Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(20)

Willy sat upright, his shoulders tense. “Lane said I didn’t have to keep regular hours.”

“That’s fine by me. I was just making an observation. Work when you want.”

“Oh. Okay.” He slumped again. “Thanks. I don’t like mornings much.”

“What are you working on?” I asked.

He rifled through the shoulder bag he’d brought, hauling out a notepad. “I haven’t typed it up yet but you can read it.”

“Yes, please. I’d love to.” I stood and went to his desk, taking the pad from his hand.

It didn’t take me long to read the article, even in Willy’s scratchy handwriting. The words sucked me in and by the end, I had a smile on my face.

“This series is going to be incredible,” I told him, handing back his pad. “Nice work.”

A blush crept up his cheeks. “Thanks, Bryce.”

Willy was doing a five-week piece on the life of railroad transients. He’d spent the better part of a month this past spring getting to know a handful of individuals who’d passed through Clifton Forge courtesy of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway line that ran along the edge of town.

This week’s column was about a woman who’d been a railroad hitchhiker for seven years. Willy’s words had painted her nomadic life in vivid detail. Hard because there were no luxuries like daily showers. Brutal at times when food became difficult to come by. Wistful with its ultimate freedom. Happy because she lived the life of her choosing.

The story was intriguing, the writing flawless. Willy’s talent was the reason Dad gave him free rein when it came to pitching ideas. Whatever he wrote, our customers devoured.

Willy knew his audience well, maybe because he’d lived in Clifton Forge his entire life and there wasn’t a soul in town he didn’t know.

An idea slammed into my head. Maybe Willy could help me keep my lead against Dash.

“Can I ask you a question?” I perched on the edge of his desk.

“Shoot.”

“I was hoping to get an early look at an autopsy report, the report for the woman who was murdered at the Evergreen. But when I stopped by the county coroner’s office this morning, they had a note on the door that they were closed. If I wanted to get ahold of the medical examiner, who would that be?”

“Mike,” Willy said. “Just give him a call. He’ll help you out.”

“Even for an ongoing investigation?”

Autopsies were public record, but when an investigation was involved, they weren’t released until the prosecutor permitted it.

“He might not let you read the whole report, but he’s given me rundowns before just so I could include some details in a story. Besides, never hurts to ask.”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

One thing Dad had taught me early on was that asking for information was free. The worst-case scenario was you’d get shot down with a no. I already knew that would be Chief Wagner’s answer.

But maybe this Mike would be a bit more open to sharing.

“I’d love to ask Mike.” I stood from Willy’s desk. “Except I don’t know Mike.” Nor did I have his phone number.

Willy whipped out the phone in his pocket without a word, punched at it for a second, then held it to his ear. Five minutes later, the two of us were in my car, driving to the coroner’s office.

“Thanks for coming along,” I told Willy as he lazed in the passenger seat.

“It’s all good. Kinda curious to see you in action. The stuff you’ve been writing about the murder is good. Damn good. Best work I’ve seen since your dad’s.”

“Thanks.” I smiled over the steering wheel at maybe the best compliment I’d had in a decade. “Your work is impressive too.”

“Glad you think so. I, uh . . . I really love my job. I can come in more . . . to the office. If I have to.” His fingers fidgeted on his lap.

Willy had always been jumpy and skittish in the office. I’d just assumed he was like that all the time. Maybe he was to a degree. But he was also nervous about his job. That with me on staff, Dad wouldn’t need an additional reporter.

“I don’t care when you come into the office, Willy. As long as you keep writing the great stories you’ve been writing and handing them in on time, you’ll always have a spot at the Tribune.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes out the window on the buildings that streaked past. In the reflection, I saw a faint smile.

It didn’t take us long to get to the medical examiner’s office, which was located across the street from the small hospital in town. Willy led the way to a locked door, knocking on the wire mesh that covered a square glass window in its face. We waited for a few minutes, longer than I would have stood there alone, until finally the door pushed open and a man waved us inside.

“Mike.” Willy shook his hand. “This is Bryce. Bryce, meet Mike.”

“Nice to meet you, Mike. Thanks for doing this.”

“You bet.” His voice was hoarse. The dark circles under Mike’s eyes matched Willy’s. Despite the pungent smell of chemicals within the sterile space, the stale scent of alcohol wafting off his body nearly made me gag. “I owe Willy one after he drove my ass home last night. Had one too many after our pool tournament.”