Hard Press: The Evie Black Files Page 2

“Arrested for murdering his wife and kid,” the first man said, repeating what he’d been told only seconds ago. It looked like he was trying to impress.

  “And you don’t think he did it?”

  “Well, uh… not really.”

  It wasn’t exactly what she had been looking for, but Evie wondered if she could make something of this. Even if the man turned out to be as guilty as suspected, at least she might have a shot at twisting the story in a way that would work for her. As long as she didn’t lie or upset anybody (which happened to be her golden rules), she could write what she wanted.

  “We gotta go,” that same man told her, and they both turned to walk away.

  “Wait.” Evie fished through her purse for a notepad. She pulled the lid off a pen with her teeth and spat it to one side. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter Six

  A couple of hours was all it took to gather everything for her case. (Others might have called it a project, but to Evie that seemed so final; she thought that a story could go one way or the other, but “project” implied that it had an expected outcome.) The web had given her everything she’d needed—everything but the permission to pursue this story.

  Before lunch, Evie made her way to the Vision Magazine building and took the elevator to the editors’ floor. Once there, she took long strides past the desks, trying to pretend she couldn’t feel the eyes on her or hear the whispers of people asking what she was doing there. She didn’t look back until she reached Conan Reed’s office and didn’t dare stop to knock.

  Inside, Conan got to his feet immediately, unsettled by Evie as she burst into the office. On the other side of his desk was none other than Troy Bukowski, slouched in the chair with sunglasses covering his eyes. It was one of Evie’s pet hates—sunglasses in a dark room.

  “Evie,” Conan said. “I’m in the middle of—”

  “I might have a story,” she said, stepping inside and holding the door open for Troy, although his smug grin told her that he hadn’t got the hint.

  “You gave it to the coffee girl?” Troy asked. That grin was fading.

  “Troy, excuse us for a moment.” Conan sat back down and gestured for Evie to do the same.

  But Evie continued to hold the door, and her daring stare didn’t relax until Troy was up and out of the room, muttering something under his breath. Only then did the door close, and Evie presented the case to her potential employer.

  “Interesting,” Conan said, handing the papers back. “What’s your angle?”

  “Well…” Evie cleared her throat. “Everyone thinks he’s guilty, but he might not be. If this guy is innocent, it will prove everything you wanted. Suddenly the suspect is the victim. One of three, anyway. Every paper and magazine that has deemed him guilty will have to print a retraction. Except for us, of course.”

  Conan folded his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles. “You think he’s innocent?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure, but I’d like to meet him and check it out.”

  “You don’t need my permission for that.”

  “It’s not your permission I want,” Evie said matter-of-factly.

  “What, then?”

  “I just want a nod of the head to tell me it’s my choice.”

  Conan rose out of his chair and turned to the glass on the back wall. It had a magnificent view of the Big Apple but looked like it could provide an unhealthy dose of vertigo. Finally, he sighed. “Look, this is your article. Yours. If you want to chase this, then that’s your decision. But if it turns out he’s guilty after all, you’ll be back to making coffee. If you’re okay with that—”

  “I’m okay with that.” Evie stood and collected the papers from the desk. “Thanks for your time.” She was out of the office in the bat of an eyelid, making a mental checklist of things to do. There was no shortage of tasks, either, and it all began with arranging a meeting with Calvin Durant.

  Chapter Seven

  Innocent, innocent, innocent.

  Calvin had insisted it a thousand times throughout his interrogation, but it didn’t seem to have changed anything. The murder weapon had his prints on it, and his family’s blood was on his hands. How could anyone believe him?

  Since being returned to his cell, he’d sat bolt upright on the bed with the painfully thin mattress. God only knew how many hours had passed—he only knew that it must be nighttime, as the lights had been turned out and silence filled the corridors.

  Silence, except for the footsteps coming his way.

  Moments later, keys jangled outside his cell. Calvin looked up from where he’d been staring at nothing for hours, and fixed his eyes on the door as it sprung open. He hadn’t expected anyone to waltz in with good news (no news was good news, especially in his case), but he sure wouldn’t have bet on seeing Detective Little with such ire in his eyes.

  “Get up,” Little demanded. His gritted teeth were illuminated by the thin ray of light filtering through the open door. “Right now.”

  Deliberately hesitant, Calvin Durant climbed off the bed. His feet had barely touched the floor when Little clenched his shirt, pulling him up the rest of the way. Calvin stumbled and would have fallen had Little not dragged him so they were face-to-face.

  “Let go of me,” he said weakly, wriggling only as much as he could.

  “You’re going to have a visitor,” the detective spat, pausing to let that sink in.

  Calvin couldn’t begin to imagine who might want to see him. “Who?”

  “Some reporter. She’s coming by tomorrow to get your story, and you’re going to tell her what she needs to hear. You got that?”

  Somehow, Calvin knew that “what she needed to hear” wasn’t that he was an innocent man. In any case, he wasn’t so sure of that fact himself. His stomach knotted further as a brief image of his wife entered his mind—so much red, pooling across the kitchen. “No.”

