A Match Made Under the Mistletoe Page 9

  His jaw tautened. “You think this check is a kick-back?” he asked in a strange, deep tone.

  “We know it is,” she agreed tightly. “It’s painfully obvious that you don’t pay five times fair market value for a piece of land unless somebody benefits. We’ve already checked with the man who owns the land. All he got out of the deal was two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That leaves the other half unaccounted for, except for your cut. Either White alone or with another conspirator pocketed the rest, and we can prove it. I’m sorry, but…”

  “You believe I’d take a kickback?” he asked with barely controlled rage. “You really believe I’m capable of that kind of vice?”

  “You accepted a check from James White for one hundred thousand dollars,” she said in a voice that trembled, “just two days after the check for the airport land left city hall. What else am I supposed to think?”

  “Get out.”

  He said it so softly, so calmly, that she did a double take. He didn’t raise his voice, but then, he didn’t have to. There was an arctic smoothness in his words.

  She turned to go. “I’m sorry,” she said inadequately, her voice a bare whisper. Inside, she felt as if she were frozen forever.

  “Not half as sorry as you’re going to be, I promise you,” he said. “One more thing, Carla.”

  “What?”

  “Was it really necessary to get that involved with me to get the story?” he asked coolly. “Did you have to pretend an emotional interest, or was that just a whim?”

  Her face reddened. “But, it wasn’t…”

  He laughed shortly, leaning back in his chair to study her with eyes that shone with hatred. “I should have been suspicious at the beginning,” he said mockingly. “A woman your age wouldn’t have been so interested in a middle-aged man. I suppose I was too flattered to ask questions.”

  “But, Bryan, you don’t understand…!” she cried.

  He ignored her. His eyes were those of a stranger. “Go print your story,” he said. “You might add a postscript. I got my funding for downtown revitalization this morning. I may leave this office, but I’ll take the city slums with me.”

  Tears blinded her. She turned and ran out of the office leaving a puzzled secretary staring after her.

  * * *

  The story hit the stands the next afternoon, with a blazing banner headline that read, “Kickback Suspected in Airport Land Purchase.” The story carried Carla’s byline, even though Edwards had had a hand in writing it. She hadn’t slept the night before at all. She could imagine the anguish Moreland was going through. She’d destroyed him. And he thought that she’d been pretending when she said she loved him. That hurt most of all, that he could believe she’d be that cruel for the sake of a story. But, after all, didn’t she believe that he’d been crooked enough to take a kickback? How could she blame him?

  Over and over she heard his deep voice growling at her accusingly. It began to haunt her. And Daniel Brown’s voice haunted her as well, admitting that he’d been in love with Mrs. Moreland, that she was “nuts about him.” From what she’d heard about Angelica Moreland, she was hardly a lovable woman. And she would have had to be a good deal older than Brown, who was still in his middle twenties. None of it made sense. If only she could get her mind together enough to think logically!

  She walked into the newsroom the next day with a feeling of unreality. Her mind was still on yesterday, but Peck snapped her out of it with his greeting.

  “We’re into it now,” he greeted her grimly. “Moreland’s filed suit for defamation and character assassination.”

  “Did you expect him to admit he was guilty?” she asked with a bitter smile.

  He grinned back. “Hell, no.” His pale brows drew together. “Something bothering you besides the obvious? Making accusations sometimes goes with the job, honey. Reporters don’t win popularity contests, you know.”

  “I know.” She slumped in her chair. “What do you know about the late Mrs. Moreland?”

  “Angelica?” He shrugged. “She liked men and money, and she hated her husband and motherhood. That about wraps it up.”

  “What kind of men did she like? Young ones?”

  “Angelica!” he exclaimed. “My God, she liked them older than her husband. I think it must have been a father fixation. She was never seen with a man under fifty except Moreland.”

  Her lips made a thin line. “Do you know anybody who could help me get some information on Daniel Brown’s private life?”

  One eyebrow went up and he grinned. “Think Moreland’s innocent?”

