Fair Warning (Jack McEvoy #3)(88)

I called it Murder Beat.

Myron was not too upset about having to replace us. He now had a whole drawer full of résumés from journalists who wanted to work for him. The Shrike had put FairWarning into the public eye big-time. Newspapers, websites, and TV news programs across the world had to give us credit for breaking the story. I made guest appearances on CNN, Good Morning America, and The View. 60 Minutes followed our reporting, and the Washington Post profiled Emily and me and even likened our occasionally combative partnership to that of the greatest journalism tag team in history: Woodward and Bernstein.

Readership was also up at FairWarning and not just on the days we posted a Shrike story. One hundred days out, we were starting to see an uptick in donations, too. Myron wasn’t on the phone so much cajoling potential supporters. All was well at FairWarning.

The last story Emily and I wrote was one of the more fulfilling of the thirty-two. It was about the arrest of William Orton for sexual assault. Our stories on Marshall Hammond and Roger Vogel had spurred authorities in Orange County to reopen the investigation of the allegations that Orton had drugged and raped his one-time student. They determined that Hammond had taken the DNA sample submitted by Orton to the sheriff’s lab and replaced it with an unknown sample, thereby creating the finding of No match to the swabs in the rape kit. Under the new investigation, another sample was taken from Orton and compared to the material in the rape kit. It was a match and Orton was arrested and charged.

Most of the time, journalism is simply an exercise in reporting on situations and occurrences of public interest. It is rare that it leads to the toppling of a corrupt politician, a change in the law, or the arrest of a rapist. When that does happen, the satisfaction is beyond measure. Our stories on the Shrike got a warning out to the public and may have saved lives. They also put a rapist in jail. I was proud of what we had accomplished and proud to call myself a journalist in a time when the profession was constantly under attack.

After shaking Myron’s hand and leaving the office for the last time, I went to the bar at Mistral to meet Rachel and celebrate the end of one chapter in my life and the start of another. That was the plan but it didn’t work out that way. For one-hundred days I had carried a question inside that I could no longer contain.

Rachel was already at the bar, sitting at the far left end where it curved to the back wall and there were two seats we always tried to occupy. The spot gave us privacy and a view of the bar and the restaurant at the same time. There was a couple sitting in the center of the long side and a man by himself at the end opposite Rachel. As with most nights, business started slow and then picked up later on.

The French Impressionist was working this night. That was what Rachel had started privately calling Elle, the bartender with the phony French accent. I signaled her over, ordered a martini, and was soon clinking glasses with Rachel.

“To new things,” Rachel said.

“Sláinte,” I said.

“Oh, so now we have an Irish poet to go with the French Impressionist?”

“Aye, a deadline poet. Formerly, I guess. Now a podcast poet.”

My Irish accent wasn’t cutting it, so I dropped it and drank half the martini. Liquid courage for the big question I had to ask.

“I think Myron might have had a tear in his eye when I said goodbye today,” I said.

“Ah, I’ll miss Myron,” Rachel said.

“We’ll see him again, and he agreed to come on the podcast to give updates on the Shrike stuff. It’ll plug the website.”

“That’s good.”

I finished my martini and Elle was quick with another. Rachel and I small-talked while I worked the level down on it. I noticed she had not re-upped her own drink and had even ordered a glass of water. She kept looking down the bar at the man sitting alone at the other end.

I had my elbows on the bar and now rubbed my hands together, pushing my fingers back. As my internal alcohol level was rising, my courage was dissipating. I was deciding to let my suspicion go for another night—like the ninety-nine before it.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Rachel asked.

“No, not at all,” I said. “Why?”

“Observation: you’re wringing your hands. And you just seem … I don’t know. Pensive? Preoccupied? Off.”

“Well … I have to ask you something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.”

“Sure. What?”

“That night at the Greyhound when you were acting like a source and giving me and Emily all that stuff about Vogel and describing the surveillance photo you saw …”

“I wasn’t acting. I was your source, Jack. What’s your question?”

“That was a setup, wasn’t it? You and the FBI—that guy Metz—you wanted us to lead the Shrike to Vogel. So you told us—”

“What are you talking about, Jack?”

“I’ve just gotta say it. It’s what I’ve been thinking. Just tell me. I can handle it. It was probably your allegiance to the people who kicked you out. Was it some kind of a deal to get back in, or—”

“Jack, shut the fuck up before you once again ruin something good.”

“Really, I’m the one who will ruin it? You did this thing with them and I’m the one who ruins everything? That makes—”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now. And stop drinking.”