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SEATTLE (Sunday, Dec. 2, 2012, 8:30 a.m.) — Janet Andrews was at a near run when she hit the newsroom. She was wearing black leggings and T-shirt, looking like she was heading toward the gym, not the office.
Mac looked up from his computer when she came flying through. She’s off today, he thought, frowning. He started to say something, but she strode past, not appearing to notice him.
At the door of the conference room, she slowed down, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. The she opened the door and went in.
Mac turned back to his computer, typing up the small incidents he’d collected from the various police and fire departments. He had a call into the P.D. to follow up on Donnelly, but no one had returned the call yet. Sunday’s were slow.
He looked again at the conference room. Frowned. Tried to type. What story could have pulled her in on a Sunday morning, he thought, except for mine? He thought about it a brief moment more, then walked past the conference room to the fax machine. Checked the machine, nothing there, no surprise. Walked back past the door. He could hear raised voices.
Ah, hell, they can only fire me once, he thought, and opened the door.
“Howard Parker is a good man,” the assistant projects editor said.
It figured it would be Precious Kevin, Mac thought. “Sorry I’m late,” Mac said pleasantly. “My invitation to this meeting went adrift apparently.”
“You weren’t invited to this meeting,” Precious Kevin snapped.
“Neither was I, apparently,” Janet said dryly. “But seeing as it’s Mac’s story, I say both of us should be here, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Janet,” the publisher said. “Mac, sit down. I’m glad you are here. Maybe you have more information about this subject.”
“What exactly is the subject?” Mac asked.
“You are pursuing some vendetta against Howard Parker, and you want to know what the issue is?” Kevin said waspishly. He turned to the others. “He’s been using this newspaper for his own personal vendetta against a well-respected individual in our community, and cops have been investigating him for the attempted murder of a police officer. And he is a drug dealer to boot. This meeting is about damage control.”
“Drug dealer!” Mac said, startled.
Janet raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. First, Mac was questioned; no charges have been pressed.”
Kevin interrupted her. “They will be.”
Janet’s voice got colder. She did not like being interrupted. “Second, it is my opinion that the investigation is meant to pull him off the story and discredit his sources. Third, Mac has not been targeting an individual — well respected or otherwise — he’s been investigating the activity of the FBI in Seattle as they appear to be investigating one of our public figures. The drug dealer accusation is a wild one — I have no idea where that particular slander might have come from. Actually Kevin, I’d be interested in knowing how you know all these things.”
“I have my sources,” he said defensively.
“And they are?”
“I don’t have to tell you that!” he said outraged.
“I’d like to know what public figure we’re talking about myself. Did someone say Howard Parker?” the executive editor said. “I was in the meeting yesterday that said the FBI agent was out here checking on possible Cabinet members, but sounds like things have happened since then.”
Janet nodded. “Late last night Mac got confirmation from some of his old Marine sources that Howard Parker is being considered for Secretary of Homeland Security. However, there are some concerns about Parker’s activities. Mac is beginning an investigation into what the allegations might be. Apparently, there is some intersection between Mac’s own Marine career and the allegations. I haven’t had a progress report this morning for the obvious reason that I am not supposed to be working this morning.”
“And you think Howard Parker whacked a cop to set up a reporter to pull him off a story?” the executive editor asked.
Janet winced and laughed. “Probably not that straightforward a frame,” she admitted. “But I am sure Mac didn’t shoot at the police officer. And I am sure that Howard Parker’s career is under question by the FBI. Finding out the rest is what we have reporters for.”
“Give me a break,” Precious Kevin interjected. “That’s pretty far-fetched. Howard Parker is a fine man. Reporters don’t get framed for murder or attacked or whatever. At least not in the United States they don’t.”
“Don Bolles,” Janet murmured, catching the executive editor’s eye. He flinched, frowned thoughtfully. The Special Project’s Editor’s lips twitched.
“Who’s he?” Precious Kevin demanded.
