Point of Danger (Triple Threat #1) - Irene Hannon Page 0,86
failed her?
She crossed her legs and watched the new arrivals push through the door, as an eager Doug used to do. Yes, she’d been a mite too aggressive when Eve’s spot had been in jeopardy, but they could have gotten past that.
There was more to this breakup than her faux pas.
She tapped her nails on the bar.
Maybe Doug still suspected her of inside knowledge about the on-air phone call Eve had received.
Maybe he even thought she was involved in the other incidents.
If he did, was he thinking about going to the authorities with his suspicions? Could that inclination be behind his sudden case of cold feet about their relationship?
“Would you like another glass of wine?” The bartender lifted her empty stem.
What she’d like and what she was going to have were two different things.
“No.” She dug out her wallet and set a ten on the counter. No more alcohol for her today. Her task this afternoon required a clear head.
Thank goodness she had an interview scheduled for that article on South Side carjackings and wasn’t expected back at the office. A quick phone call could delay the meeting for an hour and a half while she took care of other, more pressing personal business.
She left the restaurant, heading for her car rather than the office.
Eighteen minutes later, she pulled into her condo.
The material on Eve was well hidden, but the cops would tear the place apart if Doug managed to convince them she was a suspect and they secured a search warrant. Best to dispose of it ASAP. It had served its purpose—though the outcome hadn’t been close to what she’d envisioned.
Carolyn bolted the door behind her and hurried to the kitchen. Riffled through the boxed dinners stacked in her freezer. Pulled out the chicken tetrazzini.
After working her fingernail under the re-glued flap, she eased it open and removed the notes she’d stored inside, plus the contact information for the wife of the man who’d led Eve on. A real nutcase . . . but more than happy to dish about her husband’s wayward eye with a sympathetic listener during their “chance” meeting at a charitable event.
That was one of the beauties of being a reporter. You knew how to delve into people’s backgrounds, find connections, locate sources, search for dirt. And if you dug deep enough, you usually found it—or something that could be spun to suggest dirt.
Not that it had helped her in this case.
She tossed the empty package in her recycle container and moved to her home office. One by one, she fed the sheets into her shredder.
That task completed, she dumped the minced remnants from the bin into a plastic grocery bag, tied the top, and retrieved her purse. All she had to do was dispose of this in a trash can at a fast-food place en route to her interview. The burner phone loaded with the voice-altering software had been discarded days ago. No one would ever be the wiser about the source of that call.
And after work tonight, she’d shift focus.
St. Louis had never been her first choice as a home base, but you went where the job openings were. With all the experience she’d gained here, however, she could ditch this town in a heartbeat. It wasn’t the best market for journalists anyway. Only her promising affiliation with Doug had kept her here.
But there were glitzier cities where she could thrive, bigger fish to cozy up to who could help boost her career to the next level. And her resume was going to be crossing their desks within forty-eight hours. She didn’t need Doug Whitney to pave the way, or Eve Reilly’s slot to open up, in order to get her chance.
All she needed was the right connection—and somewhere out there, he was waiting to fall under Carolyn Matthews’s spell.
The detective was here.
Meg scrambled to her feet as Brent Lange, accompanied by the colleague who’d come with him to their house, entered Steve’s hospital room. A shaft of midmorning light peeking through the canted blinds whited out her vision, and she shaded her eyes.
“Good morning.” After directing that greeting toward her, Detective Lange transferred his attention to her husband, who was propped up with several pillows while his cast-enclosed left ankle rested on another pillow, a white bandage covering the gash on his forehead.
Steve glowered at him. “What do you want now?”
“We have a few more questions.”
“I don’t feel like answering them.”
“Nevertheless, we intend to ask them. We can do that here, this