was clear and her mind was made up. Leigh was capable of doing some crazy shit, but suicide wasn’t one of them. Charlie said there was no place for the story in New York News. There were other papers. Mallory was going to write the story and see if anyone would print it. She wasn’t going to stop until somebody listened.

  She walked back into the office calm and collected. Only then did she notice the coworkers she passed. The nudges to each other, subtle glances and smirks. She went to the break room for a bottle of water. Conversation stopped when she entered. Knowing looks. Ignoring them all, she went to her desk. There was a story to write. She reached it to discover a present left on her chair. A Christian Graham bobble head had been placed on her seat with a typed note taped to its crotch. Mallory’s new prober’s pen.

  Haters.

  She changed her mind about writing the story on office property or on company time and instead focused on the new subject for the March series that would launch on Friday. It was about another single professional, female, who’d disappeared on her birthday after a night at the bar. She channeled her anger into a mad creative flow, and titled the series “March Mystery.” She worked on the piece for the rest of the day and that night. The next day she went into the office early, planning to get in a few hours before her coworkers arrived and tried to chill her creative juices the way they had the day before. It was just after eight, but when she arrived both George and Lima were already there. Even though they’d been nasty, Mallory took the high road and spoke as she entered, carrying a large latte with three espresso shots in one hand and a bagel in another.

  George snorted. Lima gave Mallory her back and began typing on her computer. Mallory shrugged and kept it moving. She didn’t have time for petty office politics. As much as she liked her colleagues, they could go the rest of all their lives without speaking to her and she wouldn’t lose any sleep.

  “Heard you’re working on some big story.” George spoke without addressing her by name. “That that’s why you’ve been spending so much time away from the office.”

  “Always working on a big one, George.”

  “A big dick maybe,” Lima muttered under her breath.

  “Excuse me? I don’t think I caught that.”

  She said it in a tone that suggested that not only had she heard it but that if the comment were repeated, things might get ugly.

  “Never mind,” Lima replied coyly, turning around to give Mallory a sickeningly sweet fake grin and exchange a look with George. The two laughed. Mallory bit her tongue to remain quiet. She could hear Leigh telling her to not let the haters see her sweat. Leigh never did. Even her closest friends, like Mallory, never knew if or when anything was amiss. Had that not been the case, she may still be alive.

  Mallory looked at the clock. Five after nine. She settled into her seat and pounded out back-to-back articles on subjects she knew well, had written about before, and wanted to update. Women who were loved and missed by their friends and families the same way that Mallory missed her friend Leigh. She felt good about the series, like she was providing a service for the families that was harder for them to do by themselves. She was keeping their loved one alive in the paper, and hopefully fanning the flames of justice into a fire. She worked hard for New York News, and before leaving she sent the rough draft of that week’s column over to Charlie. Then she left, walked to a coffee shop two blocks away and wrote another column. An article about another murder mystery, for another paper, one that she knew firsthand tripped over ethics to grab high circulation. Mallory opened a new document, came up with a name, and began writing an op-ed piece that she hoped would make it over a bridge that she’d almost burned. The piece was short, word count less than a thousand. Yet it took Mallory longer to write it than others twice as long. Every word counted. Every sentence mattered. She read it, reread it, walked around the block and then read it again. When she pressed send she was satisfied that the truth had been written. Now all she could do was watch and wait.

  24

  The next day Mallory stopped at the corner and purchased the rival paper to the New York News, the New York Reporter. It was the paper she’d left after her boss printed a piece that maligned her dead friend’s name, and the one she hoped would now help clear it and catch the man who killed her. She leaned against a pole and went straight to the op-ed page, looking for her article, hoping it got printed. Usually writers were contacted when what they submitted was chosen, but that hadn’t happened. She’d used a pseudonym with false contact information.

  It wasn’t there. The next day either. By Friday she figured it wouldn’t get printed, for that scumbag Rob Anderson to print evidence of a murder on a subject he suggested had committed suicide was an act too decent for him to commit.

