Headlines & Deadlines (An Avery Shaw Mystery Book 7) Read online

  Headlines & Deadlines

  An Avery Shaw Mystery

  Book Six

  By Amanda M. Lee

  Text copyright © 2015 Amanda M. Lee

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  To my dad, who never once complained about buying me the Millennium Falcon instead of a Cabbage Patch Kid.

  Prologue

  1999

  “I don’t want to touch it!”

  “You’re going to touch it.”

  “I don’t want to. It’s … gross!”

  Grandpa made a face, one that bordered on murderous, and then sucked in a calming breath. We were fishing. It was supposed to be a relaxing afternoon. Whoever suggested taking two nine-year-olds out onto a pond in a small aluminum boat and trying to force them to thread worms onto hooks without snagging their fingers was going to pay when Grandpa got us back to town. One look at his irritated face guaranteed me that.

  “It’s not gross,” Grandpa said, tipping his canvas hat back on his head so he could study us. “It’s … a great way to spend the afternoon. Well, at least it should be. It’s usually much quieter. Still, I’m convinced we’re going to have a good time … just as soon as you two stop squawking.”

  “Whoever told you that this was going to be fun lied.” My cousin Derrick crossed his arms over his chest, frustrated. “This is supposed to be a man’s sport. She’s not a man.”

  I narrowed my eyes, doing my best impression of my mother when someone told her that polyester was an acceptable fabric, and jutted out my lower lip. “If you’re such a man, how come you won’t bait your own hook?”

  Grandpa chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He was raised during a time when men did manly things – like fishing, shooting guns and golfing – and women did womanly things – like cleaning, trying on shoes and nagging – and yet he’d still brought me along for the afternoon trip. I had a feeling he was afraid of my mother’s “look,” even if he’d never admit it. He didn’t want to take a girl fishing. He didn’t want to argue with every female in the family even more, though.

  Because Derrick and I were only nine months apart in age, we were often lumped together. He was the oldest boy and I was the oldest girl. We had several female cousins three years behind us, but we were the alphas. Right now, though, he was acting like a baby. The only thing missing was a diaper.

  “Stop whining,” Grandpa ordered, extending his index finger in Derrick’s direction. “Avery has already caught two fish. You haven’t even baited your own hook yet. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Why is he embarrassing you?” I asked, genuinely confused. “He’s scared of the worms. I can bait the hook for him.”

  “He doesn’t want to touch the fish either,” Grandpa pointed out. “He says they’re slimy.”

  “They are slimy.”

  “You touched them,” Grandpa said.

  “I’m a superhero,” I explained. “I have to touch them. I can’t look like a baby.”

  “Well, I don’t want Derrick to look like a baby either.”

  “He is a baby,” I said. “He can’t help it.”

  “You’re a baby,” Derrick snapped, smacking my arm. “You shouldn’t even be here. I heard Grandpa telling your mom that all you were going to do was complain.”

  “And yet she’s the one who will bait a hook,” Grandpa grumbled under his breath.

  “I want to go home,” I announced.

  “Why? I thought you were having fun?” We’d been on the pond for exactly twenty minutes though it probably felt like twenty years to Grandpa. He had his own look when he was annoyed, and it was firmly in place now.

  “You don’t want me here,” I said. “Derrick just told me.” I already knew he didn’t want to take me. I’m nosy. I listened to the argument, too. I figured if I made enough of a stink someone would offer me something better to do. That never happened, so I was stuck fishing. This was my out.

  “Derrick is making that up,” Grandpa said.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  Grandpa sighed, exasperated. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a piece of work? All women are pains in the ass, but I have a feeling you’re going to take the cake.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You hurt my feelings.”

  “I think you’re making that up,” Grandpa said.

  “Are you saying you want me here?”

  “I … .”

  “I want to go home,” I said. “I don’t want to be anywhere I’m not wanted and you don’t want me here because I’m not a boy. I’m not stupid.”

  “No one would ever accuse you of being stupid,” Grandpa said. “In fact, I think you’re too smart for your own good. You manipulated me into bringing you out here, then you bossed Derrick around until you pushed him over the edge, and now you’re pitching a fit to go home.

  “This is all working out great for you,” he said.

  “I want ice cream, too,” I said, ignoring his outburst. He swore like a trucker, yelled like a football coach, and caved like man who hated being nagged. I knew exactly how to play him.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have brought her,” Derrick said. “She ruined everything.”

  “Avery … .” Grandpa knit his salt-and-pepper eyebrows together. “Can’t you just enjoy fishing and keep your mouth shut? Is that too much to ask?”

  It was way too much to ask. “I want ice cream now!” I stomped my foot in the bottom of the boat, a dull thud sure to frighten every fish in the vicinity.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re bossy?” Grandpa asked, making a face. “You’re bossy and you’re a bully. That’s not a very attractive combination.”