  Her chin lifted. “Yes.” Her eyes dared him to make a comment.

  He only smiled. “So do I.” He laughed at her expression. “Don’t look so surprised, honey. I’ve known His Honor for a lot of years, and he’s got more integrity than any other public official I know. Sure, I’ll help you dig out some info on Brown. I think he had an angle, too.”

  She returned the smile, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. “Then, let’s go. I want to see a man I know at the city police department about some personnel records.”

  “I’ll check with a contact of mine,” he said, following her out the door. “My God, don’t we remind you of the news staff on that hit television show?”

  She laughed. “Which one? The one where we solve crime and make America safe for consumers, or the one where we fight for truth, justice and the…”

  “Never mind. Let’s sneak out before Eddy can ask where we’re going.”

  “I don’t think he cares if we even work today,” she replied. “He looked sick when I poked my head in to ask about assignments, and he didn’t even offer me one.”

  “He’s brooding over the lawsuit,” he told her. “The attorneys warned him that he mightn’t have enough concrete evidence to avoid one, but he took the chance. Without asking old man Johnson,” he added, grimacing.

  “He didn’t ask the publisher?” she exclaimed.

  He shrugged. “He couldn’t reach him by phone, and the deadline was coming up fast. He took a gamble on the hottest story in years. Now Johnson’s all over him like ants over honey.”

  She felt herself shrinking inside as she remembered whose byline the story carried. “How much trouble am I in?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, glancing at her sympathetically. “I wish I could tell you your job’s secure, regardless. But I can’t. That’s the first thing Moreland’s going to want by way of recompense if the evidence against him is false.”

  “Which I think it is,” she murmured weakly. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her coat as they walked outside in the chill air. “It’s going to be winter soon,” she remarked, shivering.

  He drew in a breath of cold air, unaware of the pollution judging by his expression. “What’s that poem, ‘keep spring within your heart, if winter comes, to warm the cold of disillusion…’”

  “I didn’t know you like poetry,” she said, feeling the words with a sense of aching grief.

  “An occasional line,” he chuckled. “Even though it goes against the grain. Come on, we’ll catch a bus downtown.”

  “Lead on.”

  * * *

  Carla, who was used to a two-man police department, couldn’t help but be awed by the mammoth precinct with crowds of lawbreakers and blue uniforms and plainclothes detectives. She felt uncomfortable among all the unfamiliar faces.

  “Don’t worry,” Peck assured her, “none of them bite.”

  “Care to lay odds?” she whispered.

  “Shhh!” he said sharply. “Not here!”

  She flushed at his teasing tone. “I wasn’t trying to gamble with you,” she protested.

  “Discussing a capital crime, right in front of the city’s finest!” he clucked. “Shame, shame.”

  “Will you stop,” she muttered. “I’m a good girl, I am.”

  “So was Ma Barker.”

  “Why did we come here?”

  “To see Leroy.”<
br />
  Her eyebrows went up, but he moved forward to haul a patrolman off to one side. There was a lot of whispering, and gesturing, and the tall, dark-haired, middle-aged policeman was giving Carla a look that made her feel vaguely undressed.

  They joined her at the door, and Peck took her arm, propelling her out onto the street with Leroy right behind.

  “We’ll grab a cup of coffee and talk,” Peck said, leading them toward a nearby cafe. “Carla Maxwell, Leroy Sample.”

  They exchanged mumbled pleasantries and walked along in a companionable silence. Once inside the old cafe, which featured worn, bare wood floors and vinyl-covered booths repaired with black electrical tape, they talked over strong coffee.

  “What do you want to know about Daniel?” Leroy asked with a grin. “I don’t know much, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Is he local?” Peck asked, all reporter now, not the jovial companion of minutes ago.

  “No,” Leroy replied. “He came here from Florida about six months ago, and was he a ball of fire! He was going to clean up all the corruption in the city and close down drugs and gambling for good.”

  “And then…” Peck prodded.

