Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (23 page)

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I sold Bryce on touring Jack Clemens’s mansion by promising him a news version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous Convicts.

Malik drove the van over a small bridge to Manitou Island, the most exclusive address in the town of White Bear Lake. Gates opened and we pulled into a sprawling modern estate on an acre of wooded grounds.

“Sweet,” Malik said.

Jan disabled an elaborate security system I envied before taking us through the eight-thousand-square-foot house, which included a fitness room, an outdoor swimming pool, and a guesthouse.

“It must’ve been hard to trade all this for a prison cell,” I said.

We interviewed Jan about the property. “Whoever buys this will be getting a bargain.”

Without furniture, houses sometimes don’t show well. But this place had special architectural touches, like fancy moldings, tile, and custom windows, that made it memorable. I was disappointed. Because Jack was such a crook, I had expected his place to be tacky, not tasteful.

Malik recorded wide-angle images of the stairway and arched ceilings while I lingered in Jack’s home office, the scene of his financial crimes. According to the auctioneer, the fish painting had hung on one of these walls. We looked out over the frozen lake. The water level had dropped dramatically over the past few years, and the shoreline was ragged, extending far into where there had once been open water. That geographic shift, almost as much as the depressed real estate market, accounted for the lowball price.

We moved outside so Malik could get an exterior shot looking up from the shoreline, following Jan out the back door to the lake. But the minimal snowfall clearly revealed more dirt than grass.

“The landscaping’s a little rough,” I said.

Malik noticed some animal tracks amid holes in the ground. “Looks like something’s been digging here. Badgers? Gophers? Raccoons?”

“That’s where the feds were digging this fall,” Jan said.

“Really” I asked. “For what?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t say. I supposed they wanted to rule out buried treasure before the place went on the market.”

“Any success?”

“If so, they didn’t tell me.”

I didn’t tell her that what they’d been searching for had been in plain sight.

Malik shot close-ups of shovel marks while Jan and I talked about what price range of houses I might want to see. Just as I was telling her not to rule out downtown Minneapolis condos, I got an idea on how to deter intruders from my current rental home until I could relocate.

D
avid—I still couldn’t think of him as Jack—had returned my call, leaving a message offering to meet me at five o’clock at Stella’s, where our alliance had begun. “You bring the painting, I’ll bring the cash.”

The FBI guy wanted me there an hour early to get into position. Agent Jax was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt instead of his usual dark suit, in an attempt to not look like a federal agent. He and a colleague carried the fish painting inside from a full-sized van and propped it against the wall by my table. One of them sat in a corner booth and the other near the front door, waiting for Jack Clemens.

Malik was undercover at the bar with a plate of fish tacos and a hidden camera waiting to record the action. I ordered oysters on the half shell and a glass of wine to pass the time—after all, the government was picking up the tab and my cameraman was driving.

The restaurant manager stopped by to admire my artwork and even offered to buy the painting for one of their walls. He had no idea his place was the backdrop of a federal sting operation.

“Sorry,” I told him. “It’s off the market.” I hung my coat over the painting to avoid attracting other prospective buyers.

We waited while five o’clock came and went. Then I recognized a figure walk in the front door and head for the bar. It
was Garnett. I switched chairs, but he spotted me anyway and walked over to my table with a glass.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“Actually, it is,” I said. “I’m meeting someone.”

“That’s fine.” He sat down anyway. “I won’t stay long.”

I was surprised by his brazenness, but didn’t want to tell him he was in the center of a sting operation.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” he asked, taking a slow sip of his drink. “We didn’t stay long then either.”

I was pleased that he had fond memories of that night, but couldn’t let him sabotage my assignment. Out of the corner of my eye, Agent Jax was pointing at his watch, signaling for me to get rid of Garnett.

But Nick was in no hurry, clicking his glass against mine playfully, almost like a peace offering. Smiling back, I noticed a text message appear on his cell phone, which was lying on the table. He placed his hand over it, but not before I read the name
VELMA
upside down.

“Maybe we should make a toast,” he suggested. “How are you doing after that break-in the other night?”

