Melanie hated running behind. A late reporter missed the story. She never did that. But somehow, she’d managed to oversleep. Probably because she’d stayed up past midnight partying on North St. Mary’s—breaking her cardinal rule never to drink on a work night. For a reason.
She unlocked her front door and padded down the hallway, peeling off her tank top as she walked into her bedroom. She threw it on the floor and glanced in the mirror. Yep. Dark circles and bags under her eyes. TV reporters couldn’t afford that stuff. They also couldn’t afford to gain an ounce. Which was why she refused to miss her morning run followed by a hot shower to sweat out all the toxic stuff. She’d cut it short, but at least she got some sweat time in. Aaron would keep Serena Cochrane busy until Melanie could swoop down and capture the mystery key.
Key to what? Key to solving the mystery of who killed District Court Judge Geoffrey Fischer? Key to the biggest story of Melanie’s career?
Key to a slot in a top TV market like LA, New York, Boston, or DC. Houston and Dallas–Fort Worth were closer, but she was done with Texas. She wanted a station on either coast—back to civilization.
She belonged in a top-ten market. She had the voice, the look, the hair, and she had all the moves and the savvy to go with them. She’d given up a fiancé for her career.
Nothing meant more to her.
The thought propelled her to the closet. Her go-to Liz Claiborne red slacks and matching jacket. Power color. White silk blouse. Makeup she could do in the car. Five minutes and she’d be out the door. She would make up for lost time with her Charger. Rush-hour traffic would have cleared by now.
A creak, loud in her three-bedroom, two-bath, too-big-for-one historic house brought Melanie to a halt. She tilted her head and listened.
Creak.
Like someone walking on the new faux wood floor in the living room. She didn’t even have a dog or a cat.
Have no fear. That was her motto. She tugged on a tank top. She didn’t plan to meet an intruder in her underwear. Far too intimate. She tugged open the dresser drawer next to her unmade queen-size bed and grabbed the baby Glock.
Anybody who messed with her was in for a surprise. One of the best things about Texas—open carry. A reporter who made enemies—and overzealous fans—couldn’t afford to be without one. She cradled her little friend in her hand. Nobody messed with Melanie Martinez. She came from a long line of hunters. She didn’t just own a gun; she knew how to use it.
She enjoyed using it.
It was loaded. No need to check. Why have a gun in the house if it wasn’t loaded and ready to be used?
Breathe. It could be Josh, here to surprise her. The photog from Channel 4 had become something of a fixture lately. No, he would call first. He would knock. He knew about the baby Glock.
Confront the intruder? Maybe it was a burglar who didn’t bother to check the garage and see her silver Charger tucked inside. Maybe he’d steal her TV and her computer and call it a day. Neither were worth dying over. Electronics could be replaced. Idiot probably wouldn’t recognize the value of the paintings. The Jesse Treviño. The Amado Peña. Or the quality of Robert Lebsack’s emerging art. She loved Perils of Indifference.
She hoped not.
She considered praying. It had been a long time. It seemed rude to check in with the Big Guy only in emergencies, but wasn’t that what He was there for? God, sorry about this, but I’d rather not kill anyone today. If You could get this one, I’d appreciate it. If not, forgive me for what I’m about to do.
The gun heavy in her hand, she fought her way through the overstuffed clothes in her walk-in closet and pushed aside boxes of shoes to make a spot where she could collapse, cross-legged, and pull the slatted French doors shut.
She touched Aaron’s name in her phone’s list of favorites.
“It’s about time. Where are you?” Aaron’s East Coast accent was hard to understand when he got agitated. His voice sounded far too loud in the eerie silence. “She wants to tell her story to you—”
“Someone’s in my house.” No squeak in her whisper. No quiver. Just reporter excitement, not fear. Good. Melanie had a reputation as the best reporter in this market. It had to be upheld. “I think he’s going through stuff in my living room.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the closet in my bedroom. I’ve got my baby Glock.”
“Call 911.”
“I will. Get here. I want you to shoot this. Think of the story. Reporter catches burglar in the act. Holds him at gunpoint until police arrive.”
“Are you nuts? You’ll get shot. Call the police.”
“I’ll make him clean up the mess, and if he decides to do something stupid, I’ll shoot him. Just get here.”
She hung up. Her breathing was loud in her ears. Easy, easy. She inhaled, exhaled through her nose. Who was it and why her house? Had to be a burglar.
A random burglary. She wouldn’t cower in the closet while a two-bit, penny-ante thug took her stuff. Stuff she’d worked hard for. Not worth dying over, but still. The idea was irritating.
Melanie peered through the slats. No sign of the thug. With the gentlest of touches, she nudged the door open. Squeak. She cringed. What she wouldn’t give for a can of WD-40. She tucked the gun in the back of her pants and crawled out. Crawled to the door and peered down the hallway.
She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear him. He was tearing up her study. Creep. He wasn’t stealing anything. He was searching for something. What? She rose to her feet and inched along the hall.
A tall, lean man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt stepped into the hallway. He wore a matching ski mask.
Frozen, they stared at each other. Cussed in unison.
How could they be so in sync?
He backed away, one step, two steps. No way. She darted forward.
The intruder whirled. She couldn’t shoot him in the back. She needed him to talk. She wanted her story. Then she would shoot him.
Melanie launched herself at his back. Her arms curled around his neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist. “No way, you thug. You’re not getting away from me.”
