Risking Trust (6 page)

Roxann thought for sure her heart would snap when Michael reached out, threw an arm over Matt’s shoulder and pulled him close. They spoke briefly again, but then Matt was climbing into the car, looking at her and she held up her hand.

“What’s shakin’ bacon?” Vic said and they did some crazy hand jive thing that lasted a solid minute. Didn’t teenagers just shake hands anymore?

“Matt,” Michael said, “this is Roxann.”

“Hi, Matt.”

But his eyes, slightly narrowed, remained fixed on her and she realized he had his father’s long, nose and full lips. How must it feel to Gina to have a constant reminder of her husband?

“I remember you.”

Michael glanced at Matt via the rearview. “How? You were three years old when Roxann and I…uh…knew each other.”

Matt held her gaze, taking in the features of her face. Remembering. “From the lake. You used to run in the morning.”

“Yes,” she said. “You’d ride your bike when your dad ran.”

Matt drew his eyebrows together. “Is Mom pissed?” he asked Michael.

“Watch your mouth. Mixed company.”

“Sorry. Is Mom mad?”

“She’s worried. I’ll take you home and we’ll talk about it. You can bet on being grounded though.”

“I figured.”

Roxann shot a sideways glance at Michael, who drummed the fingers of his right hand on the center console. He had a constant nervous energy that bubbled just below the surface and she reached to still him.

When he turned his hand palm up and squeezed her fingers, she let the heat spill through her until her brain guided her body to a rigid state. Probably the angel going into defense mode. She shouldn’t have touched him. It sent a wrong signal. She needed to stay emotionally detached. That’s how it had to be. Detached. Very.

Except she’d gotten into this car with him.

But really, asked the devil, how could she continue to resent Michael when he’d gone tearing off to find his nephew?
Don’t go there,
the angel warned, and Roxann shook her head to quiet the madness.

Too late. The devil pulled ahead. A part of her had simply crumbled when she saw Michael, a man with no children of his own, taking on the role of stand-in father for a rebellious teenager. Could there be a more unselfish thing when he had major issues of his own?

She didn’t think so. And that was a problem because it touched her in the deepest part of her soul. The part that knew how important it was to have love in one’s life.

So much for emotional detachment.

Phil Dawson entered Roxann’s office like a third grader who’d been sent to the principal. She had only summoned him to corporate a few times and, on each occasion, he seemed more nervous.

This, she surmised, came from his insecurity over not having a blockbuster story since she’d lured him from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
two years earlier. There had been plenty to report on, but Phil wanted an award worthy story. The kind that made investigative journalists drool.

He ran his stubby fingers over his tie as he approached the desk. He’d lost weight recently, but was too cheap to buy new clothes until he lost the last twenty pounds.

“Hey, Phil.” She held a hand toward one of the guest chairs and he plopped into it.

“Is there a problem with one of my pieces?”

Yep. Nervous. “Not at all. I have a lead for you, but it requires discretion.”

“Great.” He opened his ever present note pad. “Shoot.”

She leaned back in her chair and took a breath. Helping Michael was about to become real. “It’s the Taylor murder. A source told me Alicia Taylor had an affair with a married man.”

Phil’s bottom lip shot out as he wrote, and he paused to shove his horn-rimmed glasses up. “Do we know who the affair was with?”

We sure do
. “It’s Carl Biehl.”

“The mayor’s Carl Biehl?”

She nodded. “Easy, boy.”

“Yes, ma’am, but that’s a pretty big dime to drop on someone. Do the cops know?”

“I don’t know. See what you can come up with.”

Phil jotted a note. “My P.D. source might be able to confirm it. Is that it?”

“For now. I’m going to check around a little myself. Don’t be surprised if I call you with something. I’ll clear it with your editor, but for the time being, I want you concentrating on this. If you have a workload issue, we’ll get something reassigned.”

“I’m good, but if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.” He stood. “You’ll be popular in the editorial meetings.”

No kidding. Under her father’s rule, the newsroom ran autonomously. Mitch, Phil’s editor and general newsroom grouch, would have a fit about her interference, but he would have to adjust to the change at the helm. Particularly because she suspected Carl Biehl had something to do with Alicia’s murder and Phil, being a die-hard journalist, would help her confirm it.

“It’s my problem,” Roxann said. “If it goes anywhere the editors and lawyers will have to review everything anyway.”

Phil smacked his notepad against his thigh. “Thanks, Roxann. I’ve been working this story, but nothing is popping.”

“This might be the story I brought you here for.”

He left the office, his steps quicker now. She knew he’d been chasing dead-end leads and she’d given him something to work with. It was only a morsel, but sometimes the biggest story started from scraps.

