RILEY
"You're from the news? There's no fuckin' way I'm talkin' to you, lady."
The middle-aged guy with the southern drawl closes his front door with a bang before I can plead my case. The photographer and I glance at each other and sigh as we shuffle toward the sidewalk, past the neatly trimmed lawn. It's late in the day, on the cusp of sunset. The warm, winter sun in Florida is giving way to long shadows and the promise of darkness.
"Well, at least he didn't threaten us with violence like the last guy," Brynn says cheerfully, and I snort out a laugh. We're at our cars parked on the street now, and my eye spies the guy who just slammed the door. He's watching us from the window, but I don't give a shit.
I do give a shit about my article, though.
"Brynn, what am I going to do? I'm supposed to write this story and I'm getting nowhere. It's almost dark. Monday's the deadline." I allow my head to tip back, groaning in frustration. "This Friday the thirteenth is living up to its reputation."
"Girl, I don't know, but I can't stay any longer. I have to cover that football game." Brynn's crazy talented with her camera but our editors keep her busy covering local high school sports. Rarely does she have time for assignments like this, and I've squandered her precious time. A waste of a day.
I playfully swat her with my reporter's notebook. "I'm sorry this wasn't better. I really thought all these people would talk after yesterday's article. I assumed everyone would want to talk about Doyle."
She lifts a shoulder into a shrug and pulls out her keys. "The old boys' network runs strong here in Tampa. You'll learn that. You've already pissed a lot of people off with that story. You headed back to the newsroom?"
My hand reaches for the handle of my beat-up car. "Probably not. I think I'm going to stop by one more house, the woman who supposedly knows about Doyle's ties to Gabriel Greco. You know, I didn't tell you. I got a weird email from his lawyer."
"Greco's lawyer? What did it say?"
I pause, mouth open, wondering if I should tell Brynn about the message. It was an offer to have cocktails this weekend, at his mansion on some island near Tampa. Because it seemed like an invitation to a party, I wondered if I'd somehow been mistakenly put on a mailing list or something.
Usually people who were accused of being mafia kingpins didn't casually invite reporters over for drinks. Something was off about that email, and I hadn't responded. Hadn't even told my editor yet, because it was so strangely worded, so stiffly formal. It also struck me as odd that a man like Greco would invite me, or anyone, to his house on Valentine's Day, which was tomorrow night. I'd heard enough about the man to know that he probably wasn't begging for company on the holiday of love.
Ms. Murphy,
Mr. Gabriel Greco is requesting your presence Saturday evening for cocktails and more.
– Michael Malka, Esq.
Weird, right?
I decide not to say anything. I'm new at the Tribune and don't want my colleagues to think I'd socialize with a man like Greco. I want my private life to remain that way, especially with my past. As far as anyone at the paper's concerned, I'm just one of many overeducated reporters with student loan debt who took a low-paying job at a mid-tier paper as a stepping stone to something bigger.
"It was a veiled threat to not publish more stories involving him. You know. Legal shit." I toss off the words like it's no big deal, like that knot in my stomach isn't even there.
"I hope you forwarded it to the editors." She looks alarmed.
"Yeah, definitely. I'm going to check out this other source now."
But I haven't sent the invite to my editors. I don't want to mention the letter—or respond—because I wanted to nail this follow-up article first, before I took a run at what was possibly my only chance to interview Greco. No risk of that now, though. I've struck out with everyone I've tried to interview. Unless this last woman wants to talk, or unless I take Greco up on his offer.
"Riley, just wait till Monday and I'll door knock with you. Tell the editors you need more time. You shouldn't be going into people's homes alone." A look of worry crosses Brynn's pretty face.
I yank open the car door. "Pfft. I'll be fine. This is nothing, you should've seen the kinds of people I talked with in the Bronx during my internship at Newsday. Nothing's going to happen to me in Tampa, Florida, unless you count getting doors slammed in my face. Or me getting fired."
"You're crazy. Be careful, okay?" She shakes her head and climbs into her car.
"Have fun at the game," I call out before sliding behind the wheel.