“I’m doing rotten. And you need to leave.”

“Really?” He didn’t seem in the mood to move. “How about I wait till your friend gets here? You can introduce us.” He leaned over and grinned at me. “Unless he really doesn’t exist.”

“How dare you. You want to talk about dates? Maybe we should talk about you and Velma.”

“Me and Velma?” He tried acting like there was nothing going on. “What’s to talk about?”

“Why don’t you tell me. You’re the one she’s messaging.”

“What if I told you we’re just friends?”

I found that hard to believe, so I threw my wine in his face.

“Lucky for me it’s white,” he said.

I handed him a napkin, but no apology. I hoped Malik hadn’t gotten that scene on video.

Garnett wiped his face, but didn’t get up to leave. Instead, he leaned in close and murmured a soulful line from an obscure film. “We were a mess together. We were a beautiful mess.”

“Maybe we still are.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

I shook my head. “Ben Kingsley,
The Wackness,
2008.”

He nodded and walked away.

A
n hour later, it was obvious I’d been stood up. I checked my voicemail and found no new calls from David saying sorry, he’d have to reschedule.

“Did you do anything to make him suspicious?” Agent Jax asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I left him a message. He left me a message back. You heard it. He sounded normal.”

“Well, something’s gone wrong.” It was clear he blamed me. “I’m not sure this working relationship is working out.”

Bryce was also upset that we came back with zip. It was also clear he blamed me. Our deal with the feds was that we’d run an exclusive story following Jack’s arrest. I soon learned that Bryce hadn’t seemed to grasp that an arrest wasn’t a sure thing and had left a big hole at the top of the late news, expecting to air our scoop.

The story was so hush-hush that not even the newscast producer knew what it was about, only that I’d be there late with the lead.

“Is there anything we can salvage from it?” he asked upon learning it was a bust.

I shook my head. “There’s nothing we can report at this time.”

He looked at Bryce, who also gave him a thumbs-down.

“We’re an hour from air,” the producer said. “What else do
we have to lead with? How about that funeral-home drug story you’re working on? Can that go?”

He was talking about the marijuana-spiked-with-embalming-fluid piece I’d mentioned the day before during the news huddle. The head of the narcotics unit had confirmed it was a real problem.

“The package is written but not tracked or edited,” I said. “It was being held for Sunday night.”

“Forget Sunday,” Bryce said. “Run it now as a voice-over tape.”

Voice-over was the least creative way to tell a television story, usually reserved for short pieces or breaking news when time was tight.

“What about running the identity-theft victim story?” I asked. “It’s edited and in the can.” That would also get Lisa off my back. Each day she was calling to check when her story was going to run. I kept telling her soon, but I could sense she was getting discouraged.

“It’s not sexy enough for a lead,” Bryce said. “Don’t forget we’re still in a sweeps month.”

“Right,” the producer said. “The identity piece is also too long. It’d be a better in-depth piece for the second section.”

I knew better than to argue. I sent them the drug script and hurried to the green room for makeup. I realized the production would be rough, but never anticipated how close I’d be to being fired in ten minutes.

I
was more nervous about this story than any I’d broadcast in years. Not about the facts: those were nailed. But with no time to record a voice package, I’d be reading at least two minutes of copy on the self-operated teleprompter nonstop. I had just slid off my shoes and taken a deep breath when Scott looked at me with sympathy.

“Do you want me to just run it for you, Riley? This is the lead story and I’d hate to see it messed up.”

What a relief. “I was just thinking the same thing. Thanks, Scott. I owe you.”

The Channel 3 music open ran and soon the floor director was cueing Scott to stand by, then counting him down.

((SCOTT CU))
GOOD EVENING EVERYONE. TONIGHT WE LEAD WITH A DANGEROUS DRUG THAT SOUNDS SO GHOULISH YOU WON’T BELIEVE PEOPLE SMOKE IT.

((SCOTT/TWOSHOT))
RILEY SPARTZ HAS MORE IN HER INVESTIGATIVE REPORT.

