“I’d pulled over across the street from the driveway when this couple in this Audi pulled up. The couple kissed, and then the woman got out.” Winston placed another print on the table. Angie stared, mind reeling.Joyce Norton-Wells, her hand resting on top of the car door as she bent down to talk to the male sitting inside behind the Audi’s wheel. The vehicle’s interior light clearly revealed the distinctly angular lines of the male’s face.
Mayor Jack Killion.
“Clusterfuck, eh?” Winston said, her gaze flitting back to the path outside the window. She shifted in her seat. Her knee started to jiggle. “Those are for you.”
Angie sifted slowly through the photos once more.
From the pocket of her jacket, Winston took a memory stick. She set it in front of Angie. “And this. It’s a copy of the digital recordings I made of my calls from my anonymous source, who I believe is someone inside the MVPD.”
Angie glanced up sharply. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know whether it’s a he or a she. They used voice distortion. I also have my recorded conversation with Damián on there.”
There was a sense of finality to Winston’s tone, and it set alarm bells clanging in Angie.
“Why, Merry?” she said, using the reporter’s first name. “Why did you come to me with all of this now, when you could have just run with it, gotten a huge scoop, incredible mileage? That would have been more your style.”
Winston’s gaze darted back to the windows again. “Because I also got this.” She shoved over the two last photos from her envelope. “That’s me,” she said, pointing to a small figure hunkering in a large, dark jacket between a truck and a sedan, a massive telephoto lens in her hands, a hat pulled snugly over her head.
“Someone on the boat saw me,” she said. “They shotmewhile I was shooting them. Those security guys had to have known I was there, watching them the whole while.”
“How did you get this?”
“Someone left that photo on the table in my apartment, along with this.”
Angie studied the final image. A little baggie of white crystals, a pipe, and a Bic lighter.
“Someone broke into my home, Detective, and left crack and paraphernalia on my table and that photo of me. Read the back.”
Angie flipped it over.
YOU ARE DEAD
Winston’s eyes glistened suddenly. “I came to you because you said that you cared. And I believed you. I don’t know what in the hell is going on, but I want you to nail those fucking bastards who hurt Faith.” She shoved her chair back and got to her feet.
“One other thing. Ididwrite my story—everything I know. About the deep throat. Faith. Her pimp. The blond guy and the Bimmer. How nice Faith got fixed up with her teeth and all. About the other rapes from years ago. The red Sharpie crucifixes. The words the rapist used about Satan being the father of sin and prince of darkness. About those—” She wrapped her arms tightly over her chest and jerked her chin toward the photos and memory stick on the table. “TheAmanda Rose. The ADAG and the mayor. The red Porsche going up the AKASHA driveway ... all of it. With photos. And I’ve scheduled the exposé to release on Christmas Eve.” She turned and started to leave.
“Wait!” Angie reached for Winston’s wrist, stopping her. “Why’d you preschedule the story?”
Her eyes met Angie’s. “To give you a chance to get him. And in case something happens to me.”
“Merry, what did you do with the drugs?” Angie said softly.
“I didn’t use, if that’s what you mean. I ... I’m clean.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It’s at home.”
“Get it out of your house, Merry. Bring it to me. It’s evidence. We might be able to trace—”
But Winston jumped as the door opened. A couple entered, a little bird flying in behind them, becoming trapped inside as the door swung slowly shut. It fluttered into the glassed-in patio area and banged against the panes. Petrified, Winston jerked free of Angie’s hold. “I gotta go.”
“Come in, let us protect you—”
“No,” she whispered. “No fucking way. That deep throat, I don’t know who he is, but he’s there, inside the Metro PD. It could have been him who left that shit in my apartment. He could be in with those guys on the yacht. If Damián and that yacht are mixed up with what happened to Faith, and if Damián is tight with the ADAG’s son, and the ADAG is fucking the mayor—Jesus Christ—I don’t know where the connections begin and end anymore. I don’t trust anyone, especially the cops. I gotta look after myself. I’m all I got—me, myself.”
“Yet you brought me those photos, that recording.”