Once inside, I blast the air conditioner—it's only February and I haven't yet gotten used to the heat down here—and type in the next address in my phone's GPS. It's the house of a woman named Janine Hammond, and I heard from a source that she was a longtime supporter of Doyle.
I grew up on the fringes of the Irish mob in South Boston, and know people sometimes use the elderly to launder cash or legitimize their various illegal schemes. Talking to Hammond will help me figure out if she was involved, or a pawn.
Her home is only a few miles from where I am now, but worlds away from these manicured properties. I frown at the map. She lives in a terrible neighborhood, one on the city's west side that I've been to several times while covering homicides. I got Hammond's name from Doyle's campaign finance records.
An old lady on the west side gave Doyle close to a hundred grand over the years? I shake my head and start my car. Anything's possible, I guess, but it sure seems odd.
Along the way, my car begins to make a disturbing knocking sound. I've had this car since college, and to describe it as a junker would be too kind. My dad bought it for a few thousand dollars, thinking I'd return home after my New York internship to South Boston after grad school. He and Mom hoped I'd take a job at the local paper and figured I'd need the car to tool around our neighborhood, but instead, I drove the thing all the way to Florida.
I want nothing to do with Southie, not since my best friend's murder.
As I turn onto Hammond's street, past a gas station with bars on the windows, a scraggly palm tree and a homeless guy sleeping next to a shopping cart, the knocking sound grows louder. "Come on," I mutter. "Just get me through tonight and I promise I'll take you to the mechanic on Monday."
Hammond's house looks like a small, beige box. It stands out on the street since it's the only home not in a state of active disrepair. Cheerful, pink flowers line the front walkway. What it doesn't have, however, is a parking space. There's no driveway and not a single space out front; the curb is lined with old cars.
Most of them look better than my own, and I laugh out loud. At least no one will steal my car. I navigate into the alley, where garbage bins overflow with trash, and park next to a tall, chain-link fence. There are no other cars back here, which could be a good thing. Or not. It's a crapshoot, but I take chances like this when I'm reporting all the time.
You'll do anything for a story. That's what Lorna, my oldest and best friend, used to say, laughing. But she was the most curious person I've ever known, and wasn't even a journalist. She was a hairstylist, and an amazing one, too. And goddammit, I can't stop thinking about her—
No. Not now. Not here.
I climb out of my car, make sure it's locked—although I'm not sure why; if someone is desperate or stupid enough to steal it they'd be doing me a favor—and walk down the alley. It smells like hot tar and piss, and I move quickly to the street where Hammond's house sits. Past the pretty flowers and the little stone sculpture of an angel.
My knuckles strike the door three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. Serious, but not obnoxiously insistent. From somewhere inside, a dog barks, a high-pitched sound. Oh, hell. This is the worst part about door-knocking to talk to people. The dogs.
"Down, Brutus. Down. Hang on! Just a minute!" The voice is that of an older woman.
I extract a business card from my bag and hold it in anticipation. The door swings open.
"Ms. Hammond?" I ask, pasting a professional smile on my face.
"Yes? How can I help you, dear?" She's in a bright yellow muumuu, wearing heavy black-rimmed glasses and holding a small, tan chihuahua. Her brassy blonde hair is piled on top of her head. With that big, open grin, she looks like she has more than a few stories to tell.
I extend my hand with my business card, and she thankfully takes it. "I'm Riley Murphy, a reporter for the Tribune. Sorry to just barge in on you, but I'm doing a story about James Doyle. The city councilman? Maybe you've read the news—"
"I did. He's missing. What a shame." She shakes her head and a lock of blonde hair falls into her face.
"Yes. I wrote the story in yesterday's paper. The reason I'm here on your doorstep is because I noticed you gave quite a bit of money to him during his recent re-election campaign. You were," I open my notepad to something I scribbled this morning while drinking coffee, "his second highest donor."
"I've known James since he was a child. Used to babysit him, in fact."
I look up. This could be fruitful. "Interesting. What else can you tell me about him?"
She sucks at her teeth. "I think he's been a wonderful leader for the city. I fully support him and hope he comes home soon."
Interesting. She seems like a nice lady, but I also wonder if she knows the truth about Doyle. "My sources have told me some other things about Mr. Doyle."
Things that involve child porn...
