Читать книгу Witness to Murder - Jill Nelson Elizabeth - Страница 9

“Vince is here to do the story.”

Stan’s voice brought Hallie’s head up from the backrest on the news van’s passenger seat. A metallic blue sports coupe glided into a spot at the curb in front of the van. The crime reporter thrived on drama, even in his choice of vehicle. She flipped down the sun visor and used the attached mirror to help her readjust the enameled pins that partially tamed her mop of black waves, and then refreshed her Perfectly Plum lipstick. She frowned. Her eyes were almost as red as they were brown.

Giving a statement to the police had about turned Hallie into blubbering mush. In her head, Teresa’s dead white face kept popping up alongside Alicia’s battered features. Could she get through this TV interview with the tiniest shred of dignity? I’m going to need a boatload of strength, Lord. Grimacing, she climbed out of the van and smoothed her mocha colored pantsuit.

The sun shone just as warmly as it had when she and Stan first arrived at the house, so why did a quiver shoot through her stomach. Maybe it was the sight of a white-sheeted gurney being wheeled out the front door. The outline of the human form beneath the covers betrayed its grizzly burden. Stan was busy capturing the moment on film.

Hallie turned away toward the WDJN crime reporter.

“Busy afternoon for the cops in the Twin Cities metro area,” Vince said. “Three-car pileup on I-94, a convenience store robbery on Highway 100, a gang shooting near Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, and an apparent suicide in south St. Paul. But our top story—Golden Gophers star strangles girlfriend.” He let out a low whistle. “You ready to give Channel Six the scoop before every media hound with a police scanner descends on us?”

Hallie’s manicured fingernails jabbed her palms. “I need to do whatever I can to make sure Alicia Drayton’s killer gets what he deserves.”

Vince winked then motioned toward Stan, who took up a place in front of them, headphones on and camera ready. The crime reporter looked at his watch. “This’ll be live feed as the lead news story for the six o’clock broadcast.”

Hallie gasped. “Is it that late already?”

“Why? You got someplace else to be?” He shot her a one-sided grin.

“I do, but I’ll just have to be late, as usual.”

Stan began counting off seconds with his fingers. Vince squared his shoulders, and Hallie cleared her throat. Stan signaled they were on.

Iron-faced, the crime reporter introduced the location and the situation then turned toward Hallie. “When you came here today to interview Alicia Drayton for a story on Minnesota fashion models, you hardly expected to find yourself in the midst of a murder.”

“That’s very true, Vince.” Hallie’s voice cracked, and she swallowed. “Today was supposed to be a good publicity break for a young woman with talent, intelligence and a life of endless prospects before her, not her last day on earth.”

Vince’s hazel eyes glinted approval of her dramatic answer. “Tell us what you saw.”

Hallie opened her mouth, closed it, and then licked dry lips, tasking her lipstick. She could do this. The soft whir of the camera, the familiar microphone near her mouth, Stan’s homely, expectant face—this was her life, her career, and a fresh chance to use it to right a wrong, just as she’d intended when she became a reporter. A knot unraveled in the core of her being, and she lifted her chin.

“I’ll share with our viewers the same information I gave the police. When I approached the house, I heard strange noises from inside. I thought maybe someone was hurt and needed help. Since the front door was ajar, I hurried inside. Alicia lay on the living room floor, dead, and Damon Lange stood over her with a braided rope in his hand. A curtain tie, I think. The police will probably discover it was the murder weapon.”

Vince pulled the mic away from Hallie’s mouth and put it to his own. “There you have the testimony of Channel Six’s own feature reporter, Hallie Berglund, who this afternoon was an eye witness to murder. Golden Gophers player Damon Lange is currently being sought in connection with the death of his girlfriend, college student and fashion model Alicia Drayton. Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should call the number on your screen.” Vince turned toward Hallie again. “What went through your mind when you walked in on such a tragic situation?”

“Disbelief…Horror…Fear for myself.” Hallie crossed her arms, barely containing a shudder. “Lange chased me, but Stan, my cameraman, came into the house so Mr. Lange only shoved us down and escaped. I don’t know what he would have done if Stan hadn’t been there.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Ever since I confirmed Alicia was dead, I’ve been furious and…and just sick. I despise abusers. It looks like another life has been lost to one today.” Hallie blinked against a prickle behind her eyelids.

“Thank you for so candidly sharing your traumatic confrontation. I suspect you could use a little R & R right now.” A sympathetic smile crossed his face.

“That’s right, Vince. I plan to spend a quiet evening with friends, but I won’t rest easy until Damon Lange is in custody.”

“Understandable, Hallie.” He turned his face toward the camera. “This is Vince Graham of WDJN News reporting live from the scene of the crime.”

The red light flashed on Stan’s camera, and they were off the air. Weariness flowed through Hallie’s limbs. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she told the guys.

“Let’s boogie.” Stan lowered the camera from his shoulder.

The crime reporter leaned close to Hallie’s ear. “Brody’s on the warpath over Damon.”

