Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

“I can’t believe they’ll stick with that theory for long. You’re the least violent person in the country.”

“I know!” I sat up. “Remember that bug in our room in Mexico?”

He laughed. “That wasn’t a bug. It was a small aircraft masquerading as a bug. And you still wanted me to get it out of the room instead of killing it.”

“Exactly. It’s crazy that they think I did something to Jane.”

Sam shook his head. “You know what? I’ve been thinking about this. You said Detective Vaughn was a jerk to you when he questioned you last year.”

I nodded. Neither of us mentioned that the reason I was questioned was because Sam had disappeared. We were both so tired of talking about it, of analyzing it, that somewhere along the way we’d both started pretending it hadn’t happened.

“He’s probably just being a jerk now,” Sam continued. “I mean, he hasn’t told anyone you’re a person of interest. Maybe you’re not. Maybe he’s doing this to a bunch of people. He’s just a jerk.”

I went with that sentiment. I got ready for work, and because it was still raining, I took a cab to Trial TV. All the while, I repeated in my mind, He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk.

Meanwhile, I had to talk to someone about the guy I’d taken home Friday night, the guy who was my alibi for that night. I needed to talk to someone who would never judge me.

I called Q from my cell phone. “So, you remember Theo?”

“The twenty-one-year-old?”

“Yeah.”

“I think the brakes on the train might be screeching and I’m heading for a crash.”

“Oh, Jesus, tell me.”

“Promise not to say I told you so?”

“Never.”

I sighed. I told him about Vaughn’s questions about Friday night, how Theo was in Mexico and unreachable.

I expected Q to laugh, to be delighted, to hoot and holler and give me hell and somehow make me feel better.

Instead, I heard silence, then a soft, “Yeesh.”

“Yeesh? What’s that mean?”

“Yeesh, like this might not be the fun train wreck I expected. This sounds like a full-on plane crash. With two-hundred and fifty people on board. Into the Indian Ocean. Everyone dead.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry, but this detective could get you in some serious trouble here.”

“He’s just an asshole.” It felt good to swear.

Q said nothing-no quip words, no mocking jest.

I blinked. I looked out the cab window at a vacant lot on Clybourn, Q’s reaction making me feel even more vacant. And terrified.

The cab turned onto Webster. “I have to go.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Go to Mexico and find the train wreck?”

Still no laugh from him. Just a “Let me know.”

I walked through the halls of Trial TV, trying to focus on the day, trying not to think about Jane or Vaughn. I had nearly gotten myself out of the twist in my head when C.J. came running into the makeup room. We were only minutes from going on-air with the morning broadcast, and I’d been reading my script. I’d finally gotten the hang of reading it beforehand, making it sound fresh when I read it again on air.

C.J. wore dark jeans and a white blazer today. Her expression was stern under her dark glasses.

“I just wanted to give you the heads-up,” she said. “New script.” She handed it to me. “And one of the stories is about Jane.”

My breath caught in my lungs and seemed to come back up so that I felt as if I had choked on something invisible. “What about Jane?”

“We don’t know. The cops have called a press conference.”

“To say what?”

“They won’t give us anything.” C.J.’s stern expression turned to anguish. “Maybe they have a lead.”

Or maybe they have a person of interest.

“Izzy, we need you on set!” I heard someone call from outside the room.

C.J. followed me out while I left the room, the makeup artist scampering beside me, patting me with more powder. No one could forget my flop sweat attack a few days ago, and as a result, I was the most thoroughly powdered newscaster in the city.

I got settled on the desk-Jane’s desk, I always thought of it-my eyes reading over the new script. There was a notation I didn’t recognize in front of the story about the press conference.

“What does this mean?” I asked C.J., pointing to it.

“Means you’ll cut to that story whenever the cops start the meat of the conference. We don’t know exactly what time that will be. Just listen for your cue.”

Should I tell C.J. that the press conference might be about me?

“Clear set,” I heard. “Izzy, ready?”

“Uh…” There was no time.

They started the countdown.

“Good luck,” C.J. said, stepping away from the anchor desk.

I arranged my suit so I was sitting on the jacket to pull it straight. I arranged my face so it didn’t give the impression of utter panic. I tried to keep positive. I kept repeating my mantra, He’s just an asshole. He’s just an asshole.

And then we were on.

I read and I turned and I smiled and I cut to field reporters, but the whole time, I felt as if my skin was zinging with anticipation. I was almost relieved when I heard in my ear, “Go to the Augustine story,” and I spoke the words, “Let’s go live to Tom Bennett at Police Headquarters on South Michigan Avenue here in Chicago. Tom has the latest on the murder of our colleague, Jane Augustine.”

A t first it wasn’t as bad as I thought. There was Vaughn, in a sport coat and yellow tie, looking like the picture of efficiency, a flag to one side of him, the Chicago Police logo behind him. Mikes from at least fifteen different stations and networks were set up on the podium.

“We’re here today to ask the community for assistance,” he said. “We need that assistance to help find who is responsible for the murder of Jane Augustine. First we would like any information about the identity of a man named Mick, who might have spent time in the company of Ms. Augustine on Friday night. This man is believed to be a writer, living in the Chicago area.”

I took in a huge breath, sucking in air as if I’d been drowning for the last minute and had just noticed it.

But then Vaughn shuffled some papers, cleared his throat, and I felt the water flood over my head again.

“We’d also like to discuss today a person of interest,” he said.

At the anchor desk, I clutched the script in my hands, which had grown damp with sweat, watching Vaughn with growing terror. And because all the monitors-those behind my desk, those in the interview area, those for the producers-were showing Vaughn’s face, it felt as if he were surrounding me. His voice boomed into my earpiece.

I waited for Vaughn to say my name. I hoped to hear someone else’s. But instead he summarized the investigation-how they had sealed the Augustine residence for days; how they had collected evidence; how the Chicago Crime Lab had finished some analysis and was rushing to complete the rest.

“In terms of the person of interest…” He looked down, as if searching for the correct name. He paused. “Let me say that this person had been cooperative with the police until recently, which leads us to release her name in case anyone in the community can provide additional information which we haven’t been able to collect.”

Her. I’d heard it.

My eyes shot across the room to C.J., whose expression was stern, rapt.

My breath felt shallow. Why did I feel so guilty once again, when I’d done nothing?

“The person of interest,” Vaughn said, “is Isabel McNeil, a local attorney and now a newscaster on Trial TV, where Ms. Augustine had also worked.”