Page 5

Brogan returned to the Herald office to drop Seth, who shrugged off Brogan’s apology for not getting any photographs at the Kwikie Mart. Once they’d parted ways, Brogan made a beeline to his computer and Googled Jesse Thompson. As a result, he’d been sucked into reading about the case for hours. But instead of feeling tired after staying up all night, all his senses were on high alert. Finally, after years in journalism exile, he had the story that would propel him back into the national news arena.

He would have to be extra careful, triple checking his facts and sources, documenting every step with notes and recordings. No way would this story have even a whiff of scandal clinging to it.

Brogan picked up his coffee cup only to find it empty. After rising, he stretched on his way to the break room for a fresh cup.

“Gilmore!” Fallon paused in the break room doorway. “You’re here early.” The editor peered closely at him. “Did you go home last night?”

“Nope.” Brogan grinned.

The older man raised his eyebrows, but Brogan wasn’t fooled by his nonchalant appearance. Fallon might run a small newspaper, but he was a first-rate journalist and could catch the scent of a good story quicker than any bloodhound. “Give me five minutes, then come to my office to tell me what’s got you all excited.”

Brogan hurried to his desk to organize his notes. Exactly five minutes later, he knocked on the editor’s door and entered when Fallon barked, “Come in!”

Juggling the printouts and notebook, Brogan shut the door behind him with his foot and took a seat without waiting for Fallon to offer it. “Sir, I don’t want anyone else to overhear our conversation.”

Fallon straightened in his chair. “This must be some hot tip.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

Fallon only stared.

Brogan returned the gaze with equal candor, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the arm of the chair, a nervous habit since childhood. “I’ve always been honest about what happened in New York, and I appreciate your giving me another chance. I hope over these past months, I’ve proven to you that I’ve changed, that I care more about getting the story right than about making a name for myself.”

Fallon sipped his coffee. “I’m glad to hear you say so because you’re a good writer, and maybe one day, you’ll be a great writer—if you can keep that ego of yours at bay. As the Good Book says, ‘Pride goes before a fall,’ and your fall was spectacular.”

Brogan winced at the truth behind the older man’s words. He had been prideful, ambitious, and willing to cut corners to make his star rise farther and faster.

“Gilmore, if you had approached me for a job ten years ago, I’d have turned you down flat, because even after you destroyed your career, you still acted proud that you had fooled some of the most respected newspaper men and women in the country with your writing.”

Fallon’s words fell like hail, hitting him hard. Brogan broke eye contact with the editor, fixing his gaze on the man’s paper-covered desk.

“But when you came to me last year asking for a chance—a chance no other newspaper or news organization in the country would have given you—I saw a man who was ready for a fresh start.”

Brogan looked up. The compassion in the editor’s eyes made him swallow hard before speaking. “I’ve appreciated your confidence in me and hope I’ve worked hard to be worthy of that chance.”

“That you have.” Fallon smiled. “You’ve written every story I’ve asked, not once complaining to anyone in the newsroom when I left off your byline, chopped it into bits, asked for a rewrite, or assigned the same story to another reporter just to compare it to yours.”

Fallon had done all of that and more in the nearly twelve months Brogan had worked for the Herald. But Fallon had also taught Brogan how to write a tighter story, how to play up the personal angle, and how to question reluctant sources. He’d been humbled at how much he’d learned as a journalist under Fallon’s direction.

“So what’s this big story that had you up all night?”

Brogan opened his notebook. “It turns out that the Mel Harman who thwarted the Kwikie Mart robbery is Melender Harman.”

Fallon frowned. “Melender Harman. Unusual name.”

“Yes, sir.” Brogan waited a beat to see if Fallon made the connection to Jesse Thompson, but the other man waved at him to continue. “Seventeen years ago, Melender Harman was convicted of murdering her fifteen-month-old cousin Jesse Thompson.”