  “You want the truth?” Leroy asked, lowering his voice. “He was offered a little temptation to turn his head, and he turned it. Some of the rest of us have been made the same offer, but we nixed it. He liked the dough.”

  “You think somebody’s paying him still, even though he’s been fired?” Peck asked.

  “We all know he was feeding you that bull on Moreland,” the patrolman said angrily. “With all due respect, I hope he sues the hell out of you. If Moreland took money, he had a legitimate reason. He’s not on the take. I’d know.”

  Carla felt her heart lift, and she prayed silently that this fierce policeman was right. “Who’s paying Brown?” Peck asked point blank.

  Leroy looked uncomfortable. “I do my job the best way I can, and I try hard not to stick my nose out too far. Those guys play rough, Peck. I’ve got a little girl three months old.”

  The reporter sighed. “You make me feel like a heel for asking. I know how dangerous it is. I’ve had my share of threats, too. Okay, if you can’t tell me, send me to somebody who can.”

  Leroy sipped his coffee. “Now you make me feel like a heel.”

  “It isn’t deliberate,” Peck said with a smile.

  The policeman took a deep breath and looked around at the sparsely peopled cafe. His eyes came back to Peck. “I’ll deny it if you finger me as your informant.”

  Peck looked vaguely insulted. “Have you forgotten that I stood a thirty-day jail term two years ago when Judge Carter tried to get me to tell who gave me information in the Jones murder?” he asked.

  Leroy laughed. “Yeah, I had. Sorry.” He leaned forward on his forearms. “You go ask James White who helped him ramrod that land deal through the city council, and you’ll get your man.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Carla and Bill Peck wore ruts in the city park as they walked. A rally protesting the low wages paid garbage collectors was going on around them, part of the sanitation strike plaguing the city, but they ignored the peaceful marchers.

  “He’s right,” Peck said finally, turning to Carla under a leafless oak amid the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. “The best defense in the world is a good offense. We may still be able to pull our acorns out of the fire.”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ll go to see James White. We’ll carry along a file folder of documents incriminating him. We’ll allow him to give his side of the story before we print the whole disgusting mess.”

  “But we don’t have any incriminating documents!” she burst out.

  “We will have,” he grinned. “Come on. Time’s awasting. We may save your job yet, and Eddy’s, too.”

  “Let’s go to it, then,” she agreed, smiling as she hadn’t felt like smiling for days. Maybe she could clear Moreland’s name. That would make up for so much, even if he never forgave her for what she’d already done. If only she’d listened to her heart. If only she’d been suspicious of Daniel Brown’s eager help. If only she hadn’t been so determined to get a scoop, to make Bill Peck proud of her. She sighed as they walked briskly back toward the newspaper office. Oh, if only…

  The paper had already gone to bed for the day when she and Peck left again, armed with an impressive folder of information. They still had not mentioned a word to Edwards whose face was almost as long as his legs.

  Carla had already called to make an appointment with James White on the pretext of purchasing some land. She knew the foxy little man wouldn’t be eager to meet with the press, especially after his honorable mention in the story on Moreland.

  They were ushered into his private office by a young, buxom blond secretary whose smile was as empty as her pale eyes.

  White rose, gray haired and thin, with astonishment plain in his pale face when he suddenly recognized Bill Peck.

  “Reporters!” he burst out. He glared at them. “Don’t sit down,” he warned, reaching for the telephone. “You won’t be here long enough!”

  Carla felt suddenly nervous and unsure of herself, but Bill Peck was not taken aback at all.

  “Dial,” he warned the older man, “and you’ll be on the front page tomorrow afternoon.”

  White gazed at him warily, but he hesitated, his finger still on the dial.

  “We came armed this time,” Peck added, holding up the file folder. He smiled confidently. “I think you’re going to want to cooperate, Mr. White. That way, you just may escape a long jail term.”

  White put down the receiver and laughed self-consciously. He whipped out a spotless handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. “Jail?” he said. “Surely you’re joking, Mr. Peck. I’ve done nothing illegal. In fact, the only crime I’m guilty of is getting my client better than fair market value for a piece of land.”

