she’d been hard-pressed to focus on his anger.
Standing way too close in the shadows, she’d noticed the scent of his leather jacket and the woodsy smell of his aftershave, as well as the tiny nick on the cleft of his chin. He’d tried to convince Violet she was in way over her head and getting into his business could cause problems for both of them.
Despite his raw appeal that had caused her heart to trip along her rib cage, the story came first. Violet had ignored his warning and planned to dig deeper into the mob’s activities. All that ended a few days later when the permanent position she had hoped to land at the Gazette went to another intern. With no other journalism openings in the Windy City, Violet had accepted a position on the Missoula Daily News, where she’d languished for the last two years.
Fast-forward to a few days ago when Gwyn had mentioned an undercover cop named Clay West. Since Violet and the cop had a history of sorts, she had phoned him, hoping he’d provide more information about the murders in Montana. Clay’s terse responses to her probing questions confirmed calling him had been a big mistake.
Monday morning, Violet was still thinking about her Mafia story as she stood at the end of her editor’s desk, listening to Stu Nelson lecture her about staying on task. As much as Violet wanted to set Stu straight, she needed to pick her battles.
Keep the editor happy.
Violet had imprinted those words on her brain in Chicago. She was a good writer. Stu had said as much on more than one occasion. But he refused to assign her the hard-hitting features she wanted to write. Two years on staff and she continued to get the fillers and fluff stories.
Anyone could pull together a litany of facts and feed them to the readers. Violet’s strength was finding the story within the story. She prided herself on going deeper, thinking bolder, writing stronger than anyone else on staff. And that wasn’t egotism. It was fact.
A fact her editor didn’t seem to realize.
“The number of cops on the force has decreased while crime is on the rise,” Stu continued, his slightly this-side-of-sixty face wrinkling like a prune. “That’s the story I wanted you to write. Not your biased opinion of the chief of police.” Stu wagged his finger close to her face for emphasis.
Aware of the office door hanging open, Violet knew her peers had overheard his lambasting.
“Did you happen to look at the information I typed up concerning the two murders?” Violet threw the question into the mix.
Stu raised his brow, and his finger returned to the aforementioned position. “There you go again, chasing windmills. The fact that two women died on opposite ends of Montana has no correlation to anything you think might be happening in Chicago, Illinois.”
“The mob exists, Stu.”
“Maybe in Chicago, but we’re over twelve-hundred miles away. If you change the slant of a story I assign again, you can head back to Chicago. As I recall, the Gazette didn’t ask you to stay on staff.”
Oh, yeah, Stu was on a roll and had just gone in for the kill. “It was an internship after college,” she offered in self-defense. “There was never any promise of permanent employment following the nine-month training period.”
Backing her way to the door, she grabbed the knob, and when Stu waved her off, she slipped out of his office, feeling as if she’d just missed a head-on collision with a tractor trailer on Interstate 90.
Her heels clipped across the tiled floor. Quinn Smith looked up from his computer as she passed his cubicle and gave her a thumbs-up. “Keep the faith, Violet.”
She tried to smile back at one of the Missoula Daily News’s lead reporters. Medium height but athletic for a midfifties guy with a receding hairline, Quinn seemed to understand how she ticked.
Violet threaded her way across the length of the newsroom to her small desk, tucked along the far wall. One of the realities of her position was her distance from the editor’s office.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Stu would see her in a more favorable light after she turned in the completed story that tied the Chicago crime family with the two women who had died in Montana.
A story he had just rejected, her voice of reason cautioned. Advice she chose to ignore.
She slipped behind her desk, into the swivel chair that had lost its swivel probably last century, kicked off her shoes and logged on to a Web site she’d created in college.
A lone partition separated her desk from the main hallway leading to the elevators where Jimmy Baker now stood, peering down at her. Gangly tall with a school-boy smile, the junior reporter was a friend from her University-of-Montana days.
“Sounded bad.” He smiled with encouragement as he rounded the partition and sidled up behind her desk.
She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “FYI, I’m on to something big.”
“Ah, Violet, you’re gonna get into trouble. I can feel it coming.”
“Not if the story increases subscriptions and establishes the Daily News as the number-one rag in Montana.”
“Before success goes to your head, check your voice mail. Your phone rang off the hook while you were in with Stu.”
Violet pulled the receiver to her ear and punched the message button.
He had her at hello.
No mistaking Clay West’s voice or the ripple of excitement that tingled down her neck. Something about the way he enunciated each syllable clearly and distinctly sent a mental five-by-seven glossy to hang in the recesses of her brain. Tall, dark and dangerous was the image that came to mind.
Now, here he was on her answering machine, saying they needed to talk. Not once, but three times. If the man had any fault, likely it was impatience.
Jimmy peeked over her shoulder at her computer screen. “Good grief, Violet, is that the same Web site from our college days?”
She minimized the page, but that didn’t stop Jimmy.
“After all this time, do you seriously think someone will come forward with information about your Aunt Lettie’s murder? Weren’t you six when she died?”
“I was seven,” Violet corrected. So young, yet she still felt responsible for her aunt’s death. If only she’d had the courage to run after her that night, Lettie might still be alive. Instead, fear had overpowered Violet. She’d returned to the security of her home and had never seen her aunt alive again.
“The cops couldn’t find the killer. Doubtful you’ll have better luck.” Tenacious to a fault, he did the math on his fingers. “It’s been what? Eighteen years?”
“Jimmy, let it go.”
He leaned close to her ear. “I will if you stop with the Mafia story. I heard what Stu said. You’re doing it again, Vi. Stepping on toes. Going against authority. It could cost you your job.”
“Would you please back off?” Even friendship had boundaries and recently Jimmy was stepping a little too close to the line.
Her phone rang. She pulled the receiver to her ear. “Kramer.”
“Violet, it’s Clay West. I was wondering if we could talk, perhaps this evening. I’m not sure you understood the urgency of what I told you the other night when you called. You’re getting involved in something you shouldn’t be. We could discuss it over—”
Violet looked up at Jimmy, who failed to get the message to back off. As much as she wanted to talk to Clay, she didn’t need to listen to a third lecture in one day. Especially with Jimmy hovering close by.
“I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll call you back.”
Violet