Читать книгу From The Ashes - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 9

Hours later, Angela came through the back door to their offices, and Maisey called to her. Following the sound of voices, Angela found Maisey in the front room, her face lit with her usual beaming smile when she talked about Guardian Paws. “Angela, this nice young man is Andrew Brogg. He’s a reporter with the Denver Chronicle, and also a part-time correspondent for Channel 7.”

Angela recognized the journalist’s name from the investigative pieces he did, the latest one accusing a university president of using public money to finance improvements on his home.

“After all the things Ms. Erdmann told me about you,” he said, extending his hand, “I was expecting you to be about ten feet tall.” Behind wire-rimmed glasses, calculating brown eyes met her own. He smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thanks,” Angela responded. Since he had made a reputation for himself on scandals associated with various local and regional entities, having him show up on the same day as Tommy put her on alert.

Reporters had a way of twisting things to meet their own agenda, no matter how charming they might appear. She’d had her own up-close-and-personal experience, and she’d learned one important lesson—never take any reporter at face value.

“He wants to do a feature article on Guardian Paws,” Maisey said.

“What kind of feature could be interesting to you?” Angela wondered if he worked hard to look exactly like a stereotypical newspaper reporter. He wore a shapeless corduroy sports coat, plaid shirt and scuffed athletic shoes. A black nylon briefcase hung over his shoulder, and in his hand was a stenographer’s notebook and pen. “I’ve read some of your stories, Mr. Brogg. Like the ones you did on the stockyards near Greeley and a toxic spill at Rocky Flats. I can’t imagine a man of your talents being interested in what we do.”

“It’s nice to meet someone who remembers my work,” he said.

“Really, there’s no great exposé here,” she added. The Guardian Paws Web site had a link to the prison program where she had learned to train dogs, and when she was asked about it, she told her story. So her prison record wasn’t a secret. “So I can’t imagine what might be of interest to you.”

He smiled again. “It’s the season. You know, peace on earth and feel-good stories.” He turned toward Maisey. “If we could focus in on a child—say one in a wheel-chair—with a dog to the rescue. What’s not to love?”

His explanation was as cynical a one as Angela had heard about Christmas in a long time. “I think you misunderstand the nature of our work,” she said.

“Then enlighten me. Let me interview you.” Once more his gaze went from her to Maisey as if he thought she was the softer target, his expression conveying nothing but earnest appeal. “I’m not planning an exposé. Just a human interest story for my readers about two women making a difference in their community.”

Angela heard the word planning, and for the moment, she couldn’t decide if that seemingly careful choice was her own imagination or him being cagey. If his story turned out to be something else, he had himself covered. Too easily she imagined him telling her that he’d simply followed the story where it took him if it happened to turn into an exposé. Given her history, that’s exactly what she expected rather than one about a woman taking full advantage of her second chance and turning her life around.

“See?” Maisey beamed. “A feel-good story. Maybe one of our clients would agree to be featured. And if it brings in some donations, think of the additional things we could do.”

Though her business partner was right about that, they weren’t that short of money. They had recently received a grant that provided funding to cover expenses for the next year, and donations had been steadily coming in.

“Maisey tells me you do the majority of the training,” Andrew said to Angela, as though everything was all decided. And, in a way, it was. Given the tone of the couple of stories that Angela had read, she assumed they’d be piquing his curiosity if they turned him down. The goal now was to figure out how to defuse his interest—especially since she didn’t believe his agenda.

“So,” he continued, “I’d like to begin by interviewing you.” He looked poised to open his notebook.

No way was she going to do that until she’d had a chance to really think through what to say to him. “I need to check my schedule,” she said.

“Fine.” He inclined his head toward the desk visible through the open doorway.

Feeling cornered and not seeing any rescue from Maisey, Angela headed toward the desk and pulled out her appointment book. “How about next Tuesday at four?”

“That’s Thanksgiving week,” he countered, openly looking over her shoulder and reading the entries. “I’d really like to get a jump on this before then.” He pointed to the following evening’s date. “How about tomorrow at six-thirty, and you can tell me about things over dinner?”

Angela looked up at Maisey, who watched her with a smile on her face and puzzlement in her eyes.

“Okay.” Angela made a notation in the appointment book, then closed it. “Where would you like to meet?”

“How about the Larimer Grill just off the Sixteenth Street Mall?” he said. “The food is good and it’s convenient.”