  “Ice cream,” I ordered.

  “Fine,” Grandpa said, giving in. “You know you’re not going to get away with this … thing … you do for the rest of your life, right? Sooner or later you’re going to run into someone who bullies you right back, and then we’ll see how funny you think this is.”

  I tilted my head, considering his statement. “I want sprinkles, too.”

  “Women,” Grandpa muttered.

  “I blame you for this,” Derrick said, scowling at Grandpa. “My whole weekend has been ruined.”

  “You’re as bad as a woman,” Grandpa said, scorching him with a look. “At least she baits a hook.”

  “I’m dying here,” I prodded him.

  “We’re going,” Grandpa said. “I … there are no words for how bossy you are, though.”

  He should have recognized the trait. I got it from him. “Can’t you go any faster? If this takes too long I’m going to tell Grandma you were mea
n to me.”

  “Typical woman.”

  And that’s exactly when I realized life is always better when you get your own way.

  One

  “I don’t want to go,” I announced, fixing my boss with my best “if you try to make me do this you’ll regret it” look.

  Fred Fish has been managing editor of Macomb County’s lone daily newspaper, The Monitor, for twenty years. He’s used to petulant reporters. Quite frankly, there’s no other kind of reporter – no matter what anyone tells you. We’re all social experiments gone awry. The business breeds loners, losers and weirdos. It also attracts rampant narcissists and prima donnas. I count myself in three of those groups. I’ll let you guess which ones.

  My name is Avery Shaw, and I’m a newspaper reporter in southeastern Michigan. I’m also an enthusiastic movie buff and rampant complainer, but no one needs to hear me brag about my virtues.

  “Why don’t you want to go?” Fish asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as he mustered whatever patience he had left. Given the personalities in our newsroom, and the fact that it was midday, his temper was already on low boil. “I want a decent excuse, and ‘because I don’t want to’ is not an acceptable one.”

  Well, there went my best argument. I opted for something different: logic. “I don’t think this is the best way to utilize my talents,” I said. “Think about it: While a senior pageant show at the community college does make a great photo package, it’s also geared toward someone who isn’t a hard news dynamo.”

  “Your ego never ceases to amaze me,” Fish said.

  That’s what I was going for. “I simply think that one of your other quality staff members – Duncan, for example – would be better geared for this particular assignment.”

  Duncan Marlow was something of a hybrid in the newsroom. He was supposed to handle page layout duties, but he fancied himself a world-class writer, so he was always asking for assignments he thought would garner him attention. He was also something of a hybrid when it came to the personality department. He was one-third tool, one-third jerkoff and one-third deranged attention seeker. You’d think I would like that in a person, but you’d be wrong. If I could get out of an assignment I didn’t want to do – and foist it upon him at the same time – I would consider that an afternoon well spent.

  “I know you don’t want to cover the pageant,” Fish said. “We’re partners in the promotion, though, and that means we have to cover it. You know how advertising works on these things.”

  I did. That didn’t mean I wanted to be the sacrificial advertorial lamb. “Duncan acts like a crotchety old man,” I tried again. “Those old women are going to eat him up. We both know they don’t like me. They think I dress like a bum and swear like a sailor.”

  “You do both of those things,” Fish said, nonplussed.

  I glanced down at my green cargo pants and Converse and made a face. “I dressed up for you today.”

  “I really like the shirt you’re wearing,” Fish said, not missing a beat. “I’m not sure what it means, but I’m sure it’s something filthy.”

  “It’s just a Star Wars shirt.”

  “It says ‘Looking for love in Alderaan places.’ That’s an incest joke. I’m not so old I don’t remember those movies.”

  “I … .” He was right. I hate it when he’s right. “Those old women are really going to hate incest jokes,” I pointed out.

  Fish sighed. “Fine. If you don’t want to go to the pageant then you have to come up with another assignment to replace it … and you have to do it in less than five minutes. If you don’t come up with anything acceptable in that time frame you’re going to the pageant and you’re going to be pleasant.”

  That didn’t sound likely. Still … . “I’ll find something right now.”

  “I get to approve the assignment,” Fish said. “If I don’t like what you come up with you’re going to the pageant.”

  “That sounds like a trap,” I grumbled.

  “Live with it.”

  I shot him a dark look and shuffled over to the fax machine, my mind busy. Could I come up with a story in five minutes? Was I above faking illness to get out of covering a senior pageant? If I did fake an illness, would it be crass to start yelling about tampons in front of everyone? I was still lost in devious thought when I caught sight of an official-looking news release in the stack at the fax machine. I dumped everything else back into the rack and scanned the release, my heart flopping when I realized what I was reading.