Hallie suppressed a snort. Of course, that man would be. What was this? Some kind of sick jocks-must-stick-together thing?

Vince waved and headed toward the perimeter of crime scene tape where forensic technicians and police officers worked. The screech of brakes and the slam of doors announced the arrival of three news vehicles, adding to congestion on the road. Slipping away in the WDJN van was going to be tricky. Hallie recognized logos from two newspapers and a rival television station. In seconds, she was swarmed by microphones and questions shouted from eager faces.

Hallie lifted a hand for silence. “I saw Damon Lange holding what I believe to be the murder weapon and Alicia Drayton lying dead on the floor. Mr. Lange is currently on the loose. Anyone who knows where to find this man should contact their local police department. That’s all I have to say. Exclusive details have already been given to Channel Six news.”

She barged between the microphones and lunged through the van door that Stan had thoughtfully opened. They eased away from the scene, the cameraman threading the van between vehicles with inches to spare.

Hallie slumped. “Now I know what it feels like to be the media entrée du jour.”

Stan chuckled. “Things have just started to get interesting. Wait until the case goes to trial, and you’re the main witness.”

“They have to catch Damon Lange first. The world will be a safer place when he’s behind bars.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot behind WDJN’s headquarters in downtown St. Paul. The four-story building blended in with other early 1800s brick structures in the renovated neighborhood of restaurants, condominiums and businesses a few blocks from the Mississippi riverfront. The granite and glass face of the bank up the street announced that time had marched into the twenty-first century, but few would guess that the Channel Six building from a bygone era housed the latest gizmos and gadgets for electronic communication.

“You coming in?” Stan shut off the engine.

Hallie shook her head. “Places to go and people to see.”

“Oh, yeah, that ‘quiet evening with friends.’” He snickered.

She punched his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’ll be addressing wedding invitations. Wonderful, boring job, and that’s about all I can handle right now.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “You’re getting married?”

“Not me, goof. One of my best girlfriends, Samantha Reid, is tying the knot with a great guy in five weeks. I’m the maid of honor…well, one of them. You see, Sam couldn’t possibly pick between Jenna and me so—”

“Spare me.” Stan presented his hand, palm out. “Wedding stuff gives me the willies.”

“How come? You’ve never been married.”

“My point exactly.”

A tiny laugh seeped between Hallie’s lips. “Well, when the love bug bites, you’ll make a beeline for the altar.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Uh-oh!” Hallie’s gaze narrowed on the dark head that had popped out the back door of the WDJN building. Brody was looking for something…or, more likely, someone.

“What?” Stan looked around.

“I so cannot handle a grilling by the champion of all things jock and jockette. See you tomorrow.” She slipped out of the van and hurried across the lot, keeping vehicles between her and the hunter sniffing her trail.

Every once in a while, Brody’s wry humor at a staff meeting surprised a laugh out of her, but most of the time he seemed to make a project out of establishing fresh roots as a nettle in the garden of her life. Female viewers might go gaga over those storm-gray eyes and the trademark one-sided dimple, but the charming facade didn’t work on her.

She never forgot what she overheard him say to the station manager about her the day she started at WDJN. Cheerleader type, indeed! He might as well have pasted a couple of pompoms to her hands, because she’d been doing mostly feature fluff ever since—such as the Minnesota model story she was working on today. She had become so well-known for that type of reporting that the modeling agent who had intrigued the station with the story idea had asked for her by name to do the coverage.

Scowling, she continued up the sidewalk toward the corner of the block, heels clickety-clacking against the cement. A year ago she’d landed a big story about labor union corruption, but she’d had to freelance that one on her own time. She got the scoop, all right. Then Brody had the gall to seem mad at her about it. Okay, so maybe he’d been a little right. She should have arranged backup for herself when she went undercover, but everything had turned out great anyway. She’d do it differently now if the station would give her more hard-hitting stories. Not likely if Brody kept using his influence against her with his buddy Wayne Billings, the station manager.

Hallie joined a group of people at the crosswalk. A few of them glanced at her and sidled away. She probably looked ready to take a bite out of someone. Smoothing out her expression, she nodded to several who lived in her building. The signal changed, and the group surged across the street in a tight little herd that dispersed as soon as their feet touched the sidewalk. Hallie trailed a pair of chatting women carrying briefcases and a man with an iPod in his hand up a set of stairs onto a wide, cement landing shaded by a canopy. They skirted a cast-iron sculpture of a boy and a girl playing leapfrog. The man pulled out his building key, opened the front door, and they all filtered inside, Hallie bringing up the rear.

The still coolness of the lobby welcomed her. The rent rate insured that she drove an economy car, but living across the street from work was priceless in her business when time often counted in getting the scoop. Right now, she’d just as soon close the blinds and take the phone off the hook for about the next decade. Maybe she should forget about addressing invitations tonight. Jenna and Sam would understand better than anyone why today’s tragedy turned her inside out. Then again, maybe she should be with close friends.