Convenient? Angela thought. Only if you worked downtown. So, not only would she have to have dinner with a man she didn’t want to talk to, she now had to navigate through Denver’s rush-hour traffic to get there.

Suppressing a sigh, she said, “I’ll see you then.”

“Great,” Andrew said, then said his goodbyes and headed for his vehicle. People were normally cooperative unless they had closets they didn’t want him poking through.

He knew Angela London’s type—the casual ones who played everything low-key and always had big skeletons rattling in the closet. When he reached his car, he punched the speed dial for the editorial assistant assigned to his department. “Find out everything you can about Angela London,” he said. “Approximate age is thirty-five.”

“Just a quick search?” the assistant asked. “Or the works?”

“The works,” Andrew said, still puzzled as to why Ramsey had come here. “I want to know everything about this woman. Where she went to school, where she’s worked, who her friends are and what she eats for breakfast.” He mostly wanted to know what her connection to Brian Ramsey was, especially since her appointment book had his name written down for more than half the days over the next week.

The relationship couldn’t be personal—she wasn’t Brian Ramsey’s type, not if his socialite ex-fiancée was any indication. Andrew had contacted the woman, and, following up on the rumors peppered through his thick file, he’d asked her point-blank about Brian’s use of steroids. She had flushed and stammered before telling him to talk to Brian. Andrew hadn’t found the supplier yet, but he would. It was just a case of poking around in the right closet. Maybe Angela London’s.

Unrelated pieces of information were coming together, and Andrew could smell the story. Ramsey’s sudden, premature retirement from football just before training camp opened last summer. A fiancée who bailed mere weeks before the wedding. A kid involved with the Beanstalk Gang, Ramsey’s foundation, arrested for trying to sell drugs to an undercover cop, a case where the charges were dropped and everything was hushed up. Andrew could sense a cover-up, especially since he hadn’t been able to get close enough to Ramsey to ask a single question. It was time to call the man again.

Andrew didn’t know how all the pieces fit yet, nor did he know how Angela London fit into it. But he would. Anything to do with celebrities and their falls from grace was a sure bet. For once, Andrew was going to be positioned to cash in. He had floated a book idea to a publisher, promising a lurid tell-all. Andrew was sick of the celebrity athletes who thought they could get away with things that would have landed him in jail. And he had no doubt Brian Ramsey was one of them, getting away with who knew what while pretending to be a white knight.

Andrew intended to prove it.

“You’re in one of those tabloids again,” Gramps said to Brian when he arrived home an hour after leaving Guardian Paws. Brian turned his head so he could look at his grandfather, who was perched on a stool next to the counter and who remained absorbed in the paper in front of him.

“It says right here that Erica left you because you gambled away all your money,” Gramps added, poking the paper.

“You know me better than that. I don’t gamble.” Brian walked around the island in the center of the kitchen where his grandmother stood, putting the finishing touches on a pie that was about to go into the oven. Even though the cook would be in to make the evening meal, Nonnie still baked, and her pies were the best. “How was your day?” he asked, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I hope that’s apple.”

“It is,” she said. “And my day was just fine until this old fool started talking about the latest story in that old rag. Tell him that it’s not true.”

“It’s not true,” Brian said.

“Humph,” Gramps said. “Don’t know why they’d be printing stuff that wasn’t. A newspaper has a responsibility. Report facts and only the facts. How can they get away with this?” He looked up at Brian as though he expected an answer even though they’d had the same discussion dozens of times.

“They’re counting on me not to sue them,” he replied, heading for the stairwell to the second floor.

“Well, if it isn’t true, you ought to. It says right here that you’re depressed over your retirement from football and that you’re suicidal.”

“It’s fiction,” Brian said. “I’m fine. Ignore it.”

He put his foot down on the first step, somehow missed it, and stumbled before completely losing his balance and hitting the floor.

Irritated and humiliated, Brian lifted his head and sat up while Nonnie said, “Oh, my goodness. Are you okay?”

In the next second, Gramps was looming above him with his hands on his hips. “Don’t coddle the boy. If nothing’s broken, get on your feet.”

“Just give him a minute,” Nonnie said, leaning over and coming into his line of vision.

She had that same look of concern on her face that she’d had ever since Brian had told them that he was losing his sight. He managed a smile that hid his irritation with himself. “I’m fine.” That phrase was getting to be old, he thought as he stood.

