“Sorry, gentlemen. This is as close as you get without a warrant.”
“Ms. Marsh, you don’t want to run afoul of the FBI,” Spooner grits out.
My smile falters for a split second before I plaster it back in place. “I’m not legally required to divulge my sources,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The Empress Hotel project was controversial from the start. You’ve clearly watched my first two reports. Bribes, shady land deals, and illegal demolitions are only the beginning. But I think you know that.”
Van’s eyes narrow. “We know the third installment of your report runs tonight. Tell us what bombshell you’re delivering next.”
My breath catches in my throat. This is my biggest scoop yet. At least twenty-five percent of the construction workers on the Empress project aren’t union members. They’re criminals with ties to the Cordova Cartel and the Ricci Syndicate in Chicago. “Sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to tune in like everyone else.”
“You’re not this naive, Ms. Marsh.” Spooner’s voice is as thick and smooth as velvet wrapped around a blade. “One of your sources is missing. And your target is the kind of guy who makes problems disappear. Permanently.”
The weight of his words settles over me. My stomach twists, but it’s not in fear. It’s because I know how important this story is. I can’t stop now. Not until I find something that stops Fowler from moving onto another city and starting his criminal enterprise right back up again. Austin deserves better than empty promises.
“If you’re asking me to back down, Agent Spooner, you’re wasting your time. The people of this city count on me to report the news. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
After a long pause, Van leans forward. His eyes bore into me like he’s searching my soul. “Just remember, Emmylou. Sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free. Sometimes…it makes you a target.”
He’s not wrong. But the truth is all I have.
It’s another two hours before Van and Spooner finally give up. They have no legal right to force me to drop the story, and if I let myself be swayed by some nasty comments and social media threats…well…I wouldn’t be able to call myself a reporter.
Nelson is waiting for me outside my office door. “We need to talk.” There’s enough gravel in his tone to pave a country road. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him this serious.
“I know, I know. I should have had Nia page you when the FBI showed up. But she said you were at a big meeting with the network and?—”
“The FBI?” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Emi. I should shelve tonight’s segment right now.” He thrusts his tablet at me, and I peer at the email on screen.
Ms. Marsh,
You have no business calling yourself a reporter. Your latest takedown piece on Eugene Fowler is the last straw. Walk away, or you might find yourself unable to report on anything ever again.
The message is unsigned—of course—and I shake my head. “Typical.”
“This doesn’t phase you at all?” Nelson asks. “It’s a fucking death threat, and you’re looking at it like it’s a recipe for sugar cookies!”
“I worked in Los Angeles for six years. Threats like this? They were as common as cornbread.” I lean a hip against my desk. “I’ll forward the email to the FBI, but you can’t pull my next segment. Journalism 101. If someone’s trying to intimidate me into backing down, I’m onto something big. So quit hollerin’ down the rain and let me do my job.”
Nelson sighs, the sound of a man who knows when he’s met his match. “Fine. But I’m going to hire security to escort you to and from your car. Is your building safe? Is there somewhere else you can stay until the story’s done?”
“I am not turning tail. And you absolutely will not get me a bodyguard. Folks who send messages like this are all hat and no cattle. If they were serious about taking me out, they wouldn’t talk about it first, they’d just do it.”
Pushing to my feet, I check my watch. “Tonight’s segment airs in an hour. I need to get to make-up so I can do the intro live. I should be good for another two segments next week. Monday and Tuesday. After that, these idiots will fade into obscurity again. Well, all except for Eugene Fowler. He should be in federal custody by then.” My lips curve into a small smile. “Can’t wait to report on that.”
Chapter Seven
Jasper
“That’ll be fifty-five thirty-four, sir,” the pretty young clerk at the grocery store says. Am I imagining the judgement in her tone? Or does she recognize me? After all, every week, I’m in here buyin’ the same damn things.
Three cases of Shiner Bock, a couple frozen lasagnas, and a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn. I hate cooking and bein’ at the stove for long periods ain’t easy on my hip or leg. But I ain’t bothered with a vegetable in months. If not longer.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the scents of jasmine and vanilla tickle my nose. Emi. She’s only one register over, her phone pressed to her ear as she loads a handful of items onto the belt.
“Kyle, you don’t have to explain. This story’s blown up. I don’t think the threats are serious, but you have a family. If you—or they—are even the slightest bit uncomfortable, you should move to midday until things blow over. I hate to lose you. Shit. I don’t want to work with anyone else. But your wife and kids shouldn’t be scared because of something I did.”
I set the last case of beer in my cart. Emi’s in full makeup, a light blue blouse, and a tight pencil skirt that barely reaches her knees. She still looks perfect, even at close to 9:00 p.m., and I catch myself before my stare heads into stalker territory.
Hold up. What threats?
