If it Bleeds, it Leads (An Avery Shaw Mystery) Page 2

I was surprised. "You think this is work-related?"

  "Well, she was shot at work."

  "She was shot!"

  Jake grabbed my elbow roughly. "Can you keep your voice down? I swear to God, you just don't think before you yell."

  "Sorry, I thought she fell or something."

  "No, she didn't fall."

  "Where was she shot?"

  "We think it was right here. We can't find any blood anywhere else."

  "I know that. I mean, where was she shot on her body?"

  "Her chest."

  "How many times?"

  "What? Are you writing a book?"

  "No, I'm just curious. This is what we do. You can't expect us to not be curious. I bet you a hundred bucks I have to write obits and briefs for her today. This is going to suck. Maybe I should fake being sick." I was mostly talking to myself at this point.

  Jake blew out a sigh.

  "What was that for?"

  "You wear on me."

  "Why? Because I want to know how many times she was shot?"

  "No, because every time I talk to you I picture myself beating my own head into a brick wall."

  "That's nice."

  "You remember when we were kids and you created that big media firestorm by taking off into the woods because you were in a snit about that church camp?"

  "I was not in a snit!"

  "Yes, you were. You were convinced they were some sort of weird cult."

  "They were."

  "This reminds me of that situation."

  "Why?"

  "Because back then you weren't even remotely worried about all the people out looking for you. All you were worried about was you."

  "How is that like now?"

  "Because here you have a co-worker dead in front of you and you're worried about how this is going to affect you."

  I opened my mouth to argue -- but part of me recognized the wisdom of his words. Unfortunately, it didn't stop me from arguing.

  "She's beyond caring about obits okay," I said. "Some of us are left here to suffer."

  Jake merely shook his head and walked away.

  Two

  Once I got inside the office I realized that practically everyone who worked there was outside watching the cops do their job. It was eerie – like a tomb. Whoops, better not think of that. I’d just freak myself out.

  Since I'd pretty much had my fill of cops -- and it was only 9:15 a.m. -- I decided to try and sneak in and get my assignment without anyone noticing. Just as a general rule, people tend to annoy the shit out of me on a daily basis.

  If I was lucky, I'd be able to check my email and see what my editor, Fred Fish, had left for me to do for the day and sneak back out before anyone registered my presence. I could only hope he’d managed to hand the assignments out before he realized there was a dead body in the parking lot.

  I'm never that lucky, though.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  Crap, Fish.

  I turned to face him, taking in the fact that he was wearing one of those noisy tracksuits that makes swishy sounds whenever you walk in it. The ‘80s called, they want their tracksuit back. The fact that he was wearing it with a gold plated watch and rings was even more disturbing. He needed a fashion lesson.

  "Why are you wearing that?"

  "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Oh, so many things.

  "Nothing. It's nice. You usually wear a suit, though." He looks like a pit boss in Vegas a lot of the time thanks to his excessive jewelry fascination.

  "Well, in case you forgot, I'm actually not supposed to be here this week," he said. "This is my vacation." I had forgotten. Actually, I’d been looking forward to it. Whenever a co-worker fills in for Fish I can bully them into giving me the assignments I want. People are scared of me for some reason.

  "Then why are you here?"

  Fish regarded me incredulously. I noticed he paused when he took in my new ‘Star Wars’ shirt -- which I had been expressly forbidden to wear last week. It said, “Vader is coming. Everyone look busy.” Ultimately, he didn't say anything about my outfit, though. He did unload about why he was there, however.

  "Why do you think I'm here?"

  "You missed me." Wishful thinking.

  "In case you missed it, there's a dead body in our parking lot. All the other media in the area is going to be descending on us in a few minutes. We are officially the news now."

  Hmm, hadn't though of that.

  "Who's writing the story?"

  Please don't say me. Please don't say me.

  "You are."

  Crap.

  "Why me?"

  "Because I have everyone else assigned to other things and I noticed that you had a pretty clear day."