The dog begins to whine and she shifts it around, tucking it under her arm like a purse. "Sorry, Brutus isn't great with strangers."
"Understandable. I have a lot of questions about Mr. Doyle. Do you have a few minutes? Could we sit on your porch and talk?" I open my eyes a little wider, hoping that my approachable expression will make her trust me.
She lets out a long breath. "Honey, I've lived in Tampa my entire life. There are two people you never talk to. Cops and reporters. I'm sorry. It's just not safe."
Ugh, I hate when people say shit like this. Our interview is going south by the second and I need to recover. "Why isn't it safe? I'm new here. Can't you talk off the record, maybe explain it to me?"
I'm probably sounding too desperate, but at this point, I don't care. I need to bring my editor something by Monday. "If you're such a supporter of Mr. Doyle, don't you want to discuss all the good things he's done?"
A little laugh leaks out of her mouth. "Have you heard of a man named Gabriel Greco?"
I nod eagerly. "Absolutely, yes."
"He's the one you need to talk with. He has all the information on everyone in the city. Have a nice day, dear."
She gently shuts the door, and the only audible sounds are my sigh and the little dog's bark from inside.
Fuuuuck.
I shuffle down the walkway and toward the alley. I'm in deep shit, and don't want to return to the newsroom empty handed. Maybe I can just call—
My thoughts are interrupted when I turn and take a few steps into the alley. There's a sleek, black car parked in front of mine. It wasn't there when I arrived, and something tells me this isn't copacetic.
My heart speeds up as I slow my gait. An inner voice tells me this isn't a good situation, and perhaps I should walk around the block or to that gas station on the corner. Yeah, I think I'll do that instead. Call my editor from there.
I slowly turn and begin to walk with soft footsteps to the corner. Maybe it's my sixth sense, or perhaps my brain registers the sound of shoes on dirt, but I break into a run.
In a second, the wind's knocked out of me as someone yanks me backward by the arm.
"What the—" I yelp.
"No need to panic. We just want to talk."
I stare into the face of a guy who looks like he was cast as an extra in The Sopranos. A fleshy face, slits for eyes, giant biceps encased in a black T-shirt. A neck thick like a tree stump. He doesn't look like the type to talk.
I let out a bloodcurdling scream and lurch forward, hoping that someone, anyone, will hear and call the police. Ms. Hammond's words echo in my brain: There are two people you never talk to. Cops and reporters.
The guy clamps his hand around my mouth and picks me up like I'm a beer can. I attempt to fight him off, but I'm a fraction of his size. My dress hikes up around my thighs and for a moment I'm horrified that I'm flashing my hot pink underwear with a cartoon unicorn print to the world, but then it registers.
This is a robbery. Or an assault. Or worse...
I'm in serious fucking trouble here. My sinuses expand, and it seems like I can breathe in twice the air. I notice that my attacker is awash in cologne, something cloying and strong. Every one of my senses seems to be growing sharper, ratcheting up along with my fear.
Was this what Lorna felt in her last moments? A thousand terrible thoughts fly through my brain, and I bite the guy's hand. Hard. Hard enough to taste the coppery tang of blood.
"Fuck!" he roars, removing his palm from my mouth but not letting me go.
"Hey! Get your hands off me, asshole!"
"I won't manhandle you if you stop fighting back," the guy growls.
"Yeah, right. Fuck you. Let me go." I try to squirm away but his beefy hands are like vice grips against my arms.
But he isn't releasing me, and my panic is rising by the second. We're near the black car now, and the back door magically pops open. Something terrible is happening, and I don't have the strength or power to make it stop.
While I squeal, grunt, and scream, the guy roughly throws me into the back of the car. "What the fuck?" I yell.
I attempt to get a kick on his face as he shoves my legs inside the car, but he's too fast, too strong, too much. As he shoves me inside, he tears the purse off my shoulder. The door slams and I whirl around, stunned at how icy it is inside this luxury car.
There, sitting in the back of this sleek vehicle, is Gabriel Greco.
"Hello, Riley."
His voice makes me jump and fumble for the door handle. It's a steely tone, heavy and deep. The tone of a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to grab it.
In this case, that would be me.