  She didn’t purchase a paper that morning. She put on her earbuds and got lost in jazz. That night when the train came she flo
pped into a seat and pulled out her phone to play a game. When it came to reviving interest in Leigh’s murder, Mallory had tried and failed. She was back to square one, out of options, and felt her passion slipping, too. She shifted when the woman beside her opened her paper and crowded Mallory’s very limited space. Agitated, she gave her a look and began to rise. That’s when she saw it. An article at the top of the op-ed page with a name that she recognized: the pseudonym she’d used on the article about Leigh’s murder—Z. D. Woods. Mallory jumped off the train at the next stop, rushed up the stairs, and bought a paper from the first kiosk she saw. Two doors down was a fast food joint. She grabbed the first chair at the first available table and opened up the paper. The title she’d chosen leaped from the page:

  Suicide by Murder—A Mystery Unsolved

  Last January, broadcast journalist Leigh Jackson was found dead with an empty pill bottle and two wine glasses near her naked body. Two wine glasses and an empty bottle of opioids in the home of a woman who’d balk at even taking an aspirin and was so conscious of her appearance that she’d never strip nude knowing that her body may be found by strangers. Yet in less than a week the death was ruled a suicide and her case was closed. More than one year later, the question still being asked is why? Why such a rush to close out the case? Why no inquiries into her love life, her professional life, into the possibility of enemies made along the way? Jackson was known to socialize with an A-list crowd. Movie premieres. Front row for concerts. Floor seats to watch her favorite New York Navigators. Could it be that her love for the high life clashed with her job of uncovering facts and delivering news? Could she have been on to a breaking news story so explosive that it cost her life? Her killer knows.

  Mallory finished the article and sat back, satisfied. The truth as she knew it, as she’d researched and investigated it, was out, done in a way in which no one was named or exposed directly but so an astute New Yorker could connect the dots. Yes! Finally, Leigh’s death will get a second look. It had to. After what she’d written, the public would demand it. She felt like celebrating. She sent a text to her girls, then headed out into the cool night air. Halfway to the subway station her message indicator beeped once, then again. She paused to check them before going below. There were a lot of options where she was on Third Street. Maybe her friends would want to meet there.

  The first one was from Ava. She tapped to open it.

  Celebrate? Call ASAP. You must not have read Rob’s

  Op-Ed yet.

  Rob’s Op-Ed? He wrote one? Frowning, Mallory tapped the message icon again. The second one was from Sam and sounded even more troubled.

  Good Lord, Mallory. What have you done?

  Mallory trudged down the subway steps, instead of skipping the way she thought she would just seconds ago. The train arrived when she did. She entered the car, steadied herself against a pole, and turned back to the page that she’d marked with a crease. A title beneath the article she’d written and read immediately caught her eye, and held it—“A Dark and Lonely Knight” by Rob Anderson.

  How had it happened that she’d missed it before? Mallory didn’t know, and anyway it didn’t matter. Even before reading the first word of the piece, her blood ran cold.

  A Dark and Lonely Knight

  The other day the New York Reporter received an op-ed piece from a writer named Z. D. Woods. Even though the contact information appeared to be falsified, we decided to print the piece, which was titled, ‘Suicide by Murder.” We felt reasonably sure that the name Woods was possibly a pseudonym meant to protect the true identity of the writer and also, that the perspective offered regarding one of New York’s own might be of interest to our readers.

  Writers choose anonymity for several reasons. Perhaps he or she works for a competitive newspaper who refused to run the story. Or maybe they’d recently won an award, the Prober’s Pen for instance, and didn’t want to be tied to a tabloid-style article. Or maybe the writer didn’t want to be sued by high-profile celebrities, people like Christian Graham, at least allegedly.

  She closed the paper and found a seat, stunned by a move she never saw coming. Her ex-boss had stabbed her professionally again. This time, it might be lethal.

  Mallory reached Brooklyn but instead of her brownstone, she knocked on Ava’s door.

  “Get in here,” Ava urged after using the peephole, grabbing Mallory’s arm to bring her in faster. “I’ve been waiting for your call!”

  Mallory walked in like a zombie and fell on the couch. “I thought I’d dotted every i and crossed every t. But I jumped in a cesspool with a shark, and he bit me in the ass.”

  Ava returned from with the kitchen with two glasses. Mallory didn’t even ask what it was, just turned it up and swallowed.

  Ava sat down beside her, the boisterousness of her greeting now subdued and quiet. “What happened?”