  That was by design -- better not say that out loud -- whoops, I think I just did.

  "What do you mean it was by design?"

  I studiously started studying my fingernails -- which were painted black and chipping.

  "Oh, let me guess, you thought if you did a bunch of work in advance earlier this week then you could get out of here early and go home and play that new Harry Potter Lego game that came out yesterday?"

  "How do you know about Harry Potter Lego?"

  "You've only been talking about it for the past two weeks."

  Hey, I love Lego video games. Sue me. If I’m being honest, I also love Lego toy sets. I’ve bought every ‘Star Wars’ one ever made, put them together and then displayed them like art in my office. One woman’s Lego set is another’s Picasso.

  "Well . . . "

  "Don't even bother coming up with one of your pathetic lies," Fish admonished me. "You're doing the story and a sidebar."

  A sidebar is a smaller story that accompanies the lead story. It usually has something to do with the main story, but it takes a slightly different angle. They don’t take long to write, but it’s double the work because you have to think of a fresh angle.

  "A sidebar? What do you want for a sidebar? A story on how much it must suck to get killed at your place of work?"

  "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

  The only thing I wanted to figure out was a way out of this assignment.

  Fish must have been reading my mind. "If I see anyone's byline on this story but yours, we're going to have an issue."

  "How big of an issue? Like I'm fired or I have to write obits for a month?" Hey, I'd been looking forward to Harry Potter Lego for months. And, really, obits weren’t that bad. They were tedious and depressing, but this is Harry Potter Lego we’re talking about here.

  "Like you'll be covering the county commission as part of your permanent beat."

  The horror must have registered on my face -- because Fish looked a little too satisfied as he walked away. Given the fact that my least favorite person in the world -- and that's saying something given my genuine disdain for just about everyone -- currently served on the county commission, that would be a new form of hell. My ex-boyfriend Tad Ludington -- better known in my world as they guy I faked orgasms with for two years in college and would like to run over with a car every time I see him today – was not someone I wanted to see on my regular beat. It was bad enough when I had to see him on special occasions.

  As much as I didn't want to cover the dead body in the parking lot, I didn't want to cover the county commission even more. I sighed resignedly. I guess I had no choice.

  I slowly trotted to my desk to grab a notebook and Flip camera. If I was going to do this, I'd have to do it right. You know that old saying, "if it bleeds it leads"? That's really true. I knew this story was going to be the banner headline and if I was going to put my name on it -- I might as well have something that I was proud of.

  Plus, with our new focus on digital coverage for the website, we all had to turn in at least one video a day. Since the cops were right outside, my video would actually be pretty easy. I’d just have to try and be careful not to film too much of the body. This is a family newspaper, after all.

&n
bsp; As I started to make my way back out to the crime scene I was surprised to see the big editor -- Leon Marks -- had entered the building. I did a double take when I saw him because it had been awhile.

  Leon is one of those people that manage to make full-time jobs out of avoiding work. We kept track one year and he called in sick 65 times. Yeah, 65 times, when we were only supposed to have eight sick days in a year. How he managed that is still dumbfounding to all of us.

  On one boring afternoon, my co-workers and I had cast the Macomb Monitor sitcom with larger than life entertainment personalities. Rob Schneider, for example, would play Marvin. Fish would be played by Burt Reynolds. The Polish shyster who usually covered the police beat -- all the while longing to cover the food beat -- would be played by Dom DeLuise. Much to my chagrin, my co-workers had voted that I'd be played by Shannen Doherty -- even though I was blonde. They said it was an "attitude" thing. I was pretty sure that was an insult. Anyway, in that scenario, when it came to casting Leon, we'd gone for the guy who did the voice in the original ‘Charlie's Angel’s’ television show. We'd never actually see him; he'd just occasionally be a voice from a nearby office. We entertained ourselves like that a lot.

  So seeing Leon in the flesh was always something of a novelty. Kind of like seeing a unicorn.