I’m fine—there’s nothing to worry about…if you don’t include the fact that I’m scared spitless.

“Really,” he added. He turned his head, taking in his grandparents. Nonnie gave him an encouraging smile when he looked at her, and Gramps did his usual glower. “I’m going to change my clothes, then go work out for an hour.”

Once more he headed for the stairwell, this time grabbing the banister before putting his foot on the first step.

“You’re too hard on him,” he heard Nonnie say as he went up the stairs.

“Not hard enough,” Gramps replied.

Nothing new in that conversation, Brian thought as he reached the top of the stairs, making sure that he turned his head so he could see the doorway at the end of the wide hallway. Since the day he had arrived in their home when he was six years old, Gramps had been saying basically the same thing. Every day since then, Brian felt as though he hadn’t measured up and as though his grandfather expected him to be as big a screwup as his mother had been. He knew the story because Gramps had repeated it often.

She had been a party girl who liked the fast life—fast boys, fast cars, fast times made even more so by her drug use. The last time Brian had seen her, she’d been strung out on crack. He hadn’t needed his grandfather’s warning to make a vow that he’d never use, never be involved in that life in any way at all. He didn’t want that for himself, and he didn’t want anything to do with people who were part of that life. Somehow, though, his Gramps kept expecting that the sins of his mother would become his, as well.

Brian’s wish now was pretty much the same as it had been then—find a way to make his grandfather proud of him.

Brian pushed open the double doors that led to his suite just as the BlackBerry in his pocket began ringing.

“Ramsey here,” he said.

“Brian, it’s Dwight,” came his manager’s voice through the receiver. “How are you?”

“Fine.” That again.

“I just wanted to let you know we have things all set to shoot the last commercial for your sponsor. I just emailed you the information.”

“When and where?” At last, Brian thought, some good news. Finishing his endorsement contract with the National Milk Association was one of the things he most wanted before the holidays began.

The minute the final commercial was accepted, he needed to break the news to them about the reasons for his sight loss. Since there was a strict morals clause in the contract related to drug abuse, they needed to hear the sorry truth from him rather than it coming through a tabloid story. Though he’d been clean for years when he had signed the contract, he’d had a change of heart in thinking his previous behavior hadn’t mattered. It did, and he didn’t want any negative fallout to come near them even though his attorney and manager had both advised against making any confessions until after all the terms were fulfilled. His attorney assured him that he was legally in the clear. Maybe. But Brian didn’t feel morally in the clear.

“The ad company is working on a hometown angle,” Dwight said, interrupting Brian’s morose thoughts. “So you don’t have to travel.”

“More good news,”

“I set it up for Monday and Tuesday of next week since I figured you might be traveling on Wednesday.”

“Where would I go?” Brian asked, pressing the speaker button on the BlackBerry so he could continue to talk to Dwight while he punched in the button for the calendar to see if he had appointments he’d forgotten about. He squinted at the display, which looked fuzzy to him. He looked away, then back, the display coming into focus. No appointments on Wednesday.

“Aspen,” Dwight drawled. “It’s Thanksgiving, and I thought that’s where you always said you’d spend Thanksgiving after you retired.”

He was surprised that Dwight remembered. Thanksgiving in Aspen had been Erica’s dream, though. Not his. “No, I’ll be right here.”

This was the first Thanksgiving in years that wouldn’t be spent in practice or as a game day. And the date had arrived unnoticed. He wondered if his grandparents had planned anything. He hadn’t eaten Thanksgiving dinner with them in years.

“I’ll call you back in the morning as soon as I have times nailed down,” George said.

“I’ll talk to you then,” Brian said, disconnecting the call and slipping the phone into his pocket. He crossed the room so he could look through the window at the view of Mount Evans, taking in everything he could about this vista. The shape of the peak and surrounding Front Range ramparts. The brilliant hue of everything the sun touched.

Sighing, he turned away to take in the sitting room and his bedroom beyond. The purchase of this home that provided the kind of luxuries he’d always imagined having should have been the culmination of a dream. Instead, he felt cheated.

Once, he would have kicked off his shoes and left them lying on the floor as he crossed the sitting room. He didn’t take them off until he had gone through the bedroom and into the closet. He put them on the rack next to the others, then sat on the stool in the middle of the room, propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head against his hands.