The following morning, Roxann entered her office at the
Banner
and dumped her notepad on what used to be her organized workspace. The gorgeous cherry desk had morphed into an eruption of piles and piles of manila folders.

Banker’s boxes, stacked three high, sat in one corner of the office—her father’s files. All she needed to do was find a place for them. Good luck with that.

A sliver of panic shot up her arms. Control freaks couldn’t function in messy spaces. This office needed to be firebombed.

A knock sounded on her door. “Morning, Rox.”

“Hey, Phil.” She motioned him to a chair—one of the only surfaces not covered with folders or notebooks—unbuttoned her suit jacket and sat behind her desk. “What’s up?”

“Something went on with Alicia Taylor and Carl Biehl, but nobody will go on record that it was an affair. I didn’t get anything from Mrs. Biehl. She didn’t deny it though.”

Roxann rested her head against the back of her chair. She needed an aspirin, maybe ten, for the dull throb that had grown into a raging headache. Fatigue did that to her. Was this the right time to make an important decision? Would there ever be a good time to run this story?

“What did your P.D. source say?”

“He wouldn’t confirm the affair, but said a friend of the Taylors saw them—Alicia and Biehl—in a restaurant one night. The friend said Biehl seemed nervous.” He leaned forward and pushed up his glasses. “Also, a neighbor said he saw Biehl leaving Alicia’s two days before the murder.”

“They certainly weren’t shy.”

“Nope.”

Roxann ran the options. Running the story would mean scandal for Carl Biehl. The mayor would go ballistic and Max would be right there with him because she’d messed around in an active case. On a personal level, if her uncle set his mind to it, he could create dissention between Roxann and her mother during a time when they needed each other. She didn’t want her mother feeling additional emotional upheavals because Max was in a snit. But would his anger be fierce enough to drag her mother into it? Roxann hoped not.

She sat silently, turned over the options, ran the scenarios. Would it be worth the backlash? Her palms began to itch—the itch hadn’t failed her yet—but this decision carried personal and business implications. Breaking it down to its simplest form, this was a newspaper and the mayor’s chief of staff having an affair with a murder victim was news.

Roxann leaned forward. “Can you combine this with other new details about the murder? You can add the Biehl information, but don’t say it was an affair. Call it a close friendship. Whatever.”

Phil nodded. “Sure. My source gave me some stuff on the crime scene.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Mitch about it. He and the lawyers will have to check for libel issues. I want to see a final before it goes to print. We’ll see what else is running tomorrow before we make a placement decision, but we’ll get it close to the front.”

Phil whistled. “Thanks, Rox.”

He rose from his chair and she held up a hand. “Michael Taylor is my source. Obviously, that’s not for disclosure.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Phil’s face. “This is a
really
good day.”

Roxann crawled into bed, her body feeling as if it had been plastered by a wrecking ball. When morning came, the Alicia Taylor story would break and create an avalanche of speculation. She burrowed farther into the supple, pink sheets and drew comfort from them. Sometimes a well made bed was all she needed. Wouldn’t it be great if a well made bed could cure all her problems?

She gazed up at the ceiling, painted the palest of peach to add warmth. She’d need all the warmth she could get because come morning, Max would be furious. Should she call him with a heads up about the story? The sickening swell of bile in her throat made her rethink the idea. Part of her was too chicken to tell him. The other part couldn’t summon the energy to deal with the fit he’d throw.

The digital clock on the bedside table showed eleven thirty-five, late for an early riser who kept to a regimented schedule, but nothing unusual lately. She flipped the lamp off and snuggled into her pillow. Thirty seconds later, her brain still buzzing, she sat up, turned the lamp on and whipped off the covers.

Damn.

She snatched her phone from the charger and scrolled through her contacts for Michael’s number.

“Taylor.”

His voice carried the fog of sleep and she closed her eyes while her insides melted. It had been a long time since she’d heard that just-woken-up-I’m-so-sexy voice.
Don’t go there
. She cleared her throat.

“It’s Roxann. Sorry to wake you.”

“I’m used to it. Why’re you up?”

She tugged at a loose string on the comforter.
Need to fix that.
“We’re running the story on Carl and Alicia tomorrow. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”

She heard a
ffftttt
and wondered if he’d tossed the covers and gotten out of bed. She hoped so. Talking to him while he lounged in bed unnerved her. Particularly if he still slept naked. She imagined his tall, solid frame wearing only his lightning quick smile and it stirred up a whole lot of memories. She squeezed her eyes shut again.
Don’t go there
.

“Phil’s been busy,” Michael said, but nothing in his tone revealed pleasure.

His reaction wasn’t a surprise. After all, some of the seedy details of his failed marriage were about to be splashed across the front page of her newspaper.

“That was it,” she said. “So, goodnight.”

“You okay?”

