Morgan, it turned out, was a detective who routinely worked murder investigations. Unfortunately, the Melissa Baxter murder-suicide wasn’t his case. He said he knew the detectives working the case, though, and claimed he would see what he could do, but when Jeff relayed this information to Ashley-she had only heard Jeff’s side of the conversation-he didn’t sound hopeful.
“Thanks for trying at least,” she said.
“No problem.” He slipped his cell phone back in his pocket. “Now how about we go back out there and try to get some work done?”
But she didn’t know what she was going to work on now. Back at her desk, she trudged through her email but didn’t find any of it interesting. Celebrity sightings, fashion faux pas-who really gave a shit? She certainly didn’t. She acted like she did, yes, because that was her job, but when you considered the bigger picture-stuff like life and death-the mundaneness and narcissism of celebrity life was a drain on the soul.
An hour passed, then another hour, Ashley simply killing time at her desk, occasionally finding herself crying and quickly wiping the tears away with a tissue so nobody would notice, when Jeff poked his head up over her cubicle.
“Got something.” He started to step inside but paused, frowning at her. “Are you okay?”
She wondered whether or not her mascara had run. “I’m fine. What’s up?”
He leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed again, his usual pose. He gave one quick cautious glance around the newsroom before he spoke, his voice low. “So Morgan called me back. He said he asked around and managed to find out some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, you were right about the death threat. Baxter received one last week, and even though she wanted to write it off, her office put protection on her.”
“Right. That’s nothing new.”
“They had people on her twenty-four-seven. Not in her apartment, mind you, but there was an officer stationed in the lobby. They also have cameras on all the exits and in the hallways. They have video of her walking out of her apartment and taking the elevator up to the top floor, then getting off and finding the stairs to the roof. She was alone.”
It wasn’t until then that Ashley realized she had been kidding herself. Of course Melissa was alone. Of course nobody had been involved-not Timothy Carrozza, not some phantom masked man, not anybody. There was no grand conspiracy. She had known Melissa for nearly ten years, it was true, but that didn’t mean she had known everything there was to know about her friend. Tom was right: sometimes we don’t know people as well as we like to think we do.
“She shot her husband first in the bedroom. My guy thinks the husband must have seen her coming at him with the gun and tried to run away. He was shot twice in the back. Then the kids-” He shook his head, took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
Swallowing, trying to hold back tears, Ashley nodded.
“The one boy was shot and killed in the hallway. My guy thinks he may have heard the shots and ran out to see what happened. The other boy was shot and killed in his bed.”
A tear fell down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. “Nobody heard the shots?”
“Two neighbors did. Both claim they called 911, but there’s no record of either call.”
“How is that possible?”
“No idea. But listen, there’s more. Morgan said it’s still unclear whether she did it before or after the husband and kids were dead, but she wrote a suicide note. He couldn’t tell me what it said-apparently the detective he talked to wouldn’t even indulge that information-but it was an email. She sent it about a minute before the camera has her coming out of her apartment to head up to the roof.”
“She sent an email? To whom?”
“Her mother and siblings. I guess she had a few brothers and sisters? Morgan said those were the only recipients.”
“Holy shit,” Ashley said. “There hasn’t been any word about that?”
“So far the police are keeping it real tight. Morgan made me promise to keep it off the record, and he threatened to kill me if I broke that promise. He’s a big guy, too, so I don’t doubt him. You can’t tell anyone this.”
“But what about her mother and siblings? None of them have come forward yet?”
“Morgan said they’re still trying to contact them. They’re asking all of them to keep it private for the time being.” He paused. “Ashley?”
She had been staring off into space, thinking things over. Now she blinked and looked at him. “What?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“One of her brothers lives in the city.”
“Okay,” Jeff said slowly, drawing each syllable out longer than was needed.
“We could track him down.”
“Ashley-”
“We could ask him about the email. See what she wrote.”
“Ashley-”
“You said someday maybe I’ll understand what it’s like to be a real journalist, didn’t you?”
Despite his dark features, his face seemed to flush. “You know I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes you did. But that’s okay. I’ve never really been a true journalist. But this? This could be the scoop every journalist dreams of.”
“Even if we managed to track him down and he lets us see the email, what then? What will it prove?”
“Nothing, maybe. But at least we’ll know why she did it.”
Jeff shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
He sighed. “Fine, what’s his name?”
“That,” Ashley said, “might be our first roadblock.”
Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s a pretty common name.”
“Why, what is?”
thirteen
“John Smith, as I live and breathe.”
“Hey, Kyle.”
“What are you doing here on a week day? Shouldn’t you be zooming around on your bicycle trying not to get killed by taxis?”
I smile as I approach the counter of the Book Basement, Kyle Burch sitting on the stool. He’s an older dude in his sixties, bushy gray eyebrows, always wears suspenders, carries a cane though he doesn’t like using it. He’s been working at the Basement for what seems like forever, has the oncoming tremors of Parkinson’s, which are evident when he extends his hand to shake mine.
“Seriously, John, what brings you in today?”
“Didn’t Jim call you?”
Jim’s our boss, the owner of the bookstore.
“He didn’t. Why?”
“I have the day off, volunteered to come in. Jim said I could take your shift if you wanted to take a personal day.”
“I suppose Jim will pay me, too?”
I make a face, shrug, my way of trying to make light of the situation. In all honesty, Kyle needs the hours just as much as me. We don’t make that much working here, but it’s something, and in this economy, something is more than nothing.
“I just wanted to throw out the offer. I mean, I can see that you’re swamped with customers.”
He laughs. “There’s only so much computer solitaire I can play in one day.”
It’s ten in the morning, and a quick glance around shows that we’re dead. Truth is, the foot traffic isn’t very high at the Basement. We sell rare and used books, but most of the clientele-or at least the clientele that brings in the big bucks-order their books online. We ship anywhere, and some of the rare books are worth thousands of dollars. It’s what keeps the business going in a time when more and more people are moving away from printed books.
“Actually, I could take the day off.” Kyle picks up his cane. “Denise was having one of her bad mornings when I left. I hate to leave her, but, well, you know …”
I’ve never met Kyle’s wife Denise, but I’ve heard stories and seen pictures. She sounds like a great woman, who, over the past few years, developed a severe case of small fiber neuropathy. While Kyle came to work during the day, Denise was stuck at home, all of her nerves dying, making it incredibly painful to do anything other than sit on the couch and watch TV.