Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,3
lanyard around her neck. “We got word about a possible shooting here?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?”
He gestured toward the sign. “This is a restricted area. You’re going to have to step back.”
“But—”
“Step back, ma’am.”
“Okay, but do you know what this is about?” She took her time moving toward the barricade.
“No, ma’am.”
What a liar. “Can you confirm it was a shooting?” she asked.
“You’ll need to talk to our public information officer.”
He corralled her toward the barrier. She sidestepped it and turned around, and the cop was watching her suspiciously, as though she might sprint right past him if he turned his back.
At last, he did. He proceeded up the trail, tapping the radio attached to his shoulder and murmuring something as he went. Probably giving people a heads-up that the media had arrived on the scene—whatever the scene was.
The cop reached the yellow swag of tape blocking the path. He walked around a tree and darted a look of warning at her before disappearing into the woods.
Bailey dialed her editor. Max picked up on the first ring.
“I’m here at the hike-and-bike trail,” she told him. “Something’s definitely up.”
“Who’s there?”
“I’ve only seen one cop, but they’ve got the trail barricaded, and there’s a scene taped off.”
“One cop?” Max sounded skeptical.
“So far, yeah.” Bailey walked away from the barrier, looking for any other sign of law enforcement. The nearest parking lot on this side of the lake would be behind the juice bar. Maybe the cops had parked there.
“What about a crime scene unit?” Max asked. “Or the ME’s van?”
“Haven’t seen either,” she said, scanning the area as she walked. She spied several cars parked along the street, but no police vehicles.
“Keep asking around,” Max said. “The scanner’s been quiet, so maybe this isn’t out yet.”
Bailey would definitely ask around, but she didn’t see anyone to ask.
“Where are you exactly?”
“The trailhead near the nature center,” she said, “but it’s pretty deserted.”
The rain started again. It streamed down her neck and into her shirt, and Bailey moved faster. Up the street that paralleled the lake was Jay’s Juice Bar. She spotted a patrol car in the parking lot. Bingo.
As she hurried closer, she saw not just one but four police cars in the lot behind the place, along with an unmarked unit with a spotlight mounted on the windshield—probably a detective’s car. How had this stayed off the scanner? Someone must be trying to keep a lid on the story.
Bailey surveyed the juice bar. Typically, Jay’s had a line of sweaty customers at the window waiting to order smoothies. But today the window was closed. A guy in a green apron stood beside the door, talking to a tall man with a badge clipped to his belt.
“Rhoads? You there?”
“I see a detective,” she told Max. “Let me go talk to him.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”
“Do it soon. I need to know if this is going to blow up the front page.”
Bailey tucked her phone into her pocket and watched the detective interview the juice bar guy, who clearly was agitated. He kept wiping his brow with his hand and gesturing toward the trail. Was the man a witness? Had he heard the gunshot? The detective towered over him, watching intently as the man talked and shook his head.
Bailey started to pull out her notebook, but then thought better of it. The detective dug a business card from his pocket and handed it to the man. Perfect timing. They were wrapping up the interview.
Bailey crossed the street, and the detective glanced at her. His gaze narrowed when he spotted the press pass around her neck. Bailey felt his guard go up as she strode toward him. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
She was about to get stonewalled.
* * *
* * *
JACOB WATCHED HER coming up the sidewalk. Bailey Rhoads. Austin Herald, metro desk. The reporter wore faded jeans and a soaked blue rain jacket that swallowed her. She stepped under the overhang to get out of the drizzle.
“I’m Bailey Rhoads with the Herald.” She swiped a dark curl out of her eyes. “And you’re Detective . . . ?”
He didn’t answer, and she pretended not to notice as she pulled a notebook from her pocket. Jacob glanced at her feet. The cuffs of her jeans were wet, and she wore purple flip-flops.
“We understand there was a possible shooting at this location,” she said. “Can you tell me