“Okay, your alibis can easily be verified,” Kellen said. “Moving on. Have any of your staff received any threats recently?”
Chris opened his hands. “We’re the news, man. Everyone hates us.” He gestured at the printout of comments. “We get this shit all day, every day. Give someone even the pretense of anonymity, and they turn into a horrible human being. I wouldn’t be surprised if my nana was online threatening the pope.”
“What about strange packages in the mail?” Riley asked.
Chris laughed. “Strange how?” He pointed at her. “You know how it is. You worked here. Griffin gets at least two pairs of underwear a week from stalkers with no taste. Bella gets marriage proposals and jewelry and free clothes from her admiring fans. We had two suspicious boxes that we had to call the cops on in the last month alone. One ended up being a damaged shipment of dry shampoo for makeup. The other, some yahoo bagged up baking soda and mailed it in with a note claiming we’d just been ‘poisoned by Amtrak.’”
This time when Chris laughed, it was the sound of a man who had gotten used to being close to the edge.
“But no gag packages?” Riley pressed, wondering just what had happened at Channel 50 since she’d left to make things even worse.
“What kind of gag packages? Like those bags of gummy candy shaped like dicks?” he asked.
“That’s need to know,” Kellen told him. “We’d like to talk to some of your staff. Any of them who have been the target of online threats. Anyone who deals with your online accounts.”
Chris glanced down at his clipboard then tossed it over his shoulder. “Sure. Why not? Who needs to stick to a schedule? Fuck.” He picked up his desk phone. “Hudson, can you make a coffee run? You guys want anything?”
* * *
Riley: Just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for hiring me so I don’t have to work in moldy, soul-sucking hellholes anymore.
Nick: Going well, huh?
Riley: I feel my soul dying from proximity.
Nick: I’ll breathe some life into your “soul” later. And by “soul” I mean your pants. Heading out to check on a cabin Rupley’s second cousin has up river.
Riley: My pants and I look forward to it. Think you’ll find Rupley there?
Nick: Nope. But I’m taking your Jeep so Uncle Jimmy can smell the fish air.
26
9:24 a.m., Monday, August 17
“Cold brew with cream?”
Riley accepted the to-go cup from the skinny, gawky Hudson. He was somewhere between hipster and nerd with oversized glasses, tight pants, and visible socks.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem. All part of the job,” he said chipperly before be-bopping out the door of the conference room.
Ahhhh, to be young and naive again,she thought.
“This is Chance Banks, one of Channel 50’s attorneys,” Chris said, introducing a middle-aged white guy with silver wings at his temples and a two-thousand dollar suit. “He’ll be sitting in on the interviews.”
Chance Banks smelled like money and too much expensive cologne. But Riley didn’t mind since it helped cover the musty mystery odor emanating from the carpet.
Her nose twitched, and she saw herself during psychic boot camp, Burt bounding through the tall grass, the sweet stench of rotting roadkill and garbage wafting through the air.
And then she was back in the conference room with frayed carpet and duct-taped chairs.
“First up is Valerie Edmonds, morning show anchor,” Chris said.
Valerie swept into the room in gym clothes. Her face now makeup-free, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
Valerie didn’t know either victim and never read online comments, which Riley felt was a healthy rule to have.