The elevator door whispered open in front of the little group just as Hallie’s cell phone vibrated inside her blazer pocket. She checked the caller ID and smiled. Letting the others board the elevator, she turned away and sat in a lobby chair.

“Hi, Jenna. No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s been a day like you wouldn’t believe.”

A laugh trilled from the other end of the connection. “What’s new in the life of Hallie Berglund?” The clatter of dishes in the background entered Hallie’s ear. Jenna must be calling from the kitchen of her restaurant.

“You haven’t seen the news tonight?”

“No way in this mad house. You’ll have to fill us in. But I wanted to let you know that we’re set up in the private dining room, and Sam’s here already, chomping at the bit.”

Hallie worked the high-heeled pump off her right foot and massaged her instep. A soft groan left her lips. “You’ll have to get started without me.”

“Pleeease don’t tell me you’re not coming. It’s so important to—”

“What? You want me to break tradition and be on time? I just need to change clothes and freshen up.”

“No problem. If it seals the deal, I made tomato and portabella quiche in pepper pots.”

“Woman, don’t bother to bar the door, I’m busting in.”

They broke the connection, laughing. Hallie pocketed her phone. Maybe getting out would do her good.

She rode the elevator up to the third floor. Her hallway was empty but the muted strings and woodwinds of classical music drifted out from her neighbor’s apartment. Stepping inside her unit, the scent from her blooming frangipani plant greeted her. The fluffy throw pillows on her tan-and-olive couch beckoned, but she breezed past into her small bedroom, where she changed into jeans and a blouse and comfy cross-trainers for her feet. In the bathroom, she took out the enameled pins that kept her dark hair away from her face for work and ran a comb through the thick strands. The shag cut feathered around her forehead, cheeks and jaw, before falling in tousled waves below her shoulders. Good enough. Teasing with the brush, curling iron and hair spray sounded like too much work. After all, it was just the girls tonight.

Twenty minutes later, she was on the interstate heading south toward Jenna’s restaurant in Lakeville. She turned up the CD player. Belting out a few praise songs with Point of Grace should keep images of death out of her head. The Highway 42 exit came up as the third song was finishing. She glided off the freeway with a deep green Impala in her wake.

Her gaze narrowed on the rearview mirror. Hadn’t that car been behind her when she left St. Paul? The temporary dealer plates were distinctive. It had to be the same car. Somebody was driving new wheels. Her heart rate quickened. She must have been in la-la land during the trip not to notice the green car had stuck with her. Of course, with several lanes of freeway traffic going in the same direction, the tail might not have been too noticeable until now.

The Impala hung back several car lengths, making it impossible to see the driver’s face. Could Damon Lange be hunting her? She swallowed a bitter taste. No, that was silly. The college ball player couldn’t afford a new car. He was squeaking through school on a sports scholarship. Her grip on the steering wheel eased, then tensed until her knuckles were white. If a man could commit murder, he could steal a car!

Ahead, a traffic light turned amber, and Hallie gunned through the intersection, heedless of a possible ticket. The green car was caught by the red light. Pulse washing in her ears, Hallie took the next turn, and then zigzagged around the area until she was sure the Impala hadn’t found her again. The dashboard clock told her she was very late, rather than just sort of late by the time she pulled into a space at The Meridian, but at least she wasn’t about to be accosted by a killer in a restaurant parking lot. She slumped and let out a breath.

Maybe she was making too much out of an innocent coincidence of two people from the same place headed for the same area at the same time, but better to be paranoid than sorry. She’d have to report this incident to the police tomorrow, and see if any green Impalas had been stolen recently. Maybe by then they’d have Lange in custody, and she could relax.

Scrounging up her last scrap of energy, Hallie got out of the car and trod into the stucco and half-timbered restaurant. Laughter, the hum of voices, the clink of silverware and a mingling of divine food odors greeted her senses. People sat around cloth-covered tables under the mellow light of chandeliers hanging from exposed roof beams. Some patrons wore jeans, others suits or dresses. At The Meridian, no one felt out of place and everyone was pampered. Jenna and her business partners had a great thing going here.

Carla, a hostess Hallie recognized, rustled toward her, dressed in a modest, yet form-fitting black dress. “They’re waiting for you in the back. Dr. Pepper, right?”

“Thanks, but no caffeine and sugar tonight. I’ve had enough stimulation for one day. Ice-water with lemon would be a life-saver.”

“I’ll send a tall glass your way.” Carla smiled and glided toward the server’s station.

Hallie threaded between full tables and busy wait staff on a circuitous route toward the private dining room. Peace and quiet in sympathetic company beckoned. She opened the door…and stepped into a carnival.

Balloons. Brightly colored banners. Flashing cameras.

“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”

The joyful din assaulted Hallie from dozens of grinning people. Her feet rooted to the spot, and her mouth fell open. A steel band wound around her chest, and pressure flooded behind her cheekbones. Tears burst their banks.