I’m Watching You (Richmond Novels #1)

Chapter Eleven

Tuesday, July 8, 12:00 A.M.

Kendall Shaw was pissed. She stopped the recording of her eleven o’clock news report and climbed down off the elliptical trainer she kept on the sun porch of her mother’s house.

The story she’d filed had been nothing short of lame. Murder in the city’s west end. Identity of victim. A brief recap of his career and murder stats in the metro area. Domestic violence. Ya, ya, ya.

It was all very bland, very ordinary, and not the kind of story that was going to get her to a bigger television market like L.A. or New York.

But her boss had given in to pressure from Dana Miller, the shelter’s board chair, and had ordered her not to mention Sanctuary or its location. For now, all stations were protecting the shelter’s identity. And unless something broke soon, Dana would see to it that the story faded away.

As Kendall had stood outside Sanctuary today, she had sensed she’d stumbled upon a big story. She’d wanted to linger and remain on hand with her cameraman, Mike. Something was going to break – she could feel it in her bones.

But the evening news producer had felt otherwise. He’d wanted film of a warehouse fire. She’d argued. He’d denied her request to stay and had pulled her cameraman.

Minutes after Mike had left and Kendall was packing up, Lindsay had run screaming out of the shelter. Her terrified screams had the cop in the patrol car scrambling toward her. Within minutes, the place was swarming with more cops.

Something big had happened in the shelter.

And if she’d had film, it was the kind of something that would get her a better job.

Mike did return, but by then it was too late. The cops didn’t release any details and she’d had to file her original story.

From her briefcase she pulled out a CD of the raw footage from this morning. She swapped it out for the other CD in the tray and hit ‘play.’

She fast-forwarded through the morning interviews with neighbors. The last interview of the morning was with Mrs Young, the neighbor across the street, who kept going on and on about how nice Lindsay’s yard was and how no one knew the house was a women’s shelter.

Blah, blah, blah.

Kendall slowed the tape to just before Mike had shut off his camera. This time she didn’t focus on Mrs Young but the background just to the right of the shelter.

A cat chasing a squirrel. Thunder clouds. And then in the bottom-right corner, the bumper of a van pulled into the frame. At the time, her back had been to the shelter and she’d been on the phone with her producer. She’d not noticed the driver. Hell, who ever noticed delivery guys?

Now as she reviewed the footage, she watched closely. The driver, head tucked low and a box of flowers in hand, got out of the van, ran up to the front porch, rang the bell, and set the box down. As the driver turned, the tape turned to static. Mike had switched off the camera.

‘Damn it!’ Kendall rewound the tape. She watched the footage again. Lindsay had returned to the shelter around two. She started screaming minutes later. Whatever had freaked Lindsay out had to be the box.

‘What the hell was it? What was sent to her?’

Kendall had good instincts and she had learned to listen to them. Whatever had gone on at the shelter today had to do with Lindsay. She couldn’t prove it, but she’d bet money that Harold had been killed for Lindsay.

She dashed upstairs to the stack of files in the corner of the living room. She kept all her interview notes filed away in case she ever needed to reference them again. Since she’d moved into the house last December, she’d not taken the time to put the notes away, convinced that she was here only temporarily.

Flipping through the manila folders, she pulled the file containing her article about Lindsay.

Scanning the pages, she read her notes from her late April interview. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary. She had notes on Lindsay’s day-to-day routine at the shelter. She had stats on domestic violence in the county and the country. All this was strictly background.

Kendall flipped to her notes on Lindsay’s past. She was a graduate of the University of California. She entered school at the age of nineteen and attended on a full scholarship and was an honor student. Lindsay worked for a landscape company to pay for living expenses. And she made it through in three years so that she graduated with her class. Originally she was from Ashland, a town in Hanover County, Virginia.

That notation had Kendall pausing. She’d forgotten Lindsay was a Virginian. Lindsay had only mentioned it in passing and had spoken of herself several times as a California girl.

It wasn’t unusual for a kid to go so far from home for school, nor extraordinary to take a year off between high school and college. Still, something nagged at her.

Kendall dug her Blackberry out of her briefcase and looked up the number of the Herald Progress, the local paper that covered the town of Ashland and Hanover County.

Last year, she’d done a very nice piece on the Herald Progress’s anniversary celebration. The paper’s assistant editor had always said to call if she needed anything. Well, she needed a favor.

Unmindful of the time, she dialed his number.

The phone rang five times before a groggy male voice answered, ‘Hello.’

‘Barry. Kendall Shaw. I need a favor.’

‘Kendall?’ She heard fumbling with what must have been a light switch. ‘It’s midnight. Can’t this wait until the morning?’

‘Not really. And I’m sorry for the late time, but I’m working on a story. Can you do a search for me?’

‘Now?’ he groaned.

‘Yes.’

‘You are insane. I’m not digging up anything for you at this time of night.’

She rushed to say, ‘You said you owed me big for that piece I did on the paper’s anniversary.’

Grogginess mingled with irritation. ‘Kendall, it’s midnight.’

She twirled her finger in her hair as she paced. ‘Look, do this search for me and I’ll owe you.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Name your price.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Cover my book signing at the Book Nook next week?’

Kendall had received and read his press release on the signing of the self-published book of homespun stories. She’d tossed the release and hadn’t given it a second thought. Damn. ‘Deal. But I need my information now.’

‘I want to be on the morning news.’

‘I’ll make it happen.’

‘Swear.’

‘Swear.’

Barry chuckled. ‘What do you want?’

‘Anything and everything you have on Lindsay O’Neil. She would have lived in your area about eleven or twelve years ago.’

‘O’Neil. That name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘I wrote an article on her for Inside Richmond back in May. She’s about thirty. A very pretty blonde.’

‘Oh yeah, I remember her. That article caused a bit of a buzz up here.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t think her name was O’Neil when she lived up this way. Anyway, a few of the old guys at the paper remember when she was tangled up in some murder.’

Kendall straightened. ‘What murder?’

‘I don’t remember.’

Impatient, she tapped her foot. ‘You’ve got to get me more information, Barry.’

‘I’ll see what I can dig up.’

Lindsay was the key to this story. ‘Do that.’