  "Hey, Avery," he greeted me. Despite the fact that he was never there, Leon was always friendly. And, when pressed, he did edit the copy well.

  "Hey Leon. What are you doing here? The dead body?"

  Leon nodded. "Yeah. All management has to come in when there's a dead body."

  "Is that a rule or something?"

  "I think it's an unspoken rule."

  I was quiet a moment. Unless you wanted to talk about obscure books or ancient television shows, Leon wasn't the greatest conversationalist. He was actually semi-young for an editor; I guessed he was only in his mid-40s or so.

  "So who's going to do the obits?" I'm nothing if not practical.

  "I guess we'll call Gertrude back." Leon looked as nonplussed by that situation as I did.

  Gertrude was, for lack of a better word, a kvetch. She just complained about anything and everything. If it was sunny, it was too hot. If it was snowing, it was too cold. Since she'd slipped on the ice several months ago she had been walking on crutches -- although no one could really understand why since she'd only sprained her ankle. She used that injury as -- no pun intended -- a crutch for the ensuing four months. Then she got laid off and suddenly didn’t need the crutches anymore.

  "Well, I guess anything is better than writing obits," I finally said, although there wasn't a lot of belief fueling my admission. "Anyway, I guess I drew the dead body in the parking lot. I better go get to work."

  Leon gave me a small wave as he made his way into his office. If I was a betting person -- which I totally am -- I'd lay odds that we wouldn't see Leon for the rest of the day. He'd hole up in his office and only make his presence known if someone from the front office came in. He'd also be long gone before my story was filed.

  When I went back out into the dead body melee, I noticed that despite the fact that it was only 9:30 a.m., the day was already warming up. That's what happens in southeastern lower Michigan. You freeze in the winter and you melt in the summer. Even in the fall, which we were now in, you had really hot days and really cold nights. Great, I couldn't wait to see how long the cops left Darby's body out in the elements.

  I rejoined the group just in time to see Marvin giving directions to the television news trucks. The sheriff's deputies had blocked off the parking lot -- but I noticed Marvin was pointing down the street to the rear of the Monitor.

  He was smiling when he came over to me.

  "Where did you send them?"

  "Out back."

  "The only thing that's back there is the sewage plant." Yeah, it's a nice neighborhood.

  "I know."

  "Why did you send them back there?"

  "Why not?"

  It's a little known fact, but television and print journalists don't often mix. Television reporters think they're better because they're on television and print journalists think they're better because they actually check facts. I think we're all a bunch of assholes, but that's just me.

  I turned my attention to the cops. I noticed it looked like they had finally loaded Darby's body into a body bag and were in the process of moving it into the waiting ambulance. I looked around for Jake.

  I was a little disgusted when I saw one of the pretty female news reporters run up to him and throw her arms around him like they were on their honeymoon. I didn't know if I was more disgusted by the lack of professionalism or the fact that I'd noticed she was prettier than me.

  It was definitely the lack of professionalism -- I was almost 100 percent sure.

  Jake caught me looking in his direction and I swear his mouth twitched at the look of disgust on my face. Maybe I should go over there and tell her about the time he urinated on a 9-foot tall fiberglass fish and went to jail when we were teenagers. I don't think she'd be too happy to be hugging him then.

  I made my way over to Jake, determined to be professional about the whole situation. After all, he didn't owe me anything. I'm the one who dumped him when I was in college.

  "Sheriff Farrell, are you ready to make a statement?" I had my Flip camera ready.

  "Well, Ms. Shaw, I believe Ms. Washington got to me first." I noticed Jake's gaze never left the plunging vee in Ms. Washington's sweater. Typical man.

  Ms. Washington giggled at Jake's attention. She jiggled when she giggled, by the way. "Oh, you can talk to her first," she cooed. "I still have to get my camera set up."

  "Well, you go do that and I'll be right with you," Jake promised benignly, flashing his dimples at her as she stepped away.

  "I may gag." Had I said that out loud?

