Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery Read Free Page A

the floater and pull it to the side of the boat. They reached over and tried to hoist it up. It was a struggle.
    “Geez, this guy’s a fucking cow,” one of them said.
    The body slipped, and they grabbed at it, grappled with it, and started to pull it up again. The two cops on the boat gave a unified try to get it on board, and as they did it rolled over.
    It was faceup now, like it was looking into the camera.
    My body jerked from shock, and I shot back in my seat.
    “Holy crap,” I said.
    I heard Wade from the driver’s seat.
    “Told you.”
    In the viewfinder Wade zoomed in on the face, and it was staring right back.
    One of the harbor cops yelled.
    “Holy shit, man.”
    Then the kid on shore.
    “Guys, that’s fucking Jack Steele.”

Chapter Four
     
     
    “Four minutes out, Sam,” the voice in my earpiece crackled.
    It belonged to Steve Townsend, the director of Liberty’s morning show, and he was back in the control room. It was almost five a.m. and I stood in the dark at the edge of the parking lot where Steele’s body had been pulled from the East River.
    Charlie was in front of me, camera on his shoulder, and we were ready to go. Except for one minor detail. No one had officially confirmed Jack Steele was dead.
    “Sam,” another voice said in my earpiece, “you got to pin this down.” It was Blake Jennings, the napping assignment editor.
    “Blake, for the fiftieth time, ask Cal to talk to Robbie Steele. Hell, she’s his wife, and he’s the president of the damn network, between the two of them they should know if the man is dead or not.”
    “Cal says he can’t reach Robbie; she’s not answering her phone. And no one answers Jack’s cell.”
    “Listen, you saw the footage, Blake. Two of the cops recognized him. I recognized him. You recognized him. It’s Steele.”
    “Yeah, but we can’t take a chance with this, Sam,” Jennings said. “What if it’s, like, the fat guy from accounting somewhere? You know, the guy who everyone always said looked just like Jack Steele?”
    “I’m not getting beat on this,” I said into the mic.
    Townsend was back in my ear.
    “Three minutes out, Sam.”
    “Crap,” I muttered.
    My phone vibrated with an incoming call and I glanced at the number.
    Unknown.
    I shut off the mic and answered on the second ring.
    “Pep?”
    “You must want something,” Pep Rinaldi said.
    His voice was scratchy and dry, like this hour of the morning did not sit well with him. And he was angry, bothered that he had been bothered.
    “The three calls gave it away?” I asked.
    “There were four. You didn’t leave a message on one.”
    “This is why you’re a detective.”
    “Let me guess, this is this about a popular broadcaster?” he asked.
    “More top-notch detective work.”
    “It’s what I do.”
    “Was that Jack Steele you guys pulled out of the East River a few hours ago?”
    “Jack Steele. News with a point of view. That’s what the billboard on the West Side Highway says.”
    “So it was Steele?”
    “How come you don’t have a billboard, Sam?”
    “Pep?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m supposed to go on national TV in three minutes to either break the biggest news of my career or make an ass of myself.”
    “Can it be both?”
    “Yes, that’s a possibility. But how about we stick to the question. Jack Steele. Dead or not dead?” I asked.
    “What were the choices again?”
    Townsend’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Two and a half minutes, Sam.”
    “Pep?”
    “Not my case, Sam.”
    “But you know about it?”
    “I do.”
    “And?”
    “It was Steele,” he said.
    “So why doesn’t his wife seem to know?”
    “Couples just don’t communicate anymore, Sam. It’s a real problem. Everybody’s crazy busy.”
    “Thank you. You do understand what little is left of my career is on the line here?”
    “That’s why I told you to go into police work years ago. Much less pressure and you don’t have to worry about your hair.”
    “My hair