He swiveled his computer screen so he could share one of her photos with her. A bloodied young woman on the floor, her leg twisted awkwardly. “A little grim, don’t you think? Focusing on blood and gore.”
“Scroll back to the first picture,” she said.
He did.
“That man was in the parking lot when I pulled up. He was sitting in his truck, watching, crying. Under the circumstances, he stood out, so I snapped his picture.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked.
“Not sure. But if he is, according to a neighbor, he and Kylie have been dating for a few years. The neighbor believes jealousy played a part in the murder after Kylie went on a date with a man she works with.”
“Interesting.”
Interesting? His demeanor and tone set her on edge. Not only had she gotten inside the apartment where the murder took place, she’d managed to talk to people who lived next door to the victim. What the hell did he want?
“Did you leave your business card with the neighbor?”
“No. I rushed out of there so fast, I didn’t have—”
“Did you get their names?”
She nodded.
“How did you get inside the victim’s apartment—a crime scene?” He turned the computer screen back around and scrolled through the rest of the pictures.
“My plan was to talk to the officer standing by and see if he would allow me to take a few pictures. That’s when I noticed the door to Kylie’s apartment was wide open and unguarded. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”
“Do you think that was ethical?”
Was he serious? “Yes. I didn’t lie to get inside the apartment. I walked in, and nobody stopped me.”
“But you knew you shouldn’t be there?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
His jaw hardened. “I got a call from Detective Perez.”
Ah. His attitude was beginning to make sense.
“He told me you attacked one of his men.”
“Only after he grabbed hold of me.”
“Perez asked you if you took any photographs—”
“He asked me if I had any pictures on my camera. I said no because that was the truth. The pictures were on the memory card in my pocket.”
Palmer did not appear to be impressed by her cleverness.
“You told the security guard at the front of the building that you were the elderly woman’s granddaughter.”
Shit. She said nothing.
“What do you think would happen if I used your photos in my write-up?”
“Probably not a good idea,” she said. “I hoped to use them to help solve the case.”
“It’s our job to report on crime, not solve it.”
“I realize that, but—”
“If you’re serious about becoming a crime reporter, I suggest you do your homework.”
Heat rose in waves from her toes all the way to her face, but she willed herself to stay seated. “I know what I’m doing.”
He leaned back in his chair, his frustration with her obvious. “What is this all about?”
She felt cornered, trapped. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“These pictures of yours. The crime? What’s it about?”
“Kylie Hartford,” she answered confidently.
“No,” he said, sitting up again and planting a firm hand on the top of his desk. “This isn’t about Kylie Hartford. It’s about crime as a whole and how it affects the community. The true purpose of investigative reporting is to let the general public know what’s going on. Keep them informed so they can be active participants in society. That’s our job.”
“Interesting,” she said, mirroring the same tone he’d used earlier.
“Being a smart-ass isn’t going to help your cause.”
“Interesting,” she repeated with less sarcasm. “Because I clearly remember reading about the story you did on Heather and Dean McKenzie when you were first starting out.”
His silence spurred her on. “The newly married couple were bludgeoned to death in their front yard in the middle of the day. No witnesses. No suspects. You happened to be the reporter who covered the story. You caught a scent, and like any good tracking dog, you followed the trail. In the end, if I remember correctly, you received an award or two for helping to find the killer and solve the case.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve made it this far because of pure stubbornness,” he said. “Maybe you want to prove something to someone—maybe me, maybe yourself—but you should be careful not to overestimate your cleverness.”
She came to her feet, arms stiff at her side. “In class that day you said a good reporter is direct at all times. No beating around the bush. Go to the scene, you told the class. Talk to anybody who moves. Find out the who, what, where, when, and why, and if you’re lucky . . . how.”
He scratched his jaw. “I guess you do listen.”
Her heart raced, her temper flaring, getting the best of her. Why had she stood? Because you always react first and think second, dimwit. Afraid if she said anything more it would only make things worse, she remained still and inwardly counted to three.
Sean Palmer set about stacking files and sorting mail. “Anger issues aside,” he told her, “I wouldn’t say you’re the super reporter Derek Coleman touts you to be, but I am intrigued. I called you in here today to see if you might be interested in being on my team.”
What the hell? If someone had asked her what this man was getting to, an offer to work with him would have been the last thing on her list. She pointed at her chest. “Me?”
His smile was stiff, but there was a gleam in his eye too. “You.”
“Working—on a team—with you—together?” If only she could untwist her tongue.
“Yes,” he said. “You. Me. And my team. All working together. What do you say?”
He was playing games with her. She felt as if she’d just gotten off the craziest roller-coaster ride ever made. The kind with steep drops and winding turns that flipped you upside down and made you beg for it to stop. “I’m being promoted?”
“If you take the job, yes.”
She tilted her head. “Did you say that Coleman touts me as a super reporter?”
“He does.”
Hmm. Her boss was a man of few words. She couldn’t remember him ever praising the work she did. Whatever. “I can’t start until Monday,” she said. “My gramma passed away last night. I’ll be leaving for River Rock tomorrow to attend her funeral and won’t be back for a few days.”
He frowned and absently tapped a finger against the edge of his desk. “I’m giving you a promotion, and you’re already asking for time off?”
Shit. She didn’t know what to say. Think, Sawyer. Think.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” he went on as he glanced at what looked like a short list of names, hers being at the top. “But we’re short staffed, and I need content.”
She spouted the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll get you content,” she said with more desperation than intended. “My hometown of River Rock is practically around the corner from here. It’s a small town that reeks of death, abandonment, and abduction—chock-full of the sort of stories told around the campfire, the sort of stories that make people feel uncomfortable.” She kept her gaze fixated on Palmer’s. “I’m not talking about made-up tales of zombies and vengeance-seeking ghouls. These stories are real.”