((RILEY, CU)
ON THE STREET, THE DRUG IS CALLED “WET” . . . MARIJUANA LACED WITH EMBALMING FLUID . . . YES, THE SAME STUFF USED TO PRESERVE DEAD PEOPLE.

((RILEY NAT))
USERS CLAIM A LONG-LASTING

Scott was moving the script like a snail, advancing each line at half the usual pace.

HIGH . . . BUT THE SIDE EFFECTS CAN CAUSE . . .

As I fumbled for the hard copy on the news desk, he speeded up to twice the normal timing.

COMA, STROKE OR EXTREME VIOLENCE.

I read faster and faster to try to keep up, but my words weren’t matching the images as I reported on how funeral homes were being targeted by thieves looking for the drug. The producer was yelling in my earpiece and the story’s power was diminished by my shaky on-air performance.

The camera cut to Scott, who apologized to viewers for “technical difficulties” and picked up the next story, reading effortlessly until we broke for commercial.

“What happened?” I asked him.

He shrugged, covering his microphone with one hand as he whispered, “Just remember, without a teleprompter, you’re nothing.”

The floor director rushed in to unclip my mic and usher me off the set in mortification. Bryce was standing near the control booth and ordered me to his office where he lectured me on my lack of professionalism.

“We’re in a major market station, Riley. And you embarrassed us tonight. This is live television. If you can’t handle your job duties, I’ll find someone else who can.”

Bryce had unfairly admonished me many previous times, threatening to fire me. But while he was a jerk most of the time, this was different. This time I deserved it.

Instead of going home to cry alone, I went back to Nicole’s place. She’d been watching the news and hugged me as I came through the door.

“How bad was I?”

“Plenty bad. It was Scott, wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

She handed me a blanket and I curled up in the hide-a-bed with a pillow over my face. While that maneuver blocked the streetlights from the living room window, I was still too tense to sleep because the teleprompter fiasco kept replaying in my mind. First too slow, then too fast. My breathing followed the same erratic pattern until the last thing I remember thinking was that at least we didn’t go black on air.

But maybe that would have been better.

N
icole didn’t have to be in to work until afternoon, but I was due in first thing. She toasted me a frozen waffle. I didn’t bother with a plate or syrup, just ate it on the run as I dashed to the station after my restless night. After the waffle, the day went downhill.

The feds blindsided me with a news conference which I was sent to cover. They announced a $25,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of Jack Clemens, who was now officially on the FBI’s most wanted list.

“We’ve learned he’s believed to be traveling under the assumed name of David Nathan Johnson,” Agent Jax said. “Here’s a picture of what he looked like a couple days ago.”

They handed out copies of the surveillance photo of the bald and bearded man I’d identified for them. They gave no shout-out to Channel 3, or to me. Malik was stunned, and I was afraid to go back to the station. My news director would probably be waiting outside the door to fire me. I tried to remember everything I could about David Johnson, delving for any clue to where he might go.

Bryce called my phone. He was plenty mad, but didn’t order me to clean out my desk. “We’ll talk about this fiasco later, Riley. Quick—post something about this reward and Clemens’s new description on social media, and then prepare to report live for every newscast.”

I was trying to remember how many characters Twitter allows, when I noticed the last thing I’d tweeted had been a “relatable,” a photo of a car being towed from outside Stella’s the night of the snowstorm.

My brain found a possible answer.

David had complained about his car being towed the night we had dinner. The timing and location led me to believe it might be the vehicle featured in my towing photo. I found the original picture on my cell phone, but the license plate wasn’t visible. It was a silver Toyota Camry, among the most popular vehicles on the road.

I asked Malik to head over to the Fifth Police Precinct. “Wait outside. I might have an idea.”

I could have called the feds and let them in on the puzzle, but after the debacle of the news conference just now I didn’t trust them and was afraid of being accused of sending them on another fool’s errand.

“I’m with Channel 3, and I’m looking for the parking ticket issued to this car for towing.” I showed the photo to the desk sergeant. “I have the date and time, make, model, and color of the vehicle, as well as the location.”