“Bolles was killed to prevent the investigation of mob activities in Arizona in the 70s,” Mac said. He’d been content to let Janet handle it so far, but he couldn’t resist showing up Kevin at least once.
“So?”
“So, a group of reporters from across the nation took leave of absence to go to Arizona and finish Bolles’ story. They then formed an organization — Investigative Reporters and Editors — to keep investigative reporting alive in this country. I believe you went to one of their conferences last year, Kevin,” said Steve Whitman, Kevin’s boss in special projects.
“Whatever.” Kevin dismissed the topic. Janet and Mac exchanged glances. Mac carefully did not look at the executive editor who had been one of those early reporters who had gone to Arizona.
“So how did you hear about these allegations so early this morning?” the executive editor asked suddenly, looking at Kevin.
“Yeah, especially ‘cause I haven’t heard some of them,” Mac muttered. He backed off at Janet’s glare.
“I got a call from Mr. Parker,” Kevin said reluctantly.
“You know Parker?” Whitman asked.
“Sure. I grew up with his son. Howard Parker is like an uncle to me. Saw to it that I got through college. He called and wanted to know why I was participating in a vendetta against him after all he’d done for me,” Kevin said. “I couldn’t believe what he told me. It obviously had to stop right away. For the sake of the paper.”
Janet settled back into her seat. So did several others around the table. Parker did have connections, Mac thought. He obviously had a habit of doing favors when he could, or calling them in when he needed to.
“And just what did you tell Parker about an on-going story?” Whitman asked.
“Nothing! I just listened. And then I called the publisher and suggested we’d better have a meeting.”
The publisher tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I’d already gotten a call from the advertising manager. We’ve had two advertisers call this morning and threaten to pull their accounts if we were going to be a tabloid paper and keep a cop killer on payroll. I don't need to tell you that we cannot afford to lose advertising. The day when I say let them go — they need us more than we need them — is long gone.”
Mac knew that 20 years ago, the publisher had done just that. He'd stood down a major retailer over a story. The retailer pulled advertising for a month before conceding and returned to the pages. Now, the paper would run the risk that an advertiser would do just fine without newspaper ads and never come back. Or at least, that was the fear.
Whitman whistled through his teeth.
Janet leaned forward. “Kevin, when did you have breakfast with Parker? It’s barely 9 a.m. now.”
“About 7 a.m. — he said he knew I’d have to be in the office today.” Kevin looked confused.
“Nevertheless, we do have a reporter with questionable background under investigation on an attempted murder charge,” the publisher began. “This does make the newspaper look bad.”
Janet opened her mouth. The executive editor shook his head, and she closed it.
“Young man, do you have anything to say about this?”
Mac hesitated then replied, “I have been assigned to cover a story,” he said. “I want to continue doing so. I did not shoot at Officer Donnelly. And, I don’t know where Kevin got the rest of the garbage. He’d better be able to back it up.”
He glared at Kevin, who squirmed uncomfortably. He didn’t meet Mac’s eyes.
“I see.” The publisher tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “We can’t afford to be alienating our advertising accounts needlessly.”
When several editors started to protest, the publisher raised his hand to stop them. “I’m not saying stop pursuing the story. But we have other reporters. Lots of them,” he said somewhat sourly. “I think the best thing to do is to put Mac on leave with pay until the police clear him. I think we need to treat this as separate from the story, and let it be his personal business,” the publisher continued. “We can re-evaluate this on Monday. By then, the police may know more.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mac protested. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Your credibility has been tainted,” the publisher said, meeting his eyes. “If we tackle a public figure of this magnitude, we must be completely above reproach. It may be that you have done nothing wrong, but sometimes the appearances of things matter as much as the truth.”
The executive editor nodded. “Janet, you and Steve work out how the investigation should best continue. Mac, take a couple of days off. Finish what you’re writing and go fishing, or something.”
Janet nodded, and stood up, leaving the room quickly. Mac followed her. Outside she leaned against the wall, breathing slowly to quiet the trembling in her legs. Mac was breathing hard.