His fingers wrapped around her hands. He was strong.
Too strong.
He reared up and down and peeled her fingers from his neck. Gutter Spanish poured from his mouth. His voice sounded so familiar. She grabbed at the ski mask. It slid off.
“Rick?”
That did it. She might be three generations away from her Mexican ancestors, but she understood the cuss words. Rick didn’t just run—he worked out with weights to stave off the fat from all the fund-raiser meals and alcohol he consumed. He had four inches and sixty pounds on her. He bucked her off. She fell backward on the tile. All air whooshed out of her. With a grunt of pain, she rolled over. Her cell phone. It was gone. Bedroom floor?
Gasping for air, she crawled toward her bedroom.
“No you don’t.” He switched to English. Not law-school-educated, sophisticated Rick. This guy was a throwback to the barrio. “Get back here.”
He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. Her neck popped. Then he had the back of her shirt, then her pants.
Then he had the gun.
Rick, on track to be the youngest partner in the history of Coggins, Gonzalez, and Pope, up-and-coming politician, and Judge Geoffrey Fischer’s first choice for son-in-law pointed a gun at the back of her head. This day couldn’t get any more surreal.
“Get up.”
She acquiesced. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just looking for information. You showed up from your run early.”
The guy had nerve. Melanie snorted. “Showed up in my own house. If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just called. You know my number. You could’ve rang the doorbell.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’d share your notes with me. Or that handy-dandy digital recorder I’m betting you used when you talked to Serena Cochrane yesterday. They’re not in your office. Where are they?”
“We chatted, that’s all. Why would you care? What’s going on?” Serena hadn’t wanted to talk at first. But she’d changed her mind and called Melanie in the middle of the night. Why was this important to Rick? What would drive a respected attorney to commit breaking and entering? Had he killed the judge?
The questions amped up Melanie’s adrenaline, as if struggling with an intruder wasn’t enough. A big story was her drug of choice. “Tell me what you think she knew or told me. Come on, Rick, give me the story. Be my inside source. I won’t tell a soul, you know that. I’d go to jail before I gave up a source.”
“You were seen talking to Serena at the courthouse yesterday. What did Serena tell you about Judge Fischer?”
Someone was spying on the judge’s staff in the wake of his death and reporting back to CG&P. Why? “I talked to everyone who worked for him. She told me he was a great man, that she loved him.”
“And that he was on the take, right?”
“She’d heard that, but she didn’t believe it.”
“Where’s the digital recorder?”
“What kind of reporter shares her story notes with someone who breaks into her house to get them?” Her story suddenly grew exponentially. One of the most reputable law firms in town with millions of dollars in billable hours was somehow involved with a district court judge’s death. “Why didn’t you call me up, ply me with drinks, and then ask me?”
“Because you wouldn’t hesitate to lie through your teeth.”
“And you know I’d end up getting more information from you than you would from me.” Melanie forced a laugh. “I’m good at what I do. Why don’t I make some coffee and we can talk?” She halted in the living room. “I haven’t eaten. I could go for some breakfast tacos. We can eat and then head to the bedroom. After all, you always liked my bedroom, didn’t you?”
“You aren’t very good at following instructions.” The gun jabbed her again. “Keep walking.”
“At least tell me why you’re doing this.”
“What if I said it was to protect a man’s reputation?”
“The only reputation you care about is yours.”
“That’s not true.” He sounded hurt. “I always liked you.”
“You used me and I used you.”
“That’s exactly what I like about you.” He actually chuckled. The sound sent chills rippling up Melanie’s spine. “We’re just alike. Upwardly mobile. All about our careers.”
“I thought you were in love with Nina.” She turned to face him. “Have you thought about what embracing a life of crime will do to her?”
For the first time he hesitated. His gaze ricocheted around the living room. “You’ve added some artwork to your collection. I bet they took a chunk out of your trust fund.”
Her money was none of Rick’s business, but the conversation bought her time. Melanie edged toward the hallway. “Come on. All this adrenaline has me worked up. Do you want to see the redecorating I did in the bedroom? I have a new painting there.”
And her cell phone.
“I don’t have time to mess around. I want the digital recorder.”
Which was tucked inside her purse. Sitting next to the Keurig in the kitchen ready to go with her to work. Once he had the recorder, what would he do to her? He couldn’t think he would get away with this. She was a reporter, for crying out loud.
The only way out of this for Rick now was to kill her.
He was a lawyer and a candidate for higher office. None of this made any sense. “Why would you kill Judge Fischer?”
“I didn’t kill the judge.” Anger raged in his face. He no longer looked like a handsome up-and-coming politician. The depth of his emotion drew lines on his face and turned his eyes into smoldering coals. “That’s what started this whole thing. If he hadn’t been killed, none of this would’ve happened—”
“None of what would have happened? What was the connection between the judge and your firm?”
“Knowing you, you were working on the story in your bedroom last night. Your stuff’s in there, isn’t it? Your laptop and the recorder? Let’s go.”
“Fine, you’re so hot to go to the bedroom, let’s go.” She drew a breath and gave him her best top-ten market smile. She needed her phone. They were moving in the right direction. “And while we go, you can tell me what this is all about.”
“You don’t need to know.”
She did. If she was going to die today, she’d at least like to know why. She wanted the story. Not even her gun in her killer’s hand could change that.