Killian (Hope City #8) - Kris Michaels Page 0,22

we’re done here.”

“I’ve done the math for you, sir. At the low end of the spectrum, fifty meals a day for an average of thirty days for six months is nine thousand meals, sir. The medical aid bus that was petitioned could have seen on average twenty patients a day, three days a week for the last six months. On average, that’s almost a thousand—”

Davis lifted from his desk. “Those initiatives didn’t follow the proper process.”

“I’ve examined the paperwork the people and organizations put forward, Councilman Davis. All the boxes are filled except for the bribes you require—

“Now see here—” The man roared over Bekki, but she’d be damned if she was going to let him have the last word.

“How many programs have had to pay to serve our community, Councilman? How much have you gained personally by making the people of this city suffer needlessly?” She shouted the last question as Davis stormed out of his own office. She turned to the camera and lifted a folder. “Sworn statements from three organizations which stated Councilman Davis has stalled approval until, as he put it, ‘wheels were greased.’ Further, this reporter has uncovered security footage of Councilman Davis requesting a bribe.”

She paused, knowing that Landon would splice the footage she’d received yesterday from the medical aid bus. The common areas were monitored so they could have continuous observation of the equipment and drug lockers when the staff was busy. When Bekki had interviewed the doctor that started the program and asked for witnesses, he’d offered to look at the recordings. They struck gold.

“This is Bekki King for Channel Two News. Good Night.”

“Damn, Bekki, that was intense.” Stuart chuckled as he shut off the camera. “Landon is going to be happy.”

Bekki helped him by holding the collapsible tripod while he pushed in the boom mic. “I just want that jerk investigated.”

“With this, he should be. And if he isn’t, you can follow up to find out who is covering for him.” Stuart chuckled, shouldered the camera, and he grabbed the tripod from her as they left the office.

Davis stormed down the hall, shouting at her. Stu dropped the tripod and flipped the camera to his shoulder, turning it on. He was fast, and he was a damn good cameraman.

“I’ll sue you and your station for slander! You can’t air that interview. My lawyers will be filing an injunction.”

She knew the drill. She’d faced angry jerks before. Do not engage. Saying nothing, Bekki picked up the tripod Stu had dropped and tried to walk away. Davis hustled after her and grabbed her elbow, spinning her. Her heel caught in the grout line of the tile floor. She stumbled, dropped what was in her hands, and groped for something to stop her fall, only there was nothing but air.

In what seemed like slow motion, her body crumbled and she face planted on the tripod. The searing pain across her cheek and lip was the first thing that registered. The second was Davis shouting and then a host of hands helping her up. That’s when she noticed the blood. Her lip. She cupped her chin to catch it.

“Someone call the police,” she heard Stuart yell from behind the camera.

“I’ll call 911.”

“Wait, there is a cop car outside.”

“Someone find them.”

The shouts melded into a concussion of sound. A chair appeared and hands on her shoulders dropped her into the seat.

She looked up at Stu and the camera. He swung away from her and focused on Davis as he ranted, “She did that on purpose, I barely touched her. This is a witch hunt, I tell you, a witch hunt!” Davis blustered in the background. She dropped her head but not her hand, keeping the blood from dropping onto her very expensive silk blouse. She carefully touched her lip with her tongue and groaned. She must have bitten through her lip when she fell. Great. A fat lip she could deal with, but not stitches. Needles. Her stomach rolled and she started panting, forcing back the black that was tunneling around her vision. Needles. No needles. She passed out every time she had to get a shot.

A pair of blue slacks and shiny black shoes filled her vision before a cop went to his knees in front of her. “Ma’am, there is an ambulance on the way.”

“I don’t need one.” The words came out mumbled and she winced. “Just my lip.”

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t just for your lip, you have a wicked bruise forming under