Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) Read Free

killing.
    “Give it to me,” I insisted.
    Ozzie glanced toward Noreen’s office, knowing our boss might disagree.
    “I’ll be done with the story before she even knows,” I said. “Plus, I might have an inside line on this case.”
    The latter won Ozzie’s collaboration because anything that gives us an edge over the competition is worth a minor misunderstanding with management.
    When I arrived on the scene, I recognized the brick rambler, even though I hadn’t been inside for more than a decade. I knew the layout as well as my own home, and wondered where the body rested.
    “Please,” I prayed silently to myself in the Channel 3 van parked at the curb. “Let them have moved.”
    “Come on, Riley, what’s taking so long?” asked my cameraman, Malik Rahman. “We need to get going. Hit the dirt.”
    I’d been so eager to claim this story, Malik was puzzled why I was uncharacteristically slow getting out of the van.
    “Just a second,” I told him. “I need to focus.”
    “No, Riley, focusing is my job, the photographer’s. Your job is to snoop. Now go nose around.”
    So while Malik sprayed the scene with video, I reverted to reporter form, knocking door to door until a woman holding a long-haired cat answered. She recognized me from TV, and I waited to see whether that carried pluses or minuses.
    In this case she had enjoyed a story I did a couple weeks ago about owners who groomed and painted their dogs and cats for art shows. The fur certainly made an interesting canvas, but to me, the animal’s eyes looked sad.
    “Thanks,” I said, accepting the compliment without debate. “It was my boss’s idea.” Noreen was fixated on animal stories as a way to win viewer loyalty . . . and station ratings.
    “Be sure and tell her I liked it,” the woman said.
    “I sure will.” Like hell. Noreen didn’t need any more encouragement for fluffy features.
    I craved sympathy for having to work for a rigid manager like Noreen, but these days of growing unemployment, almost anyone who still had a job hated their boss. And those out of work hated the bosses who’d fired them.
    “Too bad you have to cover a murder,” the neighbor said. “That’s got to be rough.”
    “Yep.” I nodded. Not the kind of consolation I was looking for, but I played along. “I wanted to cover that northern Minnesota story about the lost baby bear being reunited with its mother, but another reporter snatched it first.”
    Technically, that was a lie, but telling people something they like hearing often makes them more agreeable sources. Commiserating also allowed me to point to the crime scene and casually ask her the last name of the family.
    She answered, “Warner.”
    My heart sped up at the familiar name, and I wondered, Which one?
    But then she went on to say that Kate lived alone. “Do you think it was her?” she asked.
    “No word yet.” I got the neighbor’s phone number by promising to call her if I learned anything—an effective technique to staying in touch with eyes on the block.
    A half hour later, when Detective Delmonico confirmed that next of kin had been located, I officially learned that Kate Warner was the murder victim.
    I’m ashamed to admit I felt relief. And then I felt guilt that I didn’t feel more sorrow.
    I had nothing against Kate. We’d first met when she was twelve. Her older sister had been a college roommate of mine.
    Normally journalists steer away from stories in which we might know the players, because that can affect our judgment. Though having inside sources can sometimes trump conflict-of-interest concerns.
    During our college days, Laura Warner and I were as tight asBarbie and PJ or Bert and Ernie. Then we had a . . . rift. I hadn’t seen her or any of her family members, including her little sister, in years. I juggled the math in my head and was surprised that it might have been as many as fourteen years without any contact. Didn’t have her cell phone number. Or email address.