  Jake turned his attention from the television reporter's perky boobs to my glaring countenance. When he noticed how irked I was, a genuine smile touched his lips. "Were you saying something?"

  I was saying I thought you were an asshole. "No, I was just waiting for you to finish whatever it is you're doing and come over here and do your job."

  "I was doing my job. Ms. Washington has a job to do here, too. I can manage to give you both what you need."

  I doubt that.

  "Great, I can't wait until you give me what I need." Well, that definitely came out wrong.

  Jake's eyes narrowed suggestively. "What did you have in mind?"

  I realized I was quickly losing control of this situation. I had to exert some sort of control here.

  "Sheriff Farrell, for the record, what was the manner of death?"

  Jake sighed, running his fingers through his hair to make sure he was camera ready for the interview. He can be practical, too. "You never used to be this stuffy."

  "Yeah, well, a lot of things about me used to be different."

  Three

  After finishing the interview with Jake, I realized that I was famished. It took the cops hours to clear the crime scene, so by the time I could leave the office again it was pushing 1 p.m. Since I’d only had a bowl of Fruity Pebbles for breakfast, I was starving.

  Most of my co-workers had already eaten -- sadly, a lot of the Monitor's staff likes to brown bag it for health concerns. Yeah, I don't get it either. Anyway, I figured I could go downtown and get something by myself or call my best friend Carly to join me.

  I immediately decided that a gossip session with Carly would make me feel better about my run-in with Jake earlier. Carly was always more than happy to rag on the people who irritated me. That’s a best friend’s duty, right?

  Carly was game for lunch, saying she'd meet me at our favorite Coney Island in downtown Mount Clemens in 15 minutes. She worked as an accountant for one of the biggest insurance providers in the area. It sounded like boring work, but it suited Carly and she always got a lot of paid time off – including extended lunch hours whenever she wanted them.

  C
arly and I went to college together, being forced into the same dorm as roommates our sophomore year of college. We both thought we'd hate each other -- but a drunken night of canned pickled beets solved that problem. We'd been pretty much inseparable ever since – even though we really didn’t have a lot in common.

  Currently, Carly was back living with her parents for the next few weeks before she married her college sweetheart, Kyle. The road to marriage hadn't been a smooth one for Carly -- and I'd lost track of how many times the day had been ostensibly called off. Much of the drama stemmed from Kyle's mom and Carly's dad -- neither liked the possibility of what kind of family their child would be marrying into.

  Downtown Mount Clemens is one of those metropolitan areas that never quite “grew up.” It’s got an old town feel, with quaint and folksy storefronts and even a cobblestone one-way street that cuts a swathe through a portion of the downtown area. If I’m being truthful, I think whoever designed the town was a rampant drunk – because the way it’s set up isn’t exactly conducive to smooth traffic pattern.

  I parked downtown, feeling lucky that I got a spot near the Coney Island. That was actually a lucky thing this time of day – especially given the Coney’s close proximity to the courthouse.

  As I walked the block down to the restaurant, I found myself passing the town’s pawnshop, which was run by the uberhot Eliot Kane. I’d met Eliot a few months ago when I’d been in the market for a gun (I was being threatened by a madman – it’s a long story). We’d spent a week running into each other – and we were mostly dressed each time. We’d even had a steamy encounter in my bedroom that was ultimately unfulfilling for both of us. Then, after my problems with the crazy guy trying to kill me went away, so did Eliot. He just seemed to lose interest.

  Of course, I didn’t care at all. He may have been hot but, like most men, he was infuriatingly bossy. Who needs that?

  As I passed by his store, I found myself looking in out of curiosity. I was just looking to see if he had gotten any new merchandise – honest – I didn’t care if he was in there or not.

  He was.

  He looked up just as I was passing by – making eye contact. I was torn about whether or not to wave at him. As I was making my split-second decision, the toe of my black and purple Nikes caught on the seam of the sidewalk and I pitched forward to the ground in what can only be called a less than graceful heap.