  Detective Little released his shirt and clasped a palm around his neck. He squeezed just hard enough for Calvin to struggle for his breath. “Listen, you’re going down either way. But if you confess, you’ll be making prison a little easier on yourself. You wouldn’t want me to get in touch with some of my buddies on the inside, would you?”

  Calvin knew very well what happened to child-killers in prison. Being honest with himself, he had to believe that prison was where he would end up, and perhaps he shouldn’t be risking what the detective was threatening. “I’ll think about it.”

  Grunting, Little threw him back onto the bed, regarded him with an expression of sheer disgust, and left the cell. The door locked behind him, and the footsteps started again, growing quieter as he retreated down the hall.

  Tomorrow, if he was brave enough (or stupid enough), Calvin Durant had a chance to give his own version of the truth. It may be that this reporter would be interested in what he had to say—that she might think there was more than one side to every story.

  He had only one night to consider it.

  Chapter Eight

  The street outside her apartment was no quieter at eight o’clock the next day. Garbagemen, schoolchildren, and early-rising birds all contributed to the atmosphere of a typical Brooklyn morning.

  Evie was no slouch, either. By now she was showered, dressed, and ready for her interview with Calvin Durant. She wondered what he would be like in person—she had seen his photo when doing her research, but photographs meant nothing when it came to reading somebody’s personality.

  A nervous wreck but trying to bury it beneath determination, Evie grabbed her purse, looked around the apartment for things she may have forgotten, then finally left. But she had only made it two steps before bumping into somebody’s chest.

  “Miss Black,” the man said.

  Evie started when she recognized Troy Bukowski. He was in a sharp blue suit and ready for work, his laptop bag slung over one shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to apologize for how I treated you. I figured I could make amends by taking you out f
or dinner.” He placed his large hand on her shoulder, confident yet condescending. “How does that sound?”

  It struck her as strange that he had found out where she lived. Had he gone through the personnel files to get that information? Evie shrugged off his hand and tried to pass him.

  But Troy stepped in her way.

  “Move,” she said.

  “Come on, it’s just dinner.”

  Evie could smell his aftershave, and it wasn’t flattering. Or was that because he had already repulsed her in a number of ways? “Get out of my way. I have work to do.” This time she shoved past him, hearing him let out a little oof.

  “Not too bright, are you?”

  The insinuation of his question made her stop at the top of the stairs. “What?”

  “It’s like this: I can make life at Vision very difficult for you, or I can make it very easy. Go out to dinner with me and it can be the latter.”

  Evie could feel her blood boiling and had to keep from heading back to slap the guy. Was this harassment or blackmail? Or both? Either way, she pondered whether one simple meal might make the guy back off. In spite of every instinct, she made her decision. “One dinner, and don’t you ever threaten me again.”

  Troy held up his hands mockingly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  With that, Evie turned and made her way down the stairs. She could feel him standing there, watching her walk away. Her body shivered, and goose bumps raised up on her bare arms as she finally understood that she was frightened of him.

  Chapter Nine

  Evie hopped off the bus at the jail and was greeted by a charming black man. He introduced himself as Detective Little and led her to the building like a gentleman. But there was something familiar in the way he carried himself.

  He reminded her of Mason.

  She could see it now—her brother’s perfect posture, his broad shoulders, and the way he held his head up high. He even had that positive expression, where he could come across as friendly without ever having to smile.

  But that didn’t explain why the detective was at the jail in the first place.

  Detective Little got the door for her and led her inside to the first guard station.

  “You’re going to have to leave a number of things here. They’ll be returned to you when you’re finished. Keys, hairpins, pens—”

  “Pens?” Evie shook her head rapidly. “I need my pen. This is an interview.”

  “Record it on your cell phone. We just need all sharp objects, for obvious reasons.”

  Evie sighed and took a moment to disarm herself, dumping every sharp item she could think of into her purse. She put the purse into the tray the guard held out to her—there was no way she would leave her stuff lying around. “Can I ask you something?”

  “If it’s off the record, you can ask me anything, Miss Black.”

  “Do you… I mean, personally, do you think he’s guilty?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Evie shrugged. “I’m here to find out the truth.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?” The detective was grinning, presumably at the exchange between them. Or maybe this was a strange new style of flirting. Evie had been out of the game so long that she didn’t know what flirting looked like anymore.

  “I was just curious.”

  “If you were at the crime scene when I was, you wouldn’t be asking that question.” Little nodded at the guard and waved Evie forward. “Come on.”

  Evie followed him down a maze of corridors, noticing that her hands were beginning to shake. This wasn’t like her. Over the years, she had met with loads of criminals—some more sadistic than others—and had always seemed to overcome her nerves. She tried telling herself that it was because her job was riding on this, but it was likely due to Durant’s freedom being at stake… or a killer being set loose.