  Mallory told her about the meeting with Charlie, how she’d gotten upset and come up with what she thought was a foolproof alternative. “I thought my tracks were covered, and that even if Rob detected my writing he wouldn’t print the piece if he disagreed. I never thought he’d print it and then go after me publicly. I should have known.”

  “Hell, Mal, you did know.”

  “You’re right. I let my emotions get in the way of common sense and sound journalism. Now it’s out there in the atmosphere, and there is nothing I can do.”

  “Do you think Charlie has seen it yet?”

  “No. I’ll probably get a call the second he does. Saying I’ve been fired and to come get my shit on Monday.”

  “I wish I could disagree with you, but giving a story to a rival paper, one he told you not to write? That’s a hard hurdle to jump over, Mal. Damn, I wish you’d run it past me or Sam before sending it over.”

  “Sad to say, I do too now. Hindsight is a bitch.”

  Mallory sat up suddenly and jumped off the couch. “You know what? I take that back. I don’t want to lose my job at the News, but I’m not sad about writing that article. I don’t feel bad that it got printed. Every word in what was printed can be backed up, and even so, all of the possible theories were ‘alleged. ’ More than that, it’s not an article but an op-ed piece. My thoughts. My opinion. Freedom of speech is mine by right. No one can take that away from me.

  “Charlie told me not to write about Leigh in my column. He didn’t say anything about writing it for someone else, especially published under a pseudo. It’s not my fault that my name got connected to Z. D. Woods. Rob Anderson did that.” Mallory began pacing. “I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Sue his ass. He had no right to expose me like that.”

  “Like you, he used the word ‘alleged.’”

  “Got damn, Ava, whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, which is why, good, bad, or ugly, I’m going to tell you the truth. And the truth is . . . you’ve fucked up.”

  As if to prove her point, Mallory’s phone rang. Charlie. She didn’t want to take the call. But ignoring the scandal brewing wouldn’t make it go away. Mallory looked at Ava and answered the call. She put it on speaker, expecting bad news, and giving Ava a front row seat to the execution.

  “Hi, Charlie. I can explain.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Mal? You go against my direct orders not to write about Jackson and then screw me in the ass by taking the story to our biggest competition. The one who dug your friend’s grave and now has one to put you in?”

  “Rob had no right to do what he did and connect me to an article written by Z. D. Woods.”

  “Save the bullshit, Mallory. I know what I read. That piece has your style all over it. And your passion. Contains the information you tried to shove down my throat.”

  “All circumstantial. There’s nothing to prove that article came from me. When my attorney is done with Rob, he’s going to understand that.”

  “Oh, so you’re a got damn attorney now? On top of being an investigator and an honorary member of the NYPD? Do you know what kind of firestorm you’ve ca
used with the execs, the kind of shit raining down on my head from your obsession? I won’t even start with the repercussions you’ll face from Graham’s camp, let alone the millions who worship him!”

  “I never mentioned Graham.”

  “Mention him? You sent a got damn picture of the guy!”

  “As proof that the two knew each other. I never thought he’d print it.” Mallory took a breath. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I never meant to get you involved.”

  “You didn’t, but I am, up to my got damn ears. And I can assure you that he is, too! I have some news for you, though. You won’t have to worry about involving me again, because as of this moment, you’re fired.”

  “Charlie, wait!”

  “Come by on Monday to get your things. Security will be ready to escort you in and out of the building. I took a chance on you. Believed in you. You had everything in here, could write your future. Because of this obsession you’ve thrown it away. Hope it’s worth it, kid. Goodbye.”

  “Charlie, wait—”

  He didn’t. The line went dead. Silence screamed in the room. Ava walked over, pulled Mallory into a hug. “That was brutal. I’m sorry.”

  “I deserved it.” Mallory broke the embrace and crossed the room. “I betrayed a trust. Acted like a rogue journalist. I deserved to be fired.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Mallory crossed her arms and looked out the window. “I have no idea.”

  Her phone beeped again. “It’s Christian. Fuck.”

  “Don’t answer it.”

  Mallory pushed talk and the speaker button. “Mallory Knight.”

  “You have the nerve to answer after the shit you pulled? Asking if I knew somebody when you had a picture of the two of us together? And thinking she might have had something on me, something bad enough for me to have her killed?”