  “I found a story.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” Fish said. “Just for the record, your belief that an alien race is infiltrating local car dealerships doesn’t count.”

  “I didn’t say I believed that,” I countered. “I said I dreamed about it – and that often my dreams come true. Keep up.”

  Fish furrowed his brow. “What do you have there?” He pointed at the release in my hand. “Did you actually come up with a legitimate story?”

  I was about to amaze him. “Did you know the county was putting together a new crime prevention team?”

  “No,” Fish said, reaching for the sheet of paper. “I … huh. They’re announcing the new Technical Operations and Options League in the lobby of the county building tonight.”

  Something occurred to me. “Technical Operations and Options League?”

  “That’s what it says,” Fish said, missing my enthusiasm. “It’s going to be a separate unit autonomous from the sheriff’s department. It says they don’t have to run things through the sheriff’s department, but the sheriff’s department has to share information with them. This sounds as if it’s more of an attack on Jake than anything else.”

  Was he missing the punch line of the news release? “Technical Operations and Options League,” I repeated, slowly.

  “I heard it the first time you said it … and I read it myself,” Fish replied, nonplussed. “Why are you focused on the name?”

  “Because it spells ‘tool.’”

  Fish wrinkled his nose. “You’re right.”

  I’m always right. “That has to be on purpose, right? Why would the county create a separate crime league when finances are so bad?”

  Like many Michigan government entities, money is an issue in Macomb County. Every tax hike gets voted down and every politician pleads poverty when it comes to roads, schools and help for the needy. As a way to combat financial issues, Macomb County voters opted to modify the previous county government. Instead of a board of county commissioners they voted in a county executive as the top elected leadership. This allowed the board to be reduced by half its members and the county executive to obtain most of the power while the surviving board members preen for the cameras and decry the end of civilization as we know it.

  It might not sound like it, but I love covering county politics. I’m a big fan of soap operas, and there’s nothing better than watching adults stab each other in the back while proclaiming that they’re doing it for the good of their constituents. A new crime board sounded as if it could be a lot of fun, especially when I start pulling funding documents. I couldn’t wait.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The Monitor’s new publisher, Jim MacDonald, poked his head into the newsroom. Sometimes I think he has a sixth sense for when I’m happy because that’s usually when he shows up to pee on my parade.

  Fish shoved the release into MacDonald’s hand and waited for him to respond. MacDonald’s eyes were wide by the time he was done reading. “Is this for real?”

  “Unless Avery made it up – which I’m not ruling out because she doesn’t want to cover a senior pageant at the college – I think it’s real,” Fish said.

  “This could be huge,” MacDonald said. “How can they possibly justify spending money on this?”

  “I think it has to be a way to go after Farrell,” Fish said.

  My ears perked up at the mention of my ex-boyfriend. In addition to being my high school sweetheart, Jake Farrell was Maco
mb County’s beloved sheriff. While most of the residents adored him – he won in a landslide every election – some government officials hated him because he refused to back down when it came to requesting funds for his deputies. Whenever budget cuts were in the works, Jake took his argument to the people, and the people responded by deluging anyone trying to cut police officers and resources with nasty letters and phone calls. I had to hand it to Jake: When it comes to taking down a politician, he knows how to do it.

  “Who would be stupid enough to go after Jake?” I asked. “Every politico in the county knows that taking him on is a death sentence when it’s time for re-election. What moron would go after him now?”

  Fish lifted a white eyebrow. “Did you read this whole thing, or did you stop when you realized the group’s acronym is TOOL?”

  How should I answer that question? “You took it away from me before I had a chance to finish it.” A good lie is always better than a bad truth.

  Fish rolled his eyes. “The person leading this group is not a politician,” Fish said. “Well, I should be clearer … the person leading this group is no longer a politician.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Your mortal enemy.” Fish was grim.

  “I have a lot of mortal enemies. I keep a list on the refrigerator. I have to keep adding names to it, but it’s always an exciting day when I get to cross one off.”

  “Who is at the top of that list?” Fish asked.

  “Tad Ludington.” Speaking of ex-boyfriends, he’s the guy I dated after breaking up with Jake. He’s got a small package – and I’m talking about what he houses in his cranium and his pants – and he overcompensates by standing in the middle of rooms and screaming “look at me” while tugging on his genitals. Okay, I might be making that last part up. That’s always what I envision, though.

  Fish pressed his lips together. When I realized why, I almost exploded. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Ludington was voted off the board of commissioners. He has no standing in local politics. He can’t be … doing this.”

  “His name is on the release,” Fish said, grabbing the sheet of paper from MacDonald and handing it back to me. “I’m dying to know how he did this. We all thought he was politically done.”