  Detective Little stopped at a door, his hand by the button. “Now, if he does get violent, move straight to the back of the room and let me handle it. Do you understand?”

  “Wait—are you coming in with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t do that.” Evie felt like a child who couldn’t get her way, but she needed it perfect for her to investigate. “If you’re there, he’ll feel threatened. He’s more likely to open up if I’m alone.”

  “You need an escort, Miss Black. Those are the rules. There’s nothing I can—”

  “What? Nothing you can do? Shall I mention that in my article, too?”

  Little’s eyes widened, and he stared at her with obvious distrust. “You play a hard game, don’t you? Fine.” He opened the door and gestured her in. “But if he does attack for you, don’t come crying to me.”

  Perhaps it was because of her past—having a particularly adventurous private eye for a brother had put her in harm’s way more than once—but the word attack struck her a little harder than it should have.

  With only the empty chairs visible from where she was standing, Evie took a deep breath, a hard swallow, then went inside to meet Calvin Durant for the first time.

  Chapter Ten

  The first time she laid eyes on Mr. Durant, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It was something in his eyes—something that screamed, I’m just as confused as you are! But, Evie thought, nothing was ever as it seemed. Not in her line of work.

  Refusing to take her eyes off him for so much as a second, she took a seat opposite him. “Mr. Durant, I’m Evie Black. I’m sure you’ve been told that I’m here to interview you for Vision Magazine. It’s your right to know that this conversation will be recorded. Is that okay?”

  It took some time, but Calvin finally raised his bloodshot eyes from his fidgeting hands and looked right at her. “Sure. Thank you for coming, Miss Black.”

  Oddly handsome, tears aside. “Please, call me Evie.”

  Calvin nodded silently, still sulking. He didn’t look like a killer (whatever that looked like). His hands were trembling, and he kept sniffling. These were the traits of a victim.

  “I’m going to hit you with a brutally honest fact,” Evie said, confident enough that this was the way to gain his trust. “I’m here because I overheard a conversation about you. Do you know what was said?”

  Calvin looked back down at his lap. “That I killed my wife and daughter?”

  “Yes. But also that they didn’t think you did it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Evie studied his features—strong jaw, blond, sweat-matted hair, and bright blue eyes. In other circumstances he might have been a looker. Right now, however, he looked like a shame-ridden schoolboy. “Okay. Let’s say that I believe you—and honestly, I have no opinion on the matter just yet—how do you explain your prints on the murder weapon?”

  “It… I don’t know. It might have been my hammer.”

  “It might have been your hammer?” This she said delicately, careful not to sound accusing. She didn’t want to lose his trust so soon.

  “Everything happened so fast, I didn’t get a good look at it.”

  “But it was in your house, right?”

  “Yes. I mean, when I woke up.”

  “But not before?”

  Calvin shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already been over this with my lawyer. I don’t have the answers.”

  “Questions, then?” Evie set her phone down, seizing the opportunity to wring her taut fingers. They clicked as she pulled on each one. “Is there something you want to ask? Maybe you have a question for the readers?”

  “Actually…” Calvin pulled a strange face, like he had been put on the spot to make a life-changing decision. It looked almost theatrical. “Would you mind if I told you everything I know? I would feel a lot better if I got that out in the open.”

  Evie pushed the phone closer toward him, ensuring it would pick up his voice loud and clear. “By all means, Mr. Durant. Pretend I’m your shrink and just… vent.”

  Looking at the cell phone and then locking eyes with Evie, Cal
vin Durant sat up straight. He brushed the tears from his cheeks using his sleeve, cleared his throat, then told his story.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Everything was okay between me and my wife. Things were even better with my daughter. See, we were one of those families. You know, the kind you see in the movies. We did everything together, and it still wasn’t enough. We were what families always should be.

  “The only problem was, we were looking for somewhere new to live. A different city, maybe. When Sadie—my wife—was at work, she was having some problems with a colleague. His name was John Matthews. Could there be a more biblical name? You couldn’t trust him, though. The guy was a scumbag. He sent flowers to my wife, followed her home sometimes. He was all kinds of creepy.”

  Evie cut in apologetically, a comforting hand held out. “Are you saying this man had something to do with your family’s murder?”

  “No… Maybe. I don’t know. Please, can I finish?”

  “Of course.” Evie sat back, resigned.

  “So, Sadie left her job and was looking for work. We both were, as my hours were being cut down at the yard. It took a while, but she finally found some work at a day care. Everything seemed to settle nicely then. The stalking seemed to simmer down. We were happy again—unmolested, more or less—and could focus some more on Emma.”

  “Emma’s your daughter?”

  “Yes.” Calvin nodded slowly. “Anyway, then there was the car accident.”

  “I read about that. You were driving alone at night, didn’t see the other driver.”

  Calvin nodded, leaned toward her. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I suffer blackouts. The doctors call it fugue, and they don’t doubt it was caused by the crash. You can check with them if you like—that’s more than the police have bothered to do. See, they’re insistent that I’m guilty.”