“I cannot fucking believe it!” he said, his teeth clenched.
Whitman stepped out. “Calm down,” he advised. “Let’s get out of the hallway.” He gestured toward his office.
“What are you going to do about Precious Kevin?” she asked, once inside.
Whitman’s grin wasn’t a happy one. “He’ll be lucky if he’s got a job in obits when I’m done with him.”
“He’ll be lucky if he isn’t writing his own obit if I get my hands on him,” Mac said. “That bastard is trying to take my story away from me!”
Whitman’s smile warmed. “Is that what matters the most to you?” he asked curiously. “Kevin is trying to get you fired, and possibly lynched or at least jailed.”
Mac shrugged. He'd been under fire before.
“So, what are we going to do about the story?” Janet asked.
“Bob said it was up to us to decide how it was handled, didn’t he? Well, we continue with the investigation. “
“And the reporter? You want to use Jason?”
Whitman smiled. “I kind of like the reporter we’ve already assigned to it, don’t you?”
Janet’s smile was real for the first time that morning. “Suits me,” she said. “How about you Mac?”
Mac looked at the two of them warily. “You mean me?”
“You’re the reporter on the story aren’t you?” Whitman said. “Did you hear the Exec Ed say anything about taking you off? The M.E.? Hell, even the publisher neglected to mention that.”
“So that’s why the exec cleared you two out so fast,” Mac said, the light dawning. He smiled. It wasn’t comforting, but neither Janet Andrews nor Steve Whitman were the least intimidated by a reporter going after a story.
“Yeah, so get the hell out of here before someone figures out the gaps in those instructions,” Whitman said. He pulled out a business card, scribbled some additional numbers on it. “Call me or Janet if you need stuff. Don’t come back to the office. You hear?”
Mac’s smile was genuine as he took the card. The verity of his smile startled both editors. “I’m on it, boss,” he said.
Mac returned to the newsroom, filed his cop blotter stories, shut down his computer. He looked out to the reception area. Three uniformed police and Rodriguez were standing at the front desk to the newsroom. Janet was talking to them with great agitation. Mac hesitated. Then he turned quickly and walked out the employees' back door.
Precious Kevin was coming out of the men’s room when Mac passed by. “You are going to be in jail,” Kevin hissed. “And I will come down and gloat in your face.”
Mac looked at him. “If so, you better hope I don’t get out. Because when I do, I’m going to come looking for you.”
Kevin paled, stepped back. Mac pushed through the outer door without looking back.
He didn’t know the police were looking for him, he told himself. He was not fleeing arrest — not yet. But he needed to check on what Shorty and Danny had discovered this morning going through the file of material he’d accumulated on Parker.
He’d come in by bus that morning. Shorty’s friendship could be counted on for a lot, but giving him a ride to work at 6 a.m. might be asking a bit much. He walked down the ramps of the parking garage, exited out a pedestrian door, and up to the bus station where he caught a bus out to his house after only a short wait.
He went in through the front door. Stopped. The place was completely tossed. The sofa pillows were on the floor. Cushions were cockeyed. A vase lay broken on the floor, the flowers wilted beside it. Mac picked up the vase pieces and dead flowers, dumped them in the trash. Books were pulled off the shelves and onto the floor. Mac winced. “Lindy will be pissed,” he said out loud. The words echoed in the empty house.
Upstairs had also been thoroughly searched. Mac shook his head. Whoever had done this had not worried about being discreet. Thorough, he thought, looking at the slashed mattress in his room, but not discreet. The locked box under his bed was open, the weapons were gone. Mac picked up some of his clothes, tossed them in the hamper. Gave it up as a much bigger project than he had time for at this moment.
Mac went out to the parking area behind the house. The 4-Runner had been searched as well. The front seat was slit. Right, as if we had had time to hide anything there, Mac thought. “Fuckers,” he said.
