Just behind Kenny, O’Shea eyed the closed three-ring binder on the cocktail table.
“You’re the guy who won the award, didn’t you?” Micah asked, working hard to hold Kenny’s attention.
“The Pulitzer,” Kenny replied dryly.
“So you were there that day?” Micah asked.
“At the racetrack? There were plenty of us there.”
“But you’re the one who took the photo, right? The Cowardly Lion photo?”
“I’m sorry,” Kenny said, turning back toward O’Shea, “but until you tell me what you’re looking for, I don’t think I shou—”
A hushed hiss carved through the air, and a dark red bullet hole singed Kenny’s skin as it pierced his forehead. As Kenny crumpled lifelessly to the floor, Micah stared at O’Shea, who had his gun in one hand and the open three-ring binder in the other.
“You nuts!?” Micah exploded.
“They IDed you, Micah.”
“What’re you talking about? There’s no way!”
“Really? Then what the hell is this?” O’Shea shouted, tapping his gun against an empty Mylar protective sleeve in the binder.
“There could’ve been anything in—”
“Not the sleeve—underneath!” O’Shea said as he flipped aside the empty sheet to reveal a clear view of the photo on the next page. “You’re telling me that’s not you?” he asked, pointing to the enormous crowd shot where, when you looked closely enough, Micah was tucked away, glancing to the side.
“It’s… it’s not possible — we bought every photo out there… went through every tape…”
“Well obviously, there were a few more Kenny decided to keep in his collection! Don’t you get it, Micah? Wes knows! He’s got the thread of the sweater — and when he starts pulling, you’re gonna be the first one they look at!”
“Big deal, so they ask me a few questions. You know I’ll never say anything. But this… y’know what kinda avalanche you just started?”
“Don’t worry,” O’Shea said calmly. “If I set the bodies right, it’ll just look like a botched robbery.”
“Bodies?” Micah asked, confused. “What’re you talking about? You’ve got more than one?”
O’Shea raised his gun and pointed it straight at his partner’s chest.
Following years of training, Micah spun to his right, then leaped like a cheetah at O’Shea. The way Micah’s pointer and middle fingers were curled — like claws — it was clear he was aiming for O’Shea’s eyes.
O’Shea was impressed. No doubt, Micah was fast. But no one was that fast.
As O’Shea tugged the trigger, his fair blond hair glowed in the afternoon Key West sun. “Sorry, Micah.”
There was a soft ssstt. Then a grunt.
And The Three became The Two.
71
Don’t tell me you lost him. Don’t say those words.”
“I didn’t lose him,” Lisbeth told her editor, clutching her cell phone as she walked in through the front door of the building. “I let him go.”
“Did I tell you not to tell me that? Do I speak and you not hear?” Vincent asked. “What’s Sacred Rule #1?”
“Always keep ’em talking.”
“Fine, then Sacred Rule #26 1/2: Don’t let Wes out of your damn sight!”
“You weren’t there, Vincent — you didn’t see how upset he was. For fifty minutes — the entire flight back — the only thing he said to me was—” Lisbeth went silent.
“Lisbeth, you there?” Vincent asked. “I can’t hear you.”
“Exactly!” she replied, waving to security and heading for the elevators. “Fifty minutes of dead silence! The guy wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even curse me out. And believe me, I gave him every opportunity. He just stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t there. And when he dropped me off, he wouldn’t even say good-bye.”
“Okay, so you hurt his feelings.”
“See, but that’s the thing — I didn’t just hurt his feelings. He’s been at this too long to feel burned by a reporter, but the pain on his face… I hurt him.”
“Spare me the sentimental, Lisbeth — you were doing your job. Oh, wait, you actually weren’t. If you were, the moment he dropped you off, you would’ve turned around and followed him.”
“In what? He has my car.”
“He stole your car?”
Lisbeth paused. “No.”
Vincent paused even longer. “Oh, jeez — you gave it to him? You gave him your car?” Vincent shouted. “Sacred Rule #27: Don’t go soft! Rule 28: Don’t fall in love with a dreamer. And 29: Don’t let sad disfigured boys pluck your heartstrings and send you sailing on a guilt trip just because they’re sad and disfigured!”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Just because someone’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean they won’t roll over your toes. You know what this story means, Lisbeth — especially for you.”
“And you.”
“And you,” he said as Lisbeth stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the second floor. “You know the job: You have to piss on people to be read. So please make my month and at least tell me you were smart enough to get it on tape.”
As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to rise, Lisbeth leaned against the brass railing, her head tilting back against the Formica wall. Letting the day’s events wash over her, she lifted her head and lightly tapped it back against the wall. Tap, tap, tap. Over and over against the wall.
“C’mon, you did get it on tape, right?” Vincent asked.
Opening her purse, Lisbeth pulled out the miniature cassette tape that held the last part of their conversations. Sure, she’d handed Wes the recorder, but it didn’t take much for her to palm the cassette while he was ranting. Of course, now — no, not just now. Even as she was doing it — so damn instinctively — another part of her brain was watching in disbelief. Every reporter needs instinct. But not when it overwhelms ideals.
“Last time, Lisbeth — yes tape or no tape?”
The elevator pinged on the second floor, and Lisbeth stared at her open palm, rubbing her thumb against the tiny cassette. “Sorry, Vincent,” she said, tucking it back in her purse. “I tried to stop him, but Wes tossed it overboard.”
“Overboard. Really?”
“Really.”
As she left the elevator and followed the hallway around to the left, there was a long pause on the line. Even longer than the one before.
“Where are you right now?” Vincent asked coldly.
“Right behind you,” Lisbeth said into her phone.
Through an open door up the gray-carpeted hallway, Vincent stopped pacing in his office and spun around to face her. Still holding the phone to his ear, he licked his salt-and-pepper mustache. “It’s four o’clock. I need tomorrow’s column. Now.”
“You’ll have it, but… the way things were left with Wes, I still think we should take another day before we push a story that’s—”
“Do what you want, Lisbeth. You always do anyway.”
With a swing of his arm, Vincent slammed his door shut, unleashing a thunderclap that echoed in front of her and through her cell phone. As her fellow employees turned to stare, Lisbeth trudged to her cubicle just across the hall. Collapsing in her seat, she flicked on her computer, where a nearly empty three-column grid filled the screen. On the corner of her desk, a crumpled sheet of paper held all the vital info about young Alexander John’s recent victory in the ultra-competitive world of high school art. This late in the day, there was no escaping the inevitable.