“Sure. My editors hate my management style, but other than that, doing just fine.”

Where did that come from? Wow.

“Fine generally means
not
fine.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re so astute.”

“I’m in my sensitive phase. What’s on your mind, Rox?”

She gripped the phone tighter, reluctant to hang up, but also terrified of sharing the intricacies of her life with him. And yet, here they were, both executives at large companies. He would understand it from a business angle. Yes, back to the
business
arrangement.
Focus.
“My father’s only been gone a few weeks. I’m trying to get through it and working is the best way, but my managing editor is mad at me, which is nothing new, but it’s annoying. Another little thing to deal with.”
What am I doing?
“I’m sorry. You don’t need my problems added to your stack. I should go.”

“Rox, us working together is…odd.”

“I’ll say.”

“Anyway, thanks. For everything.” He hesitated. “I can’t go to jail. You saw why the other night with Matt. He’s having a tough time. The poor kid wants to have sex in the worst way.”

“Oh. How does Gina deal with that?”

Michael snorted. “
Gina
? She’s not going near that one.”

“
You
talk to him about sex?”

This revelation nearly put her over the edge. Michael discussing the birds and the bees. Frightening. He had always been more of a let’s-get-a-hooker-in-here-to-give-the-kid-his-first-lesson type of guy.

“Somebody’s got to,” he said. “My sister wants to lock him up somewhere. He’s fifteen and hormonally challenged. I feel for him.”

“It’s nice they have you.”

“I need to stay around.”

There it was. The anxiety. His attitude toward people’s suspicions of him was generally casual. Nothing seemed to penetrate the armor, except a discussion about a young boy going through puberty.

“Look, Rox, Alicia and I were at each other, but I wouldn’t have done that to her. Never. The money isn’t worth it.”

A sudden burst of heat saturated Roxann’s cheeks and she tugged on the loose string again. Minutes ago she had fantasized about his sexy voice and now he was proclaiming innocence to his wife’s murder. A woman he’d married instead of her. Complicated.

“As you said, it’s a good business deal. I don’t know what will come of it, but we’ll both benefit.”

“I hope so,” he said.

Roxann flattened the loose string for the last time and sat on her hand. “I should go now, but I guess we’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight.”

She hung up and stared at the wall and the framed front page of the
Banner
from the day she was born. She had stored thirty-five newspapers, one from each of her birthdays, and could immediately pick the year she’d celebrated with Michael. As much as she would deny it, a late night phone call with him was nice. It sent her spiraling back to the time when she waited for his calls and the anticipation that came when the phone finally rang.

That’s what she felt now. That silly burst of hope for something more, not knowing what that something was. Yes, she could try and control it, but she wasn’t having much luck in that department. And worse, it involved a man suspected of murder.

At eight in the morning, with her head high and wearing her favorite red suit for moral support, Roxann strode through the
Banner
’s executive suite carrying a copy of the morning paper.

After her morning run had eased the tension of a sleepless night, she appeared confident and pulled together. The competitor in her refused to let the stress win.

She slid past Mrs. Mackey’s desk where the computer hummed and messages were already stacked. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee assaulted Roxann’s senses and she looked toward the galley area where Mrs. Mackey stood pouring her a cup. A saint.

Half of the office doors remained closed, but it was early. Most of the senior staff made it in by eight fifteen because two years ago she’d implemented a company-wide rule that any chronic late comers be spoken to. She understood being late every now and again, but if employees did it repeatedly with impunity, it would lead to a total loss of control.

The senior staff needed to set the example for the rest of the employees. If their leaders couldn’t arrive on time, why should the followers be expected to?

The phone rang as Roxann entered her office. Not a surprise given the story in the day’s newspaper. She let it go to voice mail.

She shrugged off her trench coat, hung it behind her door and got to her desk to find the red message light flashing. Some nasty messages probably waited for her, but they’d wait a little longer.

She located the Alicia Taylor story on the bottom of page three. The final draft had been approved, but she needed to read it again to make sure Phil’s editor hadn’t made any last minute changes.

As usual, Phil had given them excellent reporting. She retrieved a legal pad from her drawer and made detailed notes because, if her instincts served her, the day would offer a battle with the mayor of Chicago and every tiny detail mattered.

Mrs. Mackey knocked once on the open door and entered with the steaming coffee and a stack of pink message slips. “You’re popular today. Three calls from the mayor, one from Carl Biehl, two from Max and one from your mother. I have no idea what’s on your voice mail, but your phone has been ringing nonstop since seven-thirty.”

After a deep breath, Roxann punched the voice mail button. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

She was greeted by a cheery voice announcing her mailbox was full. Good Lord.

Mrs. Mackey hit the disconnect button. “Let me go through them and summarize. I’ve probably already given you most of them.”