* * *

Melender rubbedthe sleep from her eyes as she moved through her darkened apartment. As she stumbled to her front door, someone alternated ringing the doorbell with banging on the door. Since no one except her boss at Squeaky Clean knew her home address, whoever assaulted her door wasn’t a friend. Which meant trouble had found her at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning.

When she reached the door, she peered through the peephole. Two uniformed officers stood on the other side. All vestiges of sleep vanished as her senses went on high alert. Drawing in a calming breath, Melender slowly counted to ten to slow her heart rate and to evaluate the situation. One guess as to who had sent them—her uncle. Quentin Thompson had friends in high places. With the chain on, she cracked open the door. “Officers, what can I do for you?”

The shorter of the two men stepped closer. “Ma’am, may we come in?”

“May I ask why you’re here?” Melender didn’t move. She’d read a lot of law books over the years and knew her rights backwards and forwards. Just because someone from law enforcement asked to enter her home, didn’t mean she had to let them past the threshold.

The officer narrowed his eyes. “Are you Melender Harman?”

She had no intention of answering their questions, but she would mentally note their names.

“Ma’am?” The shorter officer whose name plate read Jones sounded irritated.

“What brings you to my door?” she countered.

Before Jones could speak, the other officer interjected. “Ma’am, we received a complaint of excessive noise from this apartment.”

“Excessive noise? The only excessive anything associated with my apartment is your aggressive knocking on my door.”

Jones hitched his duty belt. “Now calm down.”

She again counted to ten in her mind to dose her bubbling anger.

The other officer, whose name plate she couldn’t quite read because of the sun’s reflection on the shiny surface, added, “We only know what the dispatch officer tells us. And the report is a noise complaint.”

Melender knew with ninety-nine percent certainty it had originated with Quentin. “Let me guess. The caller didn’t give a name.”

“We’re not required to tell you who called it in, ma’am.” The other officer moved forward enough that Melender could read his name plate. Gutierrez. “We’re just here to issue a warning.”

“And did this concerned citizen say what type of noise and when it occurred?

Officer Gutierrez consulted his small notebook. “Music loud enough to be heard outside number 347 at four in the morning.”

Quentin must be slipping if he hadn’t told whoever had made the call that she worked nights. Not that Melender would tell these cops that tidbit of information. She was through sharing anything with law enforcement. “Hmm, and why has it taken seven hours for the fine officers of the Fairfax City Police Department to show up at my door?”

The pair shifted on her stoop before Office Gutierrez replied. “We just got the information. It was a busy night.”

“I see.” And she did. No sense sending someone to her apartment while she was at work. Better to wake her up and ruin her entire day. Maybe Quentin had planned this better than she initially thought. “Thank you for stopping by, officers. I’ll be sure to keep the noise level down from now on.”

“You have a good day, ma’am.” Officer Gutierrez turned to go.

Officer Jones stepped forward and shoved the toe of his boot in the crack to prevent her from closing the door. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”

Melender maintained her smooth tone with effort. “Kindly remove your foot.”

“Jones? You coming?” Gutierrez called from just beyond Melender’s line of sight.

Officer Jones didn’t move. “Don’t think anyone would care if something were to happen to you.” He stepped back and turned to join his partner.

Melender closed the door quietly, then reached up to turn the first of two deadbolts. Her fingers shook so much it took her several tries to secure the knob as well. Sliding down the door, she buried her face in her hands as the sobs overtook her. The cop’s veiled threat echoed in her mind. No one would care.

* * *

Fallon leanedback in his chair. “Didn’t the prosecutor get a conviction even without a body?”

Brogan nodded. He’d been struggling to reconcile the sad-eyed woman who cleaned for a living with an eighteen-year-old murderer. “I’ve been reading the news accounts of the case, and it was quite the legal feat given that all of the evidence was circumstantial.”

Fallon steepled his fingers. “Wasn’t there a ransom note?”