He went back in the house, found a blanket in the linen closet, took it out to the car. He spread it over the seat. Two tires were flat. Mac changed one using the spare, got a snow tire out of the garage to replace the other.
He popped the hood, checked everything carefully, looking for loose wires, extra wires. He checked the oil, rubbed some between his fingers. It all seemed good. He slammed the hood down.
Mac stood back, looking at the vehicle, thinking it over. He bent down, looked underneath. A bug. It figured. He popped it off, gave it a toss into the ditch. He went around the back, looked again. A second bug. He thought about that. Were they being careful? Or did he have more than one tracker? He looked around the car again, saw nothing more amiss.
He opened the driver’s door, but didn’t get in. Leaning over, he put his keys in the ignition, hesitated, then turned it over. He didn’t know if he could outrun a bomb, but he was ready to give it everything he had.
The engine hesitated then revved. Mac waited, then sighed with relief. He got in, slammed the door shut.
Shorty’s apartment was a one-bedroom place in an apartment complex the size of a small town, where you could easily walk into the wrong apartment if you didn’t check the number every time you went home.
Well, not into Shorty’s apartment. He had it locked, deadbolted, and safety chained at all times. Being a math teacher in a ritzy suburb hadn’t erased the lessons he’d learned alongside Mac and Toby. Seeing as most of their b&e had been done in ritzy suburbs.... Mac knocked; it was Danny who let him in after checking the peephole.
Shorty had eggs and bacon going on the stove. “Aren’t you back early?” he asked.
“They’ve put me on leave,” Mac said grimly. “With pay. The police’s questions have lessened my credibility, the publisher said.”
“So, what does that mean? We can throw away all this crap?” Shorty said gesturing to his dining area. The dining table was covered with the Parker file; Mac had still been at it when Shorty and Danny had called it a night. Apparently, Shorty and Danny started reading things while he’d been running.
“No such luck,” Mac said, snagging a piece of bacon. “Janet and some editor named Whitman want me to stay on the story.”
Danny looked confused. “Don’t they work for the publisher too?”
“Yeah,” Mac said, grabbing another piece of bacon.
“Want some breakfast?” Shorty said dryly and glanced at the clock. “Lunch actually.”
Mac nodded and Shorty dished up three plates. Danny said over a mouthful of food. “Don’t anyone down at your paper follow orders?”
It struck Mac funny, and he laughed. Danny and Shorty looked at each other. Mac sobered. “Not in the sense we learned to do,” he said, then snickered again thinking of the near anarchy the newsroom lived in compared to the regimented life of the Marines.
“See anything?” Mac said, gesturing to the piles of paper.
Shorty punched another number into the calculator near him and hit total. He grunted and sat back in his chair. “Kellerman told you Parker was running a coke factory for the good of America — he must have been, because he sure doesn’t have anything financially to show for it,” Shorty said. “He was over-extended when the 2007 crash hit. He was in the toilet. He’s come back — there really is something to be said for family money — but he’s not as rich as people might think.”
“Oh come on,” Mac protested. “Big houses, retreat places. What do you mean, he’s not rich?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t rich, just not that rich. I pulled stuff from my online service. Inheritances, investments in real estate instead of stocks, nothing speculative ever,” Shorty shrugged. “Quite frankly I don’t think wealth is his thing.”
“Power is,” Mac said.
“That could be. I don’t think he’s dirty. Not on the take financially anyway.”
Danny looked at Shorty. “You can tell all that from those things? I thought you just taught math.”
Mac snorted. “How do you think he afford to drive a Lexus? Live in an apartment like this? On a teacher’s salary? Shit, he’s probably the only teacher in Bellevue who can afford to live in his school district. He does stocks.”
Shorty took a bite of egg and swallowed. “Less trouble than stealing cars,” he said. “Put me through college.”
Danny shook his head. “What am I doing hanging out with you two brains?” he asked rhetorically. “Not anything going to put me through college. Damn near didn’t make it out of high school. Kristy got the brains in our family. I just got the muscles.”