  “And crucifying a blameless public official in the process,” Carla broke in, feeling her advantage. She moved forward, and Bill Peck sat down, letting her carry the ball. She took the file from Peck and lifted it in front of James White’s nervous face. “It’s all here, Mr. White. Everything. How you arranged a five-hundred percent profit out of that worthless land. How you set up Bryan Moreland, you and your co-conspirator, to take the blame for it by sending him a check for his revitalization project just in time to make it look like a kickback from the land deal. We know all about it. We even know,” she added narrowly, “about Daniel Brown’s role.”

  White sat down, suddenly looking his age. He leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief. His spare frame seemed to slump wearily.

  “I engineered it,” he admitted quietly. “There’s no sense in denying it any further.”

  Peck pulled out a pocket tape recorder and turned it on. “I’m recording, Mr. White,” he advised the man, “and I think it would be in your best interests to give the truth.”

  “Why not?” White sighed. “I’m ruined now, anyway, you’ll see to that. Yes, I engineered the airport land deal. I got Ed King to present it to the City Council and convince his friend Moreland that it was the best site available.” He nodded at Carla’s shocked face. “Moreland had so much on his mind with the sanitation strike and that downtown redevelopment scheme that he wasn’t able to check into the site too closely, so he left it all up to Ed, whom he trusted.” He laughed shortly. “Bryan and I have been friends for a long time, he had no reason to distrust me or Ed. We had it made. We sold the land to the city for five times its true value. Then I had Daniel Brown start making noises about Moreland accepting a kickback, right after I sent my good friend a donation for his downtown redevelopment. It was flawless. Absolutely flawless. Until you people came along and started poking around,” he added bitterly.

  “Who actually owned the land, Mr. White?” Carla asked.

  “The deed says, Will Jackson,” he replied.

  “But isn’t it act
ually owned by Daniel Brown?” she persisted, smiling at White’s shocked expression. “Yes, I made some phone calls to Florida. Brown used Will Jackson as an alias when he purchased that land, at your instructions.”

  “At Ed King’s,” White corrected gruffly. “Why the hell did I ever get mixed up with that little snip? If I’d handled it by myself…”

  “If,” Carla sighed, closing her eyes momentarily as a wave of unbearable grief and tiredness washed over her. She turned away as Bill Peck moved to call the police. It was too much, too soon. All her suspicions, all her digging, and it hadn’t been enough to save Bryan Moreland from a public crucifixion. She’d finally gotten at the truth, and all it had cost her was the one man she could ever truly love. A single tear rolled down her cold cheek, trickling salty and warm into the corner of her mouth.

  * * *

  “It’s great,” Edwards laughed as Carla and Bill Peck played the tape for him and summarized White’s arrest. “Just great! We’ll scoop every paper in town with this, even the broadcast boys! We’ll save face!”

  Carla stared down at her black boots. “You’ll print everything, including how Moreland was set up?”

  Edwards looked at her with a compassionate smile. “Yes. And it might be enough to convince him to drop the lawsuit. We’ll run another banner headline. ‘Moreland Innocent of Kickback.’ How’s that?”

  “Will it please you-know-who?” Peck asked, tongue-in-cheek, gesturing toward the ceiling.

  Edwards frowned. “God?” he asked.

  “The publisher!” Peck burst out.

  “Oh, him.” Edwards shrugged. “Nothing ever has before. I’m not sure it will. But it may save my job, and Carla’s.”

  Peck grinned. “I’ll settle for that.”

  * * *

  But, it appeared, Bryan Moreland wouldn’t. Edwards called Carla into his office two hours after the paper was on the streets, looking uncomfortable and vaguely ill.

  “Sit down,” he said gruffly.

  She perched herself on the edge of her chair and sat up straight, her hands clenched in the lap of her burgundy plaid skirt. She could feel the ominous vibrations, like the growing chill of the weather.