“That’s what clinched it for the jurors. The toddler went missing overnight while the parents were at a charity fundraiser, and Melender was supposed to be watching Jesse and his older sister, three-year-old Jillian. A frantic search uncovered Jesse’s sock in some shrubs along the driveway, but no sign of Jesse.”

Brogan didn’t glance at his notes. He’d spent so much time reading about the case since he’d left the Kwikie Mart, he had memorized the key details. “The police flagged it as a potential kidnapping given Quentin Thompson’s business connections and wealth. Then forty-eight hours later, a ransom note showed up, demanding payment of $1.5 million.”

“When did police suspect Melender’s involvement?”

“That’s not clear from the news reports.” Brogan had hunted through hundreds of articles to find when police attention turned to Melender. Not one of the early stories mentioned any hint that law enforcement considered Jesse’s disappearance as anything other than a kidnapping by outsiders. “Once the ransom note came in, the FBI got involved.”

“Standard procedure, but I bet it slowed the leak of news.”

Brogan agreed with Fallon. The Feds ran a tighter ship when it came to releasing information about a case than a local police department. “So the ransom drop was made, the money left in a trash can at a local park at a specific time.”

“I recall that the FBI left the money but didn’t see who picked it up.”

“At the time of the drop off, a huge group of teenagers descended on the park as part of some scavenger hunt, making it pure chaos. In the melee, the trash can wasn’t visible, and the kidnappers got away with the money.” The audacity of the plan pointed to someone who had brains.

“And no Jesse?” Fallon asked, an emotion in his voice Brogan couldn’t identify. Grief, or perhaps anger at a toddler’s death.

“No Jesse. The kidnappers never contacted the family again.” Brogan consulted his printouts. “That’s when the FBI turned its attention to the family members. From there, the investigation quickly focused on Melender, the outsider who had come to live with her rich aunt and uncle two years prior. Ruby Thompson, the sister of Melender’s father, took the girl in after the death of her brother and their grandmother—Melender’s great-grandmother. By all accounts, Melender wasn’t happy living with the Thompsons.”

“She kidnapped and killed her cousin because she was unhappy?” Fallon queried.

“That’s what the prosecution alleged.” Brogan rubbed his hand over his face. “The entire Thompson household testified to Melender’s unhappiness, but only the immediate Thompson family ever said anything about Melender being jealous toward Jesse. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson left Jesse and Jillian with Melender quite frequently in the evenings when they had plans.”

“Doesn’t sound like the Thompsons were concerned about their niece harming their kids.”

“I agree.” Brogan hesitated. “There’s a lot that seems strange about the case.” The story had the potential to be the one that redeemed his career, but he had to do everything strictly by the book. And that meant getting Fallon on board with his digging deeper into Melender and what might have happened to Jesse. “Melender served every minute of her seventeen-year sentence, then was quietly released eight months ago. Instead of heading back to Maple Hollow, Virginia, and the mountains everyone said she loved, she chose to return to Fairfax.”

Fallon ignored the buzzing of his cell phone. “If I remember correctly, Melender never revealed the whereabouts of Jesse’s body. It seems to me that the original investigation left a lot of stones unturned.”

As the editor regarded him steadily, Brogan held his breath. But his pulse to accelerated with anticipation, something he hadn’t experienced since his fall from grace.

“Gilmore, this has the earmarks of being a good investigative piece.” The editor picked up his cell phone. “You’ll still need to turn in your regular assignments on time. I’ll expect to be kept abreast of any new developments too.”

Brogan let out a measured breath, then stood as Fallon began to scroll through his phone messages. “Yes, sir.”

He’d opened the door when Fallon added, “And Gilmore?”

Brogan turned to face his boss. “Sir?”

“Don’t blow this.”

“No, sir. I won’t.” Brogan hurried back to his desk. It had been a long time coming, but finally, he had his chance to show off his investigative skills. And perhaps spend more time with a certain woman with sad, blue eyes.