“Well, she’d look damn silly with muscles like yours,” Mac said, snagging another strip of bacon.
“Yeah. So where is she, oh brainy ones?” Danny said.
“It doesn’t really matter if he was on the take or not,” Mac said, thinking it through. “He’s crossed the line now.”
Shorty nodded. “Probably not for the first time,” he agreed. “But not for financial gain.”
The doorbell rang. Shorty looked up. “We expecting anyone?” he asked.
“It’s your place,” Mac said. “Caroline?”
A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Not Caroline,” Shorty said.
“Open up. Police,” a man called. “We have a warrant.”
Mac looked around. “No back exit,” he murmured. “What are you doing in a place with no second exit?”
“I’m a Bellevue schoolteacher, damn it,” Shorty hissed. “I don’t need back exits anymore.”
“You do now,” Danny observed. “We going to sit here, or is someone going to answer that door?”
Shorty took a deep breath. “Coming,” he called. “Don’t break it down, I’m coming.”
He parted the curtains of the front window and looked out. Two cruisers were in the parking lot, their lights flashing. A couple of uniformed officers were on the landing. They had weapons drawn.
Shorty frowned. Mac and Danny sat still, watching him. “Look officers, I’m going to open the door,” he called from his position beside the door. “No one needs to get antsy. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m sure it can be worked out quietly. Safely. OK?”
“Sure,” one officer said agreeably. He didn’t holster his sidearm, however. “We don’t want any trouble. We have a warrant for the arrest of Mackensie Davis. He comes out, and we don’t even need to come inside.”
“What do you want him for?” Shorty asked.
“We’re just helping out the Seattle P.D.,” the officer hedged. “He’s wanted for questioning, all I know.”
Right, Mac thought. He cracked his knuckles. “Of course, officer. I’ll be glad to cooperate,” he called. Danny sighed with relief. What the hell did he think I was going to do, Mac thought sourly, start a gunfight right here?
Mac stood up, emptied his pockets, handed Danny everything. He took Janet’s phone list out of his wallet. “Call her,” he said tersely. “Have her get Leatherstocking down to the police station, ASAP.”
Hell, the publisher had pretty much cut him loose, Mac thought. He jotted down another number on a piece of paper. Lots of that, he thought, tearing off a corner. “And here’s where to reach my aunt. If Janet....” he trailed off. Danny nodded with understanding.
Shorty pulled open the door, careful not to stand in front of it. No one fired.
Mac walked to the door, his hands held away from his body, visibly empty to police. “I’m Mac Davis,” he said calmly. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Two officers grabbed him; Mac let them. They angled him against the porch railing, patted him down. Mac submitted to the pat down; it was thorough. He didn’t protest when they jerked his arms behind him and put cuffs on him. If you can let someone throw you in the Sound, you can submit to this, he reminded himself. For now.
With an officer on either side, Mac turned around to walk down the sidewalk. Curious faces peered out of neighboring windows. Mac ignored them.
Walking up the sidewalk, however, was someone he knew. “Rodriguez,” Mac said tersely. “If you needed to talk to me, you could have just called. I came the last time.”
Nick Rodriguez looked at him. “We’re arresting you on charges of attempted murder,” he said. He looked at one of the uniformed officers. “Read him his rights.”
Mac paid no mind to the officer as he pulled a card from his chest pocket and read the familiar litany. He focused on Rodriguez. The detective met his eyes coldly.
“When did you decide you bought this cock and bull theory?” Mac asked when the officer was done.
“When we found your Glock with your prints on it and matched it to the bullet they pulled out of Donnelly’s kitchen,” Rodriguez said.
“What!” Mac said, startled. Prints — that gun was clean when it went into that locked box. How the hell....
“We’ll take over from here, officers,” Rodriguez said to the uniformed officers from Bellevue. He gestured to two other detectives from the Seattle P.